by Jinx, Hondo
“I’m serious, Marvella. You know that.”
“I know you are, kid. That’s why I didn’t just tell you to forget Stevenson and go back to basics. But like I said, tall order. I’ll give you credit. You got heart, kid. You showed it against Jobbo, and you showed it again the other night. Hell, you show it every night in here, working your ass off.”
Johnny nodded and managed not to smile. It was the nicest thing she’d ever said to him, so he wouldn’t ruin it by showing she’d pleased him.
“But I’m not gonna shit you. If you want to beat Stevenson, you’re gonna have to learn a lot, and you’re gonna have to work harder than ever. You gotta get in shape, kid. I mean for real, for real.”
Johnny stared into her eye. “I’ll work harder than I ever have in my life. Count on it.”
“All right, kid. You do that. I’ll line up some sparring for you later this week. Mostly lefties, you feel me? Now, quit sandbagging and go hit those bags.”
Johnny laughed and slipped through the ropes.
Behind him, Marvella called down to Freddie. “Lopez, get your skinny ass up here!”
Chapter 49
As the weeks fell away and July became August and August burned into mid-August, Johnny worked harder than ever before.
Every minute of every sweltering round, he visualized himself pummeling Apollo Stevenson. Every punch, every slap of the jump rope, every pull-up, every wind sprint… they were all steps in the long journey to vengeance and redemption.
Dumping credits into endurance proved to be a great move. With significantly improved energy, Johnny trained harder every minute of every session. His punches stayed crisper, and with better conditioning, he stayed mentally sharper, allowing him to learn more and make adjustments more effectively. It’s tough to improve your footwork, of course, when you’re so tired that you’re just focused on punching your way through a round.
Marvella set up top-notch sparring sessions, pitting Johnny against southpaws, slick and speedy fighters, and Lev Janson, a pro out of Ram’s Gate who could move and punch like Stevenson.
Johnny hung tough.
Thanks to his juice boost, determination, and the quality of his training and opposition, Johnny improved with remarkable speed, soaking up Marvella’s instructions, which focused on head movement, closing the gap, cutting angles, and getting off first.
The juice ring magnified Freddie’s hard work, too, so she also progressed by leaps and bounds. Not a day went by when she didn’t thank Johnny for his generous gift.
Meanwhile, Johnny and Freddie pushed and supported each other and grew closer every day.
Their morning runs got longer and faster.
At Coffee & Chess, their clashes grew epic, with Johnny edging Freddie most days.
Rooftop meditation deepened. Johnny cruised the streets of his grid, unblocking avenues. Thanks to this, the life he was leading—the cult coffee, clean food, and his total focus—his juice flowed more and more freely.
He knew his stats were improving. He just didn’t know how much because there were no more Vicarus interfaces.
Why?
Impatient riders probably dropped him because he hadn’t fooled around with Freddie yet.
Again, so be it.
He loved Freddie. She loved him. That love deepened every day.
She wasn’t ready for sex yet. Partly because that was her nature—holding off, then going all in—but also because, as every fighter knows, sex weakens the legs and dulls the cutting edge.
And right now, they both had everything on the line.
Better to wait just a while longer.
On a Wednesday night in Coyote Circle, Johnny helped Marvella corner Freddie’s first open-class bout. Freddie drew a 15-3 fighter and beat her easily, outpointing her every round on all three cards.
The next day, she received a phone call from Trongo and offers from two additional managers. The offers crept up to a $2500 sign-on bonus.
“What are you going to do?” Johnny asked the next morning at Coffee & Chess.
“I’m tempted to pit them against each other,” Freddie said. “Marvella thinks someone would go up to $3000. But I’m not going to do it.”
Johnny grinned at her, happy to hear it. “Why not?”
“If I hold out and win the open-class city championship this December, I’ll get a lot more. Probably $10,000 up front—enough to try helping Daddy—and likely a weekly stipend so I can quit the pool and focus full-time on fighting. It’s a huge risk, especially because it means facing Dominica in a real bout, but thanks to you, I believe in myself.”
“You should,” Johnny said. “You’re going to do it, Freddie. I know you will. And winning the city championship is only the beginning. All the way to the top, right?”
She leaned across the table and kissed him. “All the way to the top, my love.”
The next day, Marvella asked Johnny, “How’s your weight, kid?”
“It’s getting there. 177.”
Marvella nodded. “Good. That’s good. But get it down to 75. You don’t want to be going without food and water before a fight, trying to sweat off the last pound, you feel me? The habits you make now, they’ll stick. I won’t have none of this yoyo shit. Don’t be like Jobbo. Be like Freddie. Your girl gains a pound or two between fights but takes them off easy. That way, she’s only fighting one fight at a time, not her opponent and the scale.”
Johnny nodded, but he could tell Marvella had more to say. “Why are you telling me all this now?”
“There’s a card coming up next month. Big venue, big crowd. Lots of exposure for the winners. It’ll mostly be pro bouts. But they got some space for amateurs, too. Even novices.”
“Awesome,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “Get me on it. I’m ready.”
Marvella’s face remained stoic. “It’s in Wolf Town.”
Johnny’s heart ratcheted up. “Sign me up.”
“You know which gym is hosting.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I can guess. Wolf Pack Boxing.”
“That’s right. The way boxing works, other trainers, they won’t send their novices. Their light-heavies, I mean. The way they see it, let some other trainer’s kid pad Stevenson’s record, you feel me?”
Johnny nodded.
“We go to Wolf Town, I guarantee they’ll match you with Apollo Stevenson.”
“That’s what I want.”
Marvella stared at him for a few seconds without speaking. “Fighting in Wolf Town sucks. The whole neighborhood rivalry thing? Neighborhood pride is a fucking religion in Wolf Town. And it’ll be Stevenson’s home turf. He’ll be looking to put on a show for his pack, you feel me? You see the writeup about him in the Tribune?”
“I read it,” Johnny said, remembering the opening lines of the article: This Wolf Town light heavy claims he’s the future champ. He just might be right.
“Stevenson’s people are getting him press. This upcoming show, they want a showcase bout, want him to spank somebody real good for the home crowd and walk into the City Championships at 4-0. The whole thing smells of a manager grooming a prospect.”
“Well, I got a surprise for them.”
Marvella frowned. “You been training hard, kid. And don’t go getting a big head, but I gotta say, I’ve never seen a fighter improve so much, so quickly. But Apollo Stevenson is still a tall order. Let’s sit this one out. There’s another card the week after over in Goatland.”
“I don’t want to wait. I want to fight Stevenson.”
“I know you do, kid. Some people talk shit, say they want to fight the best, but you see the doubt in their eyes. Not you, though. I can see you want it. But as a trainer, one of my jobs is protecting fighters from themselves. You’re not ready for Stevenson.”
“I am ready.”
“Maybe you are, maybe you’re not. But the way you’re improving, why not sit this one out? This’ll be Stevenson’s fourth fight. He won’t fight again until the City Championship. And yeah
, you’ll meet him there. But that would give you time to train more and get a few fights and some smokers under your belt.”
“No. I want to fight him now. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for a month. That’s what I’ve been working for, every second of every round. I want payback now—”
“But—”
“You always say the best fight the best, Marvella.”
“Yeah, kid, but not in their first fight.” She threw her arms in the air. “Forget it. I should’ve never told you. I should’ve never even said a fucking word.”
“But you did.” Johnny pointed at her. “You did tell me about the card. You could’ve passed on the opportunity, and I might never have even known. Why? Why tell me if you don’t want me to fight?”
“Fuck if I know. I wish I hadn’t. It’s a dumb ass idea, you—”
“Fuck that, Marvella. You never would’ve told me if you didn’t think I could beat Stevenson.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. You don’t—”
“Yeah, I do. Maybe you don’t want me to fight him. Or maybe you do. My guess, you don’t even know.”
Marvella laughed. “What are you now, a shrink? Gonna change your ring name from Rock Hard to The Psychiatrist?”
“I don’t give a shit what my ring name is. I just want to fight Stevenson. And not in December. Now. Put me on the card.”
Marvella glared at him for several seconds.
Johnny’s stare never wavered. He’d never talked back to her, never put his foot down on anything before.
Marvella cracked first. A grin ruined her scowl. “You’re crazy, you know that, kid?”
Johnny shrugged. “If wanting to kick Apollo Stevenson’s ass makes me crazy, then yeah, I’m crazier than a long-tailed cat at a vacuum cleaner convention.”
“Well, if you really want to commit suicide, who am I to stop you?”
“You don’t believe that, Marvella. Otherwise, you wouldn’t let me fight.”
“Here we go with the Freud routine again. Look, you might beat this asshole, okay? But I’m not shitting you. It’s a long shot. You’re gonna have to focus and train even harder.”
Johnny nodded sharply. “I will.”
“And you’re gonna have to rely on your greatest strength.”
“My chin?”
“Heh. You got a good chin, kid, but trust me, that’s a rep you don’t want. Fighters who get famous for taking a good beating retire early and spend the rest of their lives mumbling to empty bar stools. Besides, you got something better than your ability to take a punch.”
Mentally, Johnny scratched his head. Marvella couldn’t know his stats. Though he figured she could probably guess pretty close after all the time she’d spent around the fight game.
Had she guessed at his heart stat?
It was doubtful. Vicarus had shown him that, but other fighters’ juice stats never included heart.
“You know what your greatest strength is, kid?”
“Power?”
“No.” Marvella lifted her cane and rapped his skull. “It’s in here. Your ring IQ. You feel me?”
“I guess.”
“You got good eyes, kid, and a good mind for fighting. You adapt well. That’s rare as hen’s teeth. People get the idea, maybe even know what they should do, but there’s a big difference between talking and doing. Most fighters get stuck in a groove before they even have their first fight. You, you can switch things up, even in the middle of a sparring match. That’s good. That’s real good. And that’s what you’re going to have to do to kick Stevenson’s ass.”
Johnny nodded. “Tell me how to do it.”
Marvella grinned. “That’s what I’ve been doing all along, kid. I knew your crazy ass would want this fight. Now get ready to take it to the next level.”
Chapter 50
Johnny jabbed the double-end bag and dipped right.
The ball stretched away.
Johnny swung his head back to the left as the bag came back at him.
“That’s it,” Marvella said. “Keep in there. Dip, dip, tap. Dip, dip, tap. Cut an angle now. All that head movement’s no good unless you put it to work. That’s it. Jab, shoulder roll. That’s it. Deeper now. Jab, shoulder roll, come back with the right. Yeah, that’s it. On point, kid, on point.”
For the weeks since Marvella had put his name on the Wolf Town card, they had worked harder than ever. During conditioning, Marvella tortured him, wringing every point of juice out of his increasing endurance.
Marvella designed everything else—shadowboxing, mitt work, bag work, counter drills, and sparring—on the assumption that Johnny would be matched with Apollo Stevenson.
Everything boiled down to head movement with a purpose. That was his mantra.
Get inside, unload, disrupt.
Make it ugly.
And never stop swinging.
“Everything you do sets something up, you feel me? The jab, it sets up the right hand or lets you get your angle. That shoulder roll loads the right, which cocks the hook. Nothing is one-and-done. Everything affects everything else. No offense, no defense. It’s all one, and it never quits. And it’s all about getting you where you need to be. Where’s that?”
“On his chest.”
“That’s right.” Marvella held out her cane. “Dip in here. That cane’s his jab.”
Johnny came ahead, picturing it, imagining Stevenson’s stiff jab and dipping underneath it, breathing sharply as he ripped uppercuts and hooks.
“You get in that zone, you gotta unload,” Marvella told him. “Never stop moving. Never stop punching. You get inside, make it count, you feel me?”
August was gone. September burned like autumn would never arrive.
One night, Marvella took him over to one of the big, freestanding fans that made the sweltering gym slightly more tolerable.
“Get in fighting position,” Marvella said, placing him five feet in front of the big fan. It blasted away, hitting him square in the face, making him squint.
“Now pretend that fan’s Stevenson,” Marvella said. “Come inside and let him have it. Don’t be stupid. Pull your punches. Pretend his face is one inch from the face of the fan, you feel me?”
Johnny dipped his head from side to side and surged forward, squinting against the hard wind, and unloaded punches, seeing Stevenson’s cocky face in his mind.
“I thought I told you not to be stupid!” Marvella said.
“What do you mean? I didn’t punch the fan.”
“No, but you fight stupid like that, you’re gonna lose.”
Johnny growled with frustration. “I don’t understand.”
“Stevenson’s not gonna just stand there, letting you work your game plan. He’s gonna unload on you, right?”
Johnny nodded. “That’s why I’m moving my head.”
“Be smart, kid. The wind coming out of that fan, that’s Stevenson’s punches. Now, get back in there and let him have it.”
Johnny got in front of the fan again and raised his fists, feeling the wind—Stevenson’s punches—pound into him.
The face of the fan—Stevenson’s face—was five feet away through a steady stream of straight shots.
And that’s when, after months of training, everything finally clicked for Johnny.
Moments like these are high-water moments for fighters, moments when the theoretical becomes real, moments when all their countless hours of training and instruction and struggling to understand finally come together, moments after which everything is changed forever.
He came ahead, dipping low, swinging from side to side, jabbing into the wind, and used his feet to angle outside the buffeting breeze. From this angle, he got in close and launched a hellacious combination. Then he dipped under the fan’s blast, again using his feet, and worked the left, cranking a double hook to the fan’s slender stand then finishing with a hook that brushed the face plate.
“That,” Marvella said, “is how you beat him.”
Johnny’s focus on head movement with a purpose didn’t stop at the gym.
He bought a length of rope, strung it at shoulder height cross his room at the Oasis, and walked it hundreds of times a day, dipping under the rope, coming ahead, ripping hooks and uppercuts, leaning into deep shoulder rolls and firing choppy rights over the rope.
Every time he left, Millie tidied his room, left him another origami creature, coiled his rope, and hung it upon the hook that served as one anchor point.
One day, Lou let Johnny leave work early to accommodate the schedule of a visiting southpaw Johnny wanted to spar.
Johnny unlocked his door and started to open it.
“Eek!” Millie’s voice cried from inside. “Please don’t come in, sir!”
Johnny paused there, hand on the knob. “You’re naked again, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Millie confessed, her voice warbling with shame. “I thought you would be gone for hours.”
Was this a regular thing with her, cleaning his room in the nude? He’d thought it just happened that once. He was tempted to ask but didn’t want to embarrass Millie. The poor girl was so shy and clearly embarrassed. “How much time do you need?”
“Um…”
Beyond the door, Johnny’s bed squeaked. He heard Millie straining. She sounded frustrated.
What the hell was she up to in there?
A disturbing thought occurred to him. “Are you alone?”
“Yes, sir. Of course. I would never bring someone else into your room.”
“Okay,” he said. “You sound… stuck. Do you need help?”
“No! I mean, no thank you, sir. Please. I beg you not to open the door. I would die if you opened it now.”
“Well, we can’t have that. But look, I gotta get to the gym, all right? Seriously, how much time do you need?”
“Um…” More squeaking, more struggling. “Just a few minutes, sir. I’m so sorry.”
“No problem, Millie. Just hurry if you can. I don’t want to be late.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll hurry. I don’t want you to be late. Oh, this is terrible. I’m so ashamed.” Millie growled with exertion, and the bedsprings squeaked faster and louder. “Almost… there… sir.”