Fight Card: AGAINST THE ROPES

by Jack Tunney

  Genet came out like he always did – hands up, shoulders squared, feet at just the right distance apart. The Frenchman was a technically sound fighter who’d earned his right to be there every much as Quinn. Genet wouldn’t go down easy, but he’d go down all the same. Just like the thirty-five other men who’d come out to face Quinn in the center of the ring.

  FIGHT CARD: AGAINST THE ROPES

  ANOTHER TWO-FISTED FIGHT CARD TALE

  JACK TUNNEY

  FIGHT CARD

  CREATED BY PAUL BISHOP AND MEL ODOM

  OTHER TITLES IN THE FIGHT CARD SERIES

  FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS

  FIGHT CARD: THE CUTMAN

  FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION

  FIGHT CARD: COUNTERPUNCH

  FIGHT CARD: HARD ROAD

  FIGHT CARD: KING OF THE OUTBACK

  FIGHT CARD: A MOUTH FULL OF BLOOD

  FIGHT CARD: TOMATO CAN COMEBACK

  FIGHT CARD: BLUFF CITY BRAWLER

  FIGHT CARD: GOLDEN GATE GLOVES

  FIGHT CARD: IRISH DUKES

  FIGHT CARD: THE KNOCKOUT

  FIGHT CARD: RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE

  FIGHT CARD: AGAINST THE ROPES

  MORE FIGHT CARD NOVELS

  COMING SOON

  FIGHT CARD: THE LAST ROUND OF ARCHIE MANIS

  FIGHT CARD: SWAMP WALLOPER

  FIGHT CARD: BROOKLYN BEATDOWN

  AND THE FIRST IN TWO EXCITING

  NEW FIGHT CARD SERIES

  FIGHT CARD MMA: WELCOME TO THE OCTAGON

  AND

  FIGHT CARD ROMANCE: LADIES NIGHT

  FIGHT CARD: AGAINST THE ROPES

  e-Book Edition – First Published February 2013

  Copyright © 2013 Terrence P. McCauley

  Cover by Keith Birdsong

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.

  ROUND 1

  MADISON SQUARE GARDEN, NEW YORK, NY

  1925

  Quinn knew they were there.

  Out there, somewhere close in the darkness, past the ropes and beyond the smoky haze that had settled in above the ring just below the lights.

  He knew the crowd was cheering and the flash bulbs were popping. Reporters were jostling for position and radio men were describing it all for the folks at home.

  Quinn knew Augie, his trainer, was shouting last minute instructions up at him from the other side of the ropes and Joey, his cutman, was scrambling around ringside, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

  Quinn knew all of this was happening, but he didn’t see or hear any of it. Because, at that exact moment, nothing mattered, nothing existed beyond what was within those ropes.

  And there was only one man in the world who mattered – the man who was standing twenty feet away on the other side of the ring.

  Because that man stood between Quinn and the man who would give him what he’d worked a lifetime to get – A shot at The Payday. A shot at Glory. A shot at Jack Dempsey and the heavyweight championship of the world.

  Quinn knew Big Frank Genet was a hell of a fighter and no pushover. But he was in Quinn’s way and that was all that mattered.

  The only thing Quinn was listening for was the opening bell to sound the beginning of the fight. And the beginning of the rest of his life.

  The bell finally clanged.

  Round one was underway.

  At six-three and a lean two-hundred pounds, people always expected Quinn to charge out of his corner like a mad bull.

  But charging into things had never been his way and the only expectations he had ever lived up to were his own. He fought his fights his way, depending on the opponent.

  Genet came out like he always did – hands up, shoulders squared, feet at just the right distance apart. The Frenchman was a technically sound fighter who’d earned his right to be there as much as Quinn. Genet wouldn’t go down easy, but he’d go down all the same. Just like the thirty-five other men who’d come out to face Quinn in the center of the ring.

  Genet flicked a probing jab that Quinn easily blocked. The big man was feeling him out, searching for a weakness just like all the others had and failed. Genet fired another jab, then another. One to the left and one to the right. Quinn rolled away from both of them with ease.

  The two men slowly circled each other in the center of the ring, stepping counter clockwise, looking for an opening, any opening that might give the other an edge. Quinn knew he needed to learn Genet’s weaknesses and strengths in these early rounds so that he could exploit them later in the fight when Genet’s arms were heavier and his legs were tired.

  Genet faked a left hook, but quickly followed it up with an overhand right aimed right between Quinn’s gloves. Right down old Broadway.

  But by then, Broadway had moved a couple of blocks over because Quinn had pitched left, and Genet’s right hand sailed wide.

  Quinn landed a left hook as he straightened back up, using strength and momentum to catch the Frenchman flush on the right ear. Not hard enough to knock him out. Just hard enough to ring his bell a little. And make him think.

  Quinn had always been able to know how much time had passed in each round without his corner yelling it at him. He was too focused to hear them anyway. He knew a minute and a half had passed and there was still half a round to go.

  Plenty of time to give Genet more to think about.

  Genet shook the cobwebs loose and thumbed at his ear, hands still high. Too high to block the straight right hand Quinn landed in the center of his gut. Right above the solar plexus.

  Again, not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough to make an impression.

  Genet was hurt and tried to wrap Quinn up, but Quinn had already back peddled as David Parker, the referee, stood in between them. Parker was a fight fan’s referee and he didn’t allow clinching in his fights.

  Genet crouched as he caught his breath, waiting for Quinn to attack. But on the offensive early in a fight wasn’t Quinn’s style. He spent the rest of the round firing straight jabs at Genet’s gloves.

  He didn’t even try for his jaw, but he didn’t have to. He knew the torque he had on his jab was stronger than most men’s best punches. The impact sent Genet’s gloves back into his face each time. They tired his hands. They weakened his resolve. And that was the whole idea. Break the resolve and the body became a piece of cake.

  When he knew there were only ten seconds left in the round, Quinn intentionally telegraphed a lazy left hook below Genet’s gloves toward his chin. The Frenchman lowered his gloves to block the blow as he jerked his head up and out of the way of the punch.

  Quinn threw a straight right hand down Broadway and this time, the Great Right Way was right where she should’ve been. He connected with Genet’s chin just hard enough to send him back a couple of steps toward his corner.

  Genet rebounded just as the bell sounded. Parker jumped in between them, but Quinn was already heading back to his corner.

  ***

  Knowing he’d given Genet and his corner men plenty to think about between rounds, Quinn stood with his arms across the top ropes. Augie took out his mouthpiece and toweled him off. Quinn never sat between rounds. He preferred to stand and let Augie and Joey work on him.

  Some managers yelled at their fighters between rounds, even slapped them a bit to keep their
blood up. But Augustino Terranova was a lot like Father Frawley, the man who’d first taught him how to box back at St. Vincent’s Boys home in Chicago. Augie was a wiry, gray little man who did his yelling during training, but kept his fighter nice and calm come fight night. He knew tension made a fighter tight – and tight got you knocked out, maybe even killed.

  And Augie had never lost a fighter yet.

  He toweled off Quinn’s face even though he’d barely broken a sweat. “What’d you learn this round, champ?”

  “That I got to him with that shot to the ear.”

  Augie toweled off his shoulders. “And what else?”

  “His footwork’s good, but not as good as mine. He can take a punch, though. That last shot was harder than I thought it’d be.”

  “Good boy. Keep doing what you’re doing. Tap him when and where you can and don’t let him hit you. Frustrate him for another couple of rounds and we’ll take him in the fourth.”

  “Fifth,” Quinn said. “Might as well give the people their money’s worth. Besides, I don’t have to be at the Kaye Klub until around eleven.”

  Augie popped Quinn’s mouthpiece back in as he slung the towel around his own neck. “We really gotta work on your self-confidence, kid.”

  The bell sounded.

  ***

  The second round started just like the first, with the Frenchman coming out fast. But this time, Genet didn’t bother with the jab. He kept his hands high near Quinn’s chest while he tried to buffalo him against the ropes.

  Quinn played along, only to bounce out of the way when he felt his back touch the ropes each time. Genet quickly adjusted, still buffaloing, but firing a series of left and right hooks as Quinn tried to move away.

  Quinn’s defense was as good as his offense and he crouched low as he moved, gloves up to protect his face and elbows flat against his body to protect his ribs. They took most of Genet’s blows, so the effects were minimal.

  His frustration building, Genet pushed Quinn back toward the ropes with his left as he dug deep and fired an uppercut from below his knees. It would’ve been a hell of a punch had it landed, but Quinn bounced off the ropes and jumped back toward the far corner.

  Again, Genet adjusted with surprising speed and charged, trying to pin Quinn into the corner.

  Quinn fired a straight jab, catching the charging Genet on the top of the head. Genet stumbled backward while Quinn cleared the corner. As he moved to his right, Quinn connected with a short uppercut of his own. The blow glanced off Genet’s forehead, rocking the Frenchman’s head just high enough for a follow up left hook. The punch went around Genet’s gloves and connected with his neck and right ear.

  Genet spilled into the corner, his back flat against the corner post. The blow had been as much of a push as it had been a punch, but, for just a moment, even Quinn could hear the crowd come to their feet, cheering.

  He quickly shook off the distraction and refocused as Genet came out of the corner, gloves high once more. From the way Genet was tensing his gloves, Quinn knew he was gearing up for another left hook to the body. Quinn stopped him cold with a straight left to the stomach, moving him to the left, raising his left arm just enough for Quinn to bury a hard right just below the ribcage. Genet’s knees buckled but he didn’t go down.

  The bell sounded.

  ***

  Returning to his corner, Quinn could feel his blood flowing hot through his veins. He felt clear. Sharp. The color of the canvas and the ropes all seemed brighter than they had before.

  At first Quinn was still too focused to hear what Augie was saying. When he finally did hear it, he still couldn’t understand it.

  “He what?” Quinn asked as Augie pulled out his mouth piece.

  “He crapped himself!” Augie yelled over the cheering crowd. “Your last punch was a liver shot. Look at the back of his trunks.”

  Quinn looked over Augie’s head and saw a dark stain on the seat of Genet’s already dark blue trunks as he plopped onto his stool. “ He should’ve been out cold.”

  “That was one hell of a punch you threw. He ain’t startin’ to get under your skin with all that buffaloin’ he’s doin’, is he?”

  “No.”

  “Hey.” Augie tapped him lightly on the side of the face. “Don’t lie to me. Be honest.”

  Quinn let out a deep breath. His trainer knew him all too well. “I don’t like getting buffaloed is all.”

  “That’s better.” Augie went back to toweling him off. “You know what he’s tryin’ to do, so don’t let him do it. Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’, but be careful. He’s embarrassed now and he’s still got that right hand of his. He ain’t gonna be none too pleased now that he’s gotta fight the rest of the fight with a full diaper.”

  Quinn watched Genet’s manager pull him to his feet and wipe off the back of his legs.

  “I didn’t mean to do that. Hell, most guys go down from a liver shot.”

  “Genet ain’t most guys.” Augie popped his mouthpiece back in. “Best remember that and be careful, will you?”

  Quinn smiled through his mouthpiece. “Ain’t I always?”

  ***

  The third round was a whole other fight.

  Genet came out of his corner wild. His eyes narrow. His jaw set. He’d always been a careful fighter, but now he looked reckless, angry.

  He threw a left hook not at Quinn’s head but at his shoulder. He followed it with a flurry of rights and lefts that weren’t meant to knock him out, but just to connect.

  Quinn backed away from the barrage, but he could feel Genet was gaining steam.

  Quinn was careful not to toy with him by backing into the ropes any longer. He skipped out of the way of Genet’s punches when he could and took long strides to keep from getting trapped by the raging Frenchman.

  Then Genet cut him off and pushed him hard toward the ropes again, harder than he had before.

  And Quinn was much farther away from the ropes than he realized. He flailed back into them, completely off balance. They sagged under his weight and Genet came in head first, his forehead connecting with Quinn’s jaw.

  The impact snapped Quinn’s head back and the hazy lights high above the ring blurred as he lost focus. Genet buried his head into Quinn’s chest while he thundered away with a fury of lefts and rights at his exposed flanks. Quinn didn’t know how many blows had landed before the ref pulled him away.

  Quinn stayed against the ropes, still too stunned to feel any pain, but he heard Parker warning Genet to “watch your head and stop pushing because next time, I’m taking a point away.”

  Parker turned to Quinn and pulled up both of his gloves, waiting for Quinn to push back. “Sorry about that, kid. That was a dirty shot. You alright?”

  Quinn pulled his gloves free and nodded.

  The ref told them to box just as the bell sounded, ending the third round.

  As Genet headed back to his corner, Quinn spat his mouthpiece into his glove and called after Genet. “Don’t forget to wipe your butt before the next round.”

  Genet charged after him, but the ref got between them as Genet’s corner men spilled into the ring to pull their fighter away.

  ***

  When Quinn got back to his corner, Augie had the stool waiting for him, along with Joey, the cutman.

  The sight of the stool enraged Quinn and he kicked it out of the ring. “Get that thing out of here.I don’t sit between rounds.”

  Augie grabbed him and shoved him against it the ring post. “Knock it off! You don’t kick stools. You don’t mouth off to the other fighter. And you don’t lose your temper, understand me? Losing your temper loses the fight. You’re Terry Quinn. You’re better than that.”

  Quinn blinked the anger away and shook his head clear. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Joey looked up at him with the same awe of a kid seeing a dime-store Santa for the first time at Christmas. “You’re bleeding. You’ve never bled before.”

  Quinn wasn’t sur
prised. “I caught my tongue under the mouthpiece when he butted me is all.” He stuck out his tongue to show him. “Dirty punk. I’m not waiting for the fifth round. I’m putting him down now.”

  “Hey!” Augie yelled. “Temper, remember?”

  Quinn remembered and stayed quiet.

  Augie started toweling off the blood running down Quinn’s face and chest. “You feelin’ woozy?”

  “No. I did, but I’m alright now.”

  Joey told him, “Your tongue’s bleeding pretty bad. Try not to swallow it if you can help it. Just let it pool in the corner of your mouth and drain through the mouthpiece.” Quinn nodded his acknowledgement.

  “That butt was illegal as hell,” Augie said, “but it worked. How’re the ribs?”

  Now the initial shock of the attack was over, Quinn began to notice the ache. “Feels like I got kicked by a mule.”

  Augie popped the mouthpiece back into Quinn’s mouth. “Then I guess you better try for a knockout this time around.”

  Through his mouthpiece, he said, “I’m planning on it.”

  ***

  In the fourth, Genet came out even wilder than in the third. He was angrier now and, worse, confident he had hurt his opponent.

  He fired a hard left hook into Quinn’s glove, followed by a right, then another left and another right. The blows didn’t hurt, but the impact was enough to keep sending Quinn backward toward the ropes.

  Just as he felt himself getting close to them again, Quinn saw Genet’s right shoulder pivot forward as he set to throw another left into Quinn’s gut.

  Quinn jumped back and to the left, grazing the ropes as Genet’s left hand sailed low and wide, which exposed the whole left side of Genet’s head to Quinn’s right hook.