Stephen Solomita - A Piece of the Action

Moodrow, without bothering to reply, held both gloves out for Spinelli’s inspection. It was going to be a long night for the little referee, though he didn’t know it. At a hundred and sixty pounds, Spinelli was too small to control a pair of determined heavyweights. He’d need the fighters’ cooperation and he wasn’t going to get it.

His gloves laced and inspected, Moodrow got up and began to move around the ring. O’Grady did the same. Both men were sweating profusely and neither wanted to cool off before the opening bell. Inevitably, they passed each other in the center of the squared circle.

“Do yourself a favor, flatfoot,” O’Grady snarled. “Fall down early.”

Moodrow let his eyes flick up to meet O’Grady’s, then jerked them away. There were no scars over the fireman’s eyes and his nose was as straight as a ruler. That was going to change. Liam O’Grady, the Fighting Fireman, might come out of this fight a winner, but he wasn’t going to come out unmarked.

“Go back to your corners,” Spinelli ordered. “They’re gonna do the intros.”

Deputy Mayor Gold was short and forty pounds overweight. Even with a cop and a fireman to hold the ropes apart, he had trouble getting into the ring. The crowd jeered, then broke into laughter. Moodrow heard none of it. He’d never been more focused in his life, never more determined. The Gold Shield was riding on the end of his right hand. Once he had it, he’d never again fight for someone else’s amusement. He’d never hit or be hit, never taste the blood running from his nose or be sprayed as he drove his fist into a cut on his opponent’s face. The glory he’d once reached for had died a second death at his mother’s graveside, two years before. He’d gotten through his mother’s death by deciding not to break down, by telling himself to “do what you have to do.” He’d been living by that rule ever since.

“In the red corner, at two hundred and eight pounds, the Fightin’ Fireman, ‘Irish’ Liam O’Grady.” Deputy Mayor Gold, drenched with sweat, waited for the roar to die away before he continued. “And in the blue corner, at two hundred and forty-seven pounds, New York’s Fightin’ Finest, Stan ‘The Man’ Moodrow.”

The referee motioned both fighters to the center of the ring and began to recite a set of instructions he’d already given in the dressing rooms. “All right, boys,” he concluded, “touch gloves and let’s have a clean fight.”

It was supposed to be a gesture of sportsmanship, but that first contact, just the touch of leather on leather, coursed through Moodrow’s body like a match tossed into a pool of gasoline. Now it was out in the open. It was war. You had to fight to survive.

When the bell rang, Moodrow moved to the center of the ring as if staking out a claim. O’Grady came out to meet him, then began to circle. Moodrow advanced at an angle, cutting the circle, and O’Grady reversed direction, then suddenly closed, throwing a quick combination before bouncing away. Moodrow took the punches, catching three out of four on his arms. The last one slammed into the narrow space between his left elbow and the top of his trunks.

Moodrow was aware of being hit, but he felt no pain. Tomorrow, he’d have trouble getting out of bed; tonight, he had a job to do. He continued to advance, forcing O’Grady back toward the ropes, throwing an occasional jab at his opponent’s dancing head, punching air.

O’Grady gave ground willingly, just as he had in their first fight. Sooner or later his back would be against the ropes and both fighters knew it. Meanwhile, he continued to inflict damage, snapping jabs between Moodrow’s gloves, following with short, vicious rights to the body, slipping Moodrow’s clumsy attempts to counter.

It took Moodrow more than two minutes to force O’Grady into a corner, to render his opponent momentarily stationary. He absorbed a lot of punishment in the process, but found no reward at the end of the road. Before he could take advantage of his power, before he could throw a single punch, O’Grady ducked between his arms and grabbed Moodrow’s huge chest. Now it was perfect. They’d come full circle, repeating every element of their first fight.

“New game,” Moodrow whispered to O’Grady as Spinelli tried to pull the two fighters apart. He wrapped his left glove around the back of O’Grady’s neck, pulling him forward and down, then jammed the point of his right elbow into the soft spot just behind O’Grady’s collarbone. O’Grady tried to jerk away, but Moodrow, much the stronger, held him close.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Spinelli shouted. “No holding, Moodrow. Don’t grab him.”

Moodrow let the ref tug on his arm for another few seconds before releasing his opponent. Grinning, he waited for O’Grady to move back to the center of the ring, then began to advance. For the first time, he allowed himself to look directly into O’Grady’s eyes. He was hoping to find doubt, but he settled for anger. If O’Grady lost his cool and stood toe-to-toe, it would be a very short fight.

Moodrow moved a little faster this time, ignoring the jabs, not even trying to counter. O’Grady was staying closer, waiting for an opportunity to throw his best punch. He found it with fifteen seconds left in the round, a whistling right that slammed into Moodrow’s forehead. Moodrow ignored the blow, didn’t, in fact, even feel it. He pressed forward until O’Grady’s back was against the ropes, then threw his own right. O’Grady’s head moved slightly, avoiding Moodrow’s fist, but not the forearm that followed. It smashed into the side of his skull, driving him sideways along the ropes.

Moodrow grabbed O’Grady behind the neck before he could escape and the fireman instinctively tried to pull away, lifting his body erect, opening his ribs to the right hand. The bell rang an instant before Moodrow could react to the opportunity, but that didn’t stop him. He drove his fist into O’Grady’s chest, then turned and walked back to his corner.

“You’re cut, Stanley,” Epstein said.

“Bad?” Moodrow suddenly became aware of the drops running along the outside of his right eye.

“Not yet.” Epstein took the edges of the cut between his fingers, squeezing them tightly together. He held the cut closed until the bleeding stopped, then filled the gash with a thick coagulant. “You could use a real cut man for this one. If he keeps tagging you with the jab, it’s gonna get messy.”

“Don’t worry about it, Sarge. They’re not gonna stop this one for blood.” He glanced across the ring, but O’Grady’s handlers had him surrounded.

“Look here, Stanley.” The referee’s face swam into view. “I want you to stop the bullshit. Right now. Stop grabbin’ him. Stop the elbows. I’ll disqualify you.”

“The crowd’ll love that,” Moodrow grunted. The truth was they’d probably tear Spinelli to pieces and Spinelli knew it. O’Grady was on his own.

The second round, in direct contrast to the first, was slow and dull. O’Grady got on his bicycle, staying far enough away from Moodrow to spin out before his back was against the ropes. The strategy was effective in that it prevented him from being trapped, but the distance was too great for any meaningful offense. O’Grady looked like a scared fighter and the few jabs he managed to land did nothing to change that impression. By the time the bell rang to end the round, the crowd, including a few of the firemen, was booing.

In the third round, O’Grady again reversed strategy, staying close to Moodrow, as he had in the first. Moodrow wasn’t surprised. Irish fighters were expected to be especially courageous. O’Grady would have to return to the firehouse as soon as his injuries, should he suffer injuries, healed up. He couldn’t very well go back to his buddies if he came out of this fight labeled a coward.