His hands were as hard as the jawbone of an ass. He had this rhythm when he punched. Danced around the ring, too; an unstoppable force.

I would watch him destroy opponents on Friday nights at the armory. Amongst the cigar smoke, cans of beer, cigarette butts on the floor, the cursing, and the screaming, I cheered him on.

Come on, Joe. Knock him out, I yelled. Get him. Get him, I screamed over fat men talking trash. Kill him.

The armory was no place for a twelve year old boy to be. My dad knew where I was, but mom didn’t have a clue. It’s our secret, Dad said. If mom asks where you were, tell her you were doing homework at a friend’s house. He laughed and gave me a ten spot. Years later, I wound up paying it all back when I took care of him in his final days. Life comes full circle.

Joe was undefeated. No one was even in the same class as him. The heavyweight was in a league of his own. Except one night, he didn’t look so hot. Fast Eddie was giving him a beating. I remember watching in horror as a childhood hero went down in the ring, bleeding, slow moving, holding onto the ropes till the towel was thrown in. It was not Joe’s night.

I told Pop about it later. He told me that some nights are like that. In life, eventually, you lose. But if you get back up and prepare for the next match, you’ll be fine. He patted me on the back and drank his Schlitz.

Joe never fought again after that night. He never got back up. A few years later, I found out that big Joe had passed. Got shot in a liquor store by some punk who was holding up the place. Joe was just an innocent bystander. Died with a bottle of Colt 45 in his hand that was as hard as the jawbone of an ass.