THE TASTE OF DEFEAT

I'm tired.  My head weighs a hundred pounds, it's all I can do to keep it level on that stack of dimes I call my neck.  I can barely keep my eyes open.  Exhausted.  And the pain, my God the pain.  My stomach feels like it'd been worked over by a dozen different fists, although I know the damage was due to just the two.  I hear cheering, the crowd cheering him in the distance.  I'm barely here.  Barely awake.  I struggle to sip at a cup of water but the effort is to much, the cool liquid just dribbles out of my mouth and down my chin.  I let my head slump forward so that I am staring at my hands, so stained with red.  Red and yellow and green flecks of relish.  Was it the relish?  Is that why he beat me?  Is that what they'll ask me, after they finish taping his victory laps?   Is the relish why you lost?  It might be.  I think it must be.  And now a bitter taste fills my mouth, shoving aside the flavors of sweet relish and tangy mustard.  I want to shout to the world, to the cameras and the crowd and to the victor: yes, I lost.  I lost!  But have any of you ever heard of a hot dog being served without relish?  Because I never did.  I want to shout, but I am just too tired.  And thankfully, too tired to even cry.