The Fight Clang, clang, clang. The bout begins. The solitary warrior leans back in his La-Z-Boy recliner, Dressed in black sweatpants and white tank T-shirt. Takes jab after jab. He’s a champion but getting too old for this now. In his former fights, searching for his spot in the ring, Absorbing punches from family to grow up and settle down, Upper cuts from a few lousy bosses to take up their slack, Jabs from the realities of growing a business. He took it all. He hit back and at the end stood weathered and sweaty, With his hands held high. Victory takes a lifetime but lasts a moment. A new battle, new jabs. The jab to chase the dream to be a creator. The gut wrenching abdomen whack of just give up and let go. The counter punch he takes at the rock, the rock that has always stood as an obstacle. The unmovable rock that asks "why?". The rock that asks "why?", that turns to a cloud every time he lands a punch. The cloud that holds no rain. “Hey Grampa, go get dressed. Let’s go play catch.” The bell rings. This fight is over. For now.