The Pugilist's Son
By
Saurav Dutt
The Pugilist's Son
Copyright © 2013 by Saurav Dutt
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
A young fighter, Billy Hope is a promising talent, but any ambition he has is shrouded in the shadow of his father. Terry is a failed fighter, whose world title dream was never realised. But as time passed there was another way he could keep his dream alive, through the next generation, his son. Realising winning his fights lit up the flames in his father’s eyes, Billy yearned to please his father above all else but one explosive day in the gym changes everything. With the biggest fight of his life looming Billy must make the decision to stand up to the only person he has ever respected and feared, finally realising the price he has to pay to forsake his own dreams, and the reality he feels obliged to cultivate for another. A son will rise. A father will fall.
“The wicked flee where no man pursueth: but the righteous are as bold as a lion.." Proverbs 28:1
Table of Contents
Chapter I: Glass Jaw 1
Chapter II:Purgatory 10
Chapter III:Crash 18
Chapter IV:Fight 28
Chapter I: Glass Jaw
He never saw the right hook coming. As he gathered his thoughts, he could only seem to focus on the stale smell of damp sweat around him. As his eyes flickered open, the throbbing pain to his lower left ribs returned, feeling like the thrust of a hammer had thrown all its weight against them. Billy turned awkwardly to his side, spread eagled in the middle of the boxing ring and as he struggled to find his bearings, his right eye focused on the blood stains and goblets of spittle peppered over the dark grey canvas around him. He wiped a trickle of warm blood above his left eye across the expanse of his pale white chest and winced as he felt a shudder of pain grind against the sides of his chin. He wondered if he had broken his jaw.
Rolling over onto his back, he glanced across to his side and surveyed the industrial garbage cans, rusty equipment and chains in the gym he had trained in for the past 6 years and for some reason focused on the old ripped Arnold poster in the far corner. He had ignored it for months on end training up to this fight, and now, slumped on his back after the third right hook in as many rounds, he focused on the discernible large red lettering under Schwarzenegger’s right bicep:
THE MORE YOU SWEAT IN PRACTICE
THE LESS YOU BLEED IN BATTLE
“Get the fuck up on your feet boy” Paul snarled from across the ring. His thick Liverpool accent cut through the air like a corrugated iron buzz saw and as Billy raised his head over so slightly he could see that his trainer was on the edge of the apron, the veins bulging in his neck as his fists choked the ring ropes. He was stomping the apron with his feet, the whites of his eyes bulging out of their sockets, the foam collecting in his mouth as he continued to scream out. As Billy looked up at the referee, he noticed the obvious doubt etched over every crevice of the grizzled face counting him out. No fucking chance mate, that’s what the expression seemed to say.
Just as Billy was about to let his head drop down against the canvas and let the count continue to ten, he noticed the swagger of his opponent across the ring. At six foot five he looked nothing less than brutal, brooding, beautiful, gigantic, an inchoate island unto itself. A kneaded muscular wrecked mountain, Minotaur-like. After each fist of his right hand crunched into Billy’s jaw, he flinched like he heard some barbaric howl sending shockwaves into his ear drums. Billy saw his sneer, the self confident grin over his mug, but he could care less.
He was ready to quit, ready for Paul to give him another verbal lashing, ready for all the trainers to gather around like vultures and bang it into him again: you’re getting ready for the Olympic trials son, what the fuck are you playing at? What the fuck did you think you were doing walking into those right hooks? What would your father think?
That was the only thought that terrified him - was his old man watching? He twisted to his right side, his fists coiled together as he dragged himself up. “SIX….SEVEN!” he heard the referee booming as his hands slapped onto Billy’s back, attempting to gauge if he was about to sink to his feet again or fight to stand straight. “Get the fuck off me…” Billy snarled as he straightened up, his eyes misty as he glared across the ring. “What’s wrong with you lad?” the ref spat as Billy turned away from him in disgust. “I’m gonna count you out Billy” the ref growled “show me if you can make the count, look at me for fuck’s sake would ya?”
“I don’t give a fuck..” Billy breathed in as he leant back against the ropes, sucking in wind, unable to swallow, unwilling to go on. “Ahh fine..fuck it” the ref shook his head as he waved nonchalantly at the timekeeper. A dull gong sounded through the sports hall as the timekeeper rose to his feet, as disgusted as the referee as he walked away from the ringside table shaking his head in bemusement.
“No heart mate, no heart…” he heard his opponent shrug from the other corner as he was led away from the ring. Billy smirked as he threw down his boxing gloves, yet as he looked around him he was only worried whether his old man had witnessed what had just transpired. He was nowhere to be seen.
As Billy ducked under the ropes and dropped down to the outside of the ring, he realised Paul was jogging after him and yet even though he sauntered past the handful of people working out around them both, he felt their eyes were trained solely on him, their looks of disappointment tangible.
Dragging his feet towards the changing room, Billy glanced up and surveyed the dulled paint of the sign ‘Repton Boy’s Club’ hanging outside the entrance and he spat down at the floor, collapsing onto a bench as he dropped his head into his hands. He expected Paul to spit, snarl and growl his disgust at what he had just seen but for the first time in the four years he had trained him, this was the first time he said nothing after a fight.
As the gauze and tape slowly unravelled from the loosened hand wraps, Billy was taken aback by the tenderness with which Paul began to peel away the tapings. “You’re disappointed, ain’t ya..” Billy grunted, knowing the answer. Paul stared down at the reddened knuckles of his hands, peeling away the tape with the finesse of a tailor unfurling the threads of an ancient garment. He remained quiet, his eyes glancing up for a slight moment as he pursed his lips. “Your eye” he paused “that swelling is gonna need looking at”
“Sod the eye..” Billy shot back “just tell me Paul, you’re disappointed”
“Well how do you feel?” Paul sighed as he sat back, thumbing his white beard as he ran the other hand over his bald head. At 47, he still possessed the physique of a champion. With a square, granite jaw, dark pebbly eyes, pockets of acne littered across his light-skinned black face he possessed the rugged look of a combatant reluctant to hang up his boots. His large, sausage shaped fingers were clumsy. His knuckles flattened, but the kind, earthy timbre of his voice belied his intelligence, generosity and warmth of spirit.
“What ya mean, how do I feel?” Billy spluttered “I got beat the fuck up, how you think I feel?”
“Yeah..” Paul nodded “you tell me mate, I ain’t ever been beaten up like that-why don’t you tell me how it feels to get beaten like a fucking amateur?”
“Well he was too good for me innit” Billy shrugged as he looked away “just another day, another sparring partner. We can work on it”
“You weren’t trying..” Paul shook his head “..you w
eren’t trying ‘cause your dad weren’t here mate, that’s what it was”
“I don’t do this for him” Billy winced as he ran a finger over his right eye, a bulge rapidly expanding under the swelling. “You do” Paul smirked “I know what it’s like mate, I was the son of a pugilist”
“You…” Billy narrowed his eyes “you never told me that before”
“…You never asked” Paul winked “It was Edgetons down by Battersea..kids not even tall enough to ride roller coasters bobbed and weaved like miniature Mike Tysons…was the kind of fighting gym that intimidated grown men. My mate Tyrone quit boxing when he saw a 3 year old hitting the speed bag from the top of an upside down garbage can”
“I never asked for it Paul…” Billy glanced away “…it was what he wanted, not me”
“I know what you mean boy..” Paul nodded “Fighters feared their trainers more than their opponents. Fathers berated their sons for losing sparring matches. On any given day, you might be adjusted by 3 different trainers on your technique, spar guys you’ve never met before, and still work a full session on mitts and bags. My brother’s nose bled every single day of training. I understood that to be the life of a pugilist...now ya do too mate”
“I don’t cut it” Paul stood up, leaning back against the wall as he met his trainer’s gaze “what business have I got in here, I dig ditches, I work in a fuckin’ factory, I do this ‘cause he wants me to…and he wants me to turn pro”
“It’s the trials” Paul sighed as he rustled open a gym bag, stuffing the hand wraps inside as he zipped it shut “Terry thinks you have potential, that you could enter the Olympics, get to that standard…do what he didn’t, you know that’s what this is all about”
“I ain’t got in me to tell him, would you mate?” Billy swallowed hard “would ya just tell him if it was you?”
“Not my call” Paul shook his head as he slung the bag over his shoulder “that’s for you to say, that is if it is what you really wanna do”