The Knock-Out
“I told you before the last round, keep …” shoulders wider than your average door slumped in exasperation; Grant “Bull” Malone exhaled loudly and growled “… keep your friggin’ feet movin’.”
His words were wasted; his prodigy was a bad tempered Scouser who thought the world was there to provide him with sex, drink and a good fight every now and again, and it didn’t matter if the fight was inside or outside of a boxing ring. ‘Belligerent bastard’ was a common utterance from Bull, but tonight he held his tongue, his man was losing the fight and it was Bull’s job to see that didn’t happen.
Eight rounds had passed without a glimmer of the power and aggression that Bull was used to seeing. Two rounds to go and the belligerent bastard needed a drastic change of tactics or a knockout to save the day.
Bull’s boy was Andrew Stone, a twenty one year old wannabe boxing champion, whose surname and craggy features lent themselves to his ring name ‘The Boulder’. He was not the smartest fighter around but he was building a reputation for his punching power. This was his third bout and he was unbeaten.
The timekeeper’s bell rang for the ninth round “Seconds away” the referee shouted as he waved his arms as in a half completed breaststroke. The fighters left their corners, one was evidently more confident than the other, light bouncy steps. If you concentrated on the movement you’d quickly recognise the fluid motions of the ‘nodding dog’ often seen in the windows of moving vehicles. By comparison, ‘The Boulder’ appeared to be dragging his feet through a cow trough. As he reached the centre of the ring he saw the uppercut that switched off his lights. he didn’t attempt to evade it, his gum shields crashed together like a head-on collision, his legs emulated the collapse of the twin towers of the World Trade Centre, and the only thing louder than the crack of his head on the canvas, was the roaring crowd.
“ONE”
He was only four, back in the dim reaches of his mind. Standing, stock still, halfway down the staircase of the tenement that stunk of burnt cooking oil, ashtrays and stale beer, gripping the handrail so hard that sweat from the palms of his hands dripped onto the grimy white stair tread. He’d been there exactly seventeen and a half minutes, listening to the incoherence of his drunken father and the screams of a beaten mother and then, everything went quiet. He was too scared to move and spent the rest of that night standing …looking at the sprawled bodies that adorned the cramped space of the living room, his grip on the handrail never diminished.
“TWO”
He saw the swinging fists and helpless defences. The winner was always the same person, his father, the loser his mother, he never intervened. Reflexes … at the sound of his father opening the front door Andrew would get out of bed and take up his position on the staircase, always the same step, always the same scene, always the same fear, always the same grip on the handrail, always the same square of shame. The only thing that changed was the time he spent there.
“THREE”
Pendlehurst strutted across the playground towards the bike sheds, in his wake two cronies were dragging a struggling figure that looked like Sidney Malone a bespectacled, scruffy looking twelve year old. Andrew had no friendship ties with Sidney, but Pendlehurst was the school bully. In that split second, and for no apparent reason, Andrew went cold inside; his clenched fists were once more gripping a stair rail, his mind’s eye recalled the impact of a fist on a face and he felt his head react in a dodging movement. It was a defining moment in Andrew’s life, behind the bike sheds, on a bleak December morning, he floored Pendlehurst with a single punch that contained, and released, fourteen years of pent up anger and frustration. For the first time in his life Andrew felt cleansed and he promised himself never to hold back in future.
“FOUR”
She wielded the hammer with ease, the nail penetrated like an oily dipstick, “she should have done that a long time ago, and not to the wall” Andrew thought as he watched her hang his framed ‘O’ level Certificate next to her recently acquired print of the Blue Madonna.
His mother had changed, there was lightness in her voice, a loving smile replaced bruises as her main facial feature and she glided around the house discarding memories as she went. The divorce had been easy and long overdue. Andrew’s life blossomed; he loved her as never before.
“FIVE”
He heard the monologue voices from the gym:
Bull – “I’ve been watchin’ you work out son, but there’s no focus in your routine, where are you goin’ with all this effort”?
Andy – “Just keeping meself fit”.
Bull – “Ever thought about takin’ up boxin’”?
Andy – “Nah not really”.
Bull – “What’s your name”?
Andy - “Andy … Andy Stone”.
“SIX”
He won his first fight on points, his second on a technical knockout after the ring doctor stopped the fight, his opponent’s eyelid had been split open. His reputation as a puncher was growing.
He felt his arm being raised in triumph, but never saw it fall back limply to the canvas.
"SEVEN”
Kelly’s face swam into view, for more than a year she had been ‘around’ him, watching, listening, seeing and putting up with the street fights, drunken returns after nights out with the boys.
She started the argument. He quickly reached breaking point and lashed out, a clenched fist that reshaped her flesh like putty in a child’s hand. The blow knocked her onto the coffee table shattering the glass top; she lay moaning amid the debris, blood dripped like molten wax from her chin onto the floor.
He walked the long route home thinking about tomorrow night’s fight, he never realised how tightly his fists were clenched until his nails started to bite into the flesh of his palms.
“EIGHT”
He opened the front door; the two of them were waiting, Kelly must have taken the direct route to his house; the night air had congealed the blood on her face. His mother’s features wrinkled like an angry tiger;
“You bastard, you’re just like your father” she spat at him.
“NINE”
The Boulder crumpled inside, his belligerence surgically removed by his mother’s tongue. He would never again throw a punch in anger.
“TEN – OUT!”
Bull knew he had failed, he threw the towel into the ring along with his dreams of training a champion.
Poll
