Post by Ryan Neale on Oct 7, 2010 23:32:16 GMT
Ryan's eyes burned as sweat ran down his brow and into his eyes, causing his eyes to flinch shut and leaving him unable to see the tall Frenchman he was fighting gave a powerful right hook to his abdomen. Ryan gritted his teeth harder as he threw a blind cross to the face, which was easily slipped and riposted by a powerful roundhouse to his abdomen. Ryan frantically weaved back and forth, working his way back until he felt the assurance of the ropes behind him to lean on. He was hurt, badly, but he wouldn't show in front of a bunch of cowardly, wine guzzling, frogs. He could hear the elation of the Parisian crowd as the lanky Savate fighter pummeled the hell out of the hated German enemy. People might come up and ask him why Ryan would place himself at the mercy of the French citizenry like this, and the only answer that Ryan could possibly think of is a mixture of self-hatred over some dire news he had just received from home, a need to get back into the ring, and the fact that he had fallen in love with the French art of Savate and the cuts and bruises had become worth it in his sparring sessions in the basement of a cheap tavern.
The lights burned hot and hazy and looked like some sort of phantasmagorical fog as Ryan tapped his forehead with his hands to remind himself to keep them up. His vision grew just clear enough for him to slip a jab from the Frenchman and deliver two body hooks as he danced around the ring and kept the much taller Frenchman at bay by skillful footwork.
Ryan had heard about this art of kicking and boxing before he had arrived in France as part of Fall Gelb . Originating in the port of Marseille among brawling sailors, Savate bred a toughness that Ryan desired more than anything and would provide a thrill for him now that boxing had grown somewhat old. It took a while to find a gym where he could train, eventually finding one operated by a collaborator and Vichy supporter who had trained him up to at least a passing level. While Ryan could punch and weave and was superb with his hands, the kicking of Savate proved a crippling weakness that he had only recently begun to overcome.
Ryan was repeatedly being driven back by jabs from the Frenchman's much longer reach and the occasional kick to the abdomen that he weaved away from. The crowd was in a frenzy and normally Ryan wouldn't put himself at the mercy of a mob of Frenchmen but thankfully there were almost as many German officers and men present as there were French. Suddenly, the hard toe of the Frenchman's shoe drove dangerously close to his liver as a powerful roundhouse sank into Ryan's abdomen due to his being too distracted by the Frenchman's hands. Ryan's eyes teared up in pain as he found himself back against the ropes and getting the hell beaten out of him by the Frenchman's long, powerful punches. A powerful cross to the body rocked Ryan, causing his world to fade briefly to gray as a tunnel closed around his eyesight. Ryan had to shrug it off. He had no choice. Otherwise the Frenchman might hit him there again, then he would certainly be down for the count. Ryan lurched forward for the clinch in order to recover, sneaking in a body cross. The Frenchman wasted no time punching his way out but was met with a front snap kick to the abdomen delivered with all of Ryan's remaining strength. The Frenchman staggered back winded and readied himself in a rage to deliver an overhand right only to have the small referee hold him back as the bell tolled and signaled the end of the round.
Ryan slumped into his corner exhausted and buried his face in his hands. He was hurting extremely badly and his every nerve screamed at him to stop. The voices of the crowd and his corner sounded like the bell which controlled the ring and signified another round of getting pummeled. Ryan's ears were ringing badly as he spat into the bucket his corner provided for him. He hurt but he didn't want to lose to a damned Gallic.
The lights burned hot and hazy and looked like some sort of phantasmagorical fog as Ryan tapped his forehead with his hands to remind himself to keep them up. His vision grew just clear enough for him to slip a jab from the Frenchman and deliver two body hooks as he danced around the ring and kept the much taller Frenchman at bay by skillful footwork.
Ryan had heard about this art of kicking and boxing before he had arrived in France as part of Fall Gelb . Originating in the port of Marseille among brawling sailors, Savate bred a toughness that Ryan desired more than anything and would provide a thrill for him now that boxing had grown somewhat old. It took a while to find a gym where he could train, eventually finding one operated by a collaborator and Vichy supporter who had trained him up to at least a passing level. While Ryan could punch and weave and was superb with his hands, the kicking of Savate proved a crippling weakness that he had only recently begun to overcome.
Ryan was repeatedly being driven back by jabs from the Frenchman's much longer reach and the occasional kick to the abdomen that he weaved away from. The crowd was in a frenzy and normally Ryan wouldn't put himself at the mercy of a mob of Frenchmen but thankfully there were almost as many German officers and men present as there were French. Suddenly, the hard toe of the Frenchman's shoe drove dangerously close to his liver as a powerful roundhouse sank into Ryan's abdomen due to his being too distracted by the Frenchman's hands. Ryan's eyes teared up in pain as he found himself back against the ropes and getting the hell beaten out of him by the Frenchman's long, powerful punches. A powerful cross to the body rocked Ryan, causing his world to fade briefly to gray as a tunnel closed around his eyesight. Ryan had to shrug it off. He had no choice. Otherwise the Frenchman might hit him there again, then he would certainly be down for the count. Ryan lurched forward for the clinch in order to recover, sneaking in a body cross. The Frenchman wasted no time punching his way out but was met with a front snap kick to the abdomen delivered with all of Ryan's remaining strength. The Frenchman staggered back winded and readied himself in a rage to deliver an overhand right only to have the small referee hold him back as the bell tolled and signaled the end of the round.
Ryan slumped into his corner exhausted and buried his face in his hands. He was hurting extremely badly and his every nerve screamed at him to stop. The voices of the crowd and his corner sounded like the bell which controlled the ring and signified another round of getting pummeled. Ryan's ears were ringing badly as he spat into the bucket his corner provided for him. He hurt but he didn't want to lose to a damned Gallic.