Celtic_Tiger's blog

Michael had slipped his golden robe back on, but the front was undone as his hands were still wearing gloves. The room was empty of spectators and the overhead lighting had been restored to its full strength. The halogen lighting bounced off the metallic gold fabric, sweat spots on his forehead and chest and displayed sweat and spit stains on both of his gloves. Looking back at the ring, he felt his crotch tighten in his jock strap thinking about the fight. “Hey Michael, I have something cool to show you back in the change room.” Sean was standing in the doorway of the hall leading to the change area where Michael's night had begun. He was shirtless. The tightness became a full boner now. Michael looked at the far exit which led to where he was supposed to go now to see Jack Cole about his bonus. He looked back at Sean. “Lead the way.” following the younger man, they returned to his change room and Sean closed and locked the door behind them. Jack Cole could wait.

Jack sat behind his mahogany wooden desk, a freshly cut cigar held firmly in his curled mouth as he struck a wooden match and lit it, dragging deeply, and puffing several rings into the air. Peter Egan and his Father Paul Egan were seated across the way. As the office began to fill with the musky smell of his cigar, Jack lifted a large white box from the floor beside his chair and placed it on the desk in front of him. “Seeing how it was your request to see your brother in action before fighting him yourself, I took the liberty of procuring the gear you asked for as well. I was impressed with Michael’s performance tonight, as I can only assume the both of you are as well.” Paul’s expression shifted from suspicious to pride personified. “Both of my boys have grown to become men of strength, Michael and Peter vary in ability, but I feel are perfectly matched in their desire to settle the old score as to whom is better. After watching Michael clobber that neighbor of his tonight, I can’t say I know who to put my wager on.” Peter fixed his father with a stoic expression. Jack could read it though; he was doing this in part for his father’s approval. “Quite right Ser, a hard one to predict.” Pulling off the lid off the box, Jack began removing its contents one piece at a time laying them on the desk in front of him. It was not clear to Paul if these were reproductions or originals, but they were an exact replica of the gear he wore during his early teen years boxing in the Chicago Golden Gloves minus the dark brown cloth robe with gold satin trim he once owned. Peter’s eyes lit up like a child’s who had just been given a great pile of presents.

After entering the small mahogany wood, dark brown leather and maroon painted changing room again, it had a different feel to it now completely. The soft click of the door being locked by Sean sent a jolt of anticipation up Michael’s spine. He turned to face the younger man who was smirking back at him. “Robe off and lay down on the changing table. You decide if you want to start on your back or your front first. Michael removed his robe and hung it up on a nearby hook. He was partially sore from his fight with Dan but had suffered no significant head trauma. Sitting down on the table he waited while Sean undid his shoes, removing the socks as well. Next the handsome younger man produced a pair of long nose scissors and cut into the tape and wrapping around Michael’s knuckles. His hands were red from the pressure, and it felt good to have the wraps gone. Lying down on his back, he was jolted suddenly when Sean pulled his satin trunks off with one clean, swift motion. As if in response to this action, Michael’s penis became erect and struggled against the protective cup like a stallion against a bridle. Sean took off his own shirt now, exposing a well toned slightly ruddy body. His chest and stomach had a faint trail of chestnut coloured hair, but it looked like a young boy’s in comparison to Michael’s who had a thick grey/brown almost hide like quality mat of it. Sean stared at it for a moment and then down the length of the older man’s body. “Now that is one manly looking form. Hold on and I will adjust something.” Sean undid the small clasp on the side of the jock strap and slipped it off and from under Michael’s backside. Picking up a small circular can, he extracted some type of thick white lotion onto his hands and rubbed them together. Starting from the shoulders downward, he began to slowly massage Michael’s willing body. A small shiny pool of precum formed along the opening of the penis as pleasure filled the fight winner’s body. “I don’t give a proper massage to just any of the fighters we get through here, only those who win their bouts by knock out. I must admit when you put Dave down, man I came in my boxers, that was poetry handsome.”

Michael felt as if he could slowly drift off to sleep. The pressure mixed with the cooling component of the cream being applied across his torso was working all the strain out of his muscles. Sean moved along his chest, down his abdominal muscles and along the perimeter of his cock and balls. Then onto his inner thighs, outer and down all the way to his feet. “I can tell you are enjoying this. I can’t take care of you completely, Jack’s house rule, no sex but we can always make plans for another day, say your place.” Michael grinned and looked up into the younger man’s blue eyes. “Oh, count on that buddy.” Sean gave his full-frontal body a good second pass over, save for his man parts and then had him flip over. Placing his elbow hard into the center of Michael’s back. Any stress that his body had retained from the fight was now gone. Sean’s prowess as a massage therapist eclipsed that of his corner man duties. Michael wondered if he did this as his primary job. Great diligence was made along the side of his back, ribs, and the back of his thighs. When he got to the calf muscles, he began to bend Michael’s legs back till hist heel practically touched the back of his thighs. “Your legs are extremely flexible, explains all that fantastic footwork out there Champ.” Next Sean began to turn his ankles along their natural rotation. He than tapped down the base of the foot below the toes to the heels and this affected Michael’s entire bodies circulation. It was subtle, like a small scratch. Sean administered the injection between the big and second toes and within moments Michael was unconscious.

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Pete left the office with Dan, who was carrying the box full of his boxing equipment. After each piece had been visually and physically appraised, they were put back in. Jack suggested that it might be an hour or more before Michael would be ready for their bout and the small crowd, he had invited would not arrive till two hours from now. He asked if Dan would take Pete to the change room that Dan had used to get him sorted out. Once they had left the small room, Jack offered a cigar to Paul. Taking one he waited while the Englishman lit it. “I must say, you are the first father that I have had contact me to arrange not one but two fights for your sons.” Jack’s smile was partially snake-like. “That was welcomed though.” Paul nodded but he remained stoic. He got a very strange feeling off this man, “Well I always wanted to see what Michael could do potentially and his legal issues with Dave Woodall seemed like a great way to find out. As for the twins settling their old dispute over a fight, they had with each other as boys. Well, that time I didn’t referee, and I think they both let their egos get the better of them. This time they are both grown men, Pete needed to watch his brother win a fight and now they will put that old issue to bed.” Jack nodded. “Good, not that you would tell me, but I wonder who you would pick if they weren’t your sons.” He paused to ash his cigar and passed the tray to Paul to do the same. “You are right. I won’t be answering that question.”

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Through a hazy sheen of water, Michael’s eyes struggled to focus upon waking. Still lying on the thick padding of the rubdown table in the same room but Sean was gone. Another change was now that he was dressed again from robe to booted feet. Sitting up slowly, his gloved hands making his grip of the table tenuous he cleared his mind and slowly stood up. A full-length wall mirror at the back off the room reflected all new gear. Thick, tan 12oz gloves that looked like the kind they used in the early Carnival days of the 1900s were laced neatly upon both of his hands. Their thick cuffs gave them a weighted feeling. His metallic gold robe had been replaced by a black cloth style with tan satin trimming. In some ways it resembled an old smoking jacket. The tan sash undone revealing his thick hairy chest and midsection which met with a pair of black and tan cloth shorts, not trunks in the modern sense of the word. The black leather short top boots on his feet completed the entire kit and exactly what decade of the 1900s it all belonged to was unknown to him. Inside his gloves he could feel that his hands were rebound again with wraps. Why did Sean drug him, dress him? His mind was balancing admiration for the new look versus the urge to find the younger man and punch him out. This Jack Cole liked things to be exactly how he wanted them. His employees were loyal to a fault too apparently. A hard wrap came on the dark wooden door and then the knob turned and Dan the second cornerman entered the room now carrying a towel and a white plastic water bottle with an attached straw. “Your final bout of the evening will be taking place soon. Mr. Cole wanted me to trade places with Sean and work your corner instead.” Michael moved closed to Dan and tapped his right glove twice on the man’s shoulder. “Let your boss know that I could have dressed myself and I am not a fan of his use of sedatives.” The stern look seemed to fall flat on Dan, however. He had an almost military stoicism to his personality. “So, who am I going to be knocking out this time?” Dan wrapped the towel around Michael’s neck and opened the door to allow him to pass through first. “Please Mr. Egan, I am not allowed to answer that question. Proceed into the hallway until announced.”

Both the Platinum and the Diamond sections were completely empty now. The new set of spectators, about thirty or so in all were occupying the gold section. Table trays were added before each of their seats and held various alcoholic drinks, ashtrays for cigarettes and cigars and a small metal bell. These gentlemen were upper society Englishmen visiting Jack’s Club from London and Manchester. Those in the front row were old school chums of his who had known him since his university days. Even then he was arranging discreet fighting for wager and prize money. He also settled a couple of his personal disputes in the gloves. Exclusive crowd fights that saw his closest friends watch him pummel several of those he had a score to settle with often ending in a flashy knockout. He did not tell them anything about the fight they were attending, just that it was two locals settling an old score. Several of the men decided to hold a blind purse/wager based on the red and blue corner method. The winning boxer’s corner color would be decided based on the number of votes for that fighter. Then a bag of random marbles would be passed around and the white one drawn would be the gentleman who got the winnings collected. To be fair that method covered the unknown nicely. The overhead speaker blared open from static noise to Jack’s voice “Good evening, Gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s main event.” Each of the adjoining hallways had speakers as well so his voice carried to both sides. Michael and Dan representing the red corner and Sean and Pete occupying the blue one. “Would the fighters enter now and enter the ring.” Jack paused waiting for the two sets of men to appear. The music was raised now, an old time 1900s style melody that was popular during the Carnival days in early Chicago.

Pete placed both of his gloved hands-on Sean’s shoulders after pulling up his hood to cover his face. His robe was the direct opposite style to his brothers, primarily tan cloth with black satin trim and the long sash. Sean began to walk at a medium pace and Pete bobbed up and down with each step, his body full of pent of aggression. When they emerged into the main room there was a vigorous round of applause from the small crowd. As he was getting into the boxing ring on the blue corner side, Michael and Dan were already arriving at the red one and both boxers’ hoods hid their faces. Michael looked across the ring now at his opponent and what he recognized instantly were the black Tuf-Wear 1950’s gloves the man had on. They were exactly like the kind that his father Paul had used when he fought in the Golden Gloves. Also, the boots he had on with the white soles and thin black laces. For the briefest of moments Michael wondered if his next fight was going to be against his own Father. That notion was quickly wiped from his mind as suddenly his father slid between the top and middle ropes and entered the ring wearing a black and white striped zip up shirt to identify him as the referee. He was surprised. Pulling down his hood he revealed his face and for a moment his father made eye contact then looked away. His opponent did him one better and not only removed his hood but slid his robe off entirely. Michael was familiar with this man, absolutely this body type as well as his twin brother was remarkably similar in build and hair pattern just slightly smaller. The music stopped as Michael took off his own robe and fixed Sean with an angry look. Sean did not meet his gaze though and kept looking straight ahead.

Jack came back on the overhead speaker, and he walked down the middle row toward the ring carrying the microphone in hand. Climbing through the ropes himself, he was dressed again in his partial tuxedo without a shirt underneath. His friends clapped as he took a brief bow and came to stand beside Paul in the centre of the ring. “Thank you, lads, it is my great pleasure to introduce our two fighters for the main event as well as their father and referee, a former Golden Gloves boxer. Paul Egan.” He paused for applause and Paul made a half bow motion. The introduction process was the same as the previous bout. When it came time to give each boxer his chance to say a few words over the microphone. Michael kept it short and simple “I won all those years ago but tonight I will leave no doubts, when I knock you out Pete.” Pressing his gloves together, Michael walked to the side of the ring facing the small crowd and made a bowing motion. Pointing his right glove at his brother he walked back to his corner with his arm extended as if pointing to him. Pete grinned as the microphone came close to his lips “That’s funny Mike, we will see who knocks out who.” Extending his own right hand, he pointed his glove at his brother and with his left gloved hand, grabbed his jocks strap in a rude gesture. Michael felt his hands clinched up in his gloves into two solid fists.

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THE FIRST ROUND ~
Once Jack had exited the ring and both Egan twins had their mouth guards pressed firmly into place. The room erupted in noise as the gentlemen in attendance began to cheer in anticipation of round one’s action. Paul met each of his sons’ eyes and did a “Ready” check. Pete nodded that he was as did Michael. Pointing at both men, he bit slightly down on the small plastic whistle in his mouth and blew through it then as it dropped from his lips to dangle around his neck, he spoke in raised voice “Box!” Pete and Michael met each other near the centre of the ring and tapped lead gloves, right hand to right hand. Then without any pause or hesitation they both went at each other with opening jabs. Pete clipped Michael’s chin with his left glove and immediately took a flush return jab to his nose. The hard leather giving every so slightly upon meeting the bridge. He retaliated by using his quick reflexes to dodge a follow-up right-handed shot and digging his right hook hard into Michael’s rib area. Jarring his brother’s body with the shot he proceeded to connect a left uppercut to the chin. However, the glove only met its counterpart as the punch was deflected and in that small window of an opening, Michael thumped his brother’s left eye with a solid straight right. Pete’s wincing face was like he had just been fed a lemon whole. A stiff jab met his hair laden chest, another straight right rammed hard to his mid-section and a quick breath filled grunt escaped Pete’s mouth. Paul watched this exchange with a slight grin on his lips. Managing to move in close and grapple Michael’s arms tight they clinched up.

In terms of sheer strength, Michael was the stronger twin and was able to free his right arm from the grapple. Using it to pummel his brother’s abdomen and rib area with shovel hooks. The gloves laces facing upward as the arm was thrust forward. The discomfort of the hits forced the clinch to end, and Pete pulled his elbows in tight, his gloves together in front of his face and moved away to regroup his strategy. It would not be practical to try and go toe-to-toe with Michael. Weaving, bobbing, and guarding he managed to stop two incoming shots and then the window presented itself. Michael’s defensive glove was a bit low and so Pete took the opportunity to connect a wide angled bolo punch to the side of his forehead. The shot made Michael see a white flash of light that blocked out all vision. Pete thumped his right-handed glove flush into his brother’s chin almost dead center and his left uppercut was successful in snapping Michael’s head back as a ribbon of spit flew up from his parted lips. Paul’s eyes widened. Michael’s eyes saw floating specks of light and both of his ears popped. He was just barely aware of the sound of the round bell being rung. His return to his corner was disorienting. The room tilted and blurred. Pete got back to his corner and a giant smirk was strewn across his face. Sean tugged his mouthpiece out and gave him water. “You almost ended the show early, he really got rocked.” Sean’s voice was full of restrained arousal. Dan got Michael’s nose filled with the pungent sting of the smelling salts and his guard out. Already his saliva was red with blood. Although no advice came or response. Michael got his head clear and fixed his gaze across the ring at his brother. Anyone who could see his face knew exactly what he was thinking. You are going to pay for that.

THE SECOND ROUND ~
The ringing bell just barely finished its distinctive sound before the room’s crowd drowned it out with the cheering. Leather met leather as the two Egan’s tapped gloves out of traditional respect and the jabbing began anew. The speed advantage of Pete’s saw him land first to Michael’s lips and again in rapid succession. Although the shots only barely registered as Michael’s focus had become rock solid after the narrow escape at the end of round one. He ducked and brought a short, looping style uppercut hard into Pete’s stomach. Following it up with a good solid hook to the upper ribs and stunning his brother, his legs faltering. Pete went forward to attempt a new clinch, but his reaching arms went almost slack now as Michael turned his glove as it smashed hard into the solar plexus area of the chest. On the exhale at the time the punch buckled him at the knees and his legs went stiff as a corpse in an ice storm. These punches happened in the span of seconds and his arms were only halfway sagging down when Michael struck his left eye again. The birth of a lump raised against the outer eye socket and bruising was soon to be the result. Then the hooks came, left and right-handed gloves buffeted Peter’s head from side to side. His vision seeing a blurry Michael’s face, the gloves tan leather and then spots before his eyes.

Paul watched this one-sided session as if it were all taking place in slow motion. Michael’s sudden control of the round really filled him with deep pride. He wasn’t even aware of how Pete was now down on his hands and knees near the ropes, as he hadn’t even seen him fall or what punch had put him there. Michael’s 4th left hook had turned his brother’s body and head at the same time and he crashed first into he ropes and the reflexively he put out both of his hands as he went down to the canvas below. His upper lip split and bleeding slightly, his left eye sporting a proper blackened mouse. His parted lips fighting to gather oxygen as strands of spittle hung down. Michael stood over his fallen brother and with a motion he pointed at himself with his gloves thumb and taunted loudly “Come on Pete, get up if you can.” Paul intervened to move Michael off to the neutral corner while he had one glove raised to the ceiling as he walked there. Pete was up and leaning against the ropes when Paul gave him the standing eight count. Michael looked his brother over now, admiring what he had done so far. Even his chest hair seemed a bit limp as if he had knocked some of the masculinity out of his brother. To his surprise, Pete was willing to continue and had his guard up and moving toward the center of the ring. Michael banged his gloves together out of pent-up excitement at the idea of being able to work his brother over some more and went into the center of the ring to do just that. Something like a miniature tornado formed inside the middle of the ring, like those old cartoons strip clouds with stars and spirals and gloved fists shooting out. Both Egan brothers were actively exchanging shots back and forth. Moving around the ring wildly. Pete connecting jabs to the face, Michael tagging his brother’s body. A sudden evening up of the fight seemed to have occurred. Paul could only imagine hearing one of those old timey fight commentators calling the blow by blow. When the round bell called a halt to the brawling, Peter had just caught Michael’s right eye hard enough to begin the bruising process. Exchanging looks they returned to their own corners and rested.

Sean cupped his hands under Pete’s upper chest to apply some of the tiger balm he had hidden there. Jack taught him this trick. A potent concoction of herbs and alcohol it would continually refresh Pete’s concentration for a short time. “There, just keep your chin down low enough to get a whiff of this champion. Guaranteed to help you power past any big hits that Michael might connect. I can only assume your going for the knockout this round?” Sean was actively kneading both of Pete’s shoulders in a drawn-out circular motion. Michael stared across the ring as he spit out his water at Sean. “Fucker” was all he could think to mutter. Dan didn’t act like he had heard but he knew that Sean was playing head games. Business as usual. Jack’s booming English voice filled the rooms speakers “Gentlemen, lets have a round of applause for these two brothers. They truly have been giving us a great bout this evening. They remind me of the Krays. The mention of the infamous twin London gangsters got the crowd even louder in their approval. The bell sounded on the heels of his announcement.
THE THIRD ROUND ~

Meeting again in the middle of the squared platform, the brothers tapped glove to glove hastily and instead of commencing with a wild exchange, they began to pace around each other with their individual guards up. Looking deep into each others’ eyes for the cue to strike. As if they had flipped a coin beforehand to see who would punch where. Michael went high while Pete went low and several good shots struck nose, chin, ribs, and it was Michael’s turn to get shaken by an unexpected solar plexus punch. He wasn’t as disoriented by it as Pete had been, but it opened enough of a gap in his defense for a flurry of frontal face punches by alternating gloved hands found their mark. Paul had this visual of Michael’s head turning into a double-ended bag and Pete was doing routine workout against it. Jab, Jab, Straight shot combos after combo turned Michael’s forward vision into a flashy, black leather filled punch-fest. He was forced back against the ropes, and they shook as the up top punching came low to attack his stomach and sap some of his stamina. The room tilted and spun as Pete landed across the outer edge of Michael’s chin dislodging his mouthpiece. Down goes Egan. Michael hit the canvas on the upper part of his right arm first before the side of his forehead struck the canvas next. His blood spotted hair sprayed sweat off in all directions. His guard had flown across the ring to land near Pete’s corner. Pete, his chest heaving up and down stood over his downed twin. “Come on, wake up Mikey.” He taunted before Paul got his arm across his chest and shoved him back and away to the neutral corner.

Paul began to lift and then lower his arm in a sweeping motion as he administered the addition of finger meeting finger in the time honored ten counts. Michael was not out yet. He groped for the middle rope with his left glove and all the fight left in his tank seemed to pool now to get him back up. By the count of five he was shakily on his boots and leaning against the ropes. Dan had retrieved his mouthguard and over the sound of the crowd came Sean’s voice “Leave it out, he’s done” followed by a hard laughing. A couple of the men in the crowd laughed as well at Sean’s insult. While Dan got the guard back in Michael’s mouth and Paul looked deep into his son’s eyes. “Do you want to continue” the words were slowed down in Michael’s perception. It wasn’t grogginess that marred his father’s voice it was blind focus. Nodding his head, he looked at his father and narrowed his brow. Pete left the neutral corner to meet his brother in the center of the ring once more. Just as the two of them met there, Pete went to land a big left hook to the side of the head thinking one good knock there would set his brother back on the road to knockout land. Michael waited till the last possible moment to duck deep, dodging the punch and then he railed his brothers stomach dead on to compress his tan leather glove hard and deep into it. Pete’s eyes became as wide as two dinner plates. Michael nailed him hard to the jaw with a big right hook that turned his shoes inward, and his knees practically knocked together. Pete stumbled backward, partially flying there as he was on a collision course with his own corner. Jab, right cross, and left hook became the driving vehicle that brought his back into the stiff leather of his corner’s turnbuckle. His bottom lip began to swell. He meekly pulled up his gloves to protect his face from more hits and in a shocking twist, Michael’s next right cross didn’t target his brother. In a strange simultaneous action, the sounding of the round bell and Michael’s glove pancaking hard against Sean’s shocked expression was slowed in Paul’s perception.

Jack was on his feet just after Sean flew backward and then down to the dark carpet flooring below. Knocked cold. Moving fast, Jack got into the ring and pushed Michael back to his own corner. Grabbing Pete under his arms with his own forearms and propping the disoriented man up against the top ropes. His sleight of hand as good as it was, didn’t go unnoticed by Paul who spotted something slipped out of his front jacket pocket. Jack’s atomizer “wake up spray.” Shined in the lighting above. He had only begun to squeeze the rubber nub tip to bring Pete back “round” for more action when his arm was seized hard by Paul and the small metal canister was yanked away. “Whoa now, my son’s going to fight it will be on his own doing clown.” Jack fixed Paul with a mean expression and then jerked his own arm free. “Very good Sir, as you say.” Crouching down to get his atomizer he exited the ring by ducking under the middle rope and spoke into his attached microphone “Get Sean replaced now, the fight continues.” Michael leaned against his own turnbuckle waiting. He didn’t want to sit anymore. A blond-haired gentleman appeared and began acting as Pete’s corner. Getting his stool in and Pete’s guard out. Cobwebs filled Pete’s mind, but they were beginning to break apart. Paul returned to the center of the ring and waited. Michael leaned his elbows on the top rope and had a smug look on his face. Paul liked it.

THE FOURTH ROUND ~
A fresh mouthguard had been put into Pete’s mouth and when the fourth-round bell chimed, he was up and moving to meet Michael head on. The tiger balm Sean applied was all but evaporated but it had done its job to help bring his aching head back into focus. They met and tapped gloves. All the impending fight action that was stored up in Pete’s brain now wasn’t given much of a chance to happen. His head snapped back abruptly as each of Michael’s rock stiff jabs locked his neck. A fresh coat of swelling to his bottom lip. Paul had gotten with in a few feet of the twins now and he had the best view in the house. Pete’s face turned to be looking his father right in his eyes, but his gaze was glassed over. A beautifully connected left hook was the reason. Then his mouth sagged into a huge frown-like shape and a right uppercut mounted his head like a deer on a hunter’s wall. Pete fell backward following the momentum of his brother’s uppercut. His eyes rolled up and sideways. The order in which he hit the canvas was the back of his head, the upper back, both shoulders, as his legs flew up and then came down hard so did both of his arms and gloved hands. It was up for debate whether he was conscious after the punch or after hitting the deck but either way he had just been knocked out. Paul looked down, then at Michael and grabbed his son’s taped wrist area and raised his arm for the crowd. The gentlemen in attendance all got to their feet and were in the process of cheering the victory when two objects followed by a smaller, third object struck the overhead lighting and flew into the ring. They were a pair of black modern lace up boxing gloves and a white mouthguard. Jack’s voice rose above the cheering crowd as it had before over the room speakers and his tone of voice had sharpened like knives. “We have seen what the son can do, now its time to see what the father can do.” Jack entered the room from the back now, he was shirtless and a pair of black lace up boxing gloves hung around his neck.

Dan and Michael helped Pete recover and got him first to the nearest corner and then using his brother for support, Michael pulled Pete under the lowest rope while Dan supported him from the other side. Getting him into one of the closest seats that bordered the front row. Jack arrived now, he was in ornate looking black and red boxing trunks and boots, a rose on the left leg panel. “You will work your father’s corner.” He spat the words at Michael like commanding him, he wasn’t asking. Michael instead of looking at Jack investigated the ring at his father. Paul had already scooped up the gloves and guard and was to the red corner. He was clearly taking the challenge. Michael looked back at Jack “I am going to enjoy watching him kick your ass pal.” Michael strut across along the front of the ring. Jack looked at his back with two small contempt filled eyes. The blond man began to wrap Jacks’s hands and apply the gloves as Michael discarded his own on the floor by the corner apron. Paul had stripped off his shirt and was still in his referee slacks. “Hey Dad, you want my gear?” Michael asked. Paul shook his head. “No need son, just get me laced up here. This won’t take long.” Michael grinned and did just that.

One of the men in attendance got up from his seat and walked over to stand just outside of the ring by Jack’s corner. “Oi Jack, you sure about this mate. This geezer looks like he will give you a proper thrashing in there. I mean your rusty son.” Jack turned and with a quick sweeping motion, back hand slapped the man with his gloved hand across the face. “Mind your tongue and get back to your seat.” The man did as he was told, a red spot on his cheek for his trouble. In not time both were laced, guards in and ready. A familiar voice came over the speakers now, Jack’s accent filled the room, but its proper London cadence had been replaced by a more American sounding accent, a poor attempt at Chicagoese. “Gentleman, welcome to the main event. Jack “The Fighting Rose” Cole versus Paul Egan. This will be an open round. The first man to get knocked down will be declared the loser of the bout. Good luck to both fighters.” Paul banged his gloves together several times and stood up in anticipation of the bell ringing. Jack stood up and had both of his gloves up, resting on his upper chest in a strange sort of posture. A cocky expression on his face and the glint of an unknown substance coating his thick handlebar style mustache.

THE FINAL ROUND ~
Pete was still recovering from being knocked unconscious, but his partially marred attention was fully on his father now. Michael too was intently watching for the way this showdown would play out. Both gentlemen raised their gloves in a defensive manner and the bell sounded. Paul came out in an orthodox stance, while Jack came out in that of a southpaw one. Cole seemed desperate to get his gloves to their target first. This was after all his club, his guests. Sadly, all his opening punches were deflected and blocked. All two of them before Paul Egan smashed Jack Cole’s nose and mouth area with a wicked right cross. Forgoing the standard jab first. The sudden strike had taken Cole out of his game plan. No time was given to him to recover however, Paul tagged the side of his jaw with a beautiful left hook that clearly rocked the older man. Karma, or irony. The slick of tiger balm on his stache had been transposed to Paul Egan’s right glove. When next another great right cross blasted Cole’s jowls into a quivering state, the ointment overpowered his senses forced drastically up his nostrils. This shot had really damaged him. The uptake of ointment met the downflow of blood droplets. Several digging body hooks corralled Jack Cole toward the far ropes and his back met them as his face was contorted. Paul Egan quickly had turned Jack Cole into a punching bag with eyes. Looking back at his sons and the rest of the gentlemen in attendance he raised his left glove as if to show it off and then wham, blasted it hard into Jack’s stomach to the point that the glove sank cuff deep into the supple flesh there. Cole doubled over from the punch and both of his arms and gloves went to cover the spot. His eyes pinched closed and his lips parted to reveal a thick white mouthguard which had been partially unseated.

The body shot seemed to have taken all the fight out of Cole. Paul placed his right glove on top of the man’s head bracing his forehead with it. An extremely disrespectful gesture. Like a schoolyard bully toying with his daily victim. He waved at the crowd with his free hand. Suddenly the side of his face was contorted by a shiny black orb. Jack had jerked his head to the side to free it from the American’s glove and then came up faster than expected to plant a textbook right hook to the side of Egan’s face. Paul took two steps back and then his feet were after a fashion, connected to his jawline. Jack scored several more glove over glove shots dead to the chin area. Each punch making him take a step. “That a boy Jack, give him what for.” Someone yelled from the cheap seats. Although solid and jarring the punches only served to focus Paul’s anger. Suddenly, with the head movement of a cobra he dodged the next two punches. Then counter punched Cole with a center of the glove one-two. The old classic. The forward momentum of Cole’s comeback hit the brick wall of Egan’s knuckles. Spit sailed off his bottom lip as his mouth jerked open. Clearly stunned, Cole was open season. Paul went in with straight jabbing, and right-handed blows to work the eyes now. Punch after punch shook Jack’s head and to Michael, he looked like one of those bobble head dolls. As his fathers left hook flattened up against Jack’s cheek, the man’s faint but budding twin black eyes were born. Jack staggered into the ropes on the red corner side, and he was standing facing Michael when his father followed and came to stop in his forward step to plant both of his feet firmly.

It did not happen by any foreplaning on Paul Egan’s part but the follow-up punches that would send Jack Cole down hard to the white canvas platform below had become Michael’s own ringside show. His mind drifted back to the early years of watching his father work the heavy bag in their basement. Cole lifted his weak guard to cover his face from more punches. The nose full of tiger balm, compacted by the fisticuffs of Paul Egan had him in a bad way. From the side, dead on center to his ear and cheek area. A real beauty of a straight right connected hard. Jack’s eyes glassed up. Paul spoken suddenly “That one was for my son Pete your shady fuck.” His voice was a bit muffled by the mouthguard, but Michael could make out what he had said. Jack heard it. He mistakenly took it as a signal that Paul was distracted and turned to throw a wild right haymaker at the side of his head. Paul simply extended his forearm and blocked the punch. Shaking his head back and forth he smirked. The series of punches that followed were quick, perfectly executed and brought dead silence to the room. A right hook to the jaw, a left hook deep to the stomach, off that momentum a left uppercut flush to the face, not the chin cemented the two shiners created earlier. Cole’s arms flew up from the force and a nasty right hook was connected just below his arm sending a shock wave of energy across the front of his chest. In some circles, this was called the heart punch. It shook his body and head like a puppet on strings. Too out of it now the last shots never registered in Jack Cole’s mind. Paul placed a glove on his chest and pushed the man flush against the ropes. Bam! A flush right-hand shot struck the chin dead center. Another, Another and yes Another. Each shot snapping his head back and forth. Jack’s lower lip was fat as a slug after a rainstorm. Both of his sunken eyes were ringed now by perfect black and blue rings. Pete thought he looked like Bluto at the end of a Popeye cartoon. Michael didn’t want to feel his growing erection his trunks because it was his father doing this beatdown, but it was too late.

His slicked back hair was now fraying in the front. Blood ran down both of his nostrils. His arms had gone slack, and his gloved hands were down by his sides. Like teeing off on a perfect golf stroke. Paul Egan delivered one final blow to finish off Jack “The Fighting Rose” Cole. A punch that time had forgotten. Dipping down, he brought his left glove up in what seemed like a standard uppercut, but his wrist began to twist the glove as it rose into a “corkscrew” style shot once popular in the early 1900s. Laces facing Paul, the shot connected dead center under Jack’s jawline. After his head snapped back from the force his head did a slow circular motion and Paul stepped aside to watch the older man fall, arms to his side face first to the canvas below. His left cheek met first, then his forehead and upper chest as both broad pectorals flattened against the canvas. His knees and boots also met very closely around the same time. What some crude fans called “The Coffin Pose” Cole was completely knocked out cold. Paul Egan put his right boot on Cole’s back and raised both arms. The crowd who had fallen fully silent now began cheering. Pete Egan knew that Jack Cole wouldn’t hear him yell but he did anyway. “That’s what we call and old-fashioned Chi Town Ass Whooping Chump!” Sean who had recovered from his own knockout was sitting at the neighboring table with and ice pack on his head. He looked across at Michael who had been staring at his twin and laughing. Their eyes met.

~ The End