The ring has a small audience, and from the darkness of their area there comes virtually no sounds, no jeers and no cheers. They are common friends, made-believe friends, future friends, perhaps friends of memories, but whoever these phantoms are in the darkness, they aren't making much more than a peep. In the center, all lit and nearly blindingly bright, is the ring. And each of the two challengers stands at opposing corners.
The bell rings to indicate an announcement, and from somewhere a male voice is heard, a voice that, while is familiar, has an origin that is difficult for anyone to trace. It basically announces me, on the one side, one of the challengers. Who I am. My history. My built. In essence, my physical and temporal description. What I potentially can offer the audience to evaluate my chances of winning. I am soft-spoken most of the times, but frequently found making jokes and making, at least himself, if not others, laugh along the way. I blush at the announcement that I have a car, a house, and a stable job. I wonder why those things matter. I wonder why I would win a prize that actually cares about these things. And strangest of all, I wonder why I am blushing at that announcement. The voice also says that I am 5' 8", weigh not even 140 lb. I blush even more. I am delighted that they now know I've traveled a lot, but that doesn't mean so much. So many people travel for so many reasons, many of which I dislike if not disdain. And yet, when the announcer stops talking about me, I become frustrated because he never mentioned about my proficiency in languages. I look up, feeling a little shivered. There is a pause, and then the voice says one more thing about me. It is not what I had hoped, and in fact, it's not what I want him to say. "And he is also very available, doing everything at your beck-and-call." There is some giggle from the audience. Some of them know that too familiar. My face was flushed. I sneak a look at my opponent, and I see, I think, a similar grimace.
Who is he, then? The announcer produces his name, which is infinitely easier to pronounce than mine. Is that less exotic or more accessible? I am not sure. Is it my imagination or is there a greater sense of enthusiasm in the voice of the announcer now. The man is about my height, "five feet seven inches!" says the voice above. I wonder if people can see him standing there in the light, see that he's balding, his face is a mixture of fear and determination, his smile stretches with effort towards sincerity. The announcer doesn't say any of these observations. He tells a man who had struggled on his own to become everything his mother had wanted except being married. That he is a gentle soul. And that while he hasn't really traveled anywhere, he comes from an exotic country with his parents still there. Why the last part? In case people, or our prize, wants to go there? I suddenly realize that my hands are moist, that my finger tips are cold when they touch my thighs. I have this sudden image of my lips being colorless, especially in this light.
There stands a man who in some ways, terrifyingly, resembles me. I recall sitting in front of the television one Sunday afternoon. I was, as nearly on every weekend as a child, bored to death and had nothing but a TV to save me from the asphyxiation of boredom. I didn't know who I was at the time, didn't care to ask either. I was watching what was called back then WWF wrestling championship of some sort. I had been told not too long before then that it was all fixed, all fake. But still, even though I believed just a little bit this outrageous claim, I still enjoyed watching big white people slamming each other like furniture. I remember that one time I couldn't really tell the two contenders apart easily. They differed only by the colors of the stripes on their clothes, but they were both wearing masks, and both big, wide, fat, and hairy. So here I am, differing from my challenger only in slivers that I can't immediately identify, and somehow the announcer manages to tell very different tales of the two people, making them sound such different people when what he really has done is take the set of descriptions of the same person and divide them up into two sets. I saw my own diffidence, my own fear, my own sheer will to win, my own discriminations, received as well as given, in that man before me. I also see the same passions, same love, same kinds and degrees of attentiveness and carelessness.
But we're different in that the person we want to win is different.
"And now, the prize!"
Equidistant from us, on my left side of the ring, a spot light reflects a woman rising on a podium. The announcer makes the obvious declaration that she is beautiful. Beauty of the prize is the most basic reason we two are here. She has gorgeous hazel and blond hair. Her eyes are eternally nonchalant, and her words, carved in my memory, have been disarmingly charming. She's also timid, or gives an aura of timidness that men seem to like in a woman, but at the same time, she is no pushover, no princess. She simply isn't shy to respect her limits. And while my heart beats faster, I can almost feel his beating at the same rate of acceleration. Unlike the girl that generally walks around the ring before the wrestling starts, she is dressed modestly, but with beautiful clothes meticulously arranged not only to complement her beauty but also reflect her personality that weighs as much as her beauty. I know that everything I see in her, on her, is what he sees too. I know that he also sees a silver crown studded with all the metaphoric diamonds in the world, in life, in love. And as she rises, she doesn't allow herself to be objectified. She seems as if she is on a stage, playing the role of herself, portraying herself, and that the audience sees, at least a little, what idealism in this woman's life is being fought between two men standing opposite each other but for the moment has forgotten each other.
She looks at me for a moment, and I felt both nauseous and wild; and all I wanted to do was jump out of the ring and kneel before her. But that prize isn't for me to grab with brutish weakness. It is gained, I am told, through this imbecilic fight with this man, as if I have to be fighting myself. She looks at me for that moment, without a smile, without longing, without anger or malice or ridicule. She looks down a little, then looks straight ahead. I turn to look at my component in that blinding white light, and I can feel his dejection, that she didn't look at him, that she, the prize, is being lowered back down to the trophy room so that the fight can commence. I can feel his dejection, I have felt this hurt so many times in his presence. Yet, I don't feel joy. Whoever wins, I somehow will lose a piece of myself, and the prize will seem a little bloodied.
