In a sissy voice, Liston said, “No sir, I’m a welterweight.”

The writers roared and Kid Dynamite’s cheeks flushed. Sonny Liston motioned to one of the handlers, who handed him an 8 × 10 black-and-white glossy. He said, “What’s your name?”

Kid Dynamite seemed dumbstruck. Finally he said, “Make it out to Melanie.”

“I thought you was going to hem and haw forever.” Liston looked at Melanie. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Looks like you thumped him pretty good,” Liston said. There was another roar of laughter. A press photographer rushed over and staged a picture of Liston, Melanie, Vic, and Kid Dynamite. In the end, Liston had signed a picture for each of them. As soon as the fighter turned away and headed off to the shower, a man in a gray sweatshirt demanded two dollars each for the photographs. Vic paid gladly enough. “That was nice. He didn’t have to do that.”

Giddy with excitement, they compared inscriptions. Kid Dynamite’s photo was signed, “To the Kid, from your friend, Sonny Liston.”

Kid Dynamite beamed at the inscription like it was the writ of God. “Sonny Liston is a friend of mine,” he said.

Kid Dynamite applied himself to boxing with renewed vigor. In the summer as he recovered from his nose surgery, he worked as a lifeguard at the city park. He would come in an hour early each day to swim. This was after he did a full morning workout in the garage. He bought a set of Joe Wielder weights. In the garage he did extra neck bridges and he lifted weights, then he ran to work and swam. For the rest of the day he rotated along the pool stations with the other lifeguards. Sitting in the hot sun in a white pith helmet, with a whistle in his mouth, he felt completely at rest.

After work Kid Dynamite would meet Melanie at the Dairybar across the field from his house. Melanie served ice cream there in a blue-striped seersucker frock. One night after closing up, they sat outside under the blue bug zapper. Melanie was an only child and although, like Kid Dynamite, she was raised by a stepfather, she did not know her own father at all.

“Maybe it’s just as well,” Kid Dynamite said. “Vic is really nice. My real father was nice, but he just wasn’t around much. He used to take me to the gym when I was a kid. He thought I was a sissy. Took me to Chicago where I met big-time fighters. Joe Louis, Ezzard Charles, Tony Zale, Ernie Terrell—guys who were his actual friends. I don’t know what I’ll do when it’s all over. I’m not good at anything.” Kid Dynamite poked a straw in a clump of ice cream at the bottom of his milk shake.