I couldn’t disagree.

“You fight?” He glanced at my hands. He was a grizzled gentleman with small, bruised eyes and a gin-blossom nose.

“See these pretty ears? Not enough cauliflower.”

“You got some cartilage in your nose, still.” Back to my hands again, unconvinced.

“Broken, never squashed.”

Between rounds eight and nine, I texted Meg and told her how much I loved her and Devlin and wished them good night and sweet dreams. I put my phone away and returned to the bout, which only got worse for the Russian. His face was marbled like a slab of raw meat.

Lionel boxed in the military. We frequently discussed the squared circle and the octagon and lamented that Greco-Roman wrestling didn’t enjoy much popularity in the States. Lionel laid money on the more important bouts, although he laid money on practically anything. My admiration for the sweet science was purely aesthetic, and a touch envious because fighting and boxing are closely related but utterly incomparable.

I’m drawn to the revelation of character that occurs when two peak athletes spend upward of forty-five minutes beating each other to a pulp. Fighters in the championship rounds are seldom the same men who begin the bout. Their inner selves are revealed blow by blow, given and received, like sculptors carving blocks of granite. Men are equals when fresh and full of hope; by smashed noses, broken ribs, lacerations, contusions, exhaustion, and fear is truth revealed.

My favorite boxer? Of the heavyweights, it has to be David Tua. Toward the end of his career he was whaling on a beefy white boy; whacked that patented left hook into the opponent’s body so hard his whole rib cage buckled. White boy dropped; he couldn’t breathe, much less continue fighting. If we’re talking middleweights, I love Tommy Hearns, but pound for pound, Marvelous Marvin Hagler was among the toughest human beings who’ve ever laced on gloves. I watched him battle Mugabi in 1986, at a bar on a large screen with my dad and a gaggle of his air force buddies. Mugabi swung a wrecking ball. Hagler absorbed hideous punishment and each knock in the chassis caused him to shift into a higher gear and punch harder. That contest and the gruesome match between Ali and Foreman in Zaire in 1974 are testaments to the obdurate, bellicose disposition of man. Those performances molded my disposition on a fundamental level in a way all my dad’s tough love never could. Street fighting and boxing are supremely contrasted. Dad taught me close quarters combat from a bag of World War Two dirty tricks; the champion boxers instilled within my soul a love of tactics and the courage to see them through.

The already cozy bar started to fill up. Besides me and the bartender, a young lady in a green velvet dress muttered into her phone, and two men argued heatedly in the booth. Golf Pro and Mr. Denim back for another go at me. The Mares of Thrace wore the antiquated Valley High jackets, but lacked the funky death mask makeup at the moment. Just a pair of dudes reliving past glory until the moment was right to slap on their ghoulish aspect.