Next World Series (Vol. 3): Families First [Second Wind]

by Ewing, Lance K.

  “Do you get a lot of takers?” I asked.

  “More than you would think,” replied the Colonel. “Any fighting outside the ring is strictly prohibited, so it’s a way to settle differences and a good way for the guys to blow off steam.”

  “Can I fight your current champion?” asked Mike, feeling anxious for some action.

  “That’s a question I was not expecting,” replied the Colonel, with a chuckle. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Do you know why I flew up here and agreed to meet you guys?” he asked, showing us into a small room with a desk and three chairs.

  Mike smiled as he saw the unmistakable setup of a classic interrogation room, complete with one-way glass.

  “Who’s listening?” asked Mike, pointing towards the mirrored wall.

  “When it’s just me talking, there’s nobody on the other side, I can assure you. I agreed to meet you guys because you remind me of a younger me. My job is to run these camps, and I do it well, but if I didn’t hold this position,” he said, lowering his voice, “I would be out there on the road, just like you guys and your group.

  “And Mike,” he added. “I boxed at West Point Military Academy. It’s been a while, but I never lost the passion for it.”

  “Do you miss it?” asked Mike.

  “Every day. I miss it every day.”

  “Do you ever fight here, just to show the men that you can?” Mike continued.

  “No. I’d like to, but no matter what happens, it looks bad. If I lose, they will have less respect for me. And if I win, then I’m just a bully, and that doesn’t work either.”

  Mike agreed, smiling.

  “Colonel, what if you and I sparred in front of the men, so you can show off your skills, and then you let me fight your champion?” asked Mike.

  The Colonel thought this over, not speaking for nearly a minute. “It’s not a bad idea,” he finally replied. “I can show our guests, as well as my men, that I walk the walk, so to speak.”

  “What do you want if you beat my champion?” asked the Colonel.

  “With all due respect, sir, we would like our man Vlad back and information about the link between your military and the coffee guy, Ronna.”

  The Colonel grinned, without agreeing to the terms. “And if you lose?”

  “If I lose, I’ll stay here and work as a guard for you, but Lance leaves here either way.”

  “Mike,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do that. You haven’t even seen the champion.”

  “Is it a deal?” asked Mike, ignoring my statements.

  “Eight rounds with gloves and a referee,” the Colonel replied. “Three impartial judges that I trust to rule fairly. If you win by KO, TKO or decision, you’ll leave with Vlad and some more food, like last time. And I’ll tell you what I can about Ronna and how it relates to your group. Understand, though, that even now there is information that is classified regarding him and his team that I will not discuss.

  “Should you lose by KO, TKO or decision, then the Russian stays here, and you work as a guard in this camp for 180 days, or longer if you so choose. Now, we have multiple champions. How much do you weigh, Mike?”

  “I always fought light heavyweight at just over 175 pounds. I guess I’m still in the category, although I haven’t weighed myself lately.”

  * * * *

  “Right this way,” said a fit man in his mid-fifties. “I’m Paul, but everybody calls me Pauly,” he continued, with an East Coast accent. “I run the Gym here.”

  “You’re a long way from New York!” said Mike immediately upon hearing the accent.

  “Jersey City, actually, but we still all talk alike. You sound like me. Where are you from?”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ll be back around in a few,” said the Colonel, walking away. “Let’s get him weighed up, though, while I’m gone, Pauly. He’s fighting today.”

  “Well, this is a first,” remarked Pauly, turning back towards us. “So, where did you say you’re from, Mike?”

  “Brooklyn. I’m from Brooklyn,” Mike answered. “But more recently from North Texas.”

  “What about you?” he asked me, reaching out his hand.

  “Born in Louisiana and raised in Northern Colorado, but North Texas for the last couple of decades.”

  “So, who’s going to fight?” Pauly asked.

  “I’m just a spectator today,” I spoke up. “But Mike here loves this stuff.”

  “Where did you train, Mike?” he asked.

  “Only in Brooklyn, sir.”

  “Where exactly, I mean?” asked Pauly.

  “Gleason’s Gym on Front Street. You ever heard of it?” Mike asked.

  “Come on, man. I’m from Jersey but it’s right across the Hudson River. Yeah, I trained Mayweather Jr., Julio Cesar Chavez, and Larry Holmes, just to name a few at that gym. You don’t look familiar, and I trained a lot of guys there for a whole lot of years.”

  Mike wondered if he was being tested.

  “Well, I never had an official trainer, but one of the boxers trained me for a summer before his workout early in the mornings. His name was The Great Bambino.”

  “You trained with Joey?” asked Pauly.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” said Mike.

  “Oh, you’re going to love this,” said Pauly. “Hang tight, and I’ll be right back.”

  He returned ten minutes later with the Brooklyn legend.

  “Hey, Joey!” said Mike, reaching out his hand. “Do you remember me?”

  “You look familiar, but I’ve been in a lot of fights over the years, and my memory is not so good.”

  “I was 14, and Father Corraso from the Catholic Church asked you to train me.

  “Wait a minute. It’s coming back now.”

  “Father Corraso. You remember him, Pauly?”

  “Yeah, of course. We went to his church for years,” replied Pauly.

  “Anyway,” continued Joey. “I kind of owed the Father a favor, and he asked me to train Mike here. How’s your twin brother, Arthur?”

  “He passed a few years later,” said Mike.

  “I’m truly sorry to hear that, Mike. His brother, Arthur,” continued Joey to me, “was slow in the head, but he always had a smile and was great to have around the gym.”

  “How did I never see you guys?” asked Pauly.

  “He trained from 5-6 a.m. that summer. You were lucky to get to the gym by 6:30, Pauly,” joked Joey.

  “If you decide to stay here for a while, Mike, we’ll have to add a ‘Y,’ like all good Brooklyn names, and change your name to Mikey,” added Pauly.

  “Just Mike is fine,” he said, having a flashback of the name given to him by the news organizations during his trial. More than one of the news anchors jokingly referred to him as Mikey, or Serial Mike, fashioned after a popular cereal commercial where the kids would say, “He likes it! Hey, Mikey!”

  “Anyway, Joey here is one of our reigning champions and the only one with any formal training,” Pauly said.

  Mike felt a pit in his stomach, the same as mine, realizing this was the likely opponent he had bargained everything for.

  “The Colonel says Mike is going to fight today,” Pauly commented.

  “Who?” asked Joey.

  “Let’s find out,” remarked Pauly, motioning for Mike to come over to the scale.

  “Boxers or briefs only,” he said. “Everyone weighs in the same here.”

  Mike undressed slowly, as his mind raced. He knew Joey had mostly fought cruiserweight, with a weight range from 176-200 pounds. Last he weighed, a few months ago, Mike was 184 and felt a little chubby. He was certain he had lost a few pounds recently, but how many?

  “What’s your weight class, Joey?” Mike asked, wanting to have some information at least.

  “Cruiserweight baby, just like always. I’m just under the 200-pound limit.”

  “OK, Mike. Up on the scale,” said Pauly.

  Mike couldn’t look, closing his
eyes. His ears were wide open. Ten agonizing seconds fiddling with the scale, and Pauly called out the numbers. Mike and I both heard it in slow motion, “one hundred seventy-four and 1/2 pounds. That’s light heavyweight, son.”

  Mike was relieved, not caring who he had to fight, as long as it wasn’t Joey.

  “What do you know?” asked the Colonel, walking back inside the tent, but this time from the opposite direction.

  “Well, it seems Joey used to train your guy Mike here, when he was a kid,” remarked Pauly.

  “No shit?” said the Colonel. “What did he weigh in at?”

  “He’s solid 174 and a half,” replied Pauly.

  The Colonel chuckled. “Mike, I bet you’re a good fighter, but you damn sure got lucky not having to fight this guy,” he said, pointing to Joey.

  “Who’s the light heavyweight titleholder?” asked the Colonel.

  “That would be Garcia, sir,” replied Pauly.

  “OK then. Mike and I are going to spar for the men and moral’s sake. Get Garcia ready to fight this afternoon, and don’t let him in to see Mike warming up. They both will have the same advantage, not knowing anything about their opponent.

  “We’ll spar in a few hours, and you’ll fight an hour after that. Let’s get something to eat, and I’ll take you over to see Vlad. He’s a funny guy, that Russian,” he added. “I like him better now, that’s for sure.

  “Things are a little different on the men’s side,” he told us, as we went through the chow line. “Everybody gets the same-sized plate, and you can fill it once—no spillovers on to the tray and no second helpings.”

  “I don’t have to re-weigh after lunch, do I?” asked Mike.

  “No, you’re good; eat as much as you can fit on your plate.”

  The food quality was not the same as the women’s barracks, but it was still hot and free for today.

  As he led the way to the infirmary, towards the back of the camp, the Colonel was still trying to sell us on the charms of the place, although only half-heartedly.

  Waiting in the front lobby of sorts in the large medic tent, the staff seemed nervous around the Colonel. Not in a fearful way, but kind of like when the district manager is going to make an appearance in your store.

  “Right this way,” said a young surgeon, according to the badge on his scrubs. We were led back through a long hallway, flanked on both sides by canvas walls. Nearing the back, we could already hear swearing and joke-telling in a Russian accent.

  “You two!” Vlad said, holding his arms out. “You came back for me!” I was happy to see my old friend and instinctively scanned the bed to see if, by some chance, he still had his leg. He was sitting up in the hospital bed with covers pulled up to his chest, so I couldn’t be sure.

  “It’s a good thing you guys got here so quick; I was going to wait until the Colonel left for another property before I assumed leadership of the camp.”

  “I’ve made arrangements for the other Vladimir in Moscow to take you in trade for just one pint of cheap vodka,” replied the Colonel, touching Vlad on the shoulder.

  The staff was laughing nervously at the banter, never before seeing someone joke with the Colonel.

  “OK. OK, Colonel, sir. You’ve bested me once again,” said Vlad, still smiling.

  “I’ll leave you three to talk,” said the Colonel. Find your way back to the front of this tent in 30 minutes so we can prepare.”

  “Yes, sir,” we both said.

  “Prepare for what, guys?” asked Vlad.

  Both of us pausing, I spoke first.

  “Mike has agreed to fight the light heavyweight champion this afternoon.”

  “You mean Garcia, the Southpaw?” asked Vlad.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” replied Mike.

  “Yes, that’s him,” I said.

  “What do you get if you win?” Vlad asked.

  “You!” Mike replied. “We get you and some more food, like last time. Apparently, they like you here so much you’re not allowed to leave.”

  “I see,” said Vlad, rubbing his stubbled chin. “What if you lose?”

  “Then I stay here and work for the Colonel as a guard. Either way, Lance goes home to his family.”

  “What happened to your leg?” Vlad asked me.

  “Gunshot. What happened to yours?” I asked, still not knowing if they had to take it off, like we were told.

  “The leg is no more,” he replied, removing the blanket to reveal one good leg and another cut off above the knee. I’m just glad they got the right part,” he joked. “You know, this town was well known for transgender surgeries before it all happened, they tell me… How are Jax and the boys?” he asked me.

  “They’re doing great, and we made it to David’s place,” I said in a low voice, not wanting to specify a location.

  “What about you? How is Sheila?” Vlad asked Mike.

  “She’s doing good, and we just yesterday adopted a young boy named Javi.”

  “That is great news!” Vlad said. Waving his hand for us to come in close, he began to whisper.

  “Everyone talks around here, and I have developed a system of retrieving information. I knew you guys were here an hour ago. There’s been a lot of talk about Ronna and another guy, Bocker, I think.”

  “Baker,” I whispered, “and we don’t think he’s a Colonel like he claims to be.”

  “He is certainly not,” replied Vlad. “They are headed right past Raton Pass. Did you know this?”

  “Yes, Jim and David’s son, Mark, have been on the ham radio 24/7, and we are getting information almost hourly now.”

  “OK, that’s good,” Vlad replied. “It’s about time for you to be going, but one last thing. Ronna knows the Colonel,” pointing towards the front of the tent, “and very well, long before this EMP thing ever started. I’m ready to go, and there is no vodka here. So Mike, you had better win today,” he said, only half-joking.

  “That’s the plan, Vlad, for all of us.”

  The next couple of hours were boring for me but gave me some time to relax. My leg kept me from wandering about, but they were kind enough to change my dressing and give me 60 hydrocodone pills for the pain. I would feel good as long as the truck didn’t break down, having me walking home on crutches.

  * * * *

  I had a front-row seat for the sparring match with Mike and the Colonel. I wasn’t surprised at how technical the Colonel’s craft was, coming out of West Point Academy, but both the residents and guards were mesmerized by him, proving to me it was a not a waste of his valuable time.

  “That was fun,” said Mike to both the Colonel and me when they were finished.

  “We have a few fights ahead of yours, Mike, so you can rest up a bit,” said Pauly.

  * * * *

  The clock on the wall read 2:30 p.m., and I was getting nervous about the afternoon slipping away. I was sure I did not want to spend the night here, if at all possible.

  Joey grabbed Mike, wanting to review some moves from the old days. With nothing else to do, I watched the fights and agreed the matchups were fair, at least by weight class.

  Pauly sat next to me, telling me about each opponent, and he placed verbal bets with himself as to each winner.

  “I figured you would be announcing the fights,” I said.

  “Nope. Only the championships.”

  He had a lot of questions about our group, and I did my best to answer them without giving away any sensitive information about population size, locations or provisions, and especially the firearms.

  “How did you and Joey end up all the way over here?” I asked.

  “Oh, we’re just here for about a week. The Colonel had been to our gym a few times over the years to spar, like he and Mike just did. Anyway, he got hold of us a couple of weeks before it all went to hell and asked us to set up rings like this across the country. The pay was so good, and the contract was for a year, so we couldn’t pass it up.”

  “You mean he got hol
d of you a couple of weeks after it happened?” I asked casually, assuming he switched his words around.

  “No, it was before. I’m sure of it because I remember meeting him at a local dive bar and depositing my first-ever government check that same day at the bank. When you deposit an official government check for $250K, it’s hard to forget.”