Jacky nodded. He seemed uncomfortable in his office. He seemed less himself, somehow. Out there, in the gym, he was larger than life, even though he was only a few inches taller than me. In here, at day's end, he looked like a shell of himself. He looked tired. Old. But not weak. Never weak. Even in quiet repose, the man looked like he wanted to punch something.
"Russ isn't the first lad to kill somebody in the ring, and he won't be the last. And usually it plays with a fighter's head, so much so that they ain't ever much the same again."
"He feels guilt," I said.
"They all do. Except it's part of the risk we take. Each kid knows that his next fight might be his last."
"Then why did you send him to me?"
Jacky didn't answer immediately. Through his closed door, I could hear someone sweeping and whistling. A door slammed somewhere, and I heard two women giggling down a hallway that I knew led to the female locker rooms.
"It's part of the risk, yes, but something about this one doesn't smell right."
I waited. I wanted to hear it from Jacky, someone who had seen tens of thousands of punches thrown in his lifetime. Jacky rubbed his knuckles as he formulated his thoughts. I wondered how difficult it was for Jacky to formulate his thoughts. How much brain damage had the old Irishman suffered?
There had to be some. His aura, which was mostly light blue and ironically serene, appeared bright red around his head. The bright red, I knew, was the body fighting something, perhaps a disease. Or dealing with an injury.
The Irishman rubbed his face and seemed to have lost his train of thought. The reddish aura around his head flared briefly.
I said gently, "You were saying something about this fight not smelling right."
"Was I now?"
"Yes."
"Which fight?"
"Baker vs. Marquez."