Tennis is a dainty little sport. Most of the men who play tennis — take Art for example — are dainty little men. Twinkish men, with lean muscles and rectangular bodies meant for running and hitting the ball around, but not much else. Tennis players, in short, are like little boys and girls running around the playground.

That doesn’t diminish your respect for them, however. It takes a great deal of focus and coordination to be able to follow the ball’s trajectory to intercept and counter it. It seems exhausting, really.

Boxing is a lot different. You stand there in the center of the ring for a little while, beating each other up. Occasionally things will get heated and you’ll get backed up against the rungs or trapped in a corner. You try not to be the one to get knocked down. You punch hard enough and fast enough, you win.

Art has never understood nor cared for boxing. Not in an actively discriminatory way, but more so an apathetic way. But Patrick got tickets to a local boxing match, so of course he was going to go. Patrick quite liked boxing, and often talked of someday going into that sport in particular once he’s had his fill of tennis.

Patrick and Art file into the spectator seats, Art still holding a soda from their previous McDonald’s trip. They sit in seats relatively close to the wing — something that wasn’t as exciting to Art as it was to Patrick — and throughout the entire match, both boys are mindblown. For opposite reasons, of course.

You just so happen to be Patrick’s favorite boxer. You’re quick like lightning and your strikes are lethal. You hardly ever break a sweat while you’re up there, blocking punches and jabs and making sure your opponent can’t get a hit in edgewise. Patrick is under your spell. And… to an extent… so is Art.

Art just mostly thinks you’re the most ethereal thing he’s ever seen. You’re just a little rougher than he is, but he sees the focused light in your eyes, the ever-so-faint smile, even as you’re bleeding from the mouth, when you are declared the champion of the match. When it’s all over, Patrick runs up to you, calling your name and hoping you’ll give the time of day to a fellow sports icon, and Art trails along with the hopes of just getting you to look at him.

“Holy shit, that was phenomenal!” Patrick leads with, just talking and talking about your methods while you laugh quietly at his excitement. Art lingers there, not knowing what to say, until he says:

“I like your gloves. Red’s my favorite color.”

Patrick stops yapping and stares. “Dude… your favorite color is blue.”

“I can have two favorite colors,” Art is quick to defend himself.