Free The Dream of the Broken Horses by William Bayer

one foot on the bench tying up his sneakers. We glare at one another as we suit up side by side.
    "It's going to be fun whipping your ass," he taunts.
    "There's an ambulance outside waiting for you," I respond.
    Every student, upon admittance to Hayes, is assigned to one of two teams, Eagles or Mustangs. Thereafter, no matter the sport, all intramural teams are demarcated this way. Mark Fulraine was a Mustang, thus the tank top he pulled over his head was a vivid fighting scarlet. Since I was an Eagle, mine was but a muted blue.
    Together we strode into the gym to receive our gloves, head-guards, and mouthpieces. Another match was in progress with at least a hundred boys seated about the ring. Normally less than twenty spectators attended Friday practice, but that afternoon interest was high as word of our impending battle had spread through Lower School.
    Mark was popular; I was not. He was a star athlete, a football player, graceful and handsome with manly features and a head of unruly golden locks. I, dark-haired, skinny, sometimes gawky, was not particularly good at sports. Moreover, I was disliked on account of my sarcastic manner and for being among the smartest kids in sixth grade.
    As we walked forward, I could sense the waves of approval washing over him and feel the disdain directed at me.
    "Give it to him, Mark!"
    "Beat the crap out of him!" yelled Mark's brother, Robin, who would be acting as Mark's second.
    I think I might have choked out of sheer loneliness if Jerry Glickman hadn't come forward then to encourage me and help me with my gloves. Since psychology is half of any battle, choking up would have doomed me for sure. But thanks to Jerry, despite the favoritism of the crowd, I managed to keep my head.
    "He's too cocky," Jerry whispered. "He's riding for a fall."
    Filled with gratitude, I looked around for Tim, my other friend. Appalled to find him in Mark's corner whispering encouragement, I heard mumbling in the audience: "Hawthorn's turned. Hawthorn's rooting for Fulraine!"
    You will be betrayed.
    That was the first lesson I learned that Friday afternoon. But strangely instead of eroding my confidence, Tim's betrayal gave me strength. I'll show him! I remember thinking. And at that I focused my anger on my betrayer, glaring at him so hard I forced him to lower his eyes.
    The Hayes School, now coed but in those days exclusively for boys, prided itself on its instruction in manly sporting arts and values. Hayes boys, we were taught, played fair and true. Hayes football players never shirked a tackle, Hayes basketball players always leapt for heaven, and, in the boxing ring, Hayes boys gave all with honor and heart.
    Mr. Jessup came over to check my mouthpiece and gloves.
    "Everything okay?" he asked. I nodded. "Best now you do like Mark, shadowbox a little to warm up," he advised.
    I nodded again, then stood and joined Mark, flamboyantly shadowboxing around the ring. Then Mr. Jessup beckoned us to the center to instruct us in the rules.
    "Three two-minute rounds. Compulsory ten count on a knockdown. Break when I tell you. If either of you wants to stop, say so and it's over."
    Mark and I nodded.
    "Good! Now come out swinging. May the best man win!"
    Mark and I briefly touch gloved hands, Jessup stood back, then Mark and I began to fight.
    I don't remember much about the bout, have no memory of particular blows. But I do remember they came fast and hard, and that after a slow start, to my surprise, I began to give as good as I got. There was ebb and flow; at times I became the aggressor, pursuing Mark across the ring. Other times he backed me against the ropes with a flurry of hooks and jabs. I remember Jerry encouraging me while offering me water during the breaks. I also recall Robin Fulraine yelling taunts from the opposing corner. At one point, I remember connecting a right and feeling great satisfaction as Mark's eyes clouded and blood spurted from his nose. I wasn't aware how bloodied up I was myself