Kornwolf (24 page)

All week long, The Cobra's people would have been at work on the consummate walk-in to counter the fact that their fighter had made such an ass of himself at the West Side Gym. Network television normally didn't provide for walk-in coverage at all. But Jones, based on his uncanny knack for whipping up bloodlust with cheap theatrics, was different, apparently. That, or Travers had arranged for a lone exception, $omehow.

Either way, it was hard to imagine that, of all the cards this club had hosted, The Cobra, unlike thousands of journeymen, veterans and contenders from days gone by, would now be showcased sauntering into the ring like a common professional wrestler. He really did know how to make people hate him. Even Jack, who normally wasn't as easily riled by a fighter as by a crooked promoter, couldn't help wanting, on principle, to see this kid get his ass handed to him.

The gradually sloped, carpeted walkway lined with flashing, pinpoint lights extending from the upstairs dressing room area, straight through the crowd and down to the ring must've taken four days of labor to erect. And The Cobra would milk it for all it was worth. But first, he would let the music play …

Jack, through the years, had grown accustomed to hip-hop, dance and gangsta rap—and other music he couldn't label. But the blaring, discordant, cacophonous roar from the speakers at present was something new. More like a wood saw tearing through a carload of trapped gorillas, it was downright painful: for the life
of him, Jack couldn't figure out what kind of gadgetry might produce such noise.

The crowd, on the other hand, seemed more incensed by The Cobra's arrival, at last, than the soundtrack. The moment his figure appeared at the top of the ramp, a murderous boo went up. His silhouette, bathed in a cloud of dry ice and flashing strobe lights, began to gyrate—flexing his arms and legs, first, then bobbing his head, then bucking his pelvis. The club guards started to line up, forming a human shield on both sides of the walkway.

The spectacle might have been funny—might even have
worked
—had it not dragged on for so long. Jones didn't even emerge from his cloud at the top of the ramp for over a minute. And once he had done so, at last, appearing in tiger-skin trunks and tasseled footwear, he walked down the ramp at a torturous crawl, often backtracking, stalling just for effect. With an almost comically smug leer, he taunted the crowd to no suffering end.

In the ring, the delay was beginning to wear on Roddy, who was pacing spirited circles. At first, he hadn't minded so much. In a way, he had been enjoying the show. However, by now, these antics had exceeded good form and were leaning toward calculated insult. Jack stepped forward to calm his fighter. He gripped Roddy's shoulders. “Don't let it get to you.”

Which was sound advice in itself. But not so easily put into practice.

As Jones drew ever nearer to the ring, his rate of advance was stalled even further. The network technicians began to signal their desperate need to cut to commercials. The Cobra paid them little mind. On reaching the ring, he paused at the top of the stairs to blow the crowd a kiss. After playing it up for another delay without taking a flying bottle to the head, he turned and, first getting a hold on the top rope and flexing once, twice, three times, followed through on the forward momentum, with both legs swung to the side, then over the top. He came down, pedaling forward, and reared up in Roddy's face with a cackling sneer.

This time Roddy kept his cool. He was game. They were inches apart, squaring off …

The rest of The Cobra's posse, led by “Green Dog” Williams, flooded the ring.

Green Dog, one of the older trainers in Philth Town, had probably burned more bridges than any figure in regional boxing, other than Blye, for the past twenty years. His famously hot-headed temperament had led to more bad relations than should have been possible. Even though Jack hadn't seen him in a while, he had dealt with Green Dog on countless occasions. Ronald Travers was likely the only promoter left who would cut him a break.

Quickly enough, the cameras had gotten between and divided Roddy and Jones. At last, the network cut to commercials. Devoid of a spotlight, Jones backed off. For the next two minutes, the chairmen, judges, physicians and referee were announced. Then the commercials were over. The cameras and, therefore, The Cobra were back for more. An exasperated Smoger ordered everyone out of the ring but the fighters—Roddy and Jones—and their trainers, Jack and Green Dog, at once.

During the face-off, the roar of the spectators swelled to such a deafening pitch that almost no one heard the instructions issued by Smoger, even when amplified. All attention was locked on the heated nonverbal exchange between the fighters—Roddy, expressionless, facing The Cobra, who, grinning back, was playing the crowd.

For his part, Green Dog didn't appear to be sweating Roddy. He did, however, avoid Jack's gaze. Green Dog wanted no part of The Coach.

Smoger motioned for the fighters to touch their gloves in acknowledgment of his instructions. Jones complied with undue force. Roddy, caught off guard for the last time, trundled back to his corner intently. From behind the ropes, Syd and Owen gestured to
lay this bastard out
. Jack kissed Roddy's cheek before leaving the ring. “Strength and skills, young man.” He parted the ropes and stepped from the ring.

Roddy knelt and crossed himself.

The pace was furious right from the bell.

Jones opened up with a wild, lunging right down the middle, overcommitting so grievously, his back leg kicked out behind him.

Once he'd regained his balance, he was able to plant his base. His legs were thick. He spread them, maintaining an anchored stance. This reduced his already limited height, and made him a difficult target. From there, his movement would complicate matters—over the canvas in awkward starts, upredictably shifting his weight, he lurched in and out of an orthodox stance.

Roddy, a versatile southpaw himself, would commence at a loss for an opening shot, eating a series of jabs on the way. From the corner, Jack would holler to “
Get on the inside!
”—over and over and over …

At 1:50, Roddy would finally do so, landing a solid hook to the ribs. Unperturbed, The Cobra would drop his hands, wiggle and grin defiantly, then come back with a left of his own. Roddy would counter it, landing flush. At which point The Cobra would back off briefly. He circled to the right, regrouping, on alert. Roddy, heeding The Coach, went after him. Jones assumed a conventional stance, shuffled, took three steps back in eluding a left hand lead and dropped his guard. He circled to the right with his back to the ropes. Roddy blocked a looping hook, then missed a counter-shot of his own. Jones drove him into the corner with an uppercut, followed by a hard right hand to the temple. No sooner had Jack and Syd started screaming in desperation to “Get your hands up!” than Jones committed a cardinal sin by rocking back and lifting his chin.

Roddy would capitalize on the opening so unexpectedly, it seemed to come from nowhere.

Later, Jack would rank it among the top five moments of his coaching career—one of those instants that justified all of the heartache and loss that went into the game. He would hearken back to it, time and again, as a source of tremendous inspiration:
that image of Roddy's beautiful counter-right sending Jones to the canvas, sprawling …

The crowd, of course, went off its rocker.

Jack, Owen and Syd, in the corner, stamped and bayed like Sheffield hooligans.

As Roddy made for the neutral corner, Smoger watched him, then started the count. It was everything Jack could do to hold back from bounding into the ring with joy. Even though Jones got up right away, albeit in clear and evident bewilderment, the crowd might as well have borne witness to a full-fledged knockout for all the excitement it generated.

The roar persisted as Smoger finished the count and looked into Jones's eyes. The Cobra nodded, unsmiling now. His bell had been rung, and he couldn't mask it.

Smoger signaled the return to action. Jack yelled, “Get on him!” just as a hollering chorus went up: “
You're Unbelievable!
”

Wobbling, Jones immediately launched a flurry of missed or blocked jabs. Then he caught one of Roddy's left hooks to the liver before being saved by the bell.

At the break, The Cobra's glare of defiant mockery wasn't at all convincing. He seemed to be forcing his grin through a haze of unforeseen humiliation. A confident Roddy wasn't impressed. Neither was Smoger, who voided their face-off. Of course, the audience ate it up. And so did the network commentators.

Jack sat Roddy on his stool in the corner. “That was beautiful, kid! Are you OK?”

Roddy nodded, hardly winded.

“Give him some water.”

Owen held up a bottle. Jack took it. Roddy, unmarked, drew a mouthful and swished. He spat in the bucket as Syd pressed an ice pack onto the back of his shoulders.

“Good work.”

Roddy looked over to Owen, who nodded. “That was amazing.”

The Coach squared off. “OK, now listen: Everything looks pretty good from here, but we need to start backing him into the corners.
He'll just keep running if you give him the chance. So cut off the ring and use your jab to get on the inside,
then
work the body. He won't last more than a couple of rounds if you
work the body
. You understand? And, once you've got him, watch his right. He's not even trying to cover his ribs. You'll see what I mean. Just watch that hand … You can set up the hook with a quick short right of your own. You'll catch him every time … But don't back away. He's looking for one big shot from the outside. Don't give it to him.”

Syd threw the ice pack into the bucket and pulled out a tub of Vaseline. He smeared a glob onto Roddy's brow.

“Are we clear?” asked Jack.

Roddy sat up. “Yes, sir!”

From the center of the ring, Smoger yelled, “Seconds out!”

Roddy stood. Owen removed the stool and wiped the canvas with a towel.

On his way out, Jack looked into Roddy's eyes. “This is your night, son,” he said.

The bell rang.

Round two opened as though in deliberate disregard of Jack's instructions. Immediately, Roddy and Jones came together and started right into a jabbing contest. The action was initiated by Jones, the puncher, but was matched, shot for shot, then surpassed by Roddy—who probably hadn't seen it coming. His initial response had seemed involuntary. But once they were going, even with an evident power disadvantage, he refused to back off. On paper it was suicide: toe to toe with an almost freakishly heavy hitter. In practice, however, it worked effectively. Back and forth at center ring, each of them getting as good as he gave until finally, frustrated, Jones attempted to narrow the distance between them, thereby effectively yielding to Roddy's pace—and eating a hard left cross in the bargain. The Cobra barely had time to glare before catching another jab on the chin. Then another. And another. And a hook. And a cross. And an uppercut that sent him reeling back into the ring ropes.

Already standing, the crowd pushed into a frenzy as Roddy got on the inside and managed to land a tremendous right. Jones spun around and was left with one glove on the canvas and the other hanging over the top rope. Before the ref could start his count, however, The Cobra came forward, off balance … This time, Roddy caught him on the temple with a beautiful left hand lead down the middle. Jones fell into the turnbuckle. Smoger sent Roddy to the corner. The crowd never stopped.

Again, Team Lowe, with the rest of the house, was ecstatic, whooping and crowing and stomping.

Now The Cobra was angry. You could see it in his face as Smoger issued the count. He hadn't expected this—not from Roddy. Not now. Not tonight, in his own backyard. He was already three points down on the cards, at the very least. And this round wasn't over. What's more, he had taken a couple of good hard shots that had caught his attention directly. He seemed to be stunned. He was doing his best to summon a grin, but it wasn't working. And the crowd wasn't cutting him any breaks. Someone in the balcony shouted: “
You loser!
”

From off in the blue corner, Green Dog's raspy bellow to “Stay on your guard!” went up—to which The Coach and Syd and Owen responded by yelling for Roddy to “
Finish him!
”

Roddy came forward, stepping into and landing a solid right cross. The impact snapped through Jones's body. Wavering, he managed to throw off a hook in return, but it strayed from the mark completely. Roddy blocked two more follow-up shots, then answered on target with a flurry of jabs. The Cobra was driven back into the ropes, desperately trying to land a counter.

He snuck in a rabbit punch, slicker than grease.

It was gone before anyone knew what had happened: a looping hook around Roddy's head to the back of his brain stem, right on the dial. Roddy went back, falling into the turnbuckle. Grabbing the ropes, he regained his balance. But The Cobra, one step ahead of the referee, followed through with a crushing right.

Roddy spun and fell to the canvas.

Boos went up from the rear of the ground floor clear to the balcony's highest row. For a moment, it almost seemed that a mob would rush the canvas to pummel Jones.

An angry Smoger grabbed and shoved him back toward Green Dog. Roddy got up.

Smoger refused to rule it a knockdown.

Syd was screaming to “
Take a point!
”

Someone upstairs hurled a bottle of beer. It sprayed the canvas logo with suds.

After the mat had been wiped with a towel and The Cobra warned for rabbit punching, the action resumed. Momentarily reeling, the fighters sized each other up. Jack yelled for Roddy to stay on his guard. Jones mocked him, smirking defiantly. Roddy lowered a booming hook. The Cobra stumbled into a corner. Roddy continued by smashing his jaw, then chasing him halfway around the ring.