Boxing had always been a love of his. It was one of the few areas in which he truly excelled. He l revelled in the iron that pumped through his veins as he faced off with an opponent, the impact of a leather glove on a squishy cheek. It was the only time he could remember his father looking at him without disappointment behind his dark lenses.
But now, Fillibrick had thrown him out, and he’d never see that slightly less disapproving look again. At least, not until he made his fortune. This was hard to do for a 16-year-old: no high school diploma, no training, and no real skills, aside from hitting people.
Stan thought his luck had changed when he heard a couple of loudmouths talking about a boxing ring while they smoked outside the convenience store where Stan had been flirting with the cashier to score a free meal. After a little prodding, Stan got instructions: East River road. Ask for Miss Pain.
Armed with only a name, Stan showed up at the door of the abandoned warehouse. Miss Pain’s name was like a passport. He was ushered in by two large men who smelled of sweat and tobacco, past rows of shirtless men bouncing around and shadowboxing in preparation for the match, to a cramped office. The woman, with wild red hair and her denim jacket, looked nothing like his mother. It was the intelligence behind the eyes that gave him an aching reminder as she studied him. After a beat, she looked down at her ledger and waved her hand.
“I’ll put you at the end of the the rookie lineup. You’ll find gloves and shorts in the locker room.”
Stan was led to a rank locker room where a few teens were snapping towels like whips and putting each other in headlocks. Stan was left alone to scrounge for equipment. He found a pair of blue shorts with a sagging waistband that smelled like they hadn’t been washed this decade, as well as a pair of mismatched boxing gloves. He suited up and followed the rest of the boys into the hall when they were called out.
He didn’t remember anything leading up to the match until he was shoved by one of the crowd controllers and told he was up next. Stan hopped up into the ring to a chorus of boos and laughter. He hauled up his shorts and spat to the side, then approached his opponent. Despite the jeers and the circumstances, Stan was focused. Having the gloves on his hands, he felt grounded again, as if this was just another Saturday boxing match at Rabbi Kurry’s rec center. He eyed the teen across him - maybe two years older, pocked with acne scars, and looking just about as nervous as he was. He squinted a little, and Stan was reminded of Ford when they used to box: half blind and uncoordinated.
Just as quickly he shoved the unwelcome thought aside and adjusted his stance, ready for the call. There was a shout, and he went in with fists flying.
It felt good to settle into a rhythm he knew so well: hop, block, jab, duck. Feint, block, jab. Jab, jab, sweep. Jab, jab, jab -
Stan lost count, but soon the boy was on the mat groaning and a roar of outrage went up among the crowd.
“That kid wasn’t on the betting list!” one woman screeched.
Stan was quickly ushered away to the office. This time, the woman looked interested in what she saw
“Here, kid,” Miss Pain said as she slid three $10 bills across her desk. “You did good tonight; earned me a lot of money. Win tomorrow night and I’ll give you double.”
She didn’t wait for Stan to reply. With red manicured hands, she plucked a wad of bills from her cash box and flicked through them. Stan’s eyes widened - he had never seen so much money in his entire life. It made the bills in his hand look like chump change.
The bodyguard beside her desk must have caught Stan staring hungrily at the billfold, because he stepped forward.
“Move along, punk,” he rumbled.
Stan glanced at the woman one last time before he stuffed his money into the pocket of his jeans and left with a skip in his step.
Of course he came back the next night, bragging about his success in his first match. The high of a win, plus the promise of double his money, brought him running back.
He ran straight into a bout with a seasoned behemoth twice his size, much to the delight of the returning crowd. He was out cold in the first round.
Stan came to against the sticky cement floor when he received a kick in the side.
“Come on, kid, show’s over. We’re closing up for the night.”
It took him a minute to get to his knees, then another two to get to his feet. His vision swam and his stomach rolled. Something had crusted over his upper lip and mouth, and when he raised a hand to touch it, he realized it was blood. His throbbing nose gave him a hint where that had come from.
When he could stand, Stan trudged after the man down the deserted corridor, his head throbbing with every step. He winced in the light from the desk lamp in Miss Pain’s office but he stepped forward, his stomach churning with dread.
The woman didn’t even look up this time as she slid a few crumpled bills his way.
“Better luck next time,” she said flippantly, like Stan’s luck didn’t really matter to her at all.
Stan swallowed hard and collected the bills. Two Washingtons and a Lincoln. Seven dollars - barely enough to justify a bloody nose and what felt like a concussion. He staggered out of the office and down the hallway to the locker room, biting back tears. In the grimy mirror on the locker room wall he assessed the damage. His face was a patchwork of dried blood and bruises. His left eye was swollen partially shut and his lower lip had puffed up.
He scrubbed what he could of the blood off with the cold water from the sink and changed back into his street clothes. His head spinning, Stan somehow found his car and laid down in the back seat, promptly falling asleep even though he should have tried to stay awake. He slept through the entire day.
Stan returned the next night with a throbbing head and an impressive shiner, much to the surprise of the bouncer at the door. Stan was let in, and he went to the locker room in silence to put on his gear. This time, he kept quiet as he waited for his turn.
He won his next bout, and the one after that, and the one after that, and so on for so many nights that the boos transformed into cheers.
It became a high he craved.
9 notes
·
View notes