The Night Watchman(73)

“Here they are, my friends! Let’s give them a hand as they approach the ring! Willing to go the distance even though they’re fighting through the terrible pain of their separate injuries. What? What’s this? The Wobble is straightening up! Wood is throwing his cast to the crowd! He’s dropping his handkerchief and Pixie Paranteau catches the memento! Oh, I tell you, folks, it’s a miracle. A miracle is what you’re seeing. Two battlers fighting for sovereignty restored to health before your eyes!”

For the first two rounds, they tested each other’s range, striking and deflecting. Wood Mountain was still the more studied fighter, pressing Wobble to the inside, giving no opportunities. But Joe Wobleszynski was potentially more dangerous, with no decrease in his punching power and perhaps some realization that in the last fight he’d given away his lack of strategy. It was clear, by round three, as Wobble’s strong blows met only air, that Wood Mountain intended to wear him down and to demoralize him if he could.

Joe Wobble was slightly leaner than in the last fight, while Wood Mountain had put on a couple of pounds without giving up a hint of speed. Barnes and his uncle had made sure of that. He had drilled on speed and more speed. He had a natural sense of cunning. Jarvis himself had coached him on a trick, which he employed in the fourth round. Wood Mountain used a fake sag, as if he’d misstepped, to draw Wobble’s most fearsome hard right. With a lightning fade Wood Mountain countered the missed punch with a left to the place where Wobble’s outcrop of chin met the smooth line of his jaw. He was able to strike precisely there, with force, and get out of the way when Joe retaliated, managing only by chasing Wood Mountain into the corner to land several surface blows that didn’t resonate but looked brutal and drew gasps. Again, with Jarvis’s coaching, Wood Mountain remembered to cringe under the onslaught and Wobble went to his corner feeling he was in a surge.

“Be patient. Play the music when the time is right,” said Barnes, packing handfuls of snow along Wood Mountain’s left cheekbone. The music was a speeded-up version of the cancan, to which Wood Mountain had rehearsed a blur of punches that he could switch up to fit the situation. The flurry at one speed then switched to a higher speed and changed him from a boxer to a swarmer. It was how Jake LaMotta had beaten the French fighter Laurent Dauthuille in the ultimate round of the world heavyweight championship back in ’50. It looked to all observers, except the Music, like the switch-up came out of nowhere, some reservoir of heart, but the brilliant shift in momentum had been coming all along and was choreographed, he was sure of it.

“They’re circling like panthers! No cat’s paws though, folks. Wobble swipes like a grizzly bear! The Mountain swipes back! It’s all brute strength. And now they’re sizing each other up again. Look at that fancy fadoodle footwork!”

So far, the boxers looked undamaged. In fact, they looked magnificent. Joe, a milk-skinned prize bull, Wood Mountain, ropey and gleaming, glancing out under a shining swoop of hair. That was to change. In the sixth round Joe Wobble got tired of chasing Wood Mountain around and landed a solid punch that shifted Wood’s nose across his face.

“And the Mountain takes it on the beak!”

Patrice heard the crack and her knees gave. Valentine went gray as a ghost. They clutched each other as the match stopped. Barnes worked on Wood Mountain, who reentered the ring, nostrils askew and stuffed with cotton. No sooner had the bell rung than Wood Mountain proceeded, with startling cool, to borrow Wobble’s right hook to knock Joe to his knees. He got up, but now it was clear that the fight had begun, not in anger, but in dutiful violence, and the next two rounds were blurs of punishment. Still, the two were nearly even. Wood Mountain slightly ahead on points, nothing definitive.

“Stop the fight!” yelled Patrice. But there was pandemonium because one elder had accidentally struck another with a diamond willow cane and their families were trying to sort this out. Plus Joe’s family was not sure what to do so they just yelled. And Wood Mountain’s supporters weren’t sure whether to stop the fight, so they raised the roof. Jarvis had to strike the gong again.

“Folks, folks, calm down. The fighters say they refuse to quit. They want to give it their all. The referee has accepted this. They say they feel good, feel fine, want to go the distance.”

So the round began, but the crowd was muted. Joe opened a deep gash on Wood Mountain’s eyebrow. Wood Mountain dealt a body blow that made Joe stumble across the ring. By the final moments, they were merely clubbing each other, moving in an earnest fog, and Jarvis was silent. There was no strategy, no design.

“It’s just ugly,” said Patrice, looking away.

When the gong sounded, people cried out in relief. They clapped in distress and left in disordered clumps. Wood Mountain did win on points but winning was beside the point. Joe Wobleszynski sat dumb in a chair. Their eyes were swollen shut, lips split, eyebrows taped, ears ringing, noses snapped, brains swelling in their skulls, and every bone and muscle ached. It was wonderful, it was terrible, it was the ultimate. It was the last time either of them fought.





The Promotion




Unfair, it was so unfair. Valentine promoted to the acid washing room, where she got to wear goggles, gloves, a white hair wrap, and a protective rubber apron. So unfair because Patrice was faster, more precise, more focused, and produced a clean card every time. She was that good. Not that Valentine was bad at her job, not at all, but she wasn’t as good at her job as Patrice. That was just a known fact. But apparently to Mr. Vold not good enough for a promotion.