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April 16, 2013
THERE’S ALWAYS a price to pay.

I can speed up my reactions, like, ten to one. Sanchez might as well have been loitering:

Here comes his right, he’s bringing it up. A little business with his left. There are his eyes, closing into a blink. He’s sweating. I start to think about where to vacation this summer. Sint Maarten, I guess? He sees me, and his glove drags in. I dip down—slowly, slowly—and right-hand-trade to the head. Bam bam bam! And left to the body, body! Right cross!

That evening a migraine flattens me.

Can’t win.