Six Rounds

Six Rounds

  by Bobby Mathews

  https://bwmathews.wordpress.com

  You wanna blame somebody, blame my corner. They coulda thrown in the towel anytime. But they didn’t, so there I was, swinging away with Johnny the Jet. Johnny was supposed to fight for the title next, right? And now he’s not fighting anyone ever again. That poor sonofabitch. I fucked up his life and mine, all at the same time. What I said before, about blaming my corner? Don’t do that. There’s enough blame to go around.

  Start with me. I ain’t much anymore. I fought my way up from a no-name prospect all the way to a fight for the cruiserweight title. When the champ laid me out clean with a left hook in round three, I shoulda learned my lesson right there. But I didn’t. Instead I went down to light heavy, and won a couple of fights. Even though I’d been KO’ed once, I still had some name value. They put me in with Harley MacGregor for the light heavyweight title, and I did a little better. I lasted seven rounds before MacGregor turned my lights out. That’s how I came to fight Johnny the Jet—Johnny McDaniel, if you don’t follow the fights. I’m still a name, right? “Black” Jack Harrison, but everybody calls me Blackjack. Two-time world title contender. But now that I’m past thirty and on my way down the ladder, I’m just a name. That’s what they call me behind the scenes—a name opponent.

  In other words, I’m a guy the up-and-comers get to face before they go on to fight for the title, a guy who won’t ever fight for the title again—a guy they expect to lose. I still got a little pride, though, and that’s why you can blame me for what happened. The Jet pissed me off—and that’s why he ought to take some of the blame, too. We came out in the first round throwing stiff jabs. The lights were hot overhead, and I’d already worked up a sweat on the way to the ring. The Jet had the edge on me in speed, but I had him in power, and I let him know that early on. He threw a lazy right cross that I picked off with my left forearm, and I sunk a hook right into his gut. Muscle memory, pure and simple—it was a move I’ve done a million times in sparring, and a million more on the heavy bag.

  I never saw a black guy turn green before, but Johnny backed off quick before I could follow up. I wasn’t gonna follow up, but he didn’t know that. When we engaged again, we went through the same sequence. His muscles gleamed with sweat, and his movement was like a fine Swiss timepiece—compact, with nothing wasted. He was something to see, that kid. This time I pulled my body blow a little, but Johnny flinched back and away again. He shook his head like he was confused. That’s when he got on his horse and started picking me apart with those quick, annoying jabs. I let my hands drift down a little, and pretty soon he got a trickle of blood from underneath my right eye.

  Sweat began immediately to sting the miniscule cut, and I knew my corner was going to have some work to do at the break. Every jab he landed tore that cut open just a little bit farther, and soon I had some nice color streaking down my cheek and glistening on my chest. Right before the end of the round, the Jet pressured me against the ropes, and I tied him up. Johnny McDaniel was a dangerous fighter, and I was supposed to give him six good rounds of work. Getting knocked out in the first was a definite no-no.

  But the sonofabitch wasn’t having it. He tripped me and threw me over his side in some kind of rolling hiplock. I hit the canvas hard and popped up like a jack-in-the-box.

  “The fuck?” I yelled at him. “This ain’t WrestleMania.”

  The bell rang before I could get to him, and the ref stepped between us.

  “Motherfucker better come out to fuckin’ fight next round,” the Jet screamed at me. “I’mma fuckin’ kill you if you don’t.”

  I said something back to him, but by that time, my corner was in the ring and trying to lead me back to my stool. Eventually I let them. They looked at my face enough to know the cut wasn’t bad, and then went to work with a Q-tip and some Vaseline to try to stop the bleeding. Sally Ray, my trainer, put an icepack on my neck.

  The lights were hot and I was sweating. I could smell the crowd, that kind of good Vegas crowd that still gets dressed up to see the fights. They sounded like the ocean, a constant low-level roar in my ears. The ring in front of me was blue and stained with blood from an earlier fight. Everything was coming in focus. I felt good. I remember thinking If he wants a goddamn fight, I’m gonna give him one.

  At some point the ref came over and told my corner that he was deducting a point from the Jet for the illegal throw. When the bell rang, I was off my stool and charging for the center of the ring. I hurt the Jet bad within the first thirty seconds. It was that right to the body again, followed up with a pair of left hooks—one upstairs and one to the liver.

  Johnny sagged, but I didn’t let him fall. I clinched and bulled him backwards into the turnbuckles. As soon as I was sure he wasn’t gonna fall down, I threw a flurry to the body. None of the shots would have even broken an egg, but they came so fast that they looked good to the crowd. The people were on their feet—they thought they were about to see an upset, and the roar that had been just a low-level drone crashed over me like a tidal wave.

  The Jet recovered quickly, taking the last few shots on his elbows and upper arms, so I circled away. He came after me then, and for the first time I understood why the kid was so good. He was mad, but he was in control. He put a mouse under my left eye, to match the one on the right. Then he got a trickle of blood from my nose, and my vision started to blur.

  Ever been hit in the nose? The tears are hot and immediate, and there’s nothing you can do to hold them back. The Jet backed me into a corner and kept the shots coming. I had my guard up, but he was relentless. One of his hooks missed my face, but the elbow that followed it was right on the money. It laid my cheek open in a shower of blood. The whole time he was hitting me, the Jet was talking to me.

  “You think you gonna throw this fight, motherfucker? I’m gonna fucking kill you in this goddamn ring. I don’t need you to throw no fucking fight. I kill you all night long, you honky piece of shit.”

  I didn’t say anything back to him. I didn’t have anything to say, and I didn’t want to waste my breath. The longer I stayed in the corner, the better his odds of knocking me out. I did the only thing I could think of to get him off me. I hit him in the groin as hard as I could. Johnny screamed and clutched at his crotch, jumping up and down in frustration and pain.

  The ref stepped between us—just like he should have—and started to admonish me. He directed me to a neutral corner, and I stood there to catch my breath for a minute while the Jet made sure the family jewels were still in the safe. They were, and eventually the ref restarted us, this time deducting a point from me. He warned us both about dirty tactics and told us to fight. We did, each of us working to our strengths. He stung me with jabs, but I bulled in and worked the body with half-speed hooks and straight rights. They weren’t doing any damage, but they were exposing the flaws in the Jet’s defense.

  In other words, I was pissing him off even more than I was earlier. When the bell rang, neither of us wanted to go back to our corners. Johnny the Jet was set on murdering me right there in front of eight thousand spectators.

  All I wanted to do was make sure I earned the thirty grand his manager had offered me to throw the fight, and look good in the process. I sat down on my stool and watched the slow drip of blood from my face to the canvas. All I was supposed to do was give Johnny McDaniel six good rounds. Then I could drop my hands a little more and let him find my jaw with a nice overhand right or maybe a left hook. I’d fall, take the ten count, and move on to the next payday. The Jet would get a shot at the title. Maybe even win it. He was good.

  The ten-second buzzer sounded to tell the cornermen to get out of the ring. I pushed to my feet and met the Jet head on. Tried to think about what my corner had sai
d, but couldn’t remember a word. Flashbulbs were popping behind my eyes, and I knew Johnny was landing some good combos. I was so deep into the fight that I couldn’t even feel it when he hit me. I kept seeing openings, but I hesitated to let my hands go. The world weaved around me, and the only thing that I understood were Johnny McDaniel’s fists.

  I was having trouble breathing, but in a little while it wouldn’t matter. Eventually I had to punch back. If I didn’t, Johnny was gonna make good on his promise to end me right there. He swung a wild hook that he was sure would land. Why wouldn’t it? Everything else he threw was landing.

  But this time I ducked and