The Fighting Game The champion let loose with a solid right to Joey's body. The kid took a step back and slumped to the canvas. By Keith Hunt Outwardly, you might say, this is merely a story of boxing. But actually it's more than that. It is in reality a story of fate. Fate, that undeniable force that takes our lives, ties them into a loop, and as time goes on, pulls the loop tighter and tighter, bringing the end closer and closer until. . . . But wait, let me start this story at the beginning. Picture if you can a hot, sticky, mid-July day at a small white farmhouse situated in eastern Connecticut, and a tall blond kid weaving and bobbing, taking quick jabs at a small leather punching bag. The boy danced lightly in front of the sphere, feinting, hitting, and never breaking the monotonous tap-tap-tap of the bag against the backboard. The steady staccato rhythm of the bag echoed out over the heads of the small crowd of people seated on the bleachers surrounding the boxing ring and training paraphernalia arranged back of the house. A tiny, owlish man, wearing a soiled black derby and with a monstrous cigar protruding from his mouth and wig-wagging with every word he spoke, arose from a nearby seat. "Okay, Joey, that's enough for today. Let's call it quits." The kid took one last poke at the bag and hopped down off the platform into the bright green robe held ready by the little man. As the fighter and his small contingent of handlers disappeared into the cottage, the crowd unraveled and slowly passed out through the gate, past the sign reading, THE TRAINING CAMP OF JOEY KELLY JR., THE NEXT WELTERWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD. Remarks concerning the boy could be heard from several of the older gentry of the crowd. "He's just as good as his old man ever was," and "It's too bad his dad isn't alive to see him fight." Inside the house Joey lay sprawled out on a table as the little man with the derby worked feverishly over his perspiring leg and back muscles. "Mike," queried Joey, half turning over, "what do the newspapers say about the fight?" Mike Gordon, the manager, shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth and replied. "Now listen, kid, you forget about those papers. It's bad psychology to know what other people think of the way you fight. It doesn't make any difference anyway. The only papers I want you to read are those two weeks from tomorrow that tell about you being the new champ. So now relax. I never let your pop read the newspapers and I'm not going to let you." "Tell me about his fight again, Mike," said Joey, flopping into his prone position on the table. Mike gave a slight chuckle, tossed a towel over the kid's buttocks and settled back in a chair to tell his favorite story. Page four "Well, it was nearly twenty years ago, August, 1928, that the fight took place. Your dad, Joey Sr., was the talk of the country. He was the hardest-hitting welterweight to come along in twenty-five years, and the public knew it. The odds were ten to one that he'd win, but of course he never saw the papers, just like you. So as far as he knew he was the underdog. When that fight started your dad was in the best condition of his entire career and you could tell it from the beating he gave the champ, right from the first round on. Came the last round, all he had to do was play paddy-cake with the champ to win. He had the bout sewed up and I was bawling like a baby because I finally had a fighter. A world's champion. But then that last round Joey went into a clinch about halfway through it and as they broke the champ landed his only good blow of the fight, right to Joey's midsection. It wasn't enough to kayo him, but he went down, for a rest I thought. When I reached him, as they counted him out, I" "Yeow," Mike gave a shriek and leaped from his chair shaking a red, seared finger, burnt from the smouldering stub of the cigar he had held in his hand. "That son of a, damn cigar," he cussed, rubbing the injured digit. A laugh and gentle nudge from Joey soon eased the pain. "Okay, kid, you know that story better than I do as it is. Into the shower with you. Come on, jump. You've got to look your best, you know your mom is coming down tonight, so hop it up." At the supper table that evening it was not difficult to discern the mother and son. The son who had known no father, and the mother who now saw her son launched into the same profession so cherished by her husband. The table conversation consisted mainly of anxious queries concerning the boy's health and progress in training. Especially about his health was she concerned. To her his health was the most important factor of his entire life. Mike truthfully reassured her that the lad was in the finest of physical condition. "Tough as nails and twice as sharp," joked Mike, apparently ending the question. Mrs. Kelly gave a half-laugh but it soon dimmed as her anxious eyes searched out Joey's every move as he ate. The following two weeks leading up to the fight found Joey's program of exercises, sparring, roadwork, and drills varying as Mike sought to bring him to the ever important peak right on the eve of the fight. But, as usual, all newspapers and discussions concerning the bout were carefully shielded from Joey. Long queues of ticket lines strung out from the brilliantly lighted arena on the eve of the event as thousands of people jammed the stadium to witness that which was certain to be the battle of the year. Inside in his dressing room, Joey moved slowly about, flexing his arms, and legs; his skin taut and gleaming. A huge roar from the arena signified the entry of the champion into the ring, and at a signal from Mike, the group, including the handlers, strode silently from the room, leaving lights burning as if they hoped for an early, victorious, return. Inside the ring Joey blinked his eyes slowly to become accustomed to the brilliant white of the overhead lights. The instructions from the referee, the warning buzzer, Mike's final words, all slipped by swiftly and Joey found himself alone in the ring with the dream of a lifetime to be had, a world's championship. The two gladiators spent the first three rounds merely "feeling" each other out. Each cautious, each ready, but no dangerous blows were struck by either. In the fourth period the two men waded in and began their murderous slugfest which was to be the prototype for the remainder of the entire fight. Through five and six the two seemed impervious to the delighted roar from the huge crowd. Seven, eight, and nine passed and the massive arena seemed to bulge from the deafening noise from the near-hysterical mob. As round number ten approached the crowd was frantic. All favorites were forgotten. They were cheering for the fight, not the fighter. Venders and ushers were seated in the aisles, forgetting their duties to witness the spectacle. The radio announcer, who had long since lost his hat in an excited heave, was screaming into the microphone bringing the battle to millions of fight fans throughout the country. As Joey returned to his corner for round eleven, the gateway to the climax, his eyes, sparkling and brutal, reflected the uncivilized savageness of man, once released. Through round twelve the crowd remained deliriously happy as the two boys tore each other apart. As round fourteen ended a hush settled over the gigantic stadium as the two battlers returned to their corners for that ever-important finale. The crowd and fighters knew that this was it. The fight would be decided in this round. Joey's skin, by now a deep scarlet hue, heaved and throbbed with every breath he took. He seemed oblivious to Mike's frantic instructions. He seemed oblivious to everything except his opponent across the ring. The two gladiators sat in their corners, their eyes fastened intently on each other. At the bell the two advanced slowly toward each other and touched their blood-specked gloves and quickly moved away. Joey led with a left jab and the champ quickly retaliated with another left. Then as though at a signal the two moved in and reconvened their murder-fest. The roar of the crowd swelled and subsided as if controlled by one master hand. And the fighters battled on. Near the end of the round Joey caught the champion with a swift right to the head and the titlist fought his way into a clinch. As the referee separated the two the champion let loose with a solid right to Joey's body. The kid took a step back and slumped to the canvas. The referee began his hollow, monotone, counting, but he never finished. As he reached six a towel skidded across the floor from Joey's corner. Mike raced into the ring with but one question in his mind. He rolled Joey over and with one look at the boy he got his answer. He had seen that same face before. It was twenty years ago that Mike had seen this identical scene enacted. Mike fought his way back to the dressing room, where he collapsed, his tiny frame shuddering with disbelief. The following morning the newspapers blared forth the tale of a great fighter who followed his father's footsteps, down to the last toeprint. A father and a son. . . . But that's not all. Remember I said this was a story of fate. Fate, pulling the knot of life tighter and tighter until. .. . On the back page of these newspapers, which a gallant boy never saw, was a small article which read, "Mrs. Joel Kelly was found dead in her home last night. Cause of death heart failure." And a mother. . . . You see, when fate draws that loop in, it can snare nearly anyone. Page five