Birds Without Wings(bxb)

1: Basiphobia

Jameel's punches sound like gunshots when they land. They rip through the air so quickly, and with so much force. He knocks down the guy in front of him, a number three ranked fighter named Gustavo Gutierrez. I watch as the man's knees buckle and his skull bounces off the arena floor. The crowd goes ballistic. They are screaming for a finish, for Jameel to just charge him and pound him into an irrefutable loss.

It's a miracle when Gustavo gets back to his feet. We're only thirty seconds into the first round. I'm seated in the first row along with the rest of the team. These seats are reserved for us. Fans across the country scramble and slam their heads into the sticky lap tops just to get this close.

The Las Vegas arena is filled with crowds cheering and beers spilling. Bright white highlights the violence going on at the center of it all. It shines through the cherry red spilling from the challenger's lip and eyebrows. Jameel isn't breaking a sweat. The Vaseline on his abs and nose bridge sparkles with each step he takes.

He looks like a God up there. He demands our devotion and we're all just here worshipping him en masse. Forty five seconds into the round, he proves his existence.

The next punch he lands, right on the chin, it completely folds his opponent. Gustavo is flattened on the ground as the crowd screams before even confirming whether or not he can wake up from this. Jameel doesn't do any theatrics when he wins. He gives Coach Taylor and the rest of the team a shrug as everyone hops up to either hug each other or rush to the stage. Jameel feeds his own ego, taking in the noise and cupping a hand to his ear to make it even louder.

"This is your eighth title defense. You're on the way to breaking two records here," the commentator hypes him up even more, one hand on Jameel's shoulder and the other on the mic. "Let's take a look at that knockout again."

The Jumbotron replays the events that happened less than two minutes ago. It catches the hit from every angle and slows it down. Jameel plants his feet firmly. He lifts one leg and swings with the opposite arm, muscles flexing through his dark skin. I study his form, taking mental notes and practicing his footwork with small gestures in my seat.

My teammate, Eduardo, scoffs beside me after noticing. He's twice my size. His black team jacket has overstretched areas. I stare straight ahead as Jameel finishes his interview with Coach Taylor right behind him. Coach is smiling showing every tooth and every crease in his face.

When the media play is over Jameel exists the cage just as confident as when he went in. He has a smudge of blood on his loose white shorts but it doesn't belong to him. His hair is cut short and faded into an impossibly smooth gradient. Everyone's faces light up once he joins the rest of the team.

"Good job up there," Francis, our team's prospect heavyweight champ congratulates him. He towers over the rest of the group with his African genes and boisterous voice.

"That was definitely fight of the night. What are you gonna do with that extra bonus money?" Eduardo asks.

"We'll see." Jameel gives them a brief look. His eyes are the color of sea and land, one blue and one brown.

When we were kids he was infamous for his unique eye color. Elementary schoolers simply cannot wrap their rainbow sprinkle filled minds around heterochromia. Our private school rarely saw any issues or problem children.

The bright and cheery environment was filled with ignorance. During recess, students would point and stare. During class some would whisper and others would tremble in fear.

My first time ever seeing a fight was when I was six years old. A fifth grader picked on Jameel, said he looked like a circus act. Jameel balled his little baby fists and socked the kid right in the mouth.