As Zack got to his feet, Benjy rushed him. Zack got in a hard left and right before Benjy shoved him into the corner, leaned hard on him. Benjy got an arm loose, swiped Zack across the mouth, jammed a hard elbow in his throat. Zack twisted away and Benjy butted him in the mouth. He felt the warm blood behind his lips. He felt the cold fury, the long-delayed fury rising up in him.
At the break he was ready for the sucker punch, blocked it, drove his own right deep into the little band of flesh that overlapped the top of Benjy’s trunks. He was glad to see Benjy’s jaw sag with the blow. He followed it up with two jolting lefts to the mouth, a right cross. Benjy, his eyes glazed, still shuffled forward, trying to move inside. Zack let go with the right again and Benjy went down onto one knee at the bell.
“You look like great pals out there,” Max said.
At the bell for the third Benjy had made a fast recovery. He seemed almost to be gaining strength. He got a left and right into Zack’s middle. Each punch felt as though it were ripping his stomach loose and setting it adrift. Zack sucked air, bounced on his toes, kept his distance with the long left until breathing became automatic once more. During the next clinch Benjy butted him again, trampled his feet, filled Zack’s face with elbows.
Before the bell for the fourth Max said, “You don’t look so good out there. He’s got two out of the three.”
Zack went in cautiously. Too cautiously. A left to the middle cramped him and a high hard right to the temple filled his head with gray smoke. He moved three steps on wooden legs and tried to clinch. Benjy chopped and grunted and hacked at him in the clinch and Zack came out of it in worse shape than he’d gone in. He half blocked a left and right to the head, his back against the ropes, and the blows were no longer sharp. He felt as though Benjy were hitting him through feather cushions. He wanted to laugh. The mouthguard was gone. Then the world tipped slowly sideways and canvas was rough against his cheek. With no transition he was sitting loose on the stool, Max’s hand pushing the small of his back as the bell sounded. He stood up and gray shoulders in front of him worked like a man swimming.
Thud and grunt and the gray hazy world.
“Round?” he asked thickly.
“Eighth coming up,” Max answered, his voice harsh and worried.
Zack shook his head. “How’m I going?”
“You got maybe one. Snap out of it, kid. You’re dreaming out there.”
He went woodenly out at the bell, his feet planted firmly. Little gray man always shuffling in at him. Shuffling in. Got to stop him from coming at me. Got to stand still. Got to keep him from grabbing me. Hurts me when he grabs me. Keep him away and make him stand still. He stretched his lips in an empty grin. Maybe shuffle toward him a little and see how he likes it.
There was the gray man and there were the fists, floating up at him like balloons, hitting like the blunt ends of concrete piling.
Zack kept his chin down on his chest. He held his arms low and hooked, standing his ground. Like working on the heavy bag. Just like that. Get a rhythm. Left, right, left, right. Keep it working. Heels flat on the floor. Don’t let him grab. Stop him short. Left, right, left, right. Little gray man with a gray face. No, not as gray as it was. Getting red now. Getting smeared. Left, right, left, right. Shoulders in it. Back in it. Rhythm, like chopping wood.
He grinned through the pain, through the mists that swirled inside him, through the tearing of the breath in his throat. Now move in on him a little. Make him back up. See how he likes it. One foot and then the other. Hit with the left and then plant the left foot a little ahead. Hit with the right and plant the right foot ahead. Some silly character had driven the fire department into the Garden. All the sirens were turned on full. His arms were filled with rocks. They were like long stockings chock full of gravel. Couldn’t hardly hoist them up. Face almost all red now. No more walking. Ropes ahead. Gray man on the ropes. And then just the ropes. He stood with his hands at his sides, staring stupidly at the empty ropes. Somebody yanked on his arm, spun him around, shoved him toward a far corner. He made it, somehow. He laid his dead arms along the top rope and sagged in the corner. Arm in a white shirt sleeve flashing up and down. Then both arms spread.
He slid down until he was on his knees, his arms still hooked over the ropes. They picked him up. The sirens had been turned off. The white ranks of faces spun in a slow misty circle. He wanted to be sick to his stomach.
The rubdown hadn’t done much good and the shower hadn’t done much either. Zack wanted to fall into a bed and sleep until after Christmas.
He tucked his shirt into his pants and stood in front of the mirror to tie his tie. A great purple-blue mouse under one eye. Adhesive, startlingly white against his tanned skin, on both brows. Lips puffed tight like a couple of poorly stuffed sausages.
The worst was the bone-ache, the deep hard steady ache of the hammering he had taken.
He took the tie clip out of his shirt pocket and put it on. Next the jacket, the Brooksie jacket with no shoulder padding. He combed his damp hair, gave his reflection a wry smile and went out into the dressing room. The reporters had already left.
Benjy sat fully dressed, on the rubbing table, swinging his — short legs. His face looked as though a giant had grabbed his ankles and used him to hammer in fence posts.
Zack felt the fast hard return of anger. He stopped, facing Benjy, two feet away. “Of all the dirty scum fighters I ever saw—”
Benjy’s grin was unshaken. “Kid, you creamed me good.”
“And for one thin dime I’d give it to you again right here.”
Benjy looked puzzled. “Hey, kid! What’s a point in that? You got to lick old Benjy to get anyplace in this division. You don’t have to do it twice.”
“Kneeing, thumbing, kidney chops, laces across my nose, walking all over my feet! Get out of here, Benjy. You’re dirtying up the place.”
Benjy slid off the table. He had a hurt look. He walked toward the door. He turned and said, “Kid, you’re a fighter. No?”
Zack was puzzled. He said, “I don’t get it.”
“I got my way. You got your way. If I made it easy for you out there, you get too big for your pants. I got to give you the same thing I give Steiner, Brock and Joe Canada. With me it isn’t patty cake. It’s a business. If I rough you out of the fight, you just don’t belong up there with the good ones. So I don’t see what you get all hot with me about. Good luck to you, kid.”
He shut the door behind him. Max gave Zack an odd look. He said softly, “I never like to bust down confidence with my boys. I think a fighter’s got to have a little bit of a big head. You had a lot, kid, but you never really showed me you got what it takes until tonight. Maybe you never even had what it takes until tonight.”
He jerked his thumb toward the door. “That guy is a better friend than you know.”
Zack moved uncertainly toward the door. He paused and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. He scowled.
“Go on!” Max said. “Stop pouting like a spoiled brat. Maybe you can catch him at the end of the tunnel.”
Zack Haines yanked the door open and ran out. Benjy was a figure in the distance, walking slowly.
“Hey,” Zack yelled. “Hey, you broke-down horse! Wait up!”
Benjy stood and waited for his friend.