Get Hit, Hit Back (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  And that was what we were doing now. After claps on the back and well wishes from the guys, Frank and I headed out to the farm and had been chasing each other around the ring for the past couple of hours.

  Leaning against bales of hay while slugging back water, panting as we tried to catch our breath, Frank pushed himself upright and came to stand in front of me.

  "This isn't doing any good," he said.

  "How so?"

  "We both know how to run. We both know how to punch. Wearing ourselves out isn't going to help any. What we need is to see this guy, get a sense of what he can do."

  "And how do we do that?" I said.

  "We drive over to Osceola, where he's fighting tonight."

  It wasn't until we were on the road that I realized I had stood up the cops and the robbers. I guess I was all in on my plan.

  ***

  I had never seen so many people at a boxing event. Of course, these people weren't expecting boxing; they were expecting – and hoping for – a bloodletting.

  We paid our two bucks and grabbed two seats toward the back. We were a bit late, so things were already under way. There was a farmboy in cutoff jeans and work boots in the ring. He stood stiffly in his corner, looking at his gloves as if he had never seen a real pair before. When the bell rang, it was clear he hadn't. He spent more time looking at them than at Drexler. Then again, that might have been on purpose.

  Drexler didn't come into the ring until just before the bell. He was standing with Connie Richards, the promoter Harry had thrown out of the gym. He then climbed up and slipped through the ropes, and pulled himself up to full height as the round started. He was massive, looking more like a bodybuilder than a boxer. It was clear he was older than when the photo on the poster was taken, we could see the lines on his face even from our seats.

  Drexler's age didn't seem to be an issue, however, as he bounced from toe to toe for a couple of moments, looking as limber as a youngster. The farmboy looked up now, and we could see his eyes go wide. He brought the gloves up quickly toward his face, then seemed to worry about how he was going to protect his gut and dropped one to his middle. The crowd was cheering for him, yelling encouragement. It didn't help. He seemed to shrink, pulling his body in on itself as if trying to make himself be as small a target as possible. He wasn't entirely successful, as he was easily six foot something and two hundred pounds or more.

  Drexler stopped bouncing and stepped quickly across the ring, stopping just a foot or so from the boy. His gloves were at his side, his weight on his right foot. He just stood there staring at the kid, who must have closed his eyes when Drexler rushed at him, waiting for the blow. When it didn't come, the boy dropped his guard for a moment, curiosity short-circuiting his sense of self preservation.

  That's when Drexler struck. He shifted his weight to his left foot, brought his gloves up and then leaned in with a vicious right hook that would have knocked the farmboy's head off if it had still been there. The boy, perhaps sensing the danger, had ducked and then ran, while still hunched over, to the other side of the ring. Drexler turned, a look of rage on his face, and watched the boy skitter around the ring. He followed, taking large steps designed to cut off the boy's escape routes.

  The boy, cowering low, couldn't seem to see where he was going, and found himself in the corner where he had started, a wall of Drexler blocking every path. We could see him quaking, his arms wobbling as he pulled them tight to his head as protection.

  Drexler stood watching this for a moment, then looked out at the crowd as if making sure they all saw what was happening. He then rapped the boy on the top of his head with his glove. The boy slowly raised his head so his face was visible over the top of his gloves. Drexler pulled back his right quickly and rocketed a jab at the boy's face that hit so hard that the sound of the back of his head smacking the corner pad was as loud as the punch itself. He seemed stuck there for a moment, then slid down to sitting, still leaning against the pole. Drexler didn't wait to make sure he was out, but instead walked slowly to his corner, climbed out through a gap in the ropes made by Richards, and exited the ring.

  The coliseum was silent for a moment, then it erupted in a roar of boos and catcalls. We could tell from the chatter around us people had thought the farmboy would be the one to stop Drexler. They had hoped to soften him up with a handful of trained boxers, and then expected the toughest guy in town to drop the barnstormer.

  We sat for another ten minutes or so, but when it became clear no one else would dare to enter the ring, we decided to leave.

  ***

  Neither one of us spoke until we were back on Highway 34 to Ottumwa, the car's headlights cutting through the darkness as we sailed between farm fields.

  "Wow," Frank said, breaking the silence. "Drexler was something, huh?"

  "Yep," I said. I was watching the road, but all I could see was Drexler's right connecting with the farm kid's head. "Big. Fast. Hits hard. Ring smarts."

  "He'll be tough to beat," Frank said.

  "Sure, but not impossible."

  "No, not impossible. You gotta land a punch if you want to win, though. I wish we had gotten there in time to see the boxers in there against him, see how he dealt with someone who knew his way around the ring. I wonder if any of them even touched him."

  "Sure they did," I said. "I'll bet every one of their faces connected with his glove."

  "You're joking?" Frank said. "I'm not in a laughing mood."

  "You're right. Sorry. From what the fellas around us were saying, the boxers might have lasted a bit longer, but Drexler had no trouble knocking 'em down," I said.

  "You still want to do this?" Frank asked.

  "Yes," I said without hesitation. "Yes, I do."

  I pulled into Ottumwa a little after eleven o'clock and dropped Frank off at his apartment. I went home, cleaned up and climbed into bed. I didn't get to sleep for a long time. I sat up going over the fight in my mind, thinking about what I would have done differently, seeing it as if I was the one in the ring with Drexler instead of the farm kid. Frank and I had been practicing the wrong things earlier in the day. We had been running away, ducking, and sliding punches. It was clear Drexler would find a way to corner you if that was your strategy. But stand toe-to-toe with him, give as good as you got, get hit and hit back? That might just do it.

  ROUND 13

  At lunch the next day sitting at a small round table in the back room at the bank, Tess asked me again about the money, as if expecting a different answer from the one I gave the first three times she asked it.

  "I don't know, all right?" I hissed. "When I got there it was gone. We've gone over this and over it again."

  "It would just make things so much simpler if you had it," she said. "You could return it and not have to fight that awful man."

  "But I don't, so I do," I said. "I do have to fight him. There's no other way. Even if I thought Mr. Turner would somehow forgive me, the police wouldn't. I may go to jail anyway, but if I do then I'll never had the chance to make things right. Now let's stop talking about it before everyone finds out."

  She twirled a finger around the hair at her temple, looking off into space. I hadn't raised this with her yet, and didn't want to now, but felt I had to do it.

  "You know," I said. "You were the only person I told about the money. So if the robbers somehow figured out—"

  "You think I told them?" she said, her voice low, but filled with anger. "Is that what you were about to say, Griffin McCann? That I'm somehow in cahoots with the robbers and I told them about how to get the money back?"

  "Well, no," I said. "Not exactly."

  "Well then, what exactly were you going to say?"

  I swallowed hard.

  "That maybe you, um, accidentally told someone else. Or let something slip. Not on purpose, of course, but something that could have gotten back to them."

  She looked me right in the eye.

  "Sandy!" she said.

  "What? You told Sandy
?"

  "No, not outright or anything. But you and I had talked, and she and I are roommates and co-workers. We're with each other practically all the time. I wonder if she somehow heard something or found out?" Tess said.

  I laid my sandwich on the table and wiped the crumbs off on my uniform pants.

  "That's quite a thing to say about your friend," I said.

  "I'm not saying she's a crook or anything," Tess said. "I'm just saying, well, what you were saying about me. That maybe she said something to the wrong person. We don't really know her at all, you know. She started here about the same time I did. She claims to be from some small town south of here, but who knows her story?"

  At that moment, Sandy came into the room carrying a brown bag containing her lunch.

  "Well, hello you two," she said. "Mind if I join you?"

  I was startled, worrying Sandy had heard us, but Tess played it cool.

  "We were just finishing up, hon," she said. "It's all yours."

  Tess stuffed the rest of her sandwich in her bag and stood. She smoothed her skirt and then excused herself to the ladies room. I stood, grabbing my bag as I did. I left my chair pulled out and gestured for Sandy to take the spot. She did and I pushed her in.

  "Why thank you, Griffin," she said. "I'm sorry if I busted up your little party."

  "Not at all," I said. "Time to get back to work."

  "Say, you're really going to fight that big bruiser tomorrow night, huh?"

  I nodded. "Yep."

  "Well don't do it on her account," she said, nodding her head toward the ladies room.

  "What, you mean Tess?" I said. "Why would I do that?"

  "To get her to like you," she said. "Why do boys ever beat up on other boys? But she likes you plenty already. Talks about you all the time. You already worried her with that robbery and running after the crooks. Be careful. You just might scare her away."

  I thanked her for the advice, threw the rest of my lunch in the trashcan and went back out to take my post on the bank floor.

  Mr. Turner came up to me then and clapped me on the shoulder.

  "Tomorrow's the big night, right?"

  "Yes sir," I said. "If I could keep my usual pre-fight schedule, I would appreciate it."

  "Of course, of course. You know, I was thinking maybe I should take a crack at that big lug," Turner said.

  "Sir?" I said, wondering if I had heard him right.

  "Well, that money would come in handy. No word from our friends on the force about a resolution, so maybe something like this is a way to get our money back," he said.

  I could feel a sweat breaking out.

  "Hard way to go about it, sir," I said.

  "I suppose," he agreed. "Well, if you win – I mean, when you win – if that money burns a hole in your pocket, you could always give it to the bank!"

  He gave a little laugh, punched me lightly in the arm and headed into his office.

  ***

  Frank and I had agreed to take it easy at what would be our final workout before the fight. We worked on footwork by chasing each other around the ring, and practiced our defensive stances. I hadn't told Frank I was planning to stand up to Drexler, and figured the effort would burn off some nerves even if it didn't help me prepare.

  We were finishing with some light sparring when I heard a familiar voice call out, "Keep your right up, Griff. I can't believe you still let that thing drop."

  I turned and saw Father Tim come into the barn. He was wearing chinos and a sports shirt, nothing but the benevolent look on his face giving away the fact he was a priest.

  I jumped out of ring and ran over to give him a hug.

  "Easy, Griff!" he said. "I'm not getting any younger. You squeeze any harder I'll be early for my meeting with the big guy upstairs."

  I let him go and then turned to Frank.

  "This is Father Tim," I said. "He ran the orphanage where I lived before I came here."

  Frank came out of the ring and let Father Tim shake his gloved hand as he introduced himself.

  "Sorry, Father," he said.

  "That's quite all right, Frank. Believe me, I'm used to it."

  Frank and I dipped a couple of cups of water from a bucket we had filled at the farmhouse and leaned against the hay bales to rest.

  "So, Father, why are you here? Don't get me wrong. I'm glad to see you. But a little surprised, too."

  "Well, I'm surprised myself," he said. "But I received a call from your trainer, Harold Borkowski. He said he understood I cared about you, and if I didn't want to see you get killed, I should come out and try to talk some sense into you."

  "Why didn't you just call the bank and try to reach me?" I said.

  "Because Mr. Borkowski told me that once I tried to talk you out of fighting and you ignored my advice, you were going to need a good second in your corner."

  "Well, he's right on both counts," I said. "I need the money, so I'm going to fight. And I sure could use your help."

  Father Tim came over and threw his arm around my shoulders, pulling me away from Frank.

  "Would you excuse us for a bit, son?" he said to Frank.

  Frank nodded and wandered out of the barn.

  "You shouldn't talk openly about money troubles, Griffin," Father Tim said. "It’s nobody else’s business. It can only cause trouble to share it with others. Now, why do you need money? You turned in the money from the robbery, right?"

  "I tried, Father. But when I went to where I had hidden it, it was gone," I said. "That's why Harry is in the hospital. I hid it at the gym. Someone figured it out and went to get it. Harry was there and, well, you can figure out the rest."

  Tim slipped his hand off of my shoulder and walked a few paces farther away from the barn.

  Does Frank know about the money?"

  "No, sir," I said. "To be honest, I thought for a while maybe he was the robber. He showed up right after, and he's about the same build. But he hasn't asked anything about it, so it couldn't be him."

  "Son, you need to resolve this situation soon. You're becoming paranoid, and your judgment is cloudy – a bad combination," Father Tim said. "I'm not saying Frank is mixed up in it, but to dismiss him just because he hasn't asked about it doesn't seem wise."

  "You're right," I said. "But at this point, the list of people I don't suspect is shorter than the one of those I do. There's Frank, Mr. Turner, Tess, Sandy... then again, it could be none of them."

  "Don't you see, Griffin? Like I told you before. You're not a police officer. Figuring this out isn't your job," he said. "I still think you should go to them and explain what happened. They're looking for one robber, but there may be two. That information could make the difference."

  "I can't, Father," I said. "I aim to win that prize and then turn it in. It's not enough to cover what was stolen, but it's a start."

  Father Tim turned and looked me in the eye.

  "I can't change your mind?"

  I shook my head.

  "Then let's figure out a way for you to beat this guy."

  ROUND 14

  Ten people had signed up to fight Drexler. I was sixth. The light heavy and heavyweight from the gym had signed up, as had a couple of town toughs Harry had long tried to recruit. That left Frank, me, and four guys I didn't know.

  I sat near the ring in some seats reserved for the contestants and watched Drexler knock the first two fighters down with ease. Father Tim hadn't wanted me to be out there, but I told him I wanted to see Drexler up close. He was even more impressive than he had been from afar. Yes, he was old, probably in his late forties, but he still was rock hard.

  I went back to the locker room to have my hands taped and to warm up a bit. Even if Drexler knocked the next three out in record time, I would have about 20 minutes before I had to get in the ring. And the fighter before me was Frank, who I knew could stand in with Drexler for a round or two at least.

  When they came to call him, it seemed sooner than I expected. We tapped gloves as I wished him go
od luck.

  "Wear him out for me, all right?" I said.

  "Wear him out nothing," Frank said. "The next time you walk through these doors, it will be to come congratulate me."

  He ducked out, leaving me in a corner of the room with Father Tim. The other four fighters were spread out around the room, bouncing nervously.

  I was nervous, too, but strangely, it wasn't because of Drexler. I kept running the list of names through my head, wondering who had gotten to the money. Soon, I hoped, it wouldn't matter.

  Father Tim figured out I didn't want to talk, so he sat quietly while I bounced back and forth on my toes, throwing light jabs to keep my arms warm.

  We heard a roar from the crowd. The sound drew mixed emotions, happy for Frank if he'd somehow figured out a way to beat Drexler, but angry I wouldn't have the chance. The roar was followed by another, followed by a collective oooh that couldn't be good. That was followed by boos and then shouts we couldn't make out.

  About a minute later, four guys came in carrying Frank, one for each leg and arm. They brought him over to the rubdown table and laid him out. I rushed over to him.

  "Frank! Frank! Are you all right?"

  He opened the one eye not closed by swelling, and took a moment to focus on me.

  "Got yer wish," he slurred.

  "How's that?" I asked.

  "Softened'im up for ya,” he said. “Used my face on his hands, anyway."

  One of the guys who brought Frank back pulled me aside and told me Frank had been the first to last a round, but Drexler had knocked him down soon into the second, then put his lights out with a vicious shot to the head as Frank was getting back up.

  "He's a dirty one, that Drexler. Keep an eye on him, kid."

  Someone came in to tell me they were ready for me. Father Tim came up then and grabbed me by the gloves. He bowed his head, and I followed.

  "Father, watch over our lost sheep, Griffin. Help him to find the way," he said.