//------------------------------// // Round One // Story: The New Crop // by xjuggernaughtx //------------------------------// My hooves are trembling, and I catch myself taking these short, quick breaths. Don’t matter how many times you’ve done it. Heading into the unknown like this works a pony up. I take a second to inhale real deep a couple of times. It slows my heart some, but my hooves are still shaking. Ain’t nothing for it but to get going. We shuffle out to the middle of the ring and start to circle each other. He’s flicking out these little jabs to test me. Granny’s right. They’re real quick, but any punch that fast probably ain’t gonna have much behind it. He’s just looking to see how I’m gonna handle his hoof stuffed into my face.   I offer up a big right hook. He ducks under it, but I wasn’t really expecting it to connect. It’s more like a message. He’s telling me that he’s gonna be peppering me all night. I’m telling him that if he makes one mistake, it’s all over.   Fights are like this. Opening your mouth is just asking for a broken jaw, so fighters learn to talk with their bodies. You gotta read the way the other guy holds his head, or the way he stutters his steps. It all means something, if you know how to listen right.   Blueblood’s backing up now, circling again. I stand in the middle of the ring and turn. It’s tough. I wanna go after him just to get things started, but I’ll be outta gas by round three if I try to chase this guy. If he wants to win the census, though, he’s got to get the crowd behind him. They’ll see me standing ready to fight, and him over there, everywhere in the ring except where the fight is, and their choice will be simple. He’s got to come to me. Hard as it is, I wait.   He circles a few more times, and the crowd starts to holler. They hate this guy already. They’ll hate me, too, if something doesn’t happen soon, but I’m willing to wait it out. I can see his muscles twitching around his neck. Nerves. He’ll make his move soon. He’s got to, because the crowd’s getting riled, and if they—   The world turns bright white, then slides out of focus.   I stumble sideways and bring my hoof to my ear before cursing myself. Can’t spare a look to my corner, but I know Granny Smith’s gonna chew me out something fierce when the round’s over. I got caught looking at the crowd, and he tagged me. On top of that, I moved my hoof outta position, and she’s always on me about that. I move it back just a second too late. Blueblood slams two lightning-quick hooves into my face. First to the forehead, and my head rocks back. The next hits my nose. That one hurt, and I feel blood start to flow from my left nostril.   “Burnin’ hills of Tartarus, Mac, what are you doin’ out there? Wake up!”   Sounds like Granny Smith ain't waiting, but I deserve it. The crowd gets a big laugh as I stumble all over myself backing up. I lean away from a punch, but grunt when his other hoof thumps into my ribs. I can feel them bend and snap back into shape. Cursing, I take another step back, and now I’m in a corner. This guy’s hitting me harder than expected, and I flick my eyes up to his horn for a second. The dampener band is on it just like it oughta be, but I’ve heard some unicorns have gotten around that before. Still, I ain't seen his horn shine, and even if he was real good at keeping the glow to a minimum, it’d be hard to miss at this distance. Maybe Granny just underestimated him some.   Three more hard hits come, but I mostly deflect them away. They still hurt, but some parts of a pony are meant to take more abuse than others. This bozo can hit my shoulders all night long, and I’ll still be fresh as a daisy.   The crowd’s on their hooves, but Blueblood ain't buying it. Too bad. It’d make this fight a lot easier if he did. He’s throwing bombs at me, but he ain't reckless about it. He’s still moving his head real good, keeping his upper body in motion so that I can’t target him too easily. The crowd sees all that activity and hears all those blows, and their blood gets up, but Blueblood knows he ain't done nothing at all except start the conversation.   When he cocks back to throw another, I shove him real hard. Blueblood takes two big steps back, but I’m already jumping to follow. He’s too off-balance to avoid the looping right I send into his liver. The crowd gasps when he leaves the canvas for a moment and flies into the opposite corner. I throw my hooves up, and the crowd roars. It never sits right with me, though. I don’t like showing off, but the crowd eats that stuff up, and I want to make sure they’re on my side. You put a lot of what you’d like to the side when you climb in here.   Blueblood slides along the ropes, his left hoof a little lower now that I’ve tagged him in the body. I hop toward him and throw out two jabs, but I got nowhere near the snap on them that he’s got. He easily sidesteps, and now we’re back to where we started. He’s circling, hoping to catch me in the wrong place at the wrong time again.   The Apple family’s kinda got a reputation for that. Seems we’ve spent forever being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I asked Granny Smith once why we settled in a shriveled-up nowhere like Appleloosa, and she said it was her pa’s idea, and just like all of them, it was a bad one.   The way Granny tells it, they had two sites in mind. One was a rural plot just south of Canterlot. The other was here in Appleloosa. Her ma was all for the other place. She even had a name for it: Sweet Apple Acres, but my great-grandpa was dead set on moving to Appleloosa. He said that the land south of Canterlot was good soil, but there wasn’t nothing there. They’d have to build it all up from scratch. Appleloosa had a train. It had labor. It had a market. All they’d need was some good seed stock, and they’d be the richest ponies in Equestria.   It didn’t exactly work out that way.   Blueblood shuffles through some kinda fancy hoofwork that I can’t quite follow, and all of a sudden blows are coming my way again. I’m ready now, though. I’m warmed up, and the jitters are all worked out. That’s the thing about fighting. The waiting’s the worst part, really. Well, no, that ain't right. The worst part’s when you figure out that you ain’t no match for the other guy. Then you’re just waiting to get knocked out. But besides that, waiting’s the worst. Once you’re actually here, it ain't so bad.   See, the thing’s just to let your muscles do the work. A fighter’s brain’s just in the way, mostly. Spend hour after hour, day after day, in a gym, and your muscles get real smart. They know what to do before you can think it up. You won’t even see the opening, but your hoof’s already halfway there. Sometimes I’m as surprised as the other guy when I crack a good one into his eye.   So that’s what I’m doing. I just lay back and let my body work. Gotta be careful about daydreaming, though. It’s fine not to think too hard, but I gotta keep my head in the game at least a little bit. It’s a mighty fine line between not thinking too hard and not paying attention. But like I said, I’m ready now.   Blueblood fires a punch into my forelegs in an attempt to break them apart before he whips an uppercut between them. It’s all nicely on target, but I’m too strong for that stuff. While he’s trying to get back into position, I club him with an overhoof right, and his head snaps back. A left cross, and he’s against the ropes. He’s covering up, but I see him quiver when I slam my hoof into his defense.   That was Apple Bloom’s idea, and it’s served us real well. Granny Smith and I kept going ’round and ’round about how to get past the other guy’s guard. I ain't exactly the fastest pony out there, after all. We’d been going at it for who knows how long when Apple Bloom finally just asked why. She said I’m stronger than just about any other pony, so I should just hit them wherever I can. Eventually it’ll wear them down.   Well, that was like a bolt outta the blue. I just knew it would work, and I took Apple Bloom right out for an ice cream. That’s why she’s good to have in your corner. Even with only one eye, she sees things other ponies miss. She’s real good at building a plan with Granny Smith because she thinks outside the box.   So I hit his legs again, and he grunts. I catch a flash of his eye, and I see fear there. Good. That’s a big step toward ending this thing. He’s throwing these weak jabs up at me, just to get me to stop punching, but I’m not all that worried. I dig my hooves into the canvas, crank my right back and let it fly.   But he’s just not there.   My hoof whistles over the rope and all of a sudden I’m hanging halfway outta the ring. The little bastard bamboozled me with those jabs. Once I started taking them, he waited until my face was full of hoof, and he sidestepped. It’s only a matter of—   I’m still trying to get my hooves under me when he nails me on the jaw. The inside of my cheek mashes up against my teeth, and suddenly my mouth’s full of blood. Feels like I got a loose tooth in there. I’ll make Apple Bloom yank it out when the round’s over. I can’t stand that feeling. It nags at you, and I don’t need that kind of distraction right now. I give my head a good shake, but it’s not enough. I look up just in time to see the hook, and it clobbers me again.   Wasn’t expecting that. Most fighters don’t go for the same punch twice. It takes time to get into position and throw it again. Fighting on instinct, it’s natural to go to the other side of your body.   I catch his eye again. The fear I’d planted there is gone, and I got the sinking feeling that I know exactly where I’d find it now if I could see what he sees. He’s got the beginnings of a grin that lets me know I’m right. His right cocks back and—   The timekeeper strikes the bell, and Uppercut jumps in between us. With a hoof on each of our chests, he pushes us in the direction of our corners. We don’t really need the help at this stage, but it’s a habit that good referees get into. Sometimes a punchy fighter doesn’t hear the bell or just goes to whatever corner is closest.   On my way, Granny Smith’s already cussing a blue streak, and Apple Bloom’s got a sponge filled up with water. I fall into the chair, and she’s wiping me off and checking for cuts and swelling.   “What’re you doin’ out there, you big lump?” Granny Smith massages my muscles, but it’s almost like a second assault. She’s jabbing and banging at me, trying to make sure the blood’s flowing like it oughta. “This stallion’s makin’ you look like an amateur! Are you an amateur?”   “Nope.”   “Well, then quit actin’ like one! Apple Bloom, throw some tape on his left. It’s worked loose. Now quit lookin’ everywhere ’cept your opponent, Mac!”   I take a deep breath. It’s hard not to get mad sometimes. It’s real easy to tell me what to do when you’re standing in the corner. It’s real easy to think when you ain't the one getting punched in the head.   “Granny, you said this guy can’t hit!”   Granny Smith grabs my head between her hooves and looks me right in the eyes. “You been on your back yet?”   “Uh… Nope.”   “Then he can’t hit. I might as well put a bow on your thick skull, since you keep wantin’ to give it right to him. I know he ain't exactly a lightweight, but if I’d told you he could swing ’em, you’d’ve been frettin’ before the match.” Granny Smith lets go of my head and slaps her hooves together in front of my eyes. I jerk away. “There you go. Get your head movin’! Now you got a sense of his power, and it ain't all that scary. Just watch where he’s goin’, and you can’t lose!”   I nod before remembering. “Apple Bloom, pull my—”   The bell cuts me off when it rings out again.   Too late. Looks like I’ll have to manage.