Amir Khan’s arms flailed lifelessly as he collided into the canvas. The eyes of my friends darted to me, expecting another dramatized reaction that I was known for long ago. It was fitting that a response as animated as throwing a plate (my signature reaction) belonged to a spectacle as cartoonish as professional wrestling. But those days are retired far into my childhood, and a shallow sense of anger for my desired outcome not having been met was not what I experienced. My angst was real.
The idea of Khan’s defeat coming to him in such a graphic fashion was a fear that haunted me throughout the day. It intensified throughout the preliminary rounds of the match as I voiced my premonitions to the people surrounding me. “Danny, Khan is scoring more points.” “Canelo looks shaken.” “Khan’s speed is unmatched.” These were all phrases directed at me to ease some of the burdening anxiety that rested within. Such phrases felt like hollow attempts at trying to divert me from the hopeless situation that was going to follow. This offers insight as to why I was sent in a paroxysm of despair, grief, and fear at the sight of Khan’s demise. As his swollen eyes fixed directly above him while his trainers, promotors, and medical assistance crowded around, my eyes were also stared in a dazed state at something beyond me; the cruel nature of reality.
Saul “Canelo” Alvarez’s chiseled body dwarfed the UK native’s physique of lean muscle. He resides two weight classes above the much smaller challenger, as the welterweight divisions limits had to be augmented for Khan to even be sanctioned to fight. Canelo’s technique is virtually flawless and his 46 win record holds only one blemish (and to the best boxer in the sport). Meanwhile Amir Khan has been clobbered into oblivion countless times, and by fighters a lot less gifted than his most recent opponent. The fighter infamous for his reckless style and venerability to knock-outs faced the fighter who best capitalizes of recklessness and is notorious for knocking opponents out. This was far from a mere bout of pugilism, but rather a meditation on life. Amir Khan symbolized a contention of circumstance and an appeal to fate.
I opened up a blank word document on a drizzly November night and began to pen my personal essay to one of the most prestigious of academic institutions in the world; the University of California, Berkeley. Throughout two years prior, friends and family would offer a slight cringe when I explained my plans of obtaining my undergraduate degree through them. “I mean, you’re a really good student, Daniel. But Berkeley? Are you sure? Do you have a backup plan?” “I mean, you’re my son. You’re incredibly intelligent. But they are really hard to get into. Really hard.” These responses were indicative of my chances of acceptance, however pessimism was never my strong suit. If anything, the mere discussion of my acceptance to Berkeley breathed hope into my mind and heart.
At an early juncture of my high-school career, I held a weighted GPA of 1.5. Although I was able to perform decently moving forward, my introduction into college was rough to say the least. I continued a streak of failing grades throughout my first Psychology class before the professor seated me in her office and explained to me just how one is supposed to study. The idea that test-taking was a product of understanding material and not measuring answers, negotiating truths, and comparing options was foreign to me. I was able to salvage not just the semester, but also my college career, by taking her teachings to heart moving forward. I performed incredibly throughout the next few years, obtaining perfect and near-perfect grades throughout each semester that followed.
In a 2012 match, Amir Khan faced Danny Garcia for the championship of the 147lb division. They began the opening round exchanging a flurry of punches before Khan was stunned by an uppercut; his lanky arms flailing around as he crumbled to the mat. The audience watched on in slack-jawed disbelief as he answered the referee’s ten count, only to begin the second round on wobbly legs. He stumbled away from his opponent, gaining all the awareness he could before squaring up once again. Khan stood there protecting himself from the onslaught of close-quarters exchanges until he was well enough to offer reciprocity. He was knocked out once again. Inexplicably, Khan made it to his knees before the ten count. He continued toward Garcia, clearly disoriented. He utilized the speed that he was known for as he rejecting the notion of an inevitable defeat. “THIS FIGHT IS OVER, KHAN DOESN’T SEEM TO HAVE THE LEGS!” An announcer screams. “But he’s got the heart. He’s got the heart,” another announcer quietly chimed in. Khan offered all that he physically could before he was slayed.
Both Amir Khan and I fall victim to the same tragic downfall. Our ability to achieve the excellence we strive to is a product of our relentless determination, however our actual achievability is hobbled by the shortcomings of our characters. As good of a student as I have become, I still do not operate on the level necessary for UC Berkeley. As motivated as Khan may be, his susceptibility to knock-outs is very much real. Year by year it proves to be central to his identity as a boxer and it is starting to seem as if it is a flaw of his inherent physiology as opposed to skill. It is the sole flaw that continues to compromise his career and threaten his legacy. As transformative as the previous years have been for the two of us, we did not grow enough in the time available to triumph over adversity and achieve our goals.
I sat in silence as I read the rejection letter. I was met with a slight sense of disappointment. The only reason this defeat was not half as crushing as I originally anticipated it would be was because life slowly eased me into the cruel nature of the situation. Month by month following the submission of my application, my hope waned in face of reality. The reality of acceptance statistics, transgressions in my transcripts, and the contrast in personality between current Berkeley students and myself. The most painful aspect of the situation occurred an hour after I read the letter. While at a family dinner for my sister’s birthday, my cousin turned to me in front of 12 other people, and muttered those six awful words, “Hey did you get into Berkeley?” I betrayed my virtue of honesty as I explained to him that I had yet to hear back. My girlfriend was one of the two people who knew the truth. Seated next to me, her hand slowly descended to my back for comfort as she offered a smile of sympathy. The very smile caused me more pain than the rejection letter itself. She was one of the many people who believed in me whom I had let down. I imagine this is how Khan felt as his trainer held him in his arms after Khan’s loss.
During those six months at which he started training and I awaited the acceptance decision, Khan offered me hope. And after I had lost my battle, I clung on to the hope that he would win his. I wanted him to win because it would have conveyed the idea that one can transcend circumstance and that reality is a mere illusion (and often times an uncompromising one). The implication of his defeat represented more than just another match in the loss column. It implies the notion that in some situations defeat is imminent. It implies that passion does not necessitate talent and desire does not necessitate obtainment. Among all else, it encourages my haunting fear that the girl my heart has swollen passionately for will most likely not be mine forever, and forces me to face the stark possibility that one day her embrace will belong to another man.
We are two dreamers; fantasists of out crafts. Our childhood whimsy afforded us the naïve hope that our passion was enough to manifest our ambitions into reality. But as Khan has his jaw realigned and I complete my transfer forms to UC Davis, we realize we were very, very wrong.
Written May 9th, 2016.