Boxing's Been Good To Me, Howard

by jmiland1 Sat Apr 25, 2009 11:05 pm

One of the perks of having invested in Mulligan’s, rather than being contracted to them, was that he could set up his own schedule around the place. He didn’t have to show up at their whims; he could go when he wanted. Usually he’d go in every other weekend, maybe put something up on his Facebook so that people would know. It amazed him constantly that there were actually people so into this sport that even a niche figure like him had fans, or at least something close enough that there wasn’t much difference.
So it was today; he entered the store and almost immediately there were four people around him. Smiling and chuckling, saying hellos, he pushed the little group back so he at least could fit into the store, and clear the path around the door.
He’d shown up fifteen minutes later than his Facebook had promised, and from the thumbs-up Roger the Cashier gave him, it had worked. One of the fight fans had browsed and bought something in the wait, the bag still in his hands.
He and the foursome—two fight fans, a twelve-year-old boy, and the kid’s mother—annexed a little corner of the store to talk. The older fans would ask his opinion of some of the fighters, or talk to him about Brandon’s own days as a fighter years ago; the kid would pipe up with questions about who was tougher, This Guy or That Guy; the mother was silent. She gave off an air of polite disinterest, bored to tears but afraid of leaving her boy around men like this. Brandon couldn’t really begrudge her that, and all in all figured it was a safe attitude to have.
Upon hearing that Brandon had been a boxer—“I boxed, I didn’t fight; there’s a difference, kid;”—the young one asked him: “So, why don’t you do it anymore? Afraid you’d get your ass kicked?” He had a little smirk on his face.
“John! You watch your language.”
As mother chided son, and fight fans chuckled, and son smirked at Brandon, the Fairest just smiled. Wide and welcoming. He paused a bit, putting the words together. This had to be just right. He could see some of himself in this boy—a cockiness, a willingness to fight—and it was a dangerous road to go down. Brandon knew this well. So he decided some caution was in order. He leaned in close, wanting the boy to see him and only him. He spoke low but clearly.
“My ass kicked? No, not in MMA. But boxing is dangerous. It’s deadly. You can’t tap out, you don’t lose by being grappled; you lose by being punched, in the face, a lot. You ever see a slow-mo shot of a boxer getting jabbed in the face?” He licks his lips, picking up speed, not letting John answer. “There’s clips online. See one sometime. And after that, you keep looking online and find out what’s happened to your favorite boxers. People wanna say Ali’s Parkinson’s has nothing to do with boxing. Bullshit. Studies have been done that show boxers are ten times more likely to have dementia and brain damage when they’re older than regular folk. Ten times.”
Brandon stands up again, the smile still on his face, and he can feel the prickling of the boy’s flesh and there’s an acrid taste on his tongue and he can smell his fear, smell it, just for a second. And then it’s gone—too light of an emotion, too brief a fear, but it was there, and maybe a seed of it will stay within this child.
“So no. I’m not afraid of getting my ass kicked. I’m just afraid of drooling on myself when I’m old.” He laughs, trying to lighten the mood, and the older fans join in but not John and certainly not his mother. “So I got out of boxing. And I wasn’t good enough to be a full fledged mixed martial artist, simple as that. So I got out of the fight entirely and moved to talkin’ ‘bout ‘em.” He runs a hand down the line of his suit jacket. “’Bout the best move I ever made, really.”
He gives the boy a practiced pearly smile.