Kornwolf

by Tristan Egolf

  Quickly enough, the cameras had gotten between and divided Roddy and Jones. At last, the network cut to commercials. Devoid of a spotlight, Jones backed off. For the next two minutes, the chairmen, judges, physicians and referee were announced. Then the commercials were over. The cameras and, therefore, The Cobra were back for more. An exasperated Smoger ordered everyone out of the ring but the fighters—Roddy and Jones—and their trainers, Jack and Green Dog, at once.

  During the face-off, the roar of the spectators swelled to such a deafening pitch that almost no one heard the instructions issued by Smoger, even when amplified. All attention was locked on the heated nonverbal exchange between the fighters—Roddy, expressionless, facing The Cobra, who, grinning back, was playing the crowd.

  For his part, Green Dog didn’t appear to be sweating Roddy. He did, however, avoid Jack’s gaze. Green Dog wanted no part of The Coach.

  Smoger motioned for the fighters to touch their gloves in acknowledgment of his instructions. Jones complied with undue force. Roddy, caught off guard for the last time, trundled back to his corner intently. From behind the ropes, Syd and Owen gestured to lay this bastard out. Jack kissed Roddy’s cheek before leaving the ring. “Strength and skills, young man.” He parted the ropes and stepped from the ring.

  Roddy knelt and crossed himself.

  The pace was furious right from the bell.

  Jones opened up with a wild, lunging right down the middle, overcommitting so grievously, his back leg kicked out behind him.

  Once he’d regained his balance, he was able to plant his base. His legs were thick. He spread them, maintaining an anchored stance. This reduced his already limited height, and made him a difficult target. From there, his movement would complicate matters—over the canvas in awkward starts, upredictably shifting his weight, he lurched in and out of an orthodox stance.

  Roddy, a versatile southpaw himself, would commence at a loss for an opening shot, eating a series of jabs on the way. From the corner, Jack would holler to “Get on the inside!”—over and over and over …

  At 1:50, Roddy would finally do so, landing a solid hook to the ribs. Unperturbed, The Cobra would drop his hands, wiggle and grin defiantly, then come back with a left of his own. Roddy would counter it, landing flush. At which point The Cobra would back off briefly. He circled to the right, regrouping, on alert. Roddy, heeding The Coach, went after him. Jones assumed a conventional stance, shuffled, took three steps back in eluding a left hand lead and dropped his guard. He circled to the right with his back to the ropes. Roddy blocked a looping hook, then missed a counter-shot of his own. Jones drove him into the corner with an uppercut, followed by a hard right hand to the temple. No sooner had Jack and Syd started screaming in desperation to “Get your hands up!” than Jones committed a cardinal sin by rocking back and lifting his chin.

  Roddy would capitalize on the opening so unexpectedly, it seemed to come from nowhere.

  Later, Jack would rank it among the top five moments of his coaching career—one of those instants that justified all of the heartache and loss that went into the game. He would hearken back to it, time and again, as a source of tremendous inspiration: that image of Roddy’s beautiful counter-right sending Jones to the canvas, sprawling …

  The crowd, of course, went off its rocker.

  Jack, Owen and Syd, in the corner, stamped and bayed like Sheffield hooligans.

  As Roddy made for the neutral corner, Smoger watched him, then started the count. It was everything Jack could do to hold back from bounding into the ring with joy. Even though Jones got up right away, albeit in clear and evident bewilderment, the crowd might as well have borne witness to a full-fledged knockout for all the excitement it generated.

  The roar persisted as Smoger finished the count and looked into Jones’s eyes. The Cobra nodded, unsmiling now. His bell had been rung, and he couldn’t mask it.

  Smoger signaled the return to action. Jack yelled, “Get on him!” just as a hollering chorus went up: “You’re Unbelievable!”

  Wobbling, Jones immediately launched a flurry of missed or blocked jabs. Then he caught one of Roddy’s left hooks to the liver before being saved by the bell.

  At the break, The Cobra’s glare of defiant mockery wasn’t at all convincing. He seemed to be forcing his grin through a haze of unforeseen humiliation. A confident Roddy wasn’t impressed. Neither was Smoger, who voided their face-off. Of course, the audience ate it up. And so did the network commentators.

  Jack sat Roddy on his stool in the corner. “That was beautiful, kid! Are you OK?”

  Roddy nodded, hardly winded.

  “Give him some water.”

  Owen held up a bottle. Jack took it. Roddy, unmarked, drew a mouthful and swished. He spat in the bucket as Syd pressed an ice pack onto the back of his shoulders.

  “Good work.”

  Roddy looked over to Owen, who nodded. “That was amazing.”

  The Coach squared off. “OK, now listen: Everything looks pretty good from here, but we need to start backing him into the corners. He’ll just keep running if you give him the chance. So cut off the ring and use your jab to get on the inside, then work the body. He won’t last more than a couple of rounds if you work the body. You understand? And, once you’ve got him, watch his right. He’s not even trying to cover his ribs. You’ll see what I mean. Just watch that hand … You can set up the hook with a quick short right of your own. You’ll catch him every time … But don’t back away. He’s looking for one big shot from the outside. Don’t give it to him.”

  Syd threw the ice pack into the bucket and pulled out a tub of Vaseline. He smeared a glob onto Roddy’s brow.

  “Are we clear?” asked Jack.

  Roddy sat up. “Yes, sir!”

  From the center of the ring, Smoger yelled, “Seconds out!”

  Roddy stood. Owen removed the stool and wiped the canvas with a towel.

  On his way out, Jack looked into Roddy’s eyes. “This is your night, son,” he said.

  The bell rang.

  Round two opened as though in deliberate disregard of Jack’s instructions. Immediately, Roddy and Jones came together and started right into a jabbing contest. The action was initiated by Jones, the puncher, but was matched, shot for shot, then surpassed by Roddy—who probably hadn’t seen it coming. His initial response had seemed involuntary. But once they were going, even with an evident power disadvantage, he refused to back off. On paper it was suicide: toe to toe with an almost freakishly heavy hitter. In practice, however, it worked effectively. Back and forth at center ring, each of them getting as good as he gave until finally, frustrated, Jones attempted to narrow the distance between them, thereby effectively yielding to Roddy’s pace—and eating a hard left cross in the bargain. The Cobra barely had time to glare before catching another jab on the chin. Then another. And another. And a hook. And a cross. And an uppercut that sent him reeling back into the ring ropes.

  Already standing, the crowd pushed into a frenzy as Roddy got on the inside and managed to land a tremendous right. Jones spun around and was left with one glove on the canvas and the other hanging over the top rope. Before the ref could start his count, however, The Cobra came forward, off balance … This time, Roddy caught him on the temple with a beautiful left hand lead down the middle. Jones fell into the turnbuckle. Smoger sent Roddy to the corner. The crowd never stopped.

  Again, Team Lowe, with the rest of the house, was ecstatic, whooping and crowing and stomping.

  Now The Cobra was angry. You could see it in his face as Smoger issued the count. He hadn’t expected this—not from Roddy. Not now. Not tonight, in his own backyard. He was already three points down on the cards, at the very least. And this round wasn’t over. What’s more, he had taken a couple of good hard shots that had caught his attention directly. He seemed to be stunned. He was doing his best to summon a grin, but it wasn’t working. And the crowd wasn’t cutting him any breaks. Someone in the balcony shouted: “You loser!”

>   From off in the blue corner, Green Dog’s raspy bellow to “Stay on your guard!” went up—to which The Coach and Syd and Owen responded by yelling for Roddy to “Finish him!”

  Roddy came forward, stepping into and landing a solid right cross. The impact snapped through Jones’s body. Wavering, he managed to throw off a hook in return, but it strayed from the mark completely. Roddy blocked two more follow-up shots, then answered on target with a flurry of jabs. The Cobra was driven back into the ropes, desperately trying to land a counter.

  He snuck in a rabbit punch, slicker than grease.

  It was gone before anyone knew what had happened: a looping hook around Roddy’s head to the back of his brain stem, right on the dial. Roddy went back, falling into the turnbuckle. Grabbing the ropes, he regained his balance. But The Cobra, one step ahead of the referee, followed through with a crushing right.

  Roddy spun and fell to the canvas.

  Boos went up from the rear of the ground floor clear to the balcony’s highest row. For a moment, it almost seemed that a mob would rush the canvas to pummel Jones.

  An angry Smoger grabbed and shoved him back toward Green Dog. Roddy got up.

  Smoger refused to rule it a knockdown.

  Syd was screaming to “Take a point!”

  Someone upstairs hurled a bottle of beer. It sprayed the canvas logo with suds.

  After the mat had been wiped with a towel and The Cobra warned for rabbit punching, the action resumed. Momentarily reeling, the fighters sized each other up. Jack yelled for Roddy to stay on his guard. Jones mocked him, smirking defiantly. Roddy lowered a booming hook. The Cobra stumbled into a corner. Roddy continued by smashing his jaw, then chasing him halfway around the ring.

  By now, the roar of the crowd was made up of laughter as much as of wild cheering. Another chant for Roddy went up. Most of the house was on its feet …

  In the ring, The Cobra was hotdogging: gyrating, crude undulations around the mat—like a Palm Street club rat working the disco—that scarcely concealed his evident caution.

  From 1:15 to 1:03 not a single blow was thrown or landed. Roddy, having scored two knockdowns already—three if you counted the last as a double—appeared less rushed, more calm and deliberate.

  Dropping his hands in a moment of quiet assessment, he shifted.

  And that’s when it happened: a barreling straight right cross to the chin. Roddy hit the canvas flat on his back. A cry of horror swept the club. Jack and Owen leapt out of their seats.

  Roddy, propped up on an elbow at center ring, gazed into space for an instant, then, finding himself at the count of three, looked over to Jones, in a neutral corner, and smiled with a nod, as though to say, “Good shot.”

  A network commentator’s voice carried over the din, announcing: “Now we’ve got a fight, folks!”

  Roddy got up. He righted himself and nodded to Smoger, then glanced at Owen.

  “Are you OK?” shouted Smoger at the count of eight.

  Roddy turned back to him and nodded.

  Resuming, he landed three jabs in succession. Clearly, his legs were still under him—even though his game had been thrown off abruptly. Jones seemed willing to settle for even.

  In the last twenty seconds of the round, both fighters appeared content to wait for the bell.

  Finally, the networks cut to commercials. Roddy came back to the corner frustrated. Jack got a look at him and knew not to worry. The kid was all right. He was simply angry. If not for the knockdown, he would’ve been given that round on the scorecards big, no question. As it stood, he had probably lost it, based on his solid trip to the canvas. But, no doubt, most of the crowd would much rather have been in his shoes by the break in the action.

  “OK,” said Jack as Roddy sat. “That’s why we keep our hands up. Right?”

  It might’ve been a good thing he’d been knocked down.

  “Have some water.”

  Roddy swished and spat in the bucket. Jack saw blood.

  Syd applied a compress to Roddy’s cheek.

  Owen spoke up. “He’s trying to lure you in.” He stopped and deferred to The Coach, as though to say, Right?

  After a moment’s hesitation, Jack nodded. “That’s right.” He looked from Owen to Roddy. “He’s trying to wear you out, is more like it. He’s leading you halfway around the arena … All I can do is repeat myself: you need to work him into the corners. Then start taking advantage of your openings. He’s way too cagey to walk around with. He’ll slip you all night if you give him the chance.”

  “Manhandle this guy!” Syd chimed in. “All you have to do is get ahold of him, Roddy.”

  He squeezed more water on Roddy’s head. It rolled down his back and then into his pants, to the canvas, which Owen continued to wipe.

  Jack drew back, relaxing for a moment. “Breathe,” he said. “You’re doing well, son.”

  Then Smoger was yelling: “Ten seconds, gentlemen!”

  Jack leaned over. He whispered in Roddy’s ear: “Don’t take any shit from this guy.”

  The opening moments of round three passed in a flurry of ineffective jabs, both fighters blocking, dodging and clenching, and both looking overwhelmed momentarily. Jones managed to land a decent jab at one point (2:35), but he ate as much leather in return in doing so, and set himself up for a solid left. Again, The Cobra’s chin had been carelessly upturned, exposed, an invitation. It was hard to believe he kept making the same fundamental mistakes, over and over. Green Dog was either incredibly off this evening, or Jones wasn’t listening to him—or maybe he just didn’t know how to box. He was making some awfully basic errors.

  He took a solid hook to the ribcage, but landed a lunging counter-right. This led into a flurry of blocked jabs and punches at center ring.

  “Don’t let him get his bearings!” yelled Jack. And for once in the fight, Roddy listened: he landed a menacing hook to the body. Jones staggered back, falling into the ropes. He took another jab on his upturned chin. Then he got caught in a clench.

  Smoger stepped in. “Break it up!”

  Jones took a swing on the break. It missed. There was booing.

  Smoger called time-out.

  Shaking his head, Syd leaned toward Jack. “He really is a snake, this kid.”

  After dragging Jones down the road with a warning, Smoger signaled time-in. The action resumed.

  Through a lift in the booing, Jack overheard a commentator speaking: “Jones seems less unorthodox now than simply confused.”

  But as though in reply, The Cobra lowered a right down the pike that snapped Roddy’s head back, followed by a crisp hard left to the body.

  They circled each other. Roddy pressed forward with both hands up, honing for his distance. Jones retreated, committing to a hard left cross. Roddy slipped it. Jones followed through with an elbow first, then a head butt—smack—to Roddy’s forehead. A gash opened up on it, splattering blood.

  Smoger called a halt to the action and this time, finally, deducted a point. The doctor was called to the apron to wipe off and take a good look at Roddy’s forehead. He did so, swamped in a chorus of booing. After a brief examination, Smoger was told that the fight could continue. He checked with Roddy. “Are you all right?”

  Furious, Roddy thumped his gloves, squinting through partially blurred vision.

  “Time in!” Smoger called, backing up.

  At once, ignoring The Coach’s cry to “Keep your guard up!” Roddy pressed forward. He threw a jab, then let fly with a haymaker, missing. The Cobra backed into the ropes and sprung forward with two hard lefts.

  Roddy went down.

  He rolled to his back and got up right away, both legs still under him. He gestured to Jack and Owen and Syd not to worry, then turned to wait out the count. At eight, his gaze was clear enough for Smoger.

  But Jack could see that all wasn’t well.

  Roddy had taken this fight too soon, and that’s all there was to it. It was evident now. Six months down the road, with good trai
ning, he might have been able to pull this out … But right now, he was drowning in ring rust. It would take a miracle to turn this around …

  The action resumed at a blistering pace. Right off, The Cobra landed a hook, followed by two stiff jabs to the forehead. Roddy absorbed the punches fully. He countered with a trademark hook of his own, dropped to the body for a shot to the liver, then jammed a short right hand to the temple that lifted and set up the chin for an uppercut. Jones wriggled and flailed like a noodle. He pitched back into the ropes, but rebounded with a lunging right that caught Roddy square on the jaw.

  This time he went down hard.

  Howling, the crowd was back on its feet. Owen, Syd and Jack stood up.

  Roddy looked dazed.

  The crowd watched, horrified.

  Jones leapt onto a turnbuckle, spreading himself to the roaring disdain of all. Roddy managed to get to one knee by Dale Smoger’s count of five. He flexed, fell back and hesitated, then barely made it up to his feet. He was hurt. As Smoger beckoned him forward, his eyes were glassy. He barely responded.

  To Jack’s relief, though to most of the crowd’s disgust and rage, the match was called.

  Almost at once, a fight broke out in the balcony. Shouting went up on all sides. More bottles rained down in the ring—but on Smoger this time, and on Green Dog and Jones’s seconds.

  As Jack darted into the ring ahead of the network cameramen, edging them out, he caught a glimpse through the uproar of Jerry Blye, seated at ringside, laughing.

  Even though, afterward, the crowd at the Dogboy couldn’t agree on the grisly specifics, they would have to concur on several points. First and foremost among them being: the individual who entered the tavern that evening had a hairline down to his brow. Not an inch of the skin on his forehead was visible. Most of his skull was covered with hair. One patron claimed that it looked like a dirty old toupee nailed through the bridge of his nose. More clearly: “His eyes let off where the pompadour started.” He looked like a “hammerheaded Nixon.”

  Another feature in little dispute was the smell he exuded. Everyone agreed that he stunk to have lost control of his bowels, with overtones of cleaning solvents. Moreover, his hygiene was visibly poor. His neck was marked with infected cuts. His clothing, a ratty old sport coat and field pants, was streaked with mud and torn at the seams …