Two
I’m a walking, talking photo album. I know everyone in this gym and we’re like a life tapestry woven by shared experiences.
Bruce stands at five feet, five inches, and weighs less than the alley cat who feeds off the Chinese delicacies that are left by the dumpster.
When we were ten years old, Bruce’s dad used to drop us off at the movie theater while he socialized at the pub next door.
His relationship was with a fellow named Jack Daniel.
Sometimes he’d cheat with Jose Cuervo, but he always picked us up as the closing credits were rolling.
“Need a hand?”
“No. Thanks, Ronnie.”
“Just holler if you do.”
I’ve been wrapping my knee with a tensor bandage for the last twenty minutes.
There’s nothing wrong with my knee. I’m procrastinating, which I’m adept at doing.
Ron and I met by the side of the road while he was hitchhiking on a night when the wind and rain were so fierce, I couldn’t tell if he was a serial killer or not, so against my better judgement, I offered him a ride.
He was a student at a rival high school, but I instantly liked the guy.
Like me, he lost his dad at an early age, and I choked up hearing about his mother.
Every day, she would go sit on a bench outside of the hospital with her beloved Dachshund, Cooper, at exactly 9:26, the time of her husband’s death.
When Ronnie confided in me that he needed a job, I told him that Phoenix Boxing was always hiring guys for the dirty jobs, like wiping blood off the canvas in the ring and picking up lost teeth to return to their rightful owners, and he’s been working here ever since.
Phoenix. It’s an appropriate name for the place.
Like the mythical bird, this place rose from the ashes in 1956.
It started as an indoor market – the kind where links of sausages hang, wheels of cheese sit on the floor, and little old Italian ladies wrestle fresh tripe from each other’s gnarled hands.
When the fire broke out, the newspapers reported that the city smelled “delectable”, and “savory”.
Sometimes, when I’m here late at night, my nostrils fill with the ghostly scent of charred mortadella, otherwise known as the Italian Bologna.
After nearly two years of reconstruction, the building was sold to a German businessman who died three months after converting the place into a gym and ownership went to his son-in-law, a man that no one has ever seen.
Felix Hall currently runs Phoenix, and he tells every young kid who walks through the doors to “Spar with the devil, and win!”
“You going to sit around all day, or are we going to train?”
“Train.”
“Attaboy. Get your ass on the floor. I want a hundred today, and don’t give me any lip.”
When I first met Cable, my manager, I asked him if that was his real name.
Apparently, his mother was a high wire artist in the circus back in the 50s when they used steel cable.
Seeking fame and fortune, she died tragically after a bird spooked her while attempting to cross a canyon causing her to plummet to her death.
Her sponsors withdrew their support leaving the family destitute.
Cable took up boxing but was forced to retire after he was knocked out too many times and now suffers from impaired balance.
There’s nothing wrong with his voice, though.
“Your form’s off! Keep your feet hip-width apart! Clench that ass!”
I fucking hate push-ups.
“Act like your name!”
My boxer’s name is “Il Ragazzo Pazzo” which rhymes in Italian, but translated, it sounds like something a disgruntled grandpa would say: “Crazy boy”, so Cable also christened me “Brago” which is short for braggadocio.
A female interviewer once asked me if I liked referring to myself as a braggart and I blushed the same color red as my gloves.
I wanted to play on my last name in memory of my father, but nothing really rhymes with Conti.
“Who’s my sparring partner?” I gave up at eighty-three push-ups, sat up, and hugged my knees.
“Jackson. He’s almost identical in form to The Anvil. I swear that kid could bare-knuckle brawl before he could talk.”
“Which one? Anvil or Jackson?”
Cable frowned, which made his deep wrinkles more pronounced. “What’s wrong, kid? You worried? We’ve been training hard. Harder than we’ve ever trained.”
“I have a lot riding on this win.”
“Yeah. Moolah.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. I wasn’t lying.
Cable overturned a metal bucket and sat down, careful to maintain his balance. “You laying off the booze?”
“Mostly.”
“What do you mean ‘mostly?’ Your insides have to match your...”
“...outside. Yeah, I know.”
“Are you serious about winning?” I could tell that Cable was getting impatient with me. His eyebrow was twitching.
“No. I do this for the fun of it.”
“Fucking smartass. If you’re serious, remember what I told you, and Anvil won’t stand a chance.”
“You’ve told me a lot of things.”
“Crazy,” Cable said, leaning forward, “is more powerful than iron.”