It’s a big night.

Fight night.

Bone Crusher Smith is fighting Marvel Miguel De Santos for the Belt.

It is now something past six and the first bell is at seven thirty.

It takes thirty-three minutes, seconds unknowable, from my office to my home. I catch the number 12 bus. There are six stops before my stop. The pinstripe suit gets off quickly at the third stop. The protruding teeth gets off after a long conversation with the bus driver at the fourth stop. The mother and three children the fifth stop. Sometimes the children play up and the mother has to drag them off one at a time while the bus driver laughs. And then it’s the old dear with the walking stick. Not blind just old. She takes an eternity.

Marvel Miguel De Santos could take out Bone Crusher Smith in the first round. That would be awful. Marvel Miguel De Santos is a one hit wonder and when it connects it’s lights out. Bone Crusher Smith is not a knockout fighter, he wears them down, takes his time, punishes the other fighter with relish. Of course I want Bone Crusher Smith.

I throw on my raincoat.

My boss stops and says “You off home you planning on watching the fight I bet it’s going to be a great fight my wife won’t let me pay for the fight she says it’s a waste of money although she thinks Marvel Miguel De Santos is too fast and too young and too good looking for Bone Crusher Smith she thinks Bone Crusher Smith is too slow and too old and too ugly to beat Marvel Miguel De Santos she says I will read about it in the morning newspaper she’s right I think it will be over before it starts and I hate all that anticipation and anxiety and it ends just like that a big knock out anyway did you get that report I sent.”

I tell him I did and lead the way out of the office.

“Slow down” he says “watch you don’t have an accident.”

“Thanks” I say “see you Monday.”

The elevator is of course packed.

I do the stairs. I need the exercise. I plan on drinking heavily throughout the fight. As long as the fight is on I can drink beer with impunity. Jenny will not say while the fight is still on don’t you think you’ve had enough that is your fifth one.

Marvel Miguel De Santos best not knock out Bone Crusher Smith with one of those wonder punches.

Descending the stairs, I compute, ten rounds, eleven rounds, that’s eighteen beers.

Leaving the building I speak to Richard.

“I think we might need more beer.”

“You know you could text.”

“I’m too old.”

After talking to Richard I talk to Philip.

“I think we need snacks. It’s going to go all the way.”

“Text me.”

“Nah.”

After talking to Richard and Philip I talk to Henry.

“I think I need to go to the bank.”

“I thought somebody had died. Text me next time. My heart is pounding.”

“Sorry!”

We will gamble on each round. I plan on betting big on the first round just in case Marvel Miguel De Santos throws one of those beauties and knocks out Bone Crusher Smith. I will reserve most of my money for the last round and the call.

Jenny will not say I think you are drunk and you need to go to bed so after the fight we will play poker and smoke cigars until the sun burns our eyes.

Jenny is unaware of my plan to play poker and smoke cigars until the sun burns our eyes.

I have to stop.

Two policemen are parting a drunk from the pavement. The drunk says “Wooowhe get the fukle off me.”

The drunk throws a flaccid right uppercut.

A miss.

Wide of the mark.

A left uppercut connects to the belly and air is expelled with discolored spit, bile mixed with alcohol, and a groan of pain. The drunk collapses into the arms of the policemen. They toss him quickly and unceremoniously into the back of the police van.

I join the queue for the bus. It’s late.

Two up the man is smoking a cigarette.

The woman in front of me, collecting most of the smoke bobs and weaves and repeatedly steps on my toes.

Here is the bus.

I’m convinced my toes are bloody and bruised.

I swipe my bus pass, find a seat, and grow irritated with the old man juggling loose change.

“I think Bone Crusher Smith will absolutely annihilate Marvel Miguel De Santos” says the man behind.

“No way” says his neighbor “Marvel Miguel De Santos will send that old bum Bone Crusher Smith into heaven with one of those wonder punches.”

The bus jolts, moves.

The old man takes the seat next to me. The air is now thick with sweat and alcohol. He leans over, jostling shoulders, says through a cloud of spit and halitosis

“I was a pugilist back in the day a great counter puncher I’d lead them I did always on the back foot and then—a lightning right fist misses my chin—boom out for the count and that is why I think Marvel Miguel De Santos will win tonight plus Smith is too old.”

After flinching I show a tenuous smile.

“Teeth” says the old man showing his bare gums “all knocked out in the ring. Oh great bouts. The two front ones were knocked out with a left hook sent by Cool Hands Harry Burke. A sneaky southpaw with an amazing right jab. But I won. Oh I won. Points.”

The bus stops.

The quips and barbs behind me are now personal insults.

There has a been crash. Two cars are being separated

A crowd cheers and claps.

The bus stops

“What I loved the most was not the violence Oh I loved the violence but” says the old man ducking and diving “the walk down to the ring that’s why I was in the game I just loved the parade if only it could have been miles yes five miles wouldn’t that have been great five miles of cheering and clapping wonderful I remember it all like it was yesterday the music and the lights and the screaming oh I really loved it I remember young girls peeing in their knickers the smell, oh what a smell.”

He inhales.

Red light.

Children playing chicken.

“I’ll take you out like Marvel Miguel De Santos is going to take out Bone Crusher Smith.”

Slow pedestrians.

Mothers with prams.

The bus stops.

“I’m going to work you over punches to the body wait wait more punches to the body wait wait the kidneys and when your arms drop which they will than I’m going to do a Bone Crusher Smith to your face.”

I phone Jenny.

No answer.

She’s probably getting the house ready for the Big Fight.

The bus stops.

“But no sex before a fight.”

Roadkill.

A train of traffic starting with a bus ending with a cluster of cyclists

The bus stops.

“But after the fight. Sex galore!”

It’s my turn to ring the bell.

“Of course” says the old man standing.

On wobbly legs I make it to the front of the bus.

“Potholes everywhere” says the bus driver.

It’s a short walk from the bus stop to my house.

A neighbor doing grass waves and I return the wave with the hope the neighbor will continue cutting grass.

“Have you heard?”

“Not now.”

“But.”

“Later.”

Entering the house I notice the absence of men and manly sounds and manly smells.

I enter the front room, perplexed by the silence.

Jenny in PJs is sitting on the sofa, legs tucked under her backside, sipping a hot cup of chocolate. On the television is her favourite romantic movie, watched more than a dozen times.

“The Fight?” I say.

“Oh love” says Jenny laughing. “Haven”t you heard Bone Crusher Smith slipped on his way to the ring and broke his hip.”