I heave myself up and settle back into my defensive crouch. As usual, Granny’s right about things. If this guy had any real power, this fight would be over already. Across the ring, his corner’s yelling at him to keep it up. They can’t think a whole lot of me if they reckon it’s gonna be the same this round. Blueblood hops forward, then starts that hoofwork again.
I frown before I can catch myself. I ain’t supposed to let him know I’m frustrated, but sometimes I can’t help it. Granny Smith always said the Apples ain’t never been any good at fooling ponies. We’re just too honest. Right now, I know I’m showing him more than I want to, but all that fancy jumping around just drags things out. It’s better to just stand and fight. Gets things over quicker.
Blueblood skips left, then right. I’m stalking him this time. It helps keep my mind where it oughta be, but I can’t run around after him all night. He’s just outta range, but that means he can’t do no damage. I’ve got reach on him, so he’s gonna need to come in if he wants to win. That’s a fast pony’s game, but it usually catches up with them in the end. A few rounds pass, and those legs ain’t got the quickness they did at the start. Couple of good body shots, and maybe a rib or two gets cracked. All that running around takes lot of air, but it’s hard to breathe when you’re busted up inside.
I swing for his body, and he skips back. I like to remind a pony that I can take that air away if they ain’t careful. Outside, the crowd is starting to grumble again, but Blueblood don’t seem to want to step inside where I can get at him.
“Showtime, Big Mac!”
That’s Apple Bloom’s code for putting on an act. It’s another one of her big ideas. Like I said, she sees things real clear, and she likes to get inside that other guy’s head. Since she knows my weaknesses, she told me I oughta play to them sometimes. Keep the other guy guessing.
So I wait a couple of seconds, and then I let my eyes glass over a little. I sneak a couple of obvious glances out at the crowd. They’re making a lot of noise now, booing and hissing at the lack of action, so it’s easy cover.
Blueblood swallows the act and lunges in. I’ve got him fixed in the corner of my eye, and when he makes his move, I make mine. He’s halfway through his punch when I catch him on the chin with a right cross. It’s no act when his eyes flutter, and he reels away. He’s covering up, but that just leaves his body exposed. I dig in deep, once to his rib, the next a hard, straight shot to his heart. He gasps and drops his hooves just like I knew he would. I bite down hard on my mouthpiece and cock back my left hoof. His eyes clear just before my hook crashes into his temple.
The crowd’s alive now, stamping their hooves so hard that the whole building’s shaking. Some are hollering at me to finish it. Others are screaming at Blueblood to hang on. Some of them are just yelling to yell.
When the crowd gets worked up, it’s like a landslide. Can’t hear nothing but screaming, but you can’t make out the words. Can’t see nothing but faces, but you can’t pick any one of them out. Ain’t no smell but the stink of a thousand heat-crazed ponies. Some nights, I wonder if this is the real fight: trying to keep your mind right with all that insanity outside those ropes.
Blueblood lurches left. His legs are about to give out on him, so I help him along with a overhoof right. The crowd roars when he falls. Granny’s screaming for me to get to the corner, and Uppercut is in position, waiting. As soon as I’m away from Blueblood, he starts the count.
The knockdown’s one of the strangest times for a fighter. On one hoof, you’re feeling great. The sooner the fight’s over, the better. On the other hoof, that other guy could be laying there real hurt. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times. Made it happen some, to be honest. A hard shot to some places in the body, and things just don’t work right no more. As they lay there, flat on their backs, it always reminds me of my family, no matter how hard I try to keep my mind from it.
My pa laid there in his bed like that, all stiff and bloodless. He didn’t look like a real pony. More like a big doll or one of them carved wax sideshow things than my father. He was so big and strong that I never thought he could die, but this is hard country. White fever hit Appleloosa real bad that year, and we’d barely been scraping by as it was. Pa’d been making headway with the buffalo, but then we got sick. Real sick.
Ma ran herself ragged caring for us all, and that’s probably why she went before he did. Apple Bloom was just a couple months old, and my ma fought for that child. There ain’t no way to comfort a baby that sick, but she tried mighty hard. Day and night she stayed up with that filly, all while looking after the rest of us, too. The fever did something to Apple Bloom’s brain. The left side of her face don’t work right, and that eye’s milky white, but because of my ma, she lived.
Can’t say the same for my other sister, Applejack. I was sure she was gonna turn things around for us one day. Even as a filly, she understood what apples needed in a way that I just never did. She’d always have these big ideas that improved the harvest somehow. Ain’t no surprise her cutie mark was three apples when the rest of us all got one. She was just better at growing them than we were. But then she got the fever, and she was gone. Ma and Pa went soon after. Granny says that their hurting made the fever run hotter somehow.
Blueblood snaps me back to the present when he sits up. Uppercut’s at six, and I can see Blueblood’s eyes widen. He tries to rise, slips, then gets his hooves under him at nine. I shake my head before I remember not to. Like I said, I ain’t never been good at hiding my feelings about things. During a bout, you’re supposed be careful about what you show, but sometimes things bother me before I can get a handle on myself. Granny’s gonna curse me up the front and down the back for it when this is done.
That’s what I get for thinking about my family too much. I oughta be thinking about Granny’s game plan, but here I am, wiping at my eyes and trying to get my head straight again. I shouldn’t never think about Ma or Pa or Applejack during a match. Getting too emotional’s what gets fighters knocked out, that’s what Granny Smith’s always saying. She says that cool heads win fights, and that’s what I got to get right now. I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath.
Uppercut asks Blueblood a couple of probing questions. What round is it? Who’s he fighting? That sorta thing. Looks like Blueblood must’ve answered correctly, because all of a sudden the fight’s back on. Uppercut moves outta the way and motions for us to come together again.
This is when you gotta be calm, but it ain’t easy. I hit that stallion pretty hard. Not my hardest, but not far from it. It was solid, and he should be out, but here he is, asking for more. Those fans out there might want five solid rounds of violence, but I don’t wanna get hit any more than I have to. He should be out, but he ain’t.
That pisses me off.
I can feel my heart pounding in my temples when I come at him hard. Everypony knows I ain’t too quick, but I can pour on a burst of speed when I need to. Chances are he’s still pretty punchy, so I’m on him just a second before he’s ready. He gets his hooves up, but I duck, almost kneeling, and shoot my hardest jab into his stomach. I get it in there so deep that it’s a wonder my hoof didn’t come straight out his back.
Blueblood’s eyes bulge, and he doubles over. He’s just starting to suck in his first big breath when I throw an uppercut. It’s my left, which ain’t my good hoof, but I know his chin’s gotta be tender from that cross. My uppercut don’t land quite the way I want it to, but his head still flips up like it’s on a hinge. His legs wobble, and he nearly falls before he grabs the ropes and pushes himself away.
That’s the thing about sliding along the ropes. Anyway you go, you’re gonna end up in a corner before long, and that’s just where Blueblood finds himself. I can’t fault him too much. He’s just trying to stay on his hooves in here, but you don’t want to get trapped with me. Movement’s what’s kept him alive so far. That corner might hold him up, but it’s also holding him back.
He’s game, though. As his back hits that turnbuckle, he keeps his head in motion. He’s trying to make sure I ain’t gonna have an easy time tagging him. That’s fine. I just crank my hooves back and let them fly. A lot are gonna miss, but if I catch him with even three or four big hits, he’s gonna regret it.
Blueblood coughs out a mouthful of blood onto me when I snap a hard left into his ribs. That’s when you’re screaming at your body. You can’t help certain things. In your mind, you’re trying to cover up and be smart, but that body shot just keels you over before you can get control again. I can see it in Blueblood’s eyes that he knows he’s open, but his body’s just betraying him.
As his head comes forward, I pound my right into his cheek. Then the left. Then the right again. His eyes roll back, and he falls halfway onto me before slipping to the canvas. The blood leaking from his mouth is startlingly bright against the mat. Sucking air, I’m moving too slow to my neutral corner.
When I finally reach it, Uppercut begins his count, but the timekeeper rings the bell at three. I swear and slam my hoof against the turnbuckle while Blueblood’s team dives into the ring and pulls their stallion to the corner, then cracks open the smelling salts. As I fall onto my stool, I can see his eyes rolling around beneath their lids.
“I got a mind to yell about them dropped hooves, Mac, but you got the job done one way or the other.” Granny Smith’s checking my face for abrasions that’ll turn into cuts if they get hit too many more times. “Apple Bloom, get some salve on that eyebrow. I don’t like the look of it.”
Granny takes my hooves in hers and squeezes hard to make sure the wrap is still tight. “More of the same, Mac. He can’t take another round of that, but he’ll know it. He’s gonna come out hard. You watch him. If he’s got a brain in his head, he won’t be playin' around.”
Apple Bloom’s just finishing up when the bell rings again. I jump to my hooves and flick a couple of jabs into the air. I want him to know I’m feelin’ fine, but when I glance over to his corner, it’s like looking at a statue. No emotion. He looks like he’s staring right through me, and I’m not sure what to make of that.
Either he’s given up, or I’ve made him mad. Real mad.