CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE #4
He was fifteen, practicing combinations on the heavy bag in the garage, following his dad’s instructions.
Jab, jab, kick. Jab, jab, knee. Hook to the body, hook to the head.
Denting the bag with a vicious elbow. He was fast. A whirlwind.
Then his dad threw a towel at him and told him that he fought like Jersey Joe Walcott.
Not a ton of power, but fast. His dad explained how people who fought Jersey Joe got picked apart until they crumbled.
That is until Joe met Rocky Marciano. Jersey Joe dropped Marciano in the first round, then stayed out of Marciano’s range and tattooed him for thirteen rounds.
He was too slick for Marciano. But Marciano was a bull, taking three punches to deliver one to Jersey Joe’s body.
And the punishment eventually slowed Jersey Joe until the thirteenth round, when Marciano landed a right that put Joe on his knees.
And that was where Joe stayed, one arm draped over the ropes while the ref counted him out.
He didn’t get up for a long time after that punch.
Conor remembered his dad slapping him on the back and saying, “So here’s the deal. If you’re gonna fight like Jersey Joe, remember one thing—don’t ever fight Marciano.” Conor looked across the cage at Cracker, still plodding relentlessly forward.
Shit.
Cracker rushed in, feinting a left to Conor’s head.
Conor looped an overhand right to Cracker’s jaw.
It connected with a crack, but Cracker’s uppercut to his midsection came out of nowhere.
Conor felt a spear of pain deep inside. Cracker dove in to grab his legs.
Conor sprawled, using his weight to drive Cracker to the ground, then jumped clear.
He circled away, coughing. That punch hurt.
He coughed again and wiped his mouth. Blood shone on his hand.
“And it begins,” said Cracker, rising to his feet, nodding at the blood.
Conor ran scenarios through his head. Cracker had nearly finished him on the ground. Standing with him was no better. Punches bloodied him but didn’t seem to hurt him. The only option seemed to be Angel’s advice. Run. And try to outlast this thing that looked like a man but fought like a machine.
He almost got caught twice over the next half hour.
The first time he was jabbing and moving, trying to stay away from Cracker’s body shots.
But he was so tired he didn’t realize Cracker was steering him into a corner.
Cracker dove in, wrapped his arms around his legs, and lifted.
Conor was off the ground, bracing for a slam on the concrete when Cracker slipped in a smear of blood.
He lost his grip and Conor wriggled free.
The second time was bad. Cracker’s body shots had taken their toll.
Blood rattled in Conor’s lungs. Every time Cracker got close, Conor threw a combination then dropped his guard to block the inevitable body shot.
Then Cracker got cute. He faked to the body and went to the head.
The punch rocked Conor. Warning lights flashed.
Conor went into overdrive and stood toe-to-toe with Cracker, trading punches.
The first head shot by Cracker was the hardest punch of the flurry, but he caught three for every one he landed after that.
The crazy hillbilly even backed up under the barrage, but Conor couldn’t keep up the effort.
He was so tired.
And Cracker kept pressing him, never giving him a moment’s rest.
The dance in Conor’s step faded to nothing.
He slid flat-footed around the cage, watching Cracker, searching for something that would make a difference.
He’d used everything he’d ever learned. Kicked him in the balls.
Chopped him in the throat. Even poked him in the eye.
Nothing stopped him. Cracker’s face was a mess, with his left eye all puffed up, but it was a fool’s bargain to go for that eye.
To get to it, Conor had to step in close enough for Cracker to land a body shot, and he wasn’t sure he could take one more.
Conor spat blood on the cold concrete. One more to his body would finish him.
He searched through all he knew about fighting.
He’d used every last bit. Nothing was left but a memory of Angel comparing Cracker to the man-eating jaguar in Somalia, advising Conor to run.
He licked his lips, tasting blood as Cracker closed on him.
Cracker lunged. Conor dropped his arms to cover his ribs. Something hard and heavy clubbed the side of his head.
As he was falling, Conor saw the blur of Cracker’s foot sweep past. Cracker caught him with a head kick.
Conor’s skull bounced off the concrete. Then he saw two Crackers, both bloody-faced and dripping with sweat, standing over him.
He tried to move, but every part of him was short-circuited.
A high-pitched ringing filled his head. He watched Cracker straddle him, placing his knees on either side of his face.
Conor closed one eye, turning Cracker’s two faces into one, watching as Cracker opened his mouth. Conor flexed his fingers, feeling the air vibrate with Cracker’s rebel yell.
Conor wondered if this was what the hunter felt like when the jaguar opened its mouth for the kill.