The rules are straightforward; two names are drawn from the box, called aloud and the men selected are brought into the ring to fight. The difference between normal boxing matches and this one is simple; only one player is allowed to come out alive. The names were chosen and the players slowly climbed the ring and stood inside. They put themselves in opposite corners of the boxing ring. On one side stood a zealous player, one who had seen the inside of this ring many times before, Max Vandenburg. Upright in the other corner, stood a new, but well-known, opponent, Death. The referee, nodding his head slightly, looked at both competitors and then rang the bell. The game had begun, however, both players stood still, carefully examining each other. The crowd sat silently frozen in their chairs and watched the two competitors. Max turned for just a transitory moment to look to his coach. They shared a nod, and then Max knew it was time to begin. With sweat growing in their fists, and motivation intensifying in their souls, both max and death began to move in. Max threw the first punch, as quick and flawless as it was, something was wrong. Although seeming to be right on target, his fist hit nothing. Regaining his position, he tried again. Pulling his fist back and swinging it straight to Death’s midriff, he felt his hand hit nothing but air. Confusion overtook him. He, his coach, and the crowd had seen his hand hit his target straight on. Why had his punch gone straight through his challenger? It was at that moment he understood, he would not be the one to come out of that match still breathing. How does one “kill” death? It would be impossible. He straightened his body and let his arms fall to his sides. He looked over to his coach, to his fans, and to the crowd, giving them a placid smile. Max had vowed that Death would not take him without a fight, and this was his fight. Rising anxiously from their seats, the crowd slowly inched forward. They too knew what was about to happen. Max, standing still, let the sweat trickle down his cheek, and off his chin, hitting the floor. He was content; at peace with himself. A deep sorrow came over Death as he reached forward to claim Max’s soul. The onlookers held their breath, sinking back to their seats. Tears fell to the floor. A deep blue, the color of freedom, overpowered the room. There was a long moment of silence. Then, in a cold sweat, Max’s coach came running over to the cooling body. Her lemon-colored hair swayed back and forth as she ran. Breathing heavily, the fifteen year old kneeled down beside the motionless body. With tears crashing to the floor beneath her, she grabbed onto his shirt and whispered her last goodbyes into his ear.