His face burned. Pinwheels spun behind his eyelids, and he shook his head hard. Looking over to his corner he saw Juan frantically motioning him to stay down and take the full eight count. Meanwhile, the referee was having a problem getting Reine to a neutral corner. Kid Dynamite distinctly saw a smile flash across Cancer Frank’s face. Mag was on her feet screaming in German for him to get up. Never in his life had he heard her speak in her native tongue. Her face was red and she was pounding her cane on the floor like a savage. Kid Dynamite felt he was in a dream. Reine’s corner was furiously shouting instructions, but Reine wasn’t listening. His chest was puffed up and he looked supremely confident. Kid Dynamite shook his head again, trying to clear out the cobwebs. The noise of the crowd seemed very far away. He managed to get his right glove up on the lower ring rope.

Off in the seventh row Kid Dynamite focused on a big man with a fleshy bulbous nose and frosty white hair. He watched him raise his hands to his mouth and shout encouragement to Reine. For such a big man, the sound Kid Dynamite heard was diminutive, but he could hear the man’s harsh South Chicago accent. Kid Dynamite wondered if his eardrum had been broken. The man continued to scream. He was well built, and wearing a plaid flannel shirt. Kid Dynamite noticed that the threads on the man’s second shirt button had unraveled into tan and brown sprouts, and he thought, “Mister, take that shirt off and put it on three more times, and the button is gone.” Kid Dynamite wanted to go down into the crowd and warn him. For the man to lose his button seemed like a cosmic tragedy.

The referee picked up the count from the timekeeper. He was looking in Kid Dynamite’s eyes. “Five…six,” he cried. The smile on Cancer Frank’s face widened. Melanie had her face buried in her hands. Vic was on his feet shaking his fist in the air. Vic had a heavy beard and always seemed in need of a shave. Kid Dynamite was certain he could smell English Leather coming off of Vic. He could see the fine black hairs on the backs of Vic’s fingers. Next to Vic he could see the redness in Mag’s face. Her skin thinned to parchment with age. She was dressed in a thick gray overcoat and pearl pop beads. Kid Dynamite had given them to her because her arthritis made ordinary clasps impossible. A six-dollar purchase. From directly behind, he heard a fan’s disembodied voice say, “Don’t worry, this kid is tough. He’ll get up.”

Time began to hurtle along again. He got up on one knee and shook his head. Goddammit if something wasn’t wrong with his eardrum.