‘Any questions?’
The eight men were silent.
‘Anyone wanna change their minds?’
Again, no response.
‘Okay. Shirts off, fight in bare tops or singlets. There’s a bunch of runners and clean socks in them boxes. Get some that fit. If ya wanna fight barefoot, that’s okay too. Five minutes we start. Lightweights first, workin’ up ta heavies. Okay?’
Fox strolled around the corner of the tent. He watched Rogers find and don some runners. Rogers was tanned and sinewy, his flat belly rippled like washboard. He wouldn’t be a pushover. Still, Fox had faith. Rogers looked up from tying his laces and nodded to Fox. Fox could see puzzlement lingering in his eyes. Inside the crowd roared and chanted as the fights kicked off. Fox went off for a leak. He closed his eyes: humiliate don’t retaliate, humiliate don’t retaliate. It was okay, his way was clear.
Soon enough, Big Merv stepped out and beckoned Fox and Rogers. They went in. It was a big tent, about thirty by twenty-five metres. In the centre, instead of a traditional ring of ropes and posts, there was a large tarpaulin painted with a blue square representing the ring. Anyone pushed or hit from the ring was thrown back again by willing and vocal spectators. A couple of light plastic chairs stood diagonally opposite each other in the ring corners – one red, one blue. The tarp, which measured about six by six metres, was tautly staked down over a spread of wood shavings some ten to fifteen centimetres deep, a surface that was firm but relatively soft. The shavings extended another metre beyond the tarp. Beyond the shavings, set back another couple of metres, tiered stands rose around all four sides of the tent. An aisle ran through the stand from the ticket box to the ring and then on from the opposite side of the ring out back where the fighters gathered. It was through this aisle that Fox and Rogers entered.
Inside, after watching three bouts, the crowd was good humoured, charged and clamorous. The tent, filled to capacity, was hot and steamy from the warm day. A potpourri of odours wafted around the tent space: stale sweat, pine shavings, perfume and tobacco smoke. Spontaneous raucous laughter bubbled up every so often like a geyser. Impeccably dressed in a white shirt, white cotton trousers and black sneakers, Joe Darrigan stood in the centre of the ring. Fox automatically went to the red corner. Rogers rolled his shoulders, whirled his arms, marched to the blue chair and sat. Each fighter’s white clad attendant was there to provide water, a towel and styptic pencil to staunch blood from cuts or scrapes.
Fox was composed and remained standing. He danced lightly, one foot to the other, eyes closed, breathing slowly – in through his nose, out gently through his mouth. The noise of the crowd receded to a low hum. His focus intensified: anticipation was heightened, clarity was brilliant and movement slowed. He opened his eyes and fixed on Rogers who was caught as clearly as a rabbit in headlights.
Rogers felt uncomfortable. He’d come to watch the fights, not participate. His reputation was already lethal among the locals and he didn’t need this to feel comfortable in his own skin. Yet, in some strange way he felt compelled to challenge this young kid. He didn’t know why. And there was something familiar about him, something he couldn’t pin down. He wasn’t worried about the fight – he could knock anybody sideways on sixpence into next week. Yet his opponent made him uneasy. Although he was moving he seemed still amid the din. Something about him made Rogers’ scalp crawl.
Darrigan waved them in. The chairs were whisked away. The crowd clapped and whistled and stamped. Rogers stalked to the centre, glowering at Fox. Fox seemed to glide across the tarp, so light was his step.
‘Righto boys,’ bawled Darrigan, ‘ya know the rules, fight fair. It’ll be three three minute rounds. If I say stop, stop! And step away. If either of youse get knocked down, I’ll count to eight, whether ya hurt or not. They’re me rules. Right, touch gloves.’
A bell clanged and they stepped forward to touch gloves. Before they’d even finished, a lightning left from Fox bloodied Rogers’ nose. He danced back out of the way. Rogers shook his head, he hadn’t even seen it coming. The crowd roared. This one was off to a good start. Rogers, a local hero was sure to retaliate. Rogers crouched, tucked his elbows in and went after Fox. He was at least fifteen centimetres taller with considerably longer reach; he was fit and much heavier than Fox. Bang, bang, left right combination to Fox’s head – except Fox was not there. He had already swayed right, ducked and installed a solid left rip to Rogers’ midriff and skipped away.
Fox circled Rogers. Everything Rogers did Fox saw in slow motion, even before it was initiated. Rogers whirled and shuffled towards Fox, eyes focussed keenly on his opponent, This kid’s good. I’d better watch him. He moved rapidly after Fox, trying to crowd him out of the ring. Jab, jab with the left, looking to plant a right cross. None of his blows landed. Again, Rogers tried to press Fox out of the ring, all the while his dynamite left pumping piston-like. Fox was elusive. He seemed to float around the ring, to tie Rogers in knots, to confound his sense of place.
The bell clanged. As Rogers returned to his corner he was aware the crowd had quietened, they sensed something different about this fight. Even Darrigan was baffled. He’d never seen Fox fight like this. He’d landed only two blows, both telling, yet he was overwhelming Rogers. Rogers’ approach was stolid, focussed and clearly professional. Fox was something else. He seemed ethereal.
Out again. Rogers decided to stay away from Fox, to draw him in, to make him box, not crowd him. Fox obliged. He entered Rogers’ fire zone and immediately bloodied his nose again, launched an upper cut and belted his ribs just under the heart. Rogers reeled. He could not believe Fox’s speed and dexterity. He’d had many fights but none like this. Fox was beginning to annoy him. He shook his head and charged at Fox, intending to clinch his neck and sink a hard right deep into his belly. Fox stood, waiting. Rogers cannoned into him, reached to imprison his head and was met by a straight left that sat him on his arse. The crowd roared and stomped their feet. This was something special. So far, although Rogers had swung many blows none had seemed to hit Fox. Rogers was purposeful and serious, Fox moved mischievously like thistledown. Rogers’ blows were ferocious and powerful. Fox was controlled, conserved his energy and exerted just enough power. His speed was dazzling. And now, Rogers had the indignity of having to wait for the count of eight.
The round ended as Darrigan bellowed eight. Last round. Rogers decided to demolish Fox. He was angry and knew that angry was not clever. He rushed across to the red corner ready to down the lazily rising Fox with a looping right to the head followed by a body rip. But, like smoke, Fox just floated away. As Rogers passed, he poked a stinging left under his guard and into his jaw. Rogers whirled and swung a long right hook at Fox that glanced off his gloves. Ha huh, he thought, he’s not invincible. Rogers stalked Fox. Left, left – left-right combination. Fox swayed, ducked and hammered Rogers’ ribs. And then, with ninety seconds to go, Fox attacked. Delicate, stinging blows surgically placed assaulted Rogers’ torso, head, arms and ears. It was not that the onslaught was brutal, just that it was fast and relentless. And Rogers could not escape. Before he knew it, he was on his back. Up again after the count of eight. Down again with his nose mashed for the third time. Up again after eight and down again with his head spinning from a cracking right cross.
The bell rang for the last time. For what seemed an eternity, the big tent was silent. Rogers, on his back, not hurt but embarrassed. Fox loped back to his corner, took a long draft of water and walked back to the centre of the ring. There, Darrigan proudly raised Fox’s arm as victor. He had never witnessed a bout like this before. He knew Fox was a great little fighter, but this … this was outstanding! The crowd yelled, whistled and bellowed their approval.
That night, Fox climbed the steps to his trailer.
‘Fox!’ A low voice called from the darkness. Fox waited, motionless; payback was known in the boxing-tent world. Rogers stepped into the light. ‘Fox. I’d like to talk to you.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say Rogers.’
‘So you know me then. Well,