A Rival's Departures

Parker June slid into her first-class window seat wearing ear buds and proceeded to put her cell phone into airplane mode. She wore a pair of dark sunglasses and a blue Yankees fitted cap tilted slightly toward the aisle and the two seats across from her single row. She kicked off her slides, slumped a bit, pulled up her navy blue hoodie, crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and disappeared into the narrative sweeps of "Dune" as passengers shuffled past toward the rear of the cabin. Flight 7809 to La Guardia was set to take off from Chicago O'Hare in about 20 minutes. Heading home.

Her whole body ached with a dullness that sent splintering shards through her bones whenever she moved too startingly. The dark sunnies hid a fresh shiner still pulsing evenly with warmth beneath her right eye. Her hands hurt. Her head registered an almost distant ringing, unaltered despite the steady thrum of commotion all around her makeshift cocoon. Every now and then she perceived a lingering passerby casting a nod of recognition in her direction from her right side. Nobody ventured an interaction, but she could feel the charge of electricity in the recirculated air. A smile crept into the corner creases of her mouth and she exhaled long and low. "Ugh, damn, it hurts so good," she thought. Maybe one or two of these folks would be able to recognize the newly belted female featherweight champion of the boxing world. If she were introduced as such. Or a few of them might put together the make of a fighter from the fresh bruises and first-class accommodations accompanying the fit, though slight of frame, figure swimming in the hoodie. The occasional fan might make her out given the local news coverage last night hailing her triumphant return to the ring after burying her father and former trainer. Funny how some people may even think they know Parker June. "They have no idea. Do they, Pops?" she thought, settling deeper into her seat. The captain began the pre-flight announcements as Paul Muad'Dib's desert wanderings lulled her to sleep.

Celia Suarez boarded Flight 7809 just as the cabin doors were set to close. Sweating and breathing raggedly, she'd sprinted with her carry-on a good 600 yards from the terminal entry to her gate. Catching her breath, she thanked the flight attendant who stowed her bag near the cockpit (all the remaining overhead compartments in first-class were previously filled), and crashed in a heap into her first-class seat. Surveying the 12-seat cabin, every other set of eyes averted her gaze, while the rest stared dazedly. She'd already forgotten the state of her face may not pass for "random passenger" right about now. Pride notwithstanding, she offered a kind yet shy smile in the direction of her unknowingly newfound admirers and settled herself while the captain continued the pre-flight announcement. The flight attendant returned and asked if she'd like anything to drink. Celia replied with a deeply drawn inhale and equally lengthy exhale. A centering breath. "Yes. Beer, thanks." The flight attendant nodded, popped off to the front of the plane. As she left Celia's frame of vision, swaddled across the aisle from her, unmistakable in her same casual post-fight attire from the night prior, Parker June in the flesh. "Why, as I live and breathe," Celia thought to herself in that odd, sarcastic Southern belle inner monologue she often adopted when the uncanny occurred. "What are the chances?" she said aloud. "Junie?" she whispered to her left across the aisle.

Parker stirred at the hushed sound, shifted slightly, allowing her left eye the smallest view from beneath her hooded sweatshirt past her nose over the aisle, finally glimpsing the visage of her recent waking nightmare. "Sauce?!" Startled, she let out a light moan, clutched her battered ribs with her left arm close to her side, and sat up in her seat. Wincing simultaneously at their inescapable chuckles, they reached across the first-class aisle and bumped fists delicately. Parker smiled, removing her sunnies. "Damn, girl… what the… Why are you flying to NY?"

Last night at the United Center, the House that Jordan Built, Celia "Sauce" Suarez sought to defend her featherweight belt against Parker June, who'd vacated the title two years prior as her father battled lymphoma. Three years prior, Junie had taken the championship away from Suarez in what many sports commentators lauded as a phantom knockout from hell, which caught the former undisputed, undefeated Sauce completely by surprise. Junie countered a jab feint from Sauce in that infinitesimal space between the feint and the real jab with a rocket left hook delivered to the right ribs of Sauce, followed by another devastating hook up high that sent Sauce's lights flickering as she crashed in a heap and splayed out like a snow angel. Female featherweight bouts sadly still got about as much press as WNBA contests— minimal at best, but this one sent shockwaves through social media. "Servin’ that Sleep Sauce" and "Saucie got Slept" became ubiquitous memes for a few weeks.

"Sauce" Suarez was the heavy favorite in Vegas for the rematch, but the human-interest byline undoubtedly favored Junie. Through eight rounds, the two rivals put on a display of unquestionable skill and tactful artistry. The final decision came down to a knockdown in the fifth round where Junie landed a straight cross to the breadbasket that sent Sauce to a knee for a standing eight count. By the end of the bout, both fighters looked the part of a brawler putting everything they had in the tank up for auction. Junie's speech had many in tears as she recounted the respectable career of her late father while video monitors displayed a montage of the retired boxer in his prime working his way up the amateur ranks, then cornering his daughter through her own ascension as an accomplished trainer and unapologetically doting dad. Barely a dry eye left in the house, including Sauce and her team. Maximo June was a legend. Parker his prize fight.

"Got some press to do at The Today Show tomorrow," said Celia. "You believe they booked me first-class to fly out the day after the fight?" She laughed. Then grimaced. She'd be hurting for a few days. Maybe weeks. "Guess they want to get me on camera looking all war-torn while the press is still hot over your story. I really do love what your father represented in this sport. We both know I’m the fighter I am today because of your dad. I'm just sorry he wasn't here last night to see you kicking ass. Even if it was mine." She smiled, "Respect."

"Me too. But he was there," Parker replied as she smiled back. "You know he'd never miss us going back at it like we did in sparring before you changed camps and moved to Phoenix." They both laughed, holding their sides close. "Thanks for taking the fight on short notice. I know it must have been difficult to switch up training methods after Jamison broke her hand. Southpaws are nasty puzzles to try and crack. Honestly, I didn't expect the opportunity to come up so soon. Christmastime was my best guess at when I'd be back in the ring. Seemed like September was a stretch. That's why I picked Earth, Wind & Fire for my entrance music!"

Celia smiled. "Apropos. And hilarious." The flight attendant brought Celia's beer and asked June if she'd like anything now that she was awake.

"I'll have what she's having," June replied. "And an extra blanket."

The flight attendant nodded, popped off again, came back with another IPA and a small blanket. Parker thanked her as she opened the thin plastic bag containing the blanket and spread it over her legs. Celia held up her beer can and nodded toward the ceiling. "Papa June." Parker cracked the top on her own beer and reached across the aisle. The two rivals clinked cans and held back a few tears. "Cheers, Pops. Enjoy the flight," Parker sniffled. They took a few long draughts, shared a last nod of respect, and settled in for the duration of the trip back to Brooklyn where they'd met in middle school. Things had changed a lot for them both since those years long past. But not what made them tick... A rival’s never long for departures from the fuel that feeds the rivalry. They always want another go.