Читать книгу Battling Boxing Stories - C. J. Henderson - Страница 7

A LITTLE TOO MUCH HEART

by Stan Trybulski

1.

“Think you’re ready for another fight, Bobby?” I asked the kid.

“Sure, I should be on next Friday’s undercard, what with all those bums and canvasbacks they have listed.”

“You been in the gym lately?” McCarthy prodded him.

“Everyday. Run there and back, too.”

“You finally learn how to slip a jab?” McCarthy asked him.

“I can slip yours,” Bobby said. He was smiling but I could see he didn’t especially like McCarthy needling him.

“How’s your weight?” I asked, changing the subject.

“One-fifty-five,” Bobby said. “I’ve been keeping it under one-sixty.”

“Can you get it down quickly?” He fought as a welterweight.

“Why? You hear something?”

“Álvarez was cut sparring this morning. Over his left eye. His manager’s talking it down but I hear it’s a bad one. The promoter is looking for a substitute. I heard he called Harry, your manager.”

“That’s the main event at the Felt Forum. He’s up against Georgie Adams.”

Álvarez was a Mexican kid from Coney Island who loved to mix it up. A real crowd pleaser who took chances and would take two punches to land one. Adams had been the welter title holder, losing by TKO last year to the current champ. He was on the comeback trail to a title rematch and Álvarez was the perfect opponent. Except, Álvarez liked to mix it up in the gym too and eyebrow cuts being what they are, he trained himself out of a good pay day.

The three of us, Bobby Colón, Mike McCarthy, and I were in McSorley’s. There was a trio of tourists sitting at the next table to us. They had been drinking long before we got there and their table top was filled with empty ale mugs. They were two men and a blonde woman. The woman was sitting closest to Bobby.

“You a fighter?” she said, leaning towards him. Her words were slightly slurred from the ale.

He ignored her.

“You don’t look like a fighter.” She tapped him on the shoulder.

“Ease up, lady,” I said. “We’re just here to relax, so why don’t you do the same.”

“Fighter,” she continued. “He’s no fighter.”

One of the men at the table looked over at me. “What kind of fighter trains on ale?”

Bobby still said nothing.

“You ever heard of Chuck Wepner?” McCarthy asked.

“The Bayonne Bleeder?” the man said. “He’s before my time.”

“Yeah, but not hers.”

Richie the front room waiter brought us our ales, setting two mugs of dark each down in front of McCarthy and I, ginger ale in front of Bobby, then cleared away the mugs on the other table. He studied the trio of faces, trying to decide whether to give them refills or cut them off.

Bobby’s cell phone went off and he reached into his trousers’ pocket and took it out. Flipping it open, he held it to his ear.

“Great,” Bobby said, “see you in the morning.” He closed up the cell phone.

“Who was it?” McCarthy asked.

“Harry.”

“Well?”

“He said to start losing weight.”

“You mean he signed you to fight Adams?” I asked him.

Bobby grinned.

“He’s a lefty,” McCarthy said. “You’ve never boxed a lefty.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” I said.

Before his last fight, Bobby had been training in a small gym up in the Bronx. He lost an eight-round decision on an Atlantic City casino undercard to Jersey Joe Kernan, a local kid who could sell tickets. He banged Kernan around the ring the first couple of rounds, ripping him with vicious body shots, but for some reason couldn’t finish him off. Still, Bobby should have easily won the decision but was jobbed. Superstitious, he changed gyms and now trained at Biff’s in Brooklyn. Biff’s was a larger gym, occupying an entire two-story building under the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. It had better equipment and better fighters, which meant that the local promoters came around more often to check the talent out. So as far as I was concerned, the loss in AC had been a good thing for him. He seemed to agree, something had changed in him after that fight. He worked harder than ever in the gym and out of the ring, he was quiet, serious.

I bent down and scooped up a handful of sawdust from the floor. “Let’s get out of here. It’s getting too hot.” I liked McSorley’s and didn’t want to get into a brawl here and I sure didn’t want Bobby getting into a fight and busting his hands up on some boozed up clown’s face.

“Pussy,” the tourist keeps on, talking at Bobby’s back as we headed for the door. “Drinking ginger ale like a little girl.”

Outside, the afternoon sun was lower and the air felt cool and fresh. I was zipping up my leather jacket when I heard the tavern doors swing open and the drunk’s sour voice. “Pussy. You’re no fighter, you’re a pussy.”

I turned and saw him standing in the doorway, an empty glass mug in his right hand. His buddy was just behind him. I reached into my pockets and took out a set of keys and tossed them to Bobby.

“Do me a favor,” I told him. “My Cherokee is parked over on East 6th. Go get it and drive it around and pick us up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure as the sun’s going to come up tomorrow.” He still hesitated. “Go on,” I said, “it’s okay.” I watched him disappear around the corner and then I turned back to the other men.

“You must be the daddy,” he said to me, “sending little sonny boy off before he gets hurt.” He looked over at McCarthy. “And you must be the mommy.” He stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Why don’t you just go back inside?” I said.

“After we kick your asses and you apologize for insulting my wife.” He charged toward me, his hand holding the mug raised, ready to swing at my head.

I threw the handful of sawdust into his face and as he tried to wipe it away I landed a pro field goal kick to his groin. He fell to his knees and grabbed his crotch. I started to follow up with a kick to his head but stopped. He wasn’t going to be a problem so I left him kneeling there, holding his crotch and making strange whooping sounds. McCarthy had waited for the other man to come toward him and when he did, McCarthy let him swing and stepped inside and ripped an uppercut to his nose. Blood exploded all over the sidewalk and the man squealed in pain.

“You broke my nose,” he whimpered.

“No, I didn’t,” McCarthy said, planting his feet and landing a straight right. “Now, I did.” The punch sent the man sprawling over a series of garbage cans and down a small flight of steps that led to a basement.

The street fell silent except for the strange whooping sound coming from the man who was holding his crotch. Then, I could hear the roar of an engine as my Cherokee came barreling down the block. Bobby braked when we reached us and we piled into the jeep and drove back to Brooklyn. Bobby wanted to hit Biff’s steam room and try and take another half-pound off.

McCarthy was flushed from the street fight and on the way to Brooklyn he started needling Bobby again. “You’d have to make the jump to ten rounds,” he said from the back seat. “You’ve never gone ten rounds. That’s a big haul against a fighter like Adams. Ten long rounds. Of course, the fight might end sooner. Adams likes to pump his jab real fast. Doubles and triples it. You can’t block them all.”

“You don’t know what I can do. Buy a ticket for the fight and see what I can do.”

“I just might do that,” McCarthy said. “Front row.”

“I saw him get knocked out,” Bobby said. “That fight took a lot out of him. He’s thirty-four and after the fight he looked it.”

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” McCarthy said, “he’s well trained. He wants that title back.”

“What makes you think I’m worried?” He stared at McCarthy. “Say, you’re a southpaw. You want some work?”

“Sparring with you? Sure.”

“Be here tomorrow at eleven a.m. Three rounds.”

“Sure you don’t want to go ten with me?”

“No, three will do,” Bobby said. His voice was calm and I was relieved that McCarthy’s needling hadn’t got to him.

After McCarthy left, we went upstairs and Bobby got a fresh towel and stripped and put his clothes in the locker. I asked Bobby what else Harry had said on the phone.

“Twenty large,” Bobby said. “Adam’s manager said he saw me fight in AC and he liked my style, said he knew I would be fighting on short notice and offered twenty thou.”

I had forgotten that Adams had managed one of the main event fighters on the Atlantic City card. He must have seen Bobby in the prelim. “I want you working my corner for this one,” he said. “You’re cut will be fifteen hundred.”

“Is that okay with Harry?

“Screw Harry. He’s just gets the fights. Your money is coming out of my end anyway. So if I say you get fifteen hundred, you get fifteen hundred.”

I walked with him to the steam room. “No more than fifteen minutes,” I told him. “And don’t rehydrate all the way afterwards.”

2.

When Bobby and Mike entered the ring, Biff Tucker came over and stood next to me. “Heard Bobby’s substituting next week in the Adams fight. Should be a good pay day for him.”

Biff ran his gym like boot camp. The gym rules were posted on every wall and were to be obeyed. Dues were to be paid on the first of the month and on the second; any locker with unpaid dues had its lock clipped and the contents tossed in the trash. While Biff loved the boxing game, he knew it was a business and maintained that any fighter that didn’t know it was a business didn’t belong in his gym.

I went over to Mike’s corner to talk to him before they sparred. He had a funny look on his face.

“You think he’s still pissed off about last night? I was just cracking on him to have a little fun; I didn’t mean anything by it?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I want you to stay out of range and double and triple your jabs when he closes, just like Adams will. Let’s see what Bobby has today.”

McCarthy nodded and slipped the mouthpiece in. When the bell sounded he was up but Bobby was already in the center of the ring. McCarthy circled, staying away, the funny look still on his face. Bobby was having none of it. He danced left, then right, each step closing the distance, cutting McCarthy off. Mike suddenly found himself near the corner and pumped out a double jab with his right, trying to keep Bobby away until he could move off. Bobby slid to his left just before the second jab and ripped a vicious hook to McCarthy’s midsection, following with a second hook upstairs and that landed flush on McCarthy’s head gear. Even through the padding Mike was stunned and when he tried to turn and face Bobby, his movement was awkward and off balance. Bobby threw a straight right that landed flush on McCarthy’s cheek, driving him into the ropes.

“Move off the ropes, Mikey,” I yelled at McCarthy, “You’re getting paid for three rounds of sparring.”

He tried moving away but Bobby was back in front of him, sending another left hook, this time to the liver and the sound made everyone in the gym stop and look towards the ring. Just in time to see the second hook come over the top and land again on the side of McCarthy’s head, a sold thwack on the padding.

Bobby then threw a three-punch combination: a right, a left hook and another right, and when McCarthy tried to slip the first right, the left hook caught him flush on the nose and the right slammed into his cheek bone. Bobby danced back into the center of the ring and motioned at Mike to come after him.

“Just keep pumping that jab, Mikey,” I yelled, watching McCarthy shuffle towards the center of the ring where Bobby was dancing, a smile on his face. He was measuring McCarthy, waiting for him to step inside the punching arc and when he sensed McCarthy was there, he double jabbed first, both punches hitting Mike on the nose, causing a bright red stream of blood to flow. McCarthy stepped back and pawed at his nose with a glove and stared at the bloody smear on the leather.

I knew now that the funny look on his face was the look of fear. Bobby knew it too and stepped in and threw two more jabs before sliding around the counter left McCarthy automatically sent back. Bobby bent underneath the extended arm and delivered a hard right hook that some might have called a kidney punch. McCarthy dropped to a knee and stayed there, unable to move, and the bell sounded.

Back in the corner, Bobby was breathing easily. I tilted the water bottle and he rolled the liquid around in his mouth. “Just keep slipping the jab,” I told him, “but you don’t have to unload on him with everything you have.”

“Why not? I’m paying him to fight three rounds. So let’s see the fat fuck fight.”

“Let’s see that he makes it then.” I walked over to McCarthy’s corner.

“How do you feel?” I asked him.

“My ribs hurt real bad, I think something’s broke.”

“Nothing’s broke; you’re just a little of out shape. Keep moving and jabbing but this time close the distance once in a while and hook and give him some straight rights. Let’s see how he can handle that.”

McCarthy nodded. He might be scared of Bobby’s power but he wasn’t a quitter. The bell sounded and he moved slowly off his stool and started toward the center of the ring where Bobby was waiting. This time he danced right, then left and moved in on Bobby first and snapped out a couple of jabs that hit Bobby’s gloves. Bobby glided again around McCarthy’s right, forcing him to turn and punch. When he did, Bobby threw the double left hook again, right to the solar plexus and upstairs to the nose. Blood started streaming again and McCarthy instinctively pawed at the swollen proboscis with his left glove. But as McCarthy turned Bobby had danced back around so that he was now at an angle where he ripped another solid left hook to the liver, and then again in the same spot. McCarthy dropped to both knees and rolled over.

Bobby stood over him for a moment and then walked away.

I jumped into the ring and ran over to McCarthy and waved my hands. “It’s over for today.”

A couple of fighters came into the ring and helped McCarthy back into the locker room. I walked over to the corner where Bobby was sitting, his head gear was off and a wide grin was spread across his face.

“You busted Mike up real good. He’s through, he won’t be back.”

“I was sick of hearing his mouth anyway. So who’s next, I’m just getting started.”

“That’s it, I don’t have anyone else. So you’re going to work the heavy bag for four rounds and then I want you to run afterwards. Since you’re so hungry for a brawl, I’ll have two sparring partners for you tomorrow.”

That afternoon Harry showed up at the gym. Jack was in the steam trying to knock another half-pound off.

“How’s he look?” Harry asked.

“Terrific. He ran five miles and then sparred three tough rounds. I used Mike McCarthy so he could have a lefty to punch at. Don’t think McCarthy’s coming back. Bobby busted a couple of his ribs.”

Harry arched his eyebrows. “The line in Vegas has Adams as the 8-1 favorite.”

“That’s about right, if you haven’t seen Bobby’s workouts since his last fight. But the word’ll be out about the beating he gave McCarthy today and it should narrow.”

Bobby came out of the locker and walked over to us. He was dressed in a sweater and jeans and looked relaxed.

“How do you feel, kid?” Harry asked him.

Bobby smiled. It was a big boyish grin. “I’ll be ready. More than ready.”

“What did the scale say?” I asked.

“One-fifty-one.”

“We’ve got four days left. You’ll make the weight easy. Better lay off the steam room, you’ll drop too much. Adams is a natural middleweight now and he’s had weeks to come down. After the weigh in, he’s going right back up.”

“I’ll send over another southpaw tomorrow,” Harry said. “Someone built more like Adams. Go four rounds with him. Okay?”

Bobby nodded.

“Then go on home and eat a good meal and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll see you in the morning.”

After he left, Harry asked, “Do you really think the odds are going to come down?”

“If you’re going to bet on him, call your bookie now.”

Word had spread quickly about the beating Bobby had given McCarthy. The next day two sportswriters and a photog showed up at the gym and watched the workout. I wouldn’t let the newsies talk to Bobby so they interviewed Harry. He played it cozy, not talking Bobby up or down, only promising that Bobby would make it a good fight.

3.

When Wednesday rolled around, we took a cab to the Garden for the noon weigh in. One-forty-seven was the contract weight for noon, with any fighter not making the weight given until six p.m. to make it at a second weighing.

Bimmy Franco, Adam’s manager came over and we shook hands. “This is a great opportunity for you, kid,” he said to Bobby. “I know you can’t win but make it a good fight. Crowd pleasers always get fights. Isn’t that right?” he said that last to me.

“Other than you, who says he can’t win?”

Bimmy grinned. “That’s right; you gotta have confidence in your fighter. Now let’s see what the scale says.”

Bobby stepped up on the scale, the towel still wrapped around his waist. “One forty-six even,” the official read. “Plenty to spare.”

Adams approached the scale, sauntering with the upper torso of a middleweight on his way to becoming a light heavy. His shoulders and arms were massive, his left shoulder and triceps covered by a huge green dragon tattoo. He posed for the news photogs and the dragon’s wings rippled as he flexed his muscles.

“Look at his face,” I told Bobby, trying to distract him from the obvious size differential. “It’s still all marked up from Soto slicing and dicing him for twelve rounds in the title fight. He’s as easy to hit as Mike was.”

Bobby grinned. “That was pleasure; this is business.”

Adams stepped on the scale, smiling for the photog. “What’s it say?” Harry asked.

“Just over one-forty-seven.” Adams smiled and dropped his towel.

4.

I led Bobby into the arena, his head covered by the cape and his gloves resting on my shoulders and we danced down the aisle to the ring. In the ring, I pulled his cape back and he danced around, throwing combinations at the air.

When the fighters were introduced there was only a smattering of applause and lot of boos for Bobby. The cheers were all for Adams, after all he had been the champ and this was a comeback fight.

“Just fight him like you did Mikey,” I told him. “Slip and hook, slip and hook.”

Adams smirked as they touched gloves. Bobby just stared at him. Back in the corner, I told him again to take the first round slow, get a sense of his southpaw rhythm. The bell rang and Bobby danced out and met Adams in the center of the ring. Adams came in high with his left carried low, trying to entice Bobby into an early exchange. They circled warily; throwing jabs at each other, Adams landing a pair on Bobby’s left cheek. They were moving along one of the sides, Adams keeping his left still low, flicking sharp rights out at Bobby’s head and ribs. He was sure he was the faster fighter but was surprised when Bobby suddenly threw two right hooks, landing both of them, the second right under Adam’s left ear, causing him to cover up against the ropes.

“Don’t punch yourself out,” I said to him in the corner. Jimmy rubbed extra Vaseline on his left cheek, covering the bright red spot where Adams’s jabs had hit their mark. “And get your jab off first, force him to counter from that low position.”

Bobby winked at me as he got off his stool for the second round, ready to go before the bell sounded. I could see Adams still seated on his stool.

Both fighters were still cautious, mainly trading jabs, looking for any weaknesses that they might exploit. Near the end of the round, Bobby double-jabbed at Adams’s nose and Adams threw a counter right hook, catching Bobby on the left cheek. I could see the flesh swelling almost instantaneously.

“You’re doing great,” I said when he came back to the corner, his cheek looking a ripe peach. “Don’t talk, just listen. Keep landing on the dragon, you’ll bring his left down further. Then you can double hook him before he can get his arm up. And slip his jab, for chrissakes, you can’t block them all.”

When Adams came out for the third round, he was holding his right higher. Bobby’s jabs were getting to him. I could see his nose and right cheekbone were swelling and if we were lucky, Bobby’s hooks would rip the flesh wide open. Adams was smart though and even though he kept his hands high, he could sense when Bobby would try and slip his jab and move to the left and instead of doubling his right, hooked the second punch as Bobby slid to the side, landing solidly and driving against the ropes. He managed to land a three-punch combination to Bobby’s head before being tied up. But he didn’t show much after that, content to stay outside, jabbing and when Bobby would move forward, he grabbed at his arms, tying him up.

By the fourth round, Bobby was giving Adams a real contest. They were in close, trading jabs, and when Adams tried to clinch, Bobby slapped his arm down and threw a left and right hook to Adam’s ribs. He was bringing the left up for a hook to the head when suddenly he stopped and sank down and then just as suddenly bounced back up and danced away. The referee waved Adams to a neutral corner and picked up the count.

“Did you see the punch?” I asked Jimmy the cutman. He shook his head.

“His knees didn’t even hit the canvas,” I said.

“I couldn’t tell,” Jimmy said.

“It was a slip,” I yelled at the ref who was wiping off Bobby’s gloves.

Adams was bouncing up and down in the neutral corner, smacking his gloves. The lust for victory filled his face.

“What happened? Didn’t you see the punch?” I asked him at the end of the round.

“His kids,” he sighed, as Jimmy toweled off his chest.

“Whaddya mean his kids?”

“His kids are at the fight. They’re in the second row with his wife. I just saw them.”

“So what?”

“I can’t hurt a guy in front of his kids,” Bobby said. “That’s why I couldn’t take Kernan out in AC. His wife and little girl were there. Otherwise, I could have ended it in the third round.”

“Jeezus Christ,” Jimmy said.

I said the same thing. No wonder Bimmy wanted Bobby as a substitute. He was at the AC fight and must have seen something in Bobby’s eyes. Maybe Bobby had looked at Kernan’s wife and daughter and then stopped slugging. Bimmy must have put two and two together and made sure that Mrs. Adams and the two little boys had seats up real close where Bobby couldn’t fail to miss them. And it was working.

The ref came over to the corner. “He got clipped with a left hook,” he said to me.

“In your dreams,” I said.

The ring doctor was at the apron, leaning over the ropes and looking into Bobby’s eyes with a flashlight.

“Put that goddam thing away,” I said, “he wasn’t knocked down.”

The doc ignored me. “Well,” he said quietly to Bobby, “how do you feel?”

“I’m all right, he didn’t knock me down, he stepped on my foot and I tripped.”

When the bell rang I looked away from Bobby’s face, afraid to see what might be in his eyes. I pulled him off the stool, my eyes fixed on Adams’s wife. She was holding one of her boys on her lap, the other seated next to her. There was no way Bobby wasn’t going to see her.

“Jimmy,” I said to the cutman. “Go find the usher for that section and tell him there’s an emergency. That Adams’s home is burning and that the police are looking for Mrs. Adams; she needs to call them right away.”

“You got it.”

I turned back to the fight. Adams had reached the center of the ring first. Bobby stayed outside his reach, jabbing, circling, trying to keep away, but Adams closed the gap and every time Bobby jabbed, the other fighter threw combination counter left hooks, landing solid punches to the body and head, making me wince as I heard the thuds.

“Move away!” I yelled. But Adams was still light on his feet, cutting the ring off, and had abandoned the jab, punching hard, trying to take Bobby out. He landed another double hook to the ribs, causing Bobby to hold on. I could see the body shots were starting to take their toll. The ref separated them and as soon as he stepped aside, Adams weaved back in, throwing a jab at Bobby’s left cheek, followed by left and right hooks to Bobby’s head. He was in danger of going down again when the bell rang.

“You’ve got to punch back,” I told him in the corner. “He’s standing straight, unloading from the outside, with his left all the way down at his waist. Just step to your left and get inside and upper cut him. It’ll be lights out.”

“I can’t do it in front of his kids.”

“This isn’t Kernan you’re fighting. This guy is going to take you out if you don’t try and take him out first.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“Then start punching again, dammit.”

When the bell rang he was back out there all right but it seemed his heart wasn’t in it any longer. After taking a couple of jabs in the kisser, he clinched and was content to waltz Adams around the ring, oblivious to the boos coming from the crowd. That was pretty much the story of the whole round. Bobby taking jabs in the face and then clinching. The ref was looking at him as if he felt something might be wrong with him.

“How do you feel?” I asked him when he came back to the corner at the end of the sixth round.

“Great,” he said, spitting out his mouthpiece.

He didn’t look that great. The welt under his left eye was larger now and turning purple, swollen like an overripe plum ready to burst. It was forcing his lower eyelid shut and I was worried the ring doc would be back to check it out, saying Bobby couldn’t continue.

“Look. Look out at the seats. His wife and kids are gone.”

Bobby turned and squinted. “You’re right,” he mumbled. “They are gone.”

“So get back out there and bust this guy up like you busted up Mike.” I rubbed his legs while Jimmy pressed the endswell against the bruise. “Go for his body. You had it right when you said he was thirty-four. Age him, make his body feel every punch. He’s thrown a lot of punches and he’s tired. You can finish him.”

Bobby nodded. The gleam was back in his eyes.

He was up before the bell rang and went right after Adams in the center of the ring. He threw a solid straight left to Adams’s nose followed by a hard right hook that Adams couldn’t duck. The fighter was wobbled and grabbed for Bobby’s arms and clinched. Blood spurted from his nose where the left had landed. I could see Bobby looking out of the corner of his eye at the seats where Adam’s wife and kids had been sitting. He winked at me.

“His nose is broken!” I yelled.

After the ref broke them up, Adams backpedaled, using up time, staying away from Bobby’s punches, taking boos from the crowd instead.

At the end of the seventh round, Bobby was breathing hard, his rib cage one reddened mass from the punches Adams had landed. Condition was everything and I was worried. But Adams was no longer hooking or throwing straight rights, concentrating on protecting his smashed in nose and trying to go the distance for the decision. He was slower too and Bobby was slipping the jab and right-stepping him again. Just before the bell, he turned Adams and there was plenty of zip in his right hook when it landed solidly to the other fighter’s side.

“Kidney punch, kidney punch,” came the shouts from Adams’s corner.

The ref waved them off but between rounds the corner kept it up, Bimmy screaming foul at the ref who ignored him.

In the eighth, Adams was retreating, trying to dance away. Bobby stepped in and hooked him with a left and tried to follow up with a right but Adams was inside him and reached up and pulled Bobby’s head down. The referee separated them and gave Adams a warning as the crowd booed.

Bobby moved in again and slipped a jab, ripping another right hook to Adams’s side and the fighter visibly slowed, his elbows down protecting his right side. Screams of kidney punch erupted again from Adams’s corner and the ref cautioned Bobby to be careful with the right hook. The fighters were back in the center of the ring and Bobby took a couple of solid punches to the body from Adams so he could land one of his own to the other fighter’s nose. Blood sprayed out over the crowd and I knew Adams wouldn’t try that again.

At the end of the eighth round Bobby was slow as he came back to the corner. “It’s close,” I told him. “He’s not looking good. He’s slowed. He’s more tired than you. The bleeding from his nose won’t stop, you busted it up real good. He’s going have to take you out if he wants that title rematch. You can’t afford to cover up. But neither can he. He’s going to have to stop protecting his nose and punch. I want you to counter with straight lefts and rights to the center of his face. Something will hit his nose. Then hook him with both hands. Can you give me a four punch combo? Can you do that?” I was yelling at him. “You can win this fight now, in this round, but you’ve got to go all out. He’s not going to quit, you’re going have to take him out. Four punches! Four fucking punches!” I held four fingers up in front of his face.

He nodded at me and smiled. I couldn’t believe it. The kid had been in the fight of his life, had taken a terrific beating in the middle rounds and he was smiling at me. I had to smile back. The kid sure had a lot of heart.

The bell rang and I hauled him off of the stool, practically shoving him out into the ring. In Adams’s corner, they were doing the same thing to their man. His massive shoulders were slumped and the blue of his boxing shorts was streaked with smears of wet blood. He was moving away from Bobby who was tried to cut the ring off and corner him.

“Oh, shit!” Jimmy yelled behind me.

I turned. He was pointing out into the seats, to the aisle where Bimmy was leading Mrs. Adams and the two kids back to their seats.

“Stop them before Bobby’s sees them.”

Jimmy jumped off the ring apron and went over to a vendor hawking beer to the crowd. He grabbed a large container and ran up the aisle and threw the foamy liquid in the Adams woman’s face.

“You sonofabitch,” Bimmy shouted while taking a swing at Jimmy. Mrs. Adams was wiping away the beer from her face while trying to kick Jimmy at the same time. The two kids started crying and I could see a mass of uniformed security rushing down the aisle toward the melee. Jimmy counterpunched Bimmy and then rammed his shoulder into him, sending him back into Mrs. Adams who fell down in the aisle with Bimmy landing on top of her.

The cops were all over of them, dragging Jimmy, Mrs. Adams, Bimmy and the two kids back up the aisle and out of the arena. Mrs. Adams, thoroughly infuriated by her dousing with beer, kept trying to reach over one of the cops to punch Jimmy, all the while screaming profanities that had the crowd laughing.

In the ring, Bobby was on his toes throwing straight lefts and right like I had told him. Adams must have heard his wife screaming, he was distracted for a moment and Bobby came down off of his toes, using a flat-footed stance to muster all the power he could in ripping two solid left hooks to the body. He tried following upstairs but Adams was kept his right glove high, protecting his nose.

Bobby was back on his toes, circling, then suddenly went flat footed again and threw another hook to the liver and followed with another hook to the head that again landed on Adam’s glove. Adams tried jabbing to keep Bobby away but the jabs were tired, half-hearted and Bobby slipped around them as he had McCarthy’s. I could see Adam’s right side clearly now, there was sickly bulge like a thin inner tube protruding between a couple of swollen ribs.

“Four punches,” I yelled at Bobby. “Give me four punches.” The kid had the heart to do it, I just knew it.

Bobby had the angle and threw a left hook around the right jab, the solid noise booming through the auditorium, causing the crowd to gasp. Adams hunched over and Bobby glided two steps the other way and threw two right hooks to the liver. This time, Adams’s left glove moved down in automatic response to the pain and Bobby threw another right hook that smashed Adams’s nose against his cheekbone. Adams dropped to the floor, bent over, choking on his blood. He spit out his mouthpiece as the ref stood over him waving his arms that the fight was over.

I ran over to Bobby and lifted hum up in the air. “You did it kid, you’ve got more heart than any fighter I’ve worked with.”

He was laughing. “Five. I gave you five.”

“What?”

“You asked me for four more punches, I gave you five.”

I started laughing too. “Like I said, you’ve got heart.”

Harry was in the ring now, rushing over and pumping Bobby’s hand. “The crowd loves you,” he said. “You won them over.”

Bob Arum was right behind Harry, shaking Bobby’s hand. “Great fight, kid. You got a lot of heart.” A broad smile was on his face. He turned to Harry. “Think your boy is ready for Margarito?”

“Does he have any kids?” I asked. Bobby might just have a little too much heart.