Some people are better off left forgotten. I am one of those people. Cleaning a gym at night and training the local kids during the day is where I belong. Out of the limelight, out of the news lines. I’m at peace, or at least that’s what I tell myself each day to survive.
I heard that old time creak of the front doors of the gym; weary, used, just like me. I was mopping up. We were about to close. Ken was at the front counter talking to whoever it was. I didn’t pay much mind. I was mopping the logo of the gym, the logo I’d fought under for so many years, a pissed-off wolf with scars across its face. I can relate to that wolf in more ways than one.
Something in Ken’s voice told me that this wasn’t just any lost soul looking for a late-night sparring session.
“I’m telling you, son,” Ken said with a deep sigh. “This isn’t going to end the way you think it’s going to end.”
“Come on, Pops,” a voice I didn’t recognize said from the front of the building. “I can make it worth his while. Worth both your whiles. Is that him? Is that him with the mop back there?”
I looked up now, realizing this wasn’t going to be a conversation Ken was going to turn away on his own. Once or twice a year, they came looking for a man that didn’t exist. Not all of them wanted advice; some wanted interviews, autographs, or pictures. But some, a few misguided souls, thought they wanted to test their mettle.
“All right, hold on,” Ken said from his seat at the front of the building where a small L-shaped counter and a few chairs made up the lobby of his modest gym. “I’ll go talk to him.”
I still didn’t look up. I focused on my work that, at that moment, meant wringing out a filthy mop wet from the day’s sweat, one of the most honest things I’ve ever known.
“You’ve got an admirer, Jack,” Ken said as he removed the hat sporting his logo from the top of his head and scratched at matted hair. “You might want to look at this one. He’s throwing down some serious cash.”
“Not interested,” I said, slapping the moist mop on the ground again and continuing my work.
“Yo, yo, you’re him, right?” The voice from the front grew louder.
Maybe I had heard it from somewhere before. Something about the cadence, the boldness stoked the flames of memory.
I finally looked up to see the current XFC light heavyweight champion. His name was Richard “The Lionheart” Langbecker. I didn’t know him personally, but he was all over the sport. Just because I wasn’t in it anymore didn’t mean I didn’t follow along with the news.
Behind him was a cadre of what I guessed were his buddies, maybe a manager or agent. They were all dressed to the nines: gold chains, those new grillz that projected images when their wearers smiled, sneakers that cost as much as this place’s rent for the month.
“We’re closing up,” I told him, deadpan. “If you want to take lessons, you can sign up on the new enrollment sheet. We have beginner classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights at five.”
Richard looked at me like I was an idiot and then barked a laugh. His crew took his lead and began shaking their heads in mirth, pointing at me like I’d just said the funniest thing on God’s green Earth.
“The Assassin’s got jokes, he’s got jokes,” Richard said, shaking his head. His dreadlocks flailed across his face. “Listen, I know who you are, and unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know who I am. I’ve come all this way to challenge one of the greats.”
“I’m retired,” I told him, going back to mopping the floor. “I’ve been retired for a long time now.”
“Oh, I know,” Richard said, wagging a finger at me. “I know, you’re a hard man to find. I mean, what kind of fighter walks away while he’s on the top? Thirty-nine and Oh, thirty-nine and Oh, and you just relinquish the title and disappear. You get hit a few too many times, lose a screw or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
“Now, I’m the champ, but wherever I go, I keep hearing this chatter in my ear,” Richard said, coming over to where I was mopping the floor. He placed a boot on the mop head, hindering my progress. “You’re not as great as Jaxon the Assassin Voss. You’d never have beaten the Assassin. You’re lucky the Assassin left when he did.”
I looked up at Richard, trying to control the anger building in me.
You’re not that guy anymore, I reminded myself in my head. Let it go, Jack. Let it go.
Richard pressed harder on the mop, breaking the head from the handle.
“Oh, shouldn’t have done that,” Ken said, taking a wary step back.
“Listen, listen,” Richard said, lifting his hands in surrender. “I’m not a low-level school yard bully. I can make it worth your while. Right here, right now, let’s find out who’s the best.”
Richard motioned to two of his friends, who came over carrying gym bags that they unzipped. The brand new bags to show off plenty of stacks of cash. I didn’t know how much was in there, but I saw hundred-dollar bills in each bundle, and there were a lot of bundles.
“Come on,” Richard said. “One fight so I can put my ego to rest, and you tell me why you turned your back on it all six years ago.”
I weighed my options. I didn’t need the cash. I’m not really one of those people who needs a whole lot of things in my life to make me happy in general. Ken paid me minimum wage to help run the gym. I didn’t have anyone that depended on me. But I did know how much that money would mean to Ken. I’d seen the bills piling up on his desk. It wasn’t just him; he had a daughter and granddaughter he helped as well.
“You’re not going to leave, are you?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Nope,” Richard confirmed.
“All right.”
“Really?”
“The money and a new mop.”
“For real?”
“You don’t get the answer to why I left.”
“Oh snap,” Richard said, barking another laugh. “All right, all right, all right, you drive a hard bargain, but I can dig it. Let’s do this.”
While Richard and his crew moved to a corner of our ring, I did the same with Ken.
“You sure about this?” Ken asked, worried for the first time. I realized then that he never thought I would actually fight. “I don’t know why you left, but I could guess. I know you had your reasons. You don’t have to do this.”
“I know,” I said, pulling off my shoes, socks, and shirt. “This isn’t going to take long.”
I moved over to a crate of extra gloves we let kids use who couldn’t afford their own. We had four-, five- and six-ounce gloves. I went for the six ounces now. Richard needed to still fight after this. I wasn’t looking to seriously hurt him.
“How many rounds we going to go, Champ?” Richard asked, getting into the ring. He horse-trotted around the canvas, warming up. “Three? Five?”
“You won’t make it out of round one, so it doesn’t matter,” I told him.
That got a howl out of Richard and his friends. They liked the smack talk and they were willing to dish it right back.
“Champ’s got jokes,” one of Richard’s friends shouted.
“Let’s see if he’s still got it,” another of Richard’s corner men shouted.
I stepped up onto the ring and in between the second and third ropes. I started stretching, rolling my shoulders and loosening my neck. It was all a show to buy me some time to study Richard. The biggest advantage I had was I knew how my opponent currently fought. I had just watched his latest match the month before.
It had been six years since anyone had seen me move. He had no idea what he was in store for. He thought I was the fighter I was before. I wasn’t. I was faster, stronger, more agile now. That was what training five days a week years on end does to you. Just because I didn’t fight anymore didn’t mean I ever stopped training, but he didn’t know that.
“All right, pops,” Richard said, boxing in his corner of the ring against the hands of one of his compatriots. “We going to do this or what?”
“I’m ready when you are,” I answered, looking over to Ken, who stood next to the digital round timer. It was one of the older models that still projected the time above the base instead of across the entire wall. A worried expression was etched on his face. I couldn’t tell if he was worried for me or for Richard.
“Hold up, hold up,” one of Richard’s friends said, stepping into the middle of the ring. “We got to do this official. This is historic.”
There was a wave of laughter and applause from Richard and his crew. I let them have their fun—more time for me to watch how Richard moved. How he bounced on his feet, which way he tended to sway, where he decided to put his weight. These were all things lost on most, but not me.
“Fighting out of the red corner, weighing what looks like two hundred and thirty pounds, the challenger and former lightweight champion of the of the world, Jaxon the Assassin Voooooooooooooss.”
There were a series of good-natured boos from Richard and his boys. Ken didn’t say anything.
“And fighting out of the white corner weighing two hundred and ten pounds, the challenger and current undisputed champion of the world, Richard the Liooooooooooooooooonheart Langbecker!”
The room exploded. I caught Ken clapping. I looked over with a frown.
“What?” Ken asked. “It was a good intro. Besides, I like him. Did you see him in his last fight against Scott Rose? It was poetry.”
“Fighters to the middle of the ring,” Richard’s friend said, really embracing the role now and going all in. “Touch gloves if you want to. You both know the rules. Go to your corners and come out swinging.”
I bumped Richard’s gloves with my own.
“Let’s see if you would have gone thirty-nine and one if you didn’t give it all up,” Richard said around his mouthpiece.
I didn’t say anything, neither was I wearing a mouthpiece. I didn’t need one. This was going to end quickly.
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