Jimmy Rillo was nervous. They touched gloves; Jimmy flicked a light jab and Lew tried to knock it away, a third of a second too late. His own jab, in contrast to Jimmy’s, seemed like slow motion, jimmy began to gain confidence. He moved superbly, and hit Lew almost at will. Lew had the strange feeling that he was standing, fighting in water that came up to the bridge of his nose. Only his eyes were out of water. Water slowed his every move. He could see what he should be doing and he tried to force his muscles to respond, but they were always late. Too late. Finally he broke it off and leaned on the top rope, breathing deep and hard. He rubbed the sweat from his eyes with a towel and, tossing the towel aside, met Jud Brock’s cold glance.
“It’s about what I expected,” Lew said, keeping his voice steady.
“Timing will come back. And don’t forget, Jimmy is as fast as light. If he had a punch I’d have got him up where he belongs long ago.”
“Don’t kid me, Jud.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you. Maybe I’m doing you a favor to tell you: In there you look like the Primo looked in his best days. A jab like an old man throwing a medicine ball — footwork like a dairy horse. You’ll improve before the bout, but not enough. When he hits you, son, stay down. If you don’t stay down, he’ll hurt you. Because you’re not quick enough any more to slip them and roll with them. He’ll hit you solidly, and he’ll hit you seven more times before you hit the floor. It won’t be pretty, and I wish to hell I was a plumber or a birdwatcher — anything but this racket.”
Jimmy was looking down at the floor in shy silence. Lew walked to the car with Jud. There wasn’t much left to say.
Each day he swam and juggled and went as far as he could go with Jimmy. He did better with the kid, but he knew that it was because he was out-thinking the kid, not moving faster or better. He hit where he planned that the kid would be, and Jimmy, each day, seemed to be moving into the right place oftener. Once, in his eagerness to improve his speed, he hit the kid squarely and solidly. The kid wavered, took a half step, and went flat on his face before Lew could catch him. He was out for over five minutes, and when he came to, he was sick to his stomach. It gave Lew a bitter satisfaction to know that the punch was still there, that even with the big gloves and the protecting mask, it was a numbing jolt.
Each day he tried to pace himself, and he found he could not go more than seven or eight rounds, no matter how careful he tried to be. And he knew that he would be no better by the night of the fight. Just twenty-four minutes of fight left in the thirty-five-year-old body. Twenty-four minutes of all-out effort. From the first bell there would be twenty-four minutes of scrap, with fourteen minutes of total rest between rounds, and it wouldn’t be enough.
At the end of eight rounds with Jimmy, his knees trembled and shook like the legs of a foundered horse. His arms were leaden; a vast pain constricted his left side; his mouth was cottony. He could not suck enough air into his lungs. He was quicker, but not quick enough. He sent Jimmy back and another kid came out, a bouncy, arrogant, loud-mouthed kid named Riker. He was a heavyweight and in the first minute of the first workout with him, Lew sensed that the boy wanted to knock him out so that he could go back to the city and strut and crow. The boy was fast. Lew grimly took his punishment, waiting, angling, plodding after the boy, shaking off the heavy punches, feeling his sight grow dim. Then, blocking the boy in a corner, he found his target, went to work, beat the boy to his knees. That ended the arrogance. That closed the loud mouth. That made the boy a suitable, cooperative, wary sparring partner. It earned Lew, from Oliver, a wide, white, appreciative grin.
On the afternoon of the eighth of July, Jack Terrance came out in a big car with two nationally-known sports writers and two reporters from local papers. The bottle had been passed freely during the ride. They were all warm, sweaty, loud and opinionated.
One of the nationally-known writers got Lew aside, and said with drunken solemnity: “That’s the trouble with you pugs. None of you know when to quit. Tunney was the only guy with sense. You made your pile and now you got to come back and get your ears batted off. You’re kidding yourself, Barry; you were through five years ago. You’ll be doing yourself a favor to call this whole thing off right now.”
Jack had come within hearing distance. He swaggered over and said: “Listen, you. I didn’t bring you out here to talk Lew out of fighting. Hell, this is the only chance I get to show the country how good my boy is.”
“So he licks Barry. Does that make Hode good, Terrance?”
Jack grinned. “I know some people who think so.”
“Those people you mean, Terrance, they aren’t thinking of fighting. They’re thinking of the gate. It gives your boy a name. That’s all.”
“Nobody ever knocked Lew out. Don’t forget that.”
“And he’s your old pal. You two got it fixed which round Barry dives in?” The tone was full of amused contempt.
Lew reached out quite slowly and wrapped his left hand in the material of the speaker’s pale sports jacket. He pulled the man close to him, and smiled at him. “You’re all mouth, friend. Maybe you better stick to tennis matches.”
“You hit me and I’ll take every dime you’ve got.”
“I can’t hit you, friend, because my hand is bare and I got a fight coming up — but one thing you should know by now, if you’ve been around. I never took a dive — and I never will. Jack’s got a good boy and I’m going to try to lick him. You say anything else in your column, friend, and I’ll sue hell out of you.” He released the man.
“Will you go a couple rounds with Riker for the boys?” Jack asked.
Lew agreed. He went three rounds. After he showered, Jack came into his bedroom and sat on the bed.
“What did they say about it, Jack?”
“They’re down on the porch, yakking. Frankly, you didn’t look so good.”
“I’ve never looked good in training. You know that from way back.”
Jack leaned back on the bed. “I guess I don’t feel right about all this, Lew. I shouldn’t have got the ball rolling this way. Watching you out there, I got to thinking it could be bad if Sammy tagged you too hard. I guess I haven’t thought about your end of it enough.”
Lew could see him in the bureau mirror. “Call it off?”
“I’d like to. But I can’t. Not now. Too much on the line now to call it off. It’s my only chance to get out from under. I explained all that.” He shrugged and grinned weakly. “Ivy won’t talk to me. But, Lew, as long as we’re in this, we might as well play it smart.”
Lew pulled his belt tight and turned. “How do you mean that?”
Jack looked uncomfortable. “I like the way you handled that hint about a dive. That was just right. The way those boys write this up will mean a lot in the odds department.”
“Go on.”
“Lew, the kid is going to lick you. You know that.”
“Probably.”
“Let’s be practical. The kid is going to lick you. I don’t want him to hurt you badly. Ivy doesn’t want him to hurt you. You’ve never been knocked out. I got hold of some dough. Say I put up a few thousand for you, Hode to knock you out in the fourth. The worst odds I could get would probably be four to one, calling the round like that. And the kid is a hitter. It won’t have to look bad. Just give him the clean shot and then, even if you don’t go out all the way, take too long getting up. It could mean another twelve thousand. Twenty altogether for you.”
Lew kept his voice quiet. “How about the kid?”