EuroBash 2021 - England Vs Italy

EuroCup Commemoration Revenge Simulation Repetition Celebration Boxing Penalty Match

7 Rounds

At the end of each round, the score for each round will be tallied based on standard pro boxing rules. The winner of each round will be allowed to inflict a choice of one of two penalties on the other girl between rounds:

- a guaranteed punch(s) to the body
- kicking soccer balls at the loser. Kicks must be delivered from one end of the ring to the other. The balls are dodgeable.

Penalty will scale with each 2nd passing round until the last round:

Round 1/2: 1 punch/2 kicks
Round 3/4: 2 punches/3 kicks
Round 5/6: 3 punches/4 kicks
Round 7: 5 punches/6 kicks

Blows/soccer ball-inflicted damage inflicted between rounds will not count towards the official scoring of the match. Standard boxing rules apply otherwise

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As she sat down and stared into the mirror in her locker room, Nicky was thinking about her mistakes.

She made a lot over the years.... Losing a crucial, adolescent-defining spelling bee here, forgetting to submit a grade-critical assignment there. Little errors she managed to salvage or get past or push through that nonetheless added up to a huge, big pile of what-ifs. What if she had studied a little harder for that goddamned spelling bee, what if she had woke up just a bit earlier, what if she had spent more time in the gym before that match-

And right in this moment, what if she hadn't entertained some Italian troll on Twitter, escalated it to a point where it grabbed combat sports social media's undivided attention, got a thousand DMs that went to the tune of 'cope harder', got flagged, had a dozen articles written about her, got pissed off so bad that she woke up at 8am in the morning, took the train to a very specific supermarket, and spent a not-insignificant amount of money to wage symbolic war against Italy's cuisine.

And one more potential what-if for the future:

What if she lost this?

She talked a lot of shite; shite she would have never said to her worst, most vicious enemy in real life. She lost control over some internet feud and it spilled over into real life. If she won this, she could at least end it on a gracious note, on a position of strength. Be the bigger person. Try to at least salvage her image as a not-cunt. But if she lost this... Nicky buried her face in her bright red gloves, unable to bear the thought. If she lost this, no power under Queen and Country would be able to excavate her from the hole she was planning to dig in to hide forever.

What was she even going to say? Trash talk came so easily over the internet, but facing down another girl in the ring and shouting her morale down was never quite her game.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck it. Like the Iraq war, she was already committed to the farce. She had to see it through to the end, and she had to be the one standing tall. Lifting her head up and looking back into the mirror, she saw a young girl wracked with worry, wracked with what-ifs, wracked with indecision, and, as with every time before, she decided that person wasn't going to haunt her for the next 40 minutes. She took a deep breath, then another, hollowing her cheeks out, imagining the anxiety physically leaving her as she steeled herself for combat.

It wasn't her fault. it wasn't her fault. It wasn't her fault. She came out to right a wrong, the italian came out to start a fight. She had the moral high ground here.

And she was going to physically bury her with it.

Mind, body, and soul.

In the next 15 minutes before her name was called out and she stepped up and out to the podium, Nicky spent the time cycling between brief spurts of anxiety and the cold, grim acceptance that was her self-inflicted state before she walked out to war. She paced up and down, went back to staring herself in the mirror, started shadow boxing, went back to pacing, more staring, started stretching, then went back to shadow boxing, and then the mirror had her attention again. In fact, the announcement for her to prepare to walk out was almost a relief. The void of time between the locker room and the walkout was nauseatingly long, and she was happy to finally step up, step out, and finally let all that jittery anxiety out one last time.

She walked out onto the ramp a woman with a purpose.

Her music playing too loudly, Nicky "The Machine" Gunnery stepped out with a British flag draped over her. Her usual union jack themed sports bra and shorts were replaced by the jersey colors of the English National team: White with smatterings of blue and red over it. This was, after all, a fight to defend her English pride. She regretted how it escalated to this, but she wasn't going to back down after going that far. That would be cowardly - and the English did not produce cowards.

She raised a glove to a mix of cheers and boos. Frankly, it was a relief. She was expecting all boos after the Twitter fiasco. Slipping past the ropes, she did one circuit around the ring, her glove raised high and proud, and then settled into her corner.

When the next name was called, she would finally come face to face with her Twitter troll for the first and hopefully final time....

Adele was banging her head into the side of her locker. She had been doing this for the past five minutes. A curious thing to do minutes before she had to make the walk to the ring. Some sort of Italian pre-match ritual? She'd boxed dozens of opponents from countries far and wide. She'd bled more times than she could count and never flinched once. What could be brewing in the newcomer's mind? Anxiety? Regret? Doubt?

"Bringforget...Bringforget?" A spelling mistake. The ultimate mark of shame. Irredeemable. Adele pulled her phone back up and glanced at her tweet for the thirteenth time this past two minutes. "So stupid. Stupido. Billion-dollar companies and they can't install spellchecks."

Two days in and her name was still at the top of #BasicEducation.

Okay, enough of this. She had to focus. Adele stood up and took a deep breath, letting the air flow free from her lungs in a steady stream of calm. Her shoulders relaxed and her posture straightened. Then the memory came back and she punched her locker one last time. She shut her phone off and threw it into her locker with a slam before she started strapping her gloves on.

Her nerves were higher than she was expecting. This wasn't how she was expecting to make her debut. Not in this context. She would be okay with the prospect of losing normally. It had happened before and likely would again before Adele was done. Losing here, to this woman, was not a thought she was willing to entertain much longer. For the first time, it wasn't even a matter of pride. It was something that the Italian had to do to be right in her mind. To look herself in the mirror and not have Nicky looking back at her reflection. Her family was going to be watching tonight. They didn't say that but she knew. She had to expect it.

Papa was right. She should have stayed off social media.

Adele turned her eyes to the screen up in the room's corner as her opponent entered to little pomp and fanfare. She hadn't seen the woman until this moment. The Italian would have laughed with how close her expectations met reality, seeing the Brit head to toe in her national colors. Adele was following a similar trend, but she thought the cape was a little much. At a closer glance, however, the Italian could see toned etchings along her arms and over her bare stomach. Her form was right and her eyes were focused. Nicky walked like a fighter and that alone put a knot in Adele's stomach.

A knock at the door snapped her out of her daze. It was time to go. The plucky Anzioan took another breath of air. The nerves were good in hindsight. It meant she wouldn't do anything stupid. She wouldn't embarrass herself further and she would make sure her proud crybaby got the fight she deserved. She stepped through the doorway and strode down the hall.

Theme of Italy:

Adele Montessori:

Adele marched out with her music at her back and the roar of a massive crowd on all sides. Like with her opponent, the audience seemed evenly split on their opinions as they praised and booed her name. Japanese audiences probably didn't care for the international squabbling they had on Twitter as much as Europeans might have, but plenty of them had seemed to select their favorites for the night. There were two camps as far as Adele was concerned: those that preferred skill, sportsmanship, and grace; and those that preferred dumb blondes. Tonight's performance could swing either way.

Adele walked the steel steps into the ring and stepped through the ropes. She raised a glove high into the air and welcomed the applause, but her face didn't speak of gratitude. Her eyes had almost immediately found her British adversary and hadn't shifted once. She said nothing from her corner. Her eyes only cast a thinly-veiled shadow masquerading malevolence towards the petite blonde on the opposite end of the ring. Adele bounced up and down on the spot, loosening herself up and waiting to be called to the center while she thought of what she would say when she got up there.

Did the Italian anthem always sound so bloody videogamey?

Despite all her best efforts to stay calm and centred, Nicky's heart still skipped a beat when they called out Adele's name to a polite chorus of cheers and boos. Nicky, shrugging out of her cape, couldn't help but roll her eyes. How many of these Japanese people were even here for them? How many simply came for the promise of a vicious Twitter feud they had no context for and no interest to find out more about. Was she -were they- just social media oddities to be gawked at? A footnote just so a bunch of shallow Asian fight fans could say they attended some event where two women beat each other over soccer? For a moment, indignation won over fear...

Then Adele stepped out and the fear came right back with the mixed roar of the crowd. To her consternation, Adele Montessori of Anzio was not the flabby, weak shell of a basement dweller she seemed to be during their interactions on Twitter. Her body was sleek and lean, she strode with grim purpose, her raised hand was lined with a puncher's well-honed muscle, and it seemed she had exact same idea as Nicky when it came to theming their colors. Nicky's chest tightened and her stomach felt weak.... but she took a deep breath before Adele could march close enough to see her visibly panic, and banished, banished, banished all the doubt away.

Breathe, Breathe, Breathe. You have a troll to drag out from under the bridge, Nicky, and you're going to cut her bloody head off.

The moment they were close enough to make out each other's faces, their eyes found each other, and the depths of Adele's obvious contempt was startling.... and it fed into Nicky's own as she stared her own hate, her own misgivings, and her own contempt right back into Adele's face as the girl climbed the ring, slid through the ropes, and held their glaredown all the way until she reached her own corner. Nicky blamed her for this whole fiasco. She shouldn't have enabled her, but Adele was the one that sought her out first, Adele was the one that suggested this match, and Adele was the one that burned a box of specialized pasta-

Wait no, that was her. Her kitchen still smelled like an Italian arsonist's supervillain lair.

She... No, she couldn't do it. Not like this. Boxing was boxing, but no matter how she felt, she didn't want to poison the sport with this kind of Social Media clown show. She had a few half-baked plans prepared on how to psyche out Adele but it seemed that she was fully in the zone all on her own, and it frightened her that they were both going to actually going to kill-

Fine, Nicky thought, Fine. Her expression visibly softened slightly. This was still a boxing match and she would still keep the staredown going across the ring, but she wasn't going to engage in this. She was going to be the bigger woman.

As the referee called them forward and centre, Nicky stepped forward. Before the referee even opened her mouth to read the rules, Nicky took the oppturnity.

"Look, listen." she said, their eyes still locked. If Adele could kill with looks and travel back in time, Italy would have actually won World War 2. It wasn't easy -for her pride and in general- to talk to a person who obviously wanted to drop you in front of a train. "About this, I just wanna say it went too far-"

"Go fuck yourself, you pea-brained asshole."

It was funny. For a moment there, Adele found herself carrying a modicum of respect for the woman standing before her. Even in spite of the hours of online trash talk and meaningless diatribes that served as the foundation for tonight's face-off, in spite of the fact that she could never trust a single word that came out of her opponent's mouth, in spite of the irresistible urge to punch her in the face, Adele could not refute one simple fact...

Nicky had shown up tonight. She was here, staring the Italian down. That said volumes more than any insult. And that was what made it all the more disappointing when Adele heard her voice for the first time.

You had to understand. This was days of pent-up disdain and frustration primed to be released in the most spectacular way on the greatest stage she could hope for. All she had thought about for hours at a time was the woman standing in front of her. How hard she would try to bring her down, how sweet it would feel to see her face down on the mat. The Italian had justified all of her hate and the pit in her stomach for this night.

All of a sudden, Nicky was two steps away from taking all of that away. The time for honesty and sincerity had died on some abandoned hill whose name neither of them could recall. The only thing that either of them could look forward to was the sound of splitting air and cracking gloves against bare flesh. In Adele’s mind, she had stepped foot onto a battlefield with one of their worst enemies, a monstrosity that would dare destroy the fruits of their labor like some wild animal.

Perhaps that was hypocritical. Maybe that was no different from what Adele was trying to do now. Maybe, in some way, Nicky’s was a more human act than anything they had said or done to each other all week. But for this one moment of weakness, Adele just could not care.

“Fight me, signora, or go home and cry. I do not care which." Adele raised her glove and pointed it straight at the British bulldog’s face. “And after I win, you better give me all of the pasta you bought. Every box.”

Nicky would never know whether her verbal concession would make her way anywhere close to an apology. She never intended one because she didn't think she was at fault, but given enough time to ramble and the heightened anxiety of a thousand eyes upon her, she might have chanced her way into it. Guess they would never know after Adele cut into whatever she was going to say, shat all over it, sprinkled some shite seasoning on the shite sandwich, and then spat on it for good measure.

She stared at Adele blankly, the smile she plastered onto her face steadily vanishing. The crowd couldn't hear what they were saying, but they felt that they were at some kind of turning point. The referee tensed up, trying to get between them before either girl preemptively tried to maul each other before the bell rang. Nicky took a step forward-

And laughed.

Nicky was a stoic girl by nature. She wasn't very emotive even outside of the ring. Inside? She was closer to stone than human, all business and professionalism. So the explosion of laughter that followed in the wake of Adele's words was a complete and utter swerve to the few actual fans in the audience, the english supporters back home, and most of all herself. Hands clutching her bare belly, she laughed and laughed and laughed that deep, hearty laugh she didn't know she had. She laughed in Adele's face, spittle flying landing on it and her outstretched glove, the referee the only thing keeping Adele from tearing her British adversary's face off, while gesturing wildly at Nicky to get back in position, and then when the laughter begin too much, she turned around and doubled over, gloves resting on her knees, laughing and laughing and laughing until every bit of mirth was purged from her.

Her laughter was mocking, it was incredulous, it was improper.

Most of all, it was relief.

Relief that she didn't have to reach out and make nice with this Italian slag when she didn't start this whole nonsense. Relief that she had taken the first step forward and got tripped for it, and thus held the moral high ground. Relief that Adele Montessori was every bit the nasty troll she was going to be destroying. Relief that when she finally faceplanted Adele and left her broken on the mat, she would feel no remorse, guilt, or regret.

As the last splutters of laughter died and Nicky righted herself, she felt good. Better than good. She felt like the best possible version of herself. She wasn't just an athlete fighting for gold, she was a woman fighting for the pride of nation and self. What felt crippling in the locker room was now liberating in the face of this horrible cunt of an enemy.

"I'm going to card you," the referee warned. "If you don't-"

"Yup."Nicky said, getting back into position. "Thanks, Adele Bringforget Monstrosorry, for showing me exactly what you are. I really needed that." The smile was back, but it wasn't a friendly one. "I'll give you what's left of the boxes if you somehow pull this off. But if I win, you'll give me-" A vicious glint passed over her eyes. "Oh right, nothing. You have nothing to give. I guess this one-sided bet is..." she chuckled. This one wasn't genuine at all. "Welfare."

Win or lose, Nicky would be beating herself up over the mean things she said in the nights that followed. Her family raised her strictly, rigidly, and without a lot of outward warmth - but they were not classists. Father always said service meant helping even the less fortunate, and mother helped out in soup kitchens when she could. They would have been ashamed to hear her say what she said.

But in the moment? Fuck them.

And Fuck Adele Monstrosorry.

Adele should have been ashamed of herself too. In a matter of hours, maybe she would be. She could almost guarantee it.

Her madre and padre had taught Adele to carry herself with greater respect than this. She shouldn’t have been so eager to stoop to the level of a woman that was so far from deserving of her respect. Of any proud Italian’s. She had made a strong point to keep her passions inside and outside of the boxing ring as far apart as possible. There was nothing to be gained from a pointless fistfight. She had suffered that lesson ten times over.

Those lessons were far removed from her mind at that moment. A singular and undying flame in her gut stirred the dizziness in her head and the trembling knuckles beneath her gloves. The only thing left was anger that flared brighter and harder when the British woman saw fit to turn her back on Adele’s honesty. And laugh. Loudly. Her brows simply furrowed even deeper as her hand retracted back to its side. Of course. Why would she expect anything different?

Each word from Nicky’s mouth thereafter was even harder to listen to than the last, if only because the urge to counter was making it difficult to keep her feet planted. Is this how Englishwomen conducted themselves in the face of professional and sincere competition? Was everyone from Nicky’s hometown like this? There were times when Adele considered herself a lucky person that she didn't have the luxury to travel to such places.

Welfare?

Really?

"We will see about that, stronza." No more clever rebuttals, it seems. At least to the referee. The striped official finally felt safe enough to look between the two and direct them back to their corners. Adele compiled promptly, turning around marching back to her spot. Anything further that she had to say to Nicky could wait until after this whole situation had been settled. Right now, her mind was focused on the match ahead of her. She had to place herself in the right mind. See seven steps ahead of where she had to be.

The referee waited for both competitors to ready themselves before she called for the bell. The little Italian bounced anxiously on the tips of her boot and waited for the hammer to fall.

Having a second language must be nice.

Nicky wished she had a second language to sprinkle slurs in between english sentences against Twitter trolls that goaded her into a professional boxing match over a sore victory in a soccer match she didn't even like. It was such a great, constructive use of a mother tongue. An entire life of practice and immersion building up to this moment: the opportunity to insult Nicky in an ambiguously insulting way. God, she hated Adele more with every new word spoke, every fresh action taken, every small gesture and shift in sour expression. She was not the pathetic internet-addicted husk Nicky had envisioned in her head, and that annoyed her so much for some reason. And she wanted to make some kind of nice with this hag? Please!

Also, she was going to have to google that word -and the other nice words Adele would no doubt throw her way- after she was done beating the brakes off this Italian tramp.

"Guess you will, Stronza." Nicky fired right back. She hoped Stronza was a catch-all slur. She would be looking real stupid if it roughly translated to something like 'dumb blonde' or 'British hag' or 'Allied forces hellspawn' or 'someone who loses to Italy at soccer in the year 2021 with no dignity or grace'. A small part of her (okay, a huge part of her) was upset that Adele didn't try to engage further, that that was even the slightest chance that her curt rebuttal was considered sufficient, that the Italian felt that she had left the conversation on a position of strength.

And it was that last sad thought that made Nicky realized how deep inside the brit's head she had allowed Adele to burrow into within the past 30 seconds. She was being a primary schooler about this, letting a single errant rebuttal eat her up inside. She could psycho-analyze and dissect and ponder about Adele's every last action after the fight, for now-

For now, all of that could go to hell. She was Nicky Gunnery, three-time amateur champion of the British junior league, cadet officer of Sandhurst, and above all else, in control of her emotions.

Breathe, Nicky, breathe it all out when you get back into the corner... and then kick her ass.

Neither combatant touched gloves as they turned around and headed back to their corners. It might not have even occurred to either girl that they had ignored the most basic tenet of boxing sportsmanship. It certainly didn't occur to Nicky, who was stewing too much to even consider Adele worthy of the gesture. Unlike Adele, Nicky wasn't trying to do any thinking in the seconds before they fought. She was not a strategic boxer. She came in with the same plan everytime and made adjustments accordingly, and she would win or lose on that same plan template-

Or just win today. Losing was not an option. The hole she planned to bury herself in if she lost had gotten much, much deeper after that snide interaction with Adele.

-So she focused on breathing and breathing and breathing. While Adele bounced, Nicky leaned back against her corner's turnbuckle, head slightly tilted to the lights above, taking increasingly slow breaths. Making herself the centre of her own universe once again: fearless, centered, in control.

The bell rang, the referee signaled them to start, and Nicky came out hard and fast, making a beeline for the center, as if she was trying to eat up as much ground as possible before Adele could get there. Once again, there was no glove touch when they engaged, nor was there going to be the slow first round most boxing matches began with. Nicky threw a few short, sharp jabs at Adele's face, lightning fast, testing Adele's guard, mixing in a sudden haymaker in between to rattle her.

Adele wasted these precious seconds away asking herself pointless questions that she might not have even had if she just had her cornerman with her. Fernando always had good advice for her. Even if he was miles away in Rome, he was probably watching her fidget in the corner and making all sorts of jokes. It was like her first fight all over again. A big ring, a million eyes, and a stomach full of nerves.

Her time was short and she had to keep this simple. The Nicky Gunnery of YouTube wasn’t the same boxer as the Nicky Gunnery staring her down from across the ring. She was better than yesterday and, like any good boxer, learned from her mistakes. If Adele wanted to come out on top tonight, she would have to find some new openings to exploit. The only way to beat Nicky as far as she was concerned was to beat her quickly.

As much as Adele was compelled to talk a big game to a woman who absolutely deserved everything she had coming to her, there was still that lingering doubt in the back of her mind that was making her shake with anticipation. She had never been this nervous in a long time. Her stomach was hot and caught tight in a bundle of nerves. Her mind wasn’t capable of commanding any thoughts besides an unconscious pull towards her blonde adversary that beckoned her head forward and shifted her weight to the tips of her toes.

There was just no point in thinking about it.

The Italian rushed from her corner towards the center where her opponent was already waiting. Adele reared her head back to avoid the first two jabs that snapped close to her face. She clenched her fist and moved to retaliate with a left overhand in the same moment the corner of her eye caught a roaring haymaker flying towards the side of her face. Her left arm curled back to bring her glove between her head and Nicky's punch. The latex of their gloves connected with a resounding clap that sent Adele stumbling to one side.

The Italian recovered her footing by bouncing onto her heels and brought her guard back up as she turned to face Nicky straight on. With her back only a few steps to the ropes, Adele started thinking two steps ahead on her attack. She stepped forward back into her opponent's range and fed the Brit's guard two solid straights before she went low with a hook from her left. She stepped into each punch, going for maximum firepower from the farthest range she could manage. Adele didn't want Nicky feeling in control.

Both archnemeses were in agreement on one point: there was nothing left to think about.

Every ounce of will and intent Nicky could muster was now focused on a fight she absolutely could not lose. She was going kick Italian ass, take her name, and leave her broken on the ground. If she was feeling mean, she could see herself posing on her, foot pressed down on her rising chest, immortalizing her triumph over the wretched troll scourge forevermore. Unsporting? Yes. Cruel? Undeniably. Unprofessional? Yup. Would she ever live it down in nicer promotions? Probably not. It would plague her highlight reel forevermore.

But did it fill her with a sick, sad sense of anticipation that she would get the final, definitive (and oh so physical) word in their twitter-bourne feud?

Frick yes.

Maybe a cooler head would prevail by the time she beat Adele down... but right now, she was pure frickin' fire.

So Nicky had already actualized Adele's defeat in her mind, now all she had to do was chart the path to victory.... which was easier said than done. Her opening jabs hit air, her follow-up haymaker found Adele's hastily awkward (but effective) guard that sent her opponent stumbling. Nicky moved forward to press her advantage, but Adele was centred and ready, sending a jab her way as she danced nimbly outside the pocket-

Oh. My. Frickin. God.

Was. Every. Single. Boxer. In. This League. An. Evasive. Outfighter?

Madison Kelly, Suzy Quincy, and now her newly minted archnemesis Adele Monstrosorry. All outfighters or outfighter variants who would rather run and duck and lose ground than fight. Where were the stiff, sloth-like brawlers who threw a punch every half a minute? Where were the well-paced pressure tacticians? Out-fighters were not the greatest danger to her, but they were by far the most annoying. Mosquitos the lot of them. Madison had made her fight for every sorry punch. The swell of frustration she had felt then was mirrored here tenfold: Madison was, after all, just another opponent.

Adele? Adele was practically a blood feud. Over pasta. And a sport she didn't even watch.

And it was that amplified frustration that led Nicky to take a slightly different tact. She could have thrown another five punches, maybe one or two would hit, cut off Adele from either angle as she edged her towards the turnbuckle, gave her nowhere to run as she fought against what remaining time she had left in the round once the obligatory, clock-eating cornering of the outfighter was done. Sure, sure, she could do all that.

Instead, she met the jab head on with her own, lunging forward as she breached the pocket, their gloves smashing into each other with a jolt that spread electric pain down her arm. She would feel that one in the morning. Regardless of whether the 2nd jab would come, she would pull back her right fist and sent it slamming head-on with the intent to smash right into Adele.

Regardless of what happened, she was going to do everything in her power to push Adele right into the ropes.

The Italian knew better than to play Nicky's game and go blow for blow. There was no merit in doing so. Not when she had her own style and her own advantages. Not while she still had some residency in the Englishwoman's head.

Even if the same thing could be said about Adele. But it wasn't like she hadn't thought this whole thing through. For the most part.

She had seen a few highlights of her earlier days and skimmed through her debut fight against Madison Kelly. Adele hardly considered herself an expert, but it didn't take a keen eye for her to know how hard Nicky could punch. She could see the force coming at her right at this moment. From outside of herself she could visualize the impact if that hook had caught her on the cheek. She could perfectly picture every second that would follow.

She just wished "seeing" and "feeling" were more closely related than they actually were. Even though she blocked the punch, Adele's skull was still feeling the impact taper away. Light-headedness made her second guess herself as she moved in for the attack and peppered Nicky with strikes. She should have committed more, she should have attacked the blonde harder with even more force behind her jabs. And ironically, that might have been what saved her.

Smack! Adele let out a quick yelp of pain as her knuckles crunched inside of her glove and shot a lightning bolt through her forearm up to her elbow. She retracted her hand back on a sharp reflex that only opened her guard for Nicky's straight. Adele ate a swift punch to the cheek She regained her footing and promptly backpedaled away from her adversary, retreating out of the British slugger's range and to the safety of the boundaries.