The crowd went mad. A knock-down in the first two minutes of the fight was something
they hadn’t expected, and they rose to their feet, screaming for me to go in and smash the
Kid.
I had gone to a neutral corner while the referee began his count. I was a little worried. I
hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. He remained on hands and knees, looking up at the
referee’s arm, a glazed stare in his eyes. But he got up at the count of seven and immediately
started back-pedalling. I went after him, hitting him with rights and lefts, but pulling my
punches, not wanting to get him into more trouble, but putting up a show to please the crowd.
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They were pleased all right. Every now and then I landed with an open glove, and the slap it
made sounded as if I were killing him.
He finally got his head clear and began to fight back. He was snarling and scared. I could
tell how scared he was by the way he threw punches that were yards short. All he was
thinking about now was to keep clear of my right. He had had one dose of it and he didn’t
want another.
The round ended with us leaning on each other and slamming at each other’s ribs. At close
quarters he was good, and he got in a couple of digs that hurt.
The bell went and I returned to my corner. While Waller was working over me, I looked in
her direction.
She was staring up at me, not smiling, her eyes angry, her mouth set. I knew what was the
matter with her. She hadn’t been fooled by those open-glove slaps even if they had fooled the
crowd. Waller shoved a sponge of cold water in my face. He was smart enough to see who
was distracting my attention, and he moved around so his body blocked her from my sight.
Brant came up as Waller was drying my face.
“What are you playing at?” he demanded in a breathless whisper. His face was white and
strained. “Why did you hit him like that?”
“Why not? He’s in here for a fight, isn’t he?”
“Petelli says …”
“Oh, the hell with Petelli!”
The bell went for the second round, and I moved out of my-corner. The Kid came out
cautiously, an apprehensive expression on his face. He kept pushing his left out, trying to
keep me away, but I had the longer reach. I poked one in his face, stepped in and hooked him
high up on the head. He fought back, catching me with a right and left that had a lot of steam
in them, and for a few seconds we mixed it, socking each other about the body while the
crowd roared its approval. The Kid was the first to break off.
I caught him with a hook as he moved away and opened a cut under his right eye. He was
swearing at me now, and I went after him, jabbing at his face with lefts and rights. He kept
covering up, trying to protect his damaged eye. I got in close and socked him in the body. It
must have dawned on him he wasn’t going to get an easy win, and in a frenzy of rage and
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desperation he suddenly cut loose.
He caught me with a right swing that had all his weight behind it. It was a stunning punch,
and it dazed me. As I groped my way into a clinch, trying to get my head clear, he butted me
in the face. I reeled back, covering up, and as he rushed, I slammed a left in his face, but he
knew he had hurt me, and kept coming, throwing punches from every angle. I rode most of
them, smothered the rest. It was a hectic minute, but I kept my head, knowing he was certain
to give me an opening, and he did. He slung a wild right that left him as wide open as the
ocean, and I stepped in and hung one on his jaw. He went down as if he had been cut off at
the knees.
