I'm tired of fighting. I lost track of the rounds five knockdowns ago. Are we in the twelfth yet? Most in my situation thirty years ago had to fight fifteen, but The Public decided that was three rounds too many. I want to quit on the stool, but you're my corner, and I'll do what you say. You've never steered me wrong before. My problem seems to come from somewhere deeper: I'm desperate to be understood, appreciated, even loved. Nobody wants to know my name. Nobody wants to hear my story. To The Public, I'm just a nameless guy wearing a pair of eight ouncers. The same Public that made it fifteen rounds, made it twelve in the interests of fighters everywhere. I can't worry about their mercy now. I have to decide what to do in one minute. If you send me out, I'll fight. I can't determine success, but there's a point in every fighter's life where one more round is too much. Tell me what the round is, and how many more I have to fight. Which has more dignity, a planned surrender saving blood, or letting the referee count to ten? More importantly, will that matter to anyone?
You're my corner. I trust you.