Going into the sixth round, the aging boxer felt his legs begin to give out. He had landed very few strong punches on this muscled contender for the title, and somehow none of them had visibly slowed the younger man. It seemed unfair that youth and inexperience should crush skill and maturity. Raymond “Jambo” Smith needed this win, not so much to retain the title but to take home the champion’s share of the arena’s receipts. He had bills to pay, like any family man with wife and kids, even though that wife had come to detest his line of work.
Jambo deflected another roundhouse swing that even so managed to sting his right cheek. The last such swing had landed full on, and he still felt its effect. The contender, Barclay, appeared to know he had the momentum that would bring him victory in an upset match with the older man. Jambo could see the grin on the other’s face. He wanted to smash it away, but his arms felt lead like, impossible to lift.
Jambo’s thoughts drifted backward to a time when he had strength enough and stamina to wade in and bring down any challenger. In those days his right or his left, let loose, could bring down the strongest of them all. He remembered, too –
Smack! Another blow from the youngster evaded Jambo’s defense and brought pain to his chest. Jambo knew he could not stand many more of these powerful bombshell shocks. He moved forward on watery knees and grappled with Barclay.
The bell rang the end of the round. Both fighters returned to their corners for needed rest. Jambo breathed deeply, sucking air, and savored the cool wet towel slapped in his face. His manager cajoled and scolded, but Jambo did not hear. He thought of his wife, Marigold. She wanted him to quit. She implored him to quit. But he could not quit. Indebtedness dictated otherwise. He just wished she would once again attend his matches as in better days. Her support would make the difference.
Clang! Jambo stood, and moved toward the center of the ring. Barclay, already there, met him with a series of hard-hitting blows. Jambo reeled, but did not go down. Then, dimly, he heard a voice: “Go, Daddy, Go!” In the crowd, near the ring! That lovely face! Marigold? No! He saw his seventeen-year-old daughter, Marie, perfect image of her mother, small fist raised, his ring-side support.
Jambo’s chest swelled with a deep intake of air. He turned back to Barclay in time to deflect another blow. His right came up, and then his left, and the right again. The power and strength of a champion had returned to his arms, to his legs, to his heart, to his soul. Barclay stumbled back and went down. The crowd became frenzied.