by Jinx, Hondo
The other two 8th Street fighters lost.
One drew a seventeen-year-old opponent with over three hundred amateur bouts. The other, cornered by none other than Rico, gave it his all but came up short in a close but unanimous decision, losing two rounds to one on the cards of all three judges.
Johnny noticed that throughout all three rounds, Rico kept glancing away from the ring toward the front row, where Gloria was surrounded by a bunch of guys jabbering away.
Throughout the fights, Freddie pointed out what people were doing right and wrong. Soon, Johnny was seeing the contests more accurately and in finer detail, noticing things he’d never noticed before, things like footwork and angles and feints. Also, in contests between highly skilled opponents, he began to see strategies at work.
When he pointed out these things, Freddie smiled at him. “You’re a quick learner, Johnny.”
“Heh. Don’t say that in front of my old schoolteachers, or you’ll be in for the fight of your life.”
“You have an eye for boxing, a mind for it. That bodes well. Speed and power are great, but they only go so far without a deep understanding of the sport. Especially once you hit the open class. That’s what separates great fighters. The ability to adapt, to make changes between and even during fights. You can’t do that without ring IQ. Which is why I’ve had no social life for the last two years. Whenever I’m not training or working or helping out with stuff around the house, I’m locked in my room, watching old fights and breaking down what everybody’s doing.”
“I guess that’s part of our work, too, if we’re going to be the best, huh?”
“It is. Most fighters don’t take the time. They just want to punch bags and people and test themselves. They’ll exercise their bodies because it helps them punch harder and faster, but if you don’t exercise your mind, you’ll only get as far as your body will take you.”
“I’m waiting for my invite.”
“What, to come over and watch with me?”
“Yeah. We’re partners, right?”
Freddie grinned. “You just want to get in my bedroom.”
“Well, there is that, too, but I’m serious.”
“I know you are. And it would be nice, breaking down the fights together. Honestly, it took me months to see stuff you’re already seeing. If what I suspect about your ring IQ is right, pretty soon, you’ll be pointing out things I’m missing. So yeah, consider yourself invited.”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “Thanks. I accept.”
“My sister will throw a fit. We share a room.” Freddie looked thoughtful, eyeing Johnny for a second. “On second thought, she’ll probably flirt with you just to tease you and drive me nuts.”
“I should be able to handle it.”
“All right. Consider yourself warned as far as my sister goes. But we won’t be locking my door,” she said, grinning sheepishly. “My parents are old-fashioned. Mom’ll have a hairball over us sitting on my bed. No way she’ll let me close the door.”
“Fine by me. Seriously. I’ll behave myself.”
Freddie narrowed her eyes. “Hmm. I’m not sure I want you to. Seriously, though? I’m glad you’ll be coming over. I mean, you lived out in the sticks and missed all these great fights, the classics. It’ll be awesome watching them with you. Have you even seen Ali vs. Tyson?”
That made Johnny sit up a little straighter. He’d noticed, of course, that Fight Town streets were named after famous real-world fighters, but he’d never wondered how, exactly, those fighters fit into this world.
In reality, Hall of Fame champs Muhammad Ali and Mike Tyson had dominated the heavyweight division decades apart. Here, apparently, they had actually fought each other.
And just like that, Johnny was practically drooling. “No, I never saw that. Didn’t even know they’d fought.”
“Didn’t even know they’d fought?” Freddie laughed, shaking her head. “What a hick!”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Have you seen Marciano / Dempsey?”
He shook his head, which was beginning to spin with anticipation.
“Ward / Gatti IV?”
“They fought a fourth time?” Back in the real world, Arturo Gatti had tragically died after the final fight in their epic trilogy.
“Hell yeah! It was the best fight of the bunch. Some people say the fifth fight was better, but not me. That end of that fourth fight—”
“Hey, no spoilers, okay? I don’t want to know anything about these fights before seeing them.”
“Of course,” Freddie said. “Anyone who spoils a fight is a colossal asshole, the same type of person who stands beside a chess game and blurts out moves to the players.”
“You play chess, too?”
Freddie shrugged. “Sure. Like I said, gotta work out the mind. And chess is like pushups for the brain. Plus, there are a lot of parallels between chess and fighting.”
“Hmm. Here I thought I was hanging out with a cool scrapper chick. Turns out you’re a nerd.”
“If you’re too dumb to play chess—”
“No, I can play. Just not very well. I played my brothers as a kid, but it’s been a while. I’ll give it a go sometime. I’m wondering, though. What other classic matchups can we watch?”
Freddie beamed. “Name it. My whole closet is filled with them. Other girls have shoes. I have fight tapes. Hagler vs. Golovkin, Dempsey / Holyfield at cruiserweight. Henry Armstrong vs. Roberto Duran.”
Johnny just stared at her for a second. “Holy. Shit. I can’t wait to come over!”
“Well, buy me dinner tonight, and you can come over tomorrow after we train.”
“I have to work at noon.”
“We’ll have time to fit in a fight.” She frowned. “Just… none of this, okay?” She squeezed his hand.
“Wow, your parents are really old-fashioned, huh?”
“Yeah, but don’t let Mom scare you away. She’ll be suspicious at first, but once she gets to know you, she’ll be fine. One thing, though. My sister will be a pain in the ass.”
“As you’ve said.”
Freddie furrowed her brow. “She’s… well, you’ll see.”
The open bouts wrapped up with a pre-arranged feature bout pitting Fight Town’s female lightweight champion, a girl from Wolf Town with only 3 losses in over 400 amateur bouts, against the Steel City champ, a girl undefeated after 285 fights.
After three dazzling, hotly contested rounds, the Steel City champ emerged unscathed, and the Wolf Town fighter picked up her fourth loss.
A commentator entered the ring, and the winner’s face filled the electric screens, sweating and smiling across the ceiling overhead like a god descending upon the arena.
“You have something you’d like to announce?” the commentator asked after going through the preliminary interview.
“Yeah,” the fighter, who’s left eye was rapidly swelling shut, said with a grin, “that was my last amateur fight. I’ve signed with the best promoter in boxing, Donna Queen. Look out, world! I’m going pro!”
The arena exploded with applause that downshifted into raucous booing when a strange-looking woman entered the ring and shouldered her way between the commentator and the fighter, smiling into the camera as she grabbed the microphone.
Above her huge smile, this woman Donna Queen wore glasses and a ridiculous afro that towered high above her head like the Bride of Frankenstein or one of those little troll dolls.
Or, Johnny thought, like a certain famous promoter from Earth…
“Thank you so much for this amazing opportunity,” Donna Queen said into the microphone, addressing not the commentator but the crowd and everyone watching at home. “What an incredible fighter this young woman is. 286 fights, 286 wins. And we have a very exciting announcement to make. Katie will be making her professional debut next month, right here in Fight Town, on the undercard of the Collins / Pedraza welterweight unification super fight!”
The crowd went wild.
“Wow,” Freddie said, “that’s starting off right. Wow. Just wow.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Katie here is the real deal, and I couldn’t be prouder than to be associated with her. God bless Katie. God protect all these brave warriors. And God bless Fight Town!”
Despite their initial booing, the crowd cheered Donna Queen loudly as the bespectacled promoter put an arm around the victorious fighter and waved at the arena.
Freddie chuckled. “Donna Queen is a trip. That hair and the way she talks. Everybody laughs at her and talks shit about her. And she just grins, letting them think she’s stupid, all while she’s raking in the millions.”
Remembering things he’d heard about Donna Queen’s obvious Earth counterpart, Johnny asked, “Is she crooked?”
“She’s as crooked as a witch’s hat. But she has more clout than anyone in boxing. I mean, the community is split on her. You hear some real horror stories. Stuff about her making promises then screwing people over.”
“Her own fighters?”
Freddie nodded. “That’s what I hear.”
“That sucks. I mean, you got enough on your plate just having to fight your opponent, right? Imagine having to worry about getting backstabbed by your own promoter, too.”
Freddie sighed. “Yeah, it would suck. But if Donna Queen offered, I’d probably sign with her.”
Johnny stared at her in disbelief. “Why?”
“Otherwise, it’s hard to get ahead in this game. It’s almost impossible to get a title shot if you don’t sign with Donna Queen.”
“Wow. That sucks. I had no idea all of this was part of boxing.”
“Few people do. They think it’s all punching and getting punched. Luckily, we won’t have to worry about that stuff for a while. It’s mainly in the pros. For now, we just have to focus, train hard, fight, and win.”
Chapter 25
Midway through the professional bouts, someone died.
The first few pro bouts were four-round explosions of non-stop violence that illustrated not only the professional fighters’ skills but also the effects of juice boosts, cultivation, and use of training bling.
Before each pro match, the Arena’s bright screens paused their streaming advertisements to display the fighters’ images, age, height, weight, reach, record, and juice stats.
Some of the juice stats were impressive. One young prospect with only a single professional bout under his belt wowed the crowd with 511 total juice points… an amazing number, considering it didn’t include heart and was therefore a summation of only six stats.
In some cases, the announcer highlighted statistical outliers. “Fighting out of Ape Hollow with a record of ten fights, ten wins, ten knockouts, and a remarkable power stat of 91, Jimmy ‘The Simian Sledgehammer’ Schmidt!”
Truth be told, however, Johnny felt pretty good, seeing the pros’ numbers. His own juice stats weren’t far behind, and his heart score of 100 was by far the highest he saw.
Of course, he could say none of this aloud, because as far as Fight Town was concerned, his stats remained a mystery. According to Freddie, trainers with deep pockets—a rare thing in the fight game—sometimes tested amateurs’ juice stats but closely guarded the results because they could have a profound effect on manager negotiations.
After all, fighters were more than their juice stats. Many an amateur found ways to win despite lackluster stats.
In some cases, however, when a fighter had exceptional stats, the opposite was true; the trainer could use these to leverage more money.
The opening fights proved juice stats were only part of the equation. Watching highly skilled fighters put their points to use, he understood he had much to learn and a mountain of work ahead of him.
As with everything in boxing, however, all that work would guarantee nothing.
Because just as everyone had their natural juice stats, they also had personal juice limits.
“You have your natural stats,” Freddie explained. “You can improve these through conditioning and training and meditation then gain a few more points with cult food, juice boosts, and training bling. But eventually, you hit a ceiling. Me, I do everything right, I might be able to push my speed and agility into the high 90s. Might. But there’s no way, as a 125-pound female with my bone structure, I’ll ever top 70 in strength or power. I could become the best fighter in the world, but I’ll never crack as hard as a big lug like you. Which is why we have weight classes and separate divisions for men and women.”
Since none of the fighters’ stats included heart, Johnny asked about it.
“They can’t measure that,” Freddie said. “Can you imagine? If you knew an opponent’s heart, it would change everything. But it’s like ring IQ… a mystery. You just have to guess at heart. Of course, the longer you fight, the more you know about your opponent—and yourself.”
Most of the night’s four-round professional fights were mismatches, with hot young prospects kicking the shit out of guys who looked like someone had just roused them off the porch of the nearest halfway house.
Johnny noticed that some of these hot young prospects were greeted by more than one woman after their victories. Apparently, it was normal—expected, even—for dominant fighters to recruit harems as they rose through the ranks.
Which might be fun in the sack, Johnny reckoned, but otherwise? It seemed like a nightmare. Like Freddie, when he committed to something, he went all in. How could anyone possibly do that with more than one wife?
The six-rounders were better than the four-rounders. Some offered competitive matchups, including a hot new cruiserweight prospect from Bear Lane, “Joltin’” Jeff Jeffries, who barely edged none other than Jobbo, whose record was a workmanlike 45-23-8 with 41 KOs.
It was interesting to see Jobbo’s stats.
Fighter: Jobbo “The Wrecking Ball” Miller
Age: 29
Height: 5’9”
Weight: 200 pounds
Reach: 69 inches
Total Juice: 442
Agility: 65
Chin: 84
Endurance: 68
Power: 86
Speed: 67
Strength: 72
Johnny committed his once and future opponent’s stats to memory, feeling good that he’d rocked a guy with an 84 chin.
The stat that really stood out to him, though, had nothing to do with juice. It was Jobbo’s reach.
Johnny had him by 7 inches. That mattered. Or rather, Johnny had to make it matter. No matter how badly he wanted to hammer the guy, he had to find a way—and develop the discipline—to use his reach advantage the next time they sparred.
“Jobbo’s dumber than hell, campaigning at cruiserweight,” Freddie said. “Guy turned pro at 156, can you believe it? Now he’s fighting at 200. Those eight draws, Marvella says most of them, maybe all of them, should be wins. But once you rack up some losses, the judges don’t give you the close ones anymore, even if you deserve the win. Jobbo can fight. If he had stayed at 156 or 165, he might have gone somewhere. But he can’t beat the spoon, that’s his problem.”
“You mean a heroin spoon?”
“Nah. I’m talking about the kitchen utensil employed as such. The dumbass is eating himself into a shit record and piss-poor paydays.”
After Jobbo’s fight, Johnny and Freddie got dinner. This time, Freddie tried to pay, but Johnny beat her to it… barely.
“Next time is on me,” she said.
Johnny shrugged, and they carried their food back to their seats, where the first of three eight-rounders was just getting started.
On paper, the match was the most even of the card so far; both combatants with forty-some wins and only a single loss, but that didn’t matter when, halfway through the first round, the Dogville middleweight caught his human opponent with a blistering combination of power punches.
Back in the real world, Johnny knew, boxing deaths were generally the result of dehydration and an accumulation of punishment. But here in this juice-bo
osted world, you could get killed in the first round by a single combination.
The human fighter fell straight back, hit his head, and lay still.
His cornermen leapt into the ring, which filled rapidly with professionals. The healers from both corners rushed forward to work on the fallen fighter, but it was too late.
He was dead.
“Holy shit,” Johnny said, trying to wrap his head around it as they carried the dead man out on a stretcher.
“Yeah, it’s part of the game,” Freddie said. “Every time we climb through the ropes, we’re risking death. You sure you want to be a fighter?”
Johnny nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure I want to be a fighter.”
That was the truth. But it was incredibly sobering to see a man killed, and even more sobering to see the spectators’ reactions.
The death clearly rattled the crowd but not for long.
The announcer summed up the moment in coldly professional terms, declaring the other fighter the winner by knockout and referring to the death as a “tragic reminder of what these fighters risk night after night, fight after fight.”
Everyone rose for a moment of respectful silence as someone at ringside tolled a mournful ten-count on the bell.
“May God rest his soul,” the announcer said, and the audience cheered, and then the next two fighters were making their way into the ring again.
And that was that. It was back to the races, business as usual, people drinking beer and eating popcorn and booing the fighter from this neighborhood or that.
Holy shit, Johnny thought. Just how often do people get killed here?
He wasn’t afraid, really, and he certainly wasn’t about to back out, but he had no intention of dying in the ring, and he hoped he would never kill anyone.
Just have to train my hardest and hope my opponents do, too.
Marvella cornered an eight-rounder for Gabby Diaz, a heavy-handed female bantamweight Johnny never saw at the gym since Diaz trained in the morning.
He and Freddie cheered when, to the delight of the Ward, Diaz scored a sixth-round stoppage.
When they hit the restrooms before the main event, they spotted Jobbo out in the hall, guzzling beer and eating a cheesesteak.