One Last Fight

Charlie Hendriksson’s left hook slams into the side of my head and sends my world spinning.

If he’d aimed the follow-up at my head then I reckon I’d have been down for the count, but mercifully he opts for a blow to my ribs instead which merely knocks the wind from me.

My vision is too blurry to see what’s going on, but I’m sure the finishing shot was just about to fall when the bell goes, signalling the end of the round. I can just make out the hazy image of Charlie retreating to his corner. He’s a lot of things – mouthy, a roid user and entirely unfazed by any permanent damage he inflicts in the ring – but I don’t think I’ve once seen him throw a dirty punch.

I’m half-clinging to the ropes for support as I make my way back to my own corner which, thankfully, isn’t more than a couple of feet away, although it feels much further. I ignore the jeers of the fat-cats who could afford the front-row seats as I collapse into the stool my Petey – my trainer – has already plonked onto the canvas.

Petey talks to me as he mops my brow, but I’m not taking any of it in. He knows better than to talk about throwing in the towel, that’s not my style.

Tonight, though, it probably doesn’t matter. Six rounds is already more than I figured I’d make, if I was honest. Not just the pounding that Charlie’s laid upon me. I could take that. Maybe.

But my heart, it’s not so good. The doc reckons it won’t go a full twelve rounds without spluttering out on me.

No one knows this, of course. Only me, my doctor, and my wife. Didn’t even tell Petey – he’d have told the board and then I couldn’t fight.

Not that it was a good idea for me to do one last fight. It was, in fact, a terrible idea. The latest in a string of terrible ideas.

But if – and it’s a big if, given the bookies’ odds – I can win this, then the purse money will clear off the car debt, mere weeks before it gets repossessed. Then when I hang my gloves up maybe I can scrape a living as an Uber driver. It’s not going to keep me and Laurie in luxury, but we won’t be living in a cardboard box either.

All too soon, the bell goes again and somehow I’m back on my feet.

From the opposite corner, Charlie’s bearing down on me.

He’s short, for the weight class. Which means he packs even more muscle onto his frame.

But the one advantage I have on him is reach.

He might have youth on his side, and power, and stamina, and a heart that isn’t tearing itself to pieces, but I have reach, so I’d better use it.

I strike out with a left jab.

The timing is perfect. More luck than judgement, but I feel the satisfying thud as my fist connects, and feel the shock ripple it’s way up my arm as Charlie’s head snaps back like he’s just walked into a solid bar.

As his head comes forward again my right punch is barrelling towards him. This one’s got my weight behind it. I barely feel anything as I connect, it’s like I go straight through him.

Charlie’s on the canvas.

Just for a split-second, and he’s getting up again. But he’s staggering, his feet not going in the directions his brain is telling them to. Bambi-legs, we call it. I recognise it well.

So does the referee. He’s already stepped in between me and Charlie.

The ref says something to Charlie and Charlie says something back. I can’t hear what they say, but apparently the ref didn’t like what he heard because he's waving the fight off.

I’ve won.

I don’t think anyone thought that I could.

Even me, if I’m brutally honest.

***

I sit alone in the changing room which smells of stale sweat and bleach.

I should be elated after that win, but all I feel really is relief.

I’ll keep my dignity. Keep my car. Keep my heart beating in my chest.

Charlie will want a rematch, but I’m done.

I look up as the door opens and see Laurie standing there, looking thinner than ever.

The expression on her face as she looks at me is of unfiltered horror. I guess I look even more messed-up than I’d figured.

I force myself to smile, even though my face feels like it’s falling apart.

“You should see the other guy,” I say.

Laurie doesn’t laugh.

She crosses the stained tiles of the dressing room in a flurry of tiny steps and flings herself on me, burying her head into my bare chest. I put an arm round her, and her back heaves with a sob.

“Jesus, Laurie, want’s wrong?” I say.

It’s a second or two before she replies.

“I made a bet,” Laurie says, her voice muffled as she speaks directly into my chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I shake my head. None of that matters now.

As my wife, Laurie’s not allowed to bet on my fights. Too much chance of match-fixing.

So, if she has made a bet, then she hasn’t gone through official lines. She’s gone to one of the more unsavoury characters in town. The ones I’d rather have left behind when I went pro, but never quite managed to shake off.

Laurie knows I don’t like her getting tangled up with them. That hardly matters now I’m out of the game now.

I laugh.

“It’s all right, sweet heart,” I say. “I won, didn’t I? A bit of extra cash will come in handy. No harm done.”

Laurie doesn’t say anything. She’s still crying, I can feel the warm tears trickling down my flank.

And then it hits me. I feel my world spinning again, like Charlie-Boy has just landed one of his hay makers on me.

“You didn’t bet on me, did you?” I say.

Laurie pulls her head back. She looks a mess. Not as much as me, but a mess all the same.

“They all said you couldn’t win,” Laurie said.

I take a deep breath.

She wouldn’t have got any odds worth speaking off betting on Charlie. Which means she’d have bet a packet on him if she wanted any decent winnings.

We don’t have a packet. Which means she must have got a loan. Probably from the same scum who run the back-street bookies. And they don’t mess around when it comes to collecting.

“I’m so sorry,” Laurie says again.

I hold her close.

“Don’t worry,” I say.

Seems Laurie is thinking the same as me.

“But how will we—”

“Sh sh, don’t worry. I’ll get the money.”

“How?”

Without the car, I only really have one way.

“Just one last fight.”