He nodded and rubbed the back of his neck and gritted his teeth. "It's hell getting old, Sam."
"So I'm told."
"And this noggin of mine just ain't right sometimes."
"Mine either."
He nodded, but I wasn't sure he'd heard me. He said, "Routine fight. No one beating up no one. Judges had Baker up a few rounds, but the truth is, they were only just beginning to feel each other out. No one had taken control yet. It was even as hell."
"Were you there?" I asked.
"At the fight? Hell, no. The wife doesn't let me anywhere near Vegas these days. She's afraid I'll spend our retirement - and then I'll never get to leave this damn gym."
"You love this damn gym," I said.
He winked at me, and I saw that there were tears in his eyes. Where the tears came from and why, I didn't exactly know. "More than anything," he said.
"You watched the fight on TV?"
"Which fight?"
"Baker vs. Marquez."
"Yes, of course. Russ is a local boy. He trains here sometimes. I showed him my best moves, and he never forgot his roots. Got to love a kid like that."
"Yes."
"Damn shame what happened. He ain't no killer. They were just boxing. Trading jabs, the occasional straight shot or hook. Nothing landed yet. Nothing really. No reason a kid should be dead."