“So this kid’s going to be here by 3:00?” the trainer asked as he turned away from the boxing ring.

The manager of the gym nodded, providing his best form of assurance that the boxer would arrive for the afternoon match.

“Where’s he from again?” the trainer asked as he picked up some loose medical tape from the floor.

“Compton,” the manager responded.

“As in Compton, California?” the trainer asked as he tossed the tape into the trash can beside the ring.

“That’s what he said. Compton, California,” the manager said as he walked toward the locker room.

The trainer walked alongside the manager as he rubbed his two days growth of beard with his thumb and forefingers, “White kid?” he asked.

The manager nodded.

“And you said he’s riding here? As in he’s riding a motorcycle?”

As they entered the locker room, the manager turned and nodded.

“What do you know about him? Just seems kinda weird. The kid says he’s undefeated, and he’s moving here, of all places. The fact he insisted on fighting the day he rides into town on a fucking motorcycle is just asking for getting his ass handed to him,” the trainer stated as he sat on the bench in the middle of the room.

“It’s just like I told you. He said he needed a trainer and a manager. Told me his grandfather died, and that he had been acting as both. Kid says he weighs about a hundred ninety, but carries two twenty real well. He sounds eager as hell. Shit, he’s from southern California. There’s fighters all over the place you and I never heard of - don’t make ‘em good or bad,” the manager said as he sat on the bench beside the trainer.

Slowly, he looked around the locker room.

“It’d be kind of nice to have some fresh talent in here, that’s for sure. Who you got set to fight him?” the trainer asked as he stared at the lockers which lined the wall in front of him.

The manager looked over his shoulder and smiled a slow smile, “Mike.”

As his face filled with surprise, the trainer turned to face the manager, “Ripton? The Ripper?”

The manager nodded.

“Joe, that’s going to be a one-sided affair don’t you think?” the trainer chuckled as he shook his head from side-to-side.

“I suppose so,” the manager laughed in return, “just figured as eager as this kid was, and the fact he said the word undefeated about ten times in our first conversation, I’d teach him a quick lesson about how we do it here in Texas. You can build him back up from there, Kelsey.”

“So that’s why Ripton’s been here since lunch, ain’t it?”

The manager turned his head and nodded.

“So what you thinking about this?” the manager asked as he turned and looked in the direction of the locker lined wall.

The trainer shrugged his shoulders as he slowly turned his head and stared at the lockers lining the wall. He looked at his watch and up toward the lockers again. The manager glanced toward him and raised both eyebrows as he placed his hands on his knees and waited for a response. Now, with one eyebrow still raised, the manager stared at the wall and slowly narrowed his eyes.

“It’s ten before,” Kelsey said as he stared at the lockers.

“Well, personally, I think we ought to stick with blue. If we’re going to make this place look like something, we ought to paint the wall a different color, not the lockers. Them steel lockers never hold paint very well. Blue. That’s my opinion,” Joe said as he stood up from the bench.

As the trainer smiled and stood from the bench, he turned his ear toward the wall, squinted his eyes, and looked down at the floor.

“You hear that?” Kelsey asked as the loud roar of an approaching motorcycle could be heard.

The manager nodded, “I suppose it’s him, don’t you?”

“Let’s go sit in our seats and see what this kid’s all about. And I’m fine with blue. I didn’t mean to stare at it so damned long, but I ain’t never been too good at color schemes. Let’s try a light yellow or something calming on the walls,” Kelsey said as he turned toward the door.

“Calming. I like that. Yellow it is,” Joe agreed.

As the two men entered the gym, a young man came in through the front door. Dressed in a hooded sweat shirt, jeans, and boots, he walked into the gym and took a deep breath as he looked around. When he noticed the two older men, he turned and began walking toward them. His walk had a certain swagger.

An expressed confidence.

Joe looked up and down the fighter’s body as he spoke, “You the kid from Compton?”

“Yes sir. Shane Dekkar,” the young man responded as he held his right hand out.

“Son of a bitch kid, you got a grip on you, kid. God damn. I’m Joe Murphy, we spoke on the phone,” the manager acknowledged as he shook the young man’s hand.

The young man turned to the trainer and held out his hand. Reluctantly, the trainer gripped his hand and offered a handshake in return.

“Kelsey O’Reilley. I’m the trainer who might train you. And it’s kind of hot for a hooded sweatshirt ain’t it?” the trainer asked as he shook the young man’s hand.

“I’d sure appreciate it, sir. My grandfather was my trainer and my manager both. He passed unexpectedly. That’s what brought me here. And you’ll find I wear this hoodie year round, sir. Are we still on for three o’clock?” the young man asked as he adjusted his backpack.

The trainer shook his head as he looked at the young man. Two men sparred lightly in the ring behind them. The manager smiled as he looked from the ring toward the young man. The trainer looked down at his watch and grinned.

“You sure you want to do this, kid?” the manager asked.

The young man nodded his head once, “Yes sir.”

“I only need ten minutes to change and warm up,” he responded.

“Ten minutes?” the trainer coughed, “ten?”

The young man smiled and nodded, “Where’s the locker room?”

“Follow me. It’s not much to look at, but we’re considering new paint,” the trainer said as he began walking toward the locker room.

“So, you’re undefeated?” the trainer turned and asked.

“Yes sir,” the young man answered as he adjusted his back pack.

“Well, this ain’t a title fight. All it’s for is so we can see what you’re about. If you are what you claim kind of deal. You understand, son?” he asked as they turned to the locker room.

The young man nodded his head once as he got undressed, “Yes sir. I understand. I just need to get a fight in. I haven’t fought in two weeks.”

“Two weeks. Hell, that’s no kind of wait,” the trainer said as he sat down on the bench.

The trainer looked up as the young man removed gear from his bag.

“It is for me, sir. I try to fight at least once a day, and I train five days a week,” the young man responded.

“At that pace you’ll burn out quick,” the trainer responded as the young man pulled his shorts on.

“Sir, do you expect you’ll train me?” the young man asked as he handed the trainer a roll of tape.

As the trainer looked the young man’s hands over and began to tape them, he responded, “I might. We’ll see how you do. This fella you’re gonna fight will be a tough one for you. He’s never been knocked down, never been knocked out, and never lost. We’ll see how you look against him.”

The young man looked intently into the eyes of the trainer and nodded once.

“Care to ask me what he weighs? Or his age? His fighting record?” the trainer asked.

“No sir,” the young man responded.

The trainer shook his head at the perceived arrogance of the young man.

“God damn, you street fight much?” the trainer asked as he taped the heavily scarred hands of the young man.

The young man nodded once.

“Tattoo mean something?” the trainer asked as he noticed the tattooed knuckles of the man’s right hand.

The young man nodded once, “Yes sir.”

“Bust these hands up too much, and your career will end quickly, son,” the trainer said softly as he inspected the young man’s hands.

“Former military?” the trainer asked as he slid the gloves over the young man’s freshly taped hands.

“No sir, they were my fathers,” the young man responded, making reference to the dog tags that dangled on a chain from his neck.

The trainer looked the young man over.

“You’re built like a brick shit house, kid. You lift weights?” he asked.

The young man nodded.

As the trainer laced the gloves, he nodded his head slowly.

“What are you going to do for warm up?” he asked.

“I pulled the bike over and ran three miles before I got here, I’m ready. Just need to get my head right, sir,” the young man responded.

The trainer raised one eyebrow as he looked at the young man.

“I need to pray, sir. I’ll be ready in a minute,” the young man responded.

“Well, you can’t wear those in the ring,” the trainer said as he reached for the dog tags that hung from the young man’s neck.

The young man immediately jerked his body to the right and raised his gloves in a defensive posture.

“Damn, son. I’m just going to pull ‘em off and put ‘em in the locker with your stuff,” the trainer responded.

“I’ll ask you to remove them before I step into the ring,” the young man responded.

“Let’s just toss ‘em in here with your…”

“I’ll ask you to remove them before I step into the ring,” the young man repeated as he interrupted the trainer in mid-sentence.

“Alright. You do that,” the trainer responded as he slipped the protective gear over the head of the young man.

“You need to pray?” the trainer asked as he put the bag, back pack, and clothes into a locker.

“I’m ready sir,” the young man responded as he pounded his gloves together.

The trainer shook his head and started walking out of the locker room. The young man followed. The swagger of the young man was exaggerated in comparison to the slow steady shuffle of the elderly manager.

The young man stepped up into the ring and leaned toward the ropes. As he lowered his head he spoke to the trainer.

“Keep these in your hand, sir. Or put them in your pocket. Please don’t set them down or wear them,” he said.

The trainer reached into the ring and removed the dog tags from the young man’s neck.

“So, kid’s in the military?” the manager asked the trainer.

“Nope. Said they were his father’s,” the trainer responded as he put the dog tags in his pocket.

“Well, what are we gonna do here?” the manager asked.

“Hell, I don’t know. Wanna have ‘em go ten rounds?” the trainer asked.

The manager nodded.

“Mike!” the manager screamed across the gym.

A very muscular man in his early thirties walked slowly toward the group, stepped under the ropes and into the ring. As he entered in the ring, he stood on his toes and stretched his calves. His body tan, his head cleanly shaven, and his upper torso and arms covered with tattoos, he began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet as he stared toward the young man. The man looked extremely intimidating as he pounded his gloves together.

The trainer stepped into the ring.

The two men approached one another.

“Fellas, this ain’t for nothing but bragging rights. Both of you are undefeated. Should be a good little sparring match. Mike, this kid just rode a bike here from California. Hasn’t really warmed up,” the trainer took a breath.

“I’m ready, sir,” the young man responded.

“Mike, this is Shane Dekkar. Shane this is Mike Ripton,” the trainer said.

The two men nodded at each other and touched gloves. The bald headed man stared into the eyes of the young man and winked.

“Alright, you two know how this works. I suppose we’ll go ten,” the trainer said.

The two men nodded and separated. Mike Ripton walked slowly to the corner of the ring.

The young man followed the trainer to the opposite corner. The trainer inserted a mouthpiece into the young man’s mouth.

“You sure you’re ready?” the trainer asked.

The young man nodded as he bit down on his mouth piece.

“At the bell,” the trainer stated.

The young man nodded.

The trainer positioned himself beside the manager of the gym and sat down at the table beside the boxing ring. As the two men sat at the table, the young man pounded his gloves together and growled.

“Well, let’s see what this kid’s got. Is he fucking growling?” the manager asked the trainer quietly.

The trainer smiled and nodded his head, “Sure sounds like it.”

Ding!

The two fighters approached each other cautiously. The young man took a stance with his right foot forward and began to study the other fighter. A few flurries of punches to the young man’s body followed.

“Southpaw?” the trainer asked.

The manager shrugged his shoulders.

The young man switched his feet to an orthodox stance, now leading with the left foot.

“What’s he doing?” the trainer asked.

The manager shrugged his shoulders again.

The young man unleashed several punches to the lower torso of the other fighter.

“God damn, he’s quick,” the manager stated as he stood and crossed his arms.

The young man threw a quick right jab, sending the other fighter backward.

“Shit, he’s got the Ripper on his heels,” the trainer said as he stood from the bench.

The young man followed with a left jab, and a quick right hook. Ripton stepped backward and attempted to become stable on his feet. His feet staggered as he stepped. As the young man leaned toward the body of Ripton, he swung a devastating left uppercut.

The glove made a crushing impact with Ripton’s chin.

“God damn, this kid’s….oh, shit. Ripper’s down,” the trainer said as Mike Ripton fell to the mat.

The young man stepped to the side of Ripton’s body.

Ripton’s trainer jumped into the ring and ran toward his motionless body. As Ripton’s trainer spoke, he slowly raised himself to his elbows.

Ripton’s trainer waved his arms toward Kelsey, indicating that the fight was over.

“Looks like you got a new fighter, huh Kelsey?” the manager chuckled lightly.

“Looks like it,” the trainer responded.

“Come here, kid,” the trainer said sternly toward the young man.

“Come here,” the trainer repeated as he held the ropes upward.

The young man, focused on the body in the center of the ring, shook his head from side-to-side.

Slowly, Mike Ripton sat up. As he stood, for stability, he held onto the shoulder of his trainer. As Ripton began to move, the young man slowly walked to the center of the ring.

The young man tapped his glove on the shoulder of the other fighter.

“Good fight,” the young man said.

“Nice shot, kid. I didn’t even see that fucker coming,” Ripton said over his shoulder.

The young man turned and walked slowly toward the trainer.

The trainer held the ropes upward as the young man stepped under them and out of the ring.

“Are you interested in working with me?” the young man asked.

“Kelsey, call me Kelsey. And the answer is yes, kid,” the trainer responded.

“Shane Dekkar, sir. That’s my name. I’d prefer it if you call me Shame On, Shame, Shane, Dekkar, or Dekk, sir. I don’t particularly like being called kid,” the boxer stated.

The manager chuckled as the boxer chastised the trainer.

“Well, Shane. Welcome to Austin, Texas,” the trainer responded as he pulled the boxer’s dog tags from his pocket.

The boxer stepped from beside the ring, bent at the waist, and lowered his head toward the trainer’s hands. The trainer reached over the boxer’s head and placed the dog tags around his neck and removed his headgear.

“I’m going to change and go see the city. If possible, sir, have me a fight for tomorrow afternoon,” the boxer said.

“Call me Kelsey, I don’t particularly like being called sir,” the trainer smiled as he responded.

“Noted,” the boxer said as he nodded his head once sharply.

The boxer turned and began walking toward the locker room. His walk possessed a certain confidence – a swagger.

“Why you suppose he walks like that?” the manager asked as he watched the boxer walk away.

“Because he can,” the trainer responded.