He already knows it, but this battle will not be mine.
It begins, as it always does, with the eyes. A momentary flicker downwards as I break first contact.
Barely registered but a signal nonetheless.
I slip on beloved red boxing gloves, moulded to me like a first love. I lift both hands to my face as if in prayer. The sweat and blood of younger days fills my nostrils. The cooling touch of worn leather caresses my cheeks. I am ageless. The gears of time grind down.
The electronic buzzer beckons us to arms.
The laying on of hands begins.