Kid Dynamite stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. She said, “I am glad you won. But don’t stay up all night doing push-ups; I need quiet. My nerves are shot.”

He didn’t bother to reply. Instead he leaned against the sink and examined the cut under his eye in the medicine cabinet mirror. It wasn’t that bad, but the tissue under his eye was swollen and tender. A couple of jabs, one good solid punch could easily burst it open. He went downstairs and got an ice cube, passing Cancer Frank on the stairs. Neither uttered a word in passing. Kid Dynamite wondered if C.F. even knew he was fighting. Suddenly the elation of reaching the finals returned to him full blown. His recent win was not merely a stay of execution. This time, one way or another, he would take it all the way. Back in bed he let the ice melt over his eye, feeling the water roll down his neck onto the pillow. He could hear Cancer Frank talking to the Driver. “He’ll never get past the next round. He drew Louie Reine, the redhead that nailed him last year. It was three days soaking in Epsom salts after that—”

“Who knows,” his mother said. “Maybe he’s better now, he’s bigger. He sure thinks he’s going to win,” the Driver said.

Cancer Frank said, “Not even if you tied one of Reine’s hands behind his back does he win.”

Kid Dynamite waited in the silence of the night for this defense attorney to speak up for him. For a long time there was nothing, then came the familiar animal sounds. Christ! The two of them were having sex in spite of her stiff green wrinkle mask. Kid Dynamite rolled over on his stomach, covering his head with a pillow, but it was useless. He felt compelled to listen. When it was over he heard light feet squeaking on the linoleum tile, followed by intensive Listerine gargling, a hard scouring toothbrush, then footsteps back to the bed. Next Cancer Frank’s heavier feet could be heard padding into the bathroom. Kid Dynamite heard his stepfather take a long horse piss and do some Listerine gargling of his own. In a moment he was back in the master bedroom where body positions were assumed, covers were adjusted, and things finally became quiet. Then he heard the Driver say, “I don’t know. He was in the paper again, fifteen in a row. Knocking them out left and right.”

Cancer Frank spoke matter-of-factly, without rancor or malice. He said, “Those were prelims. Kids that don’t know how to fight. This other fighter, Reine, has his number. The kid is scared. He isn’t going to win. He’ll blow it.”