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Mears face, acid spittle, the crack on his eyelid leaking a thin track of red phosphorus down a black
cheek. When the ref finally manages to separate them, he tells Mears he s going to deduct a point if he
keeps holding. Mears nods, grateful for the extra few seconds rest, more grateful when he hears the
bell.
Leon squirts water into Mears mouth, tells him to rinse and spit. You cut him, he says excitedly.
You cut the motherfucker!
I know, Mears says. I can see him.
Leon, busy with the Enswell, refrains from comment, restrained by the presence of the cut man. Left
eye, he says, ignoring what Mears has told him. Throw that right. Rights and uppercuts. All night long.
That s a bad cut, huh, Eddie?
Could be a winner, the cut man says, we keep chippin on it.
Leon smears Vaseline on Mears face. How you holdin up?
He s hurtin me. Everything he throws, he s hurtin me.
Leon tells him to go ahead and grab, let the ref deduct the fucking points, just hang in there and work
the right. The crowd is buzzing, rumorous, and from this, Mears suspects that he may really have
Vederotta in some trouble, but he s still afraid, more afraid than ever now that he has felt Vederotta s
power. And as the second round begins, he realizes he s the one in trouble. The cut has turned Vederotta
cautious. Instead of brawling, he circles Mears, keeping his distance, popping his jab, throwing an
occasional combination, wearing down his opponent inch by inch, a pale, indefinite monster, his face
sheathed in black metal, eyes burning like red suns at midnight. Each time Mears gets inside to throw his
shots or grab, the price is high -- hooks to the liver and heart, rights to the side of the neck, the hinge of
the jaw. His face is lumping up. Near the end of the round, a ferocious straight right to the temple blinds
him utterly in the left eye for several seconds. When the bell rings, he sinks onto the stool, legs trembling,
heartbeat ragged. Exotic eye trash floats in front of him. His head s full of hot poison, aching and unclear.
But oddly enough, that little special pain of his has dissipated, chased away by the same straight right that
caused his temporary blackout.
The doctor pokes his head into the desperate bustle of the corner and asks him where he is, how he s
doing. Mears says, Wichita and OK. When the ref asks him if he wants to continue, he s surprised to
hear himself say, Yeah, because he s been doing little other than wondering if it would be all right to
quit. Must be some good reason, he thinks, or else you re one dumb son of a bitch. That makes him
laugh.
Fuck you doin laughin ? Leon says. We ain t havin that much fun out there. Work on that cut!
You ain t done diddly to that cut!
Mears just shakes his head, too drained to respond.
The first minute of the third round is one of the most agonizing times of Mears life. Vederotta
continues his cautious approach, but he s throwing heavier shots now, headhunting, and Mears can do
nothing other than walk forward and absorb them. He is rocked a dozen times, sent reeling. An uppercut
jams the mouthpiece edge-on into his gums and his mouth fills with blood. A hook to the ear leaves him
rubber-legged. Two rights send spears of white light into his left eye and the tissue around the eye swells,
reducing his vision to a slit. A low blow smashes the edge of his cup, drives it sideways against his
testicles, causing a pain that brings bile into his throat. But Vederotta does not follow up. After each
assault he steps back to admire his work. It s clear he s prolonging things, trying to inflict maximum
damage before the finish. Mears peers between his gloves at the beast stalking him and wonders when
that other little red-eyed beast inside his head will start to twitch and burn. He s surprised it hasn t
already, he s taken so many shots.
When the ref steps in after a series of jabs, Mears thinks he s stopping the fight, but it s only a matter
of tape unraveling from his left glove. The ref leads him into the corner to let Leon retape it. He s so
unsteady, he has to grip the ropes for balance, and glancing over his shoulder, he sees Vederotta spit his
mouthpiece into his glove, which he holds up like a huge red paw. He expects Vederotta to say
something, but all Vederotta does is let out a maniacal shout. Then he reinserts the mouthpiece into that
glowing red maw and stares at Mears, shaking his black and crimson head the way a bear does before it
charges, telling him -- Mears realizes -- that this is it, there s not going to be a fourth round. But Mears is
too wasted to be further intimidated, his fear has bottomed out, and as Leon fumbles with the tape, giving
him a little more rest, his pride is called forth, and he senses again just how stupid Vederotta is, bone
stupid, dog stupid, maybe just stupid and overconfident enough to fall into the simplest of traps. No
matter what happens to him, Mears thinks, maybe he can do something to make Vederotta remember
this night.
The ref waves them together, and Mears sucks it up, banishes his pain into a place where he can
forget about it for a while and shuffles forward, presenting a picture of reluctance and tentativeness.
When Vederotta connects with a jab, then a right that Mears halfway picks off with his glove, Mears
pretends to be sorely afflicted and staggers back against the ropes. Vederotta s in no hurry. He ambles
toward him, dipping his left shoulder, so sure of himself he s not even trying to disguise his punches, he s
going to come with the left hook under, he s going to hurt Mears some more before he whacks him out.
Mears peeks between his gloves, elbows tight to his sides, knowing he s got this one moment, waiting,
the crowd s roar like a jet engine around him, the vicious, smirking beast planting himself, his shoulder
dipping lower yet, his head dropping down and forward as he cocks the left, and it s then, right at that
precise instant, when Vederotta is completely exposed, that Mears explodes from his defensive posture
and throws the uppercut, aiming not at the chin or the nose, but at that red slit on the black eyelid. He
lands the shot clean, feels the impact, and above the crowd noise he hears Vederotta shriek like a
woman, sees him stumble into the corner, his head lowered, glove held to the damaged eye. Mears
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