The Boxer

In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev’ry glove that laid him down…
–“The Boxer, S”imon and Garfunkel

If only the boys from the New York Second could see him now.  A pugilist in a carnival, standing in the squared circle, taking on all comers.

Of course, the boys from the 2nd were all dead, and he fought alone, one of the last of the Irishmen from the old home, who remembered Chesty and Blake and Red – and he could see them as he fought.  Sometimes he would pause before delivering the final blow, a whispered prayer to those ghosts of the past, as he watched the opponent stumble and fall.

His handler taunted the crowd.  “You, there, with the lady on your arm!  Can you prove to her – and to all of us here – that you can beat the greatest boxer who ever lived?  He’s older than you man – look at you!  Sprightly – I’ll bet you’re quick on your feet, sir!”

The couple giggled, and the boxer sighed, knowing that they wouldn’t come up here.  He cast his eyes along the crowd – most of them women, come to oogle at a half-naked man standing in a ring, wearing only shorts and a pair of leather soulless boots.

“Tough crowd tonight,” muttered the handler, moving to another section.

He only grunted in reply.

He kept on trying, and, indeed, it was a tough crowd.  Most of the men were scrawny, men he could easily put down in half a second.  He would, of course, let them get a few hits in before sending them flying over the ropes with one punch.

“I’ll take him.”

“Yay, daddy!” came a little boy’s voice along with the cheers of the crowd.  A woman, his wife, had a worried look, as he set down the little boy he was carrying on his shoulder.

“Casey..?”

“I know what I’m doing, love,” he said, and kissed his wife.  He took off his jacket and started unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.  He was probably going to roll them up and climb in, the boxer thought, making it easy for me to grab a hold of him.

But  no, he had no Victorian shame, as he started pulling his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoning that too.  Women gasped as he took off his shirt – the man was ruggedly built, a strong, thick neck and pectorals, and he could count the muscles on the man’s abdomen.  Good, the boxer thought, a strong one.

He gave her the shirt, and took off his boots as well.  This made the boxer tilt his head.  Was he a wrestler?  Well, two can play that game.  He hadn’t wrestled since the war.  This would be fun.

Last came the belt, and the man stepped into the ring to the yelling of the crowd.  “Go Casey!” “Give that guy a what-for!”

Casey, the challenger, nodded.  The handler stepped forward, between the two men.  “No, I want a nice, clean fight.  No poking anyone’s eyes out or hitting below the belt.  You guys got it?”

The boxer grunted.  “I got it,” said Casey.

The crowd started forming but the boxer merely narrowed his eyes, waiting for the bell.  The handler literally jumped out of the ring and hit a hand-held bell.

The boxer moved, trying to grapple with Casey by grabbing him under his shoulders.  The man twisted, however, so he could only get one arm – the other he wrapped around the boxer’s neck and meant to pull.  The boxer went with it, getting twisted over and falling to the hard ground.

The crowd cheered.  Fall one, counted the boxer, and done pretty good.  He’d have to make the guy work for the next one.

Casey didn’t stand there taking the cheers of the crowd, but waited calmly for the man to get up.  That’s what made him think that maybe, just maybe, this guy was a professional.

The boxer got up, bouncing on his feet.  Casey smiled and took another crouching stance.  The boxer walked around, looking for an opening.  He dove forward, but the man jerked back, and then Casey dove forward on the left.  The boxer caught him, and Casey then wrapped his arms around the boxer’s waist, grabbing hold of his own wrist and holding tight.

The boxer swung him around a bit; Casey just held on.  He scrabbled for purchase in the dirt, kicking up a small cloud.  The boxer smiled, knowing he was trying to lift him.  But the boxer was heavy as well as strong.  Instead, the boxer fell backward, dragging Casey’s head with him, with the intent of snapping the man’s neck.  He’d let go at the last minute if he had to—

But as the boxer relaxed himself to brace for the fall, Casey pulled out of the headlock and instead his head landed on the man’s stomach, sending the wind out of him.  Casey unlocked his hands and pulled them out from under the boxer, and then held his hand down for him.

The boxer took it, and stood up.  The two men looked at each other.

Casey was panting.    He merely nodded and stood in a straight boxer’s stance.

He’s giving it to me, the boxer thought angrily.  This was a wrestler, he knew that – a good wrestler.  And he’s going to give me the next bout because he beat me twice.  Casey didn’t know that the boxer normally let the other guys beat him twice before hitting them with all he had.

He didn’t mince this time, and his anger made it worse.    He took a wide swing at Casey’s head – he moved, as he expected, but then he thrust a kidney punch that Casey wasn’t expecting.  Casey took it with a gasp, and then the boxer gave him a really hard uppercut.  It would normally lift a man clear off the ground and into the ropes.  This one didn’t do that, but it did stun him.

That made him more angry, and he slammed another punch in the side of Casey’s head.  Casey took it and fell down hard on the rope, dragging it down and the pole on top of him.

There was a general  gasp and a cry from women in the crowd, and the wife ran up to the unconscious man.  The handler very calmly came over and poured a cupful of water on Casey’s face.  Meanwhile the boxer felt something hitting his leg, and looked down to see the little boy punching his leg.

“Casey,” moaned the man on the ground.  “Stop hitting him.”

“He hurt you,  daddy!”

The man struggled up, and the crowd cheered.  “It was a fair fight.”

The boxer looked at him and nodded.  Casey stumbled up – the boxer saw the wide pupils of a concussion as the man came over to him.  He held out a hand for the boxer to shake.  “Good fight,” he said.

Another grunt, and he shook the man’s hand firmly.  Casey glanced down from his face, and saw the criss-crossed scars among the boxer’s throat.  He nodded both to himself and the man, took his child and headed off.

“Another one, old man?” asked the handler, but he only shook his head, watching Casey leave.

Coulda sworn I saw him look at me like that before…

1243 words.