ropes twice, but only a handful of punches reach their mark. His breathing is heavy and my own lungs are exhausted. When the bell goes, I fake a burst of energy and head straight for my stool. I glance over at Rube as Perry talks to him. It’s the face of our mother when she gets up in the morning, ready for another double overtime shift. It’s the face of Dad that day down at the employment service. It’s the face of Steve, fighting in his own life and then for his father, simply saying, “Hi Dad.” It’s the face of Sarah, dragging washing off the line with me. It’s my own face, right now.
“He’s scared of losin’,” Bumper tells me.
“Good.”
In the fourth, Rube reacts.
He misses me just once, then opens me up several times. His left hand is especially cruel, pinning me into his corner. Only once do I get through him and clip his jaw again. It’s the last time.
By the end of the round, I’m against the ropes, just about gone.
When the bell goes this time, I find my corner, oh, miles and miles away, and stagger toward it. I fall. Down. Into the arms of Bumper.
“Hey buddy,” he tells me, but he’s so far away. Why’s he so far away? “I don’t think you can go out for the last. I think you’ve had enough.”
I realize.
“No way,” I beg him.
The bell goes again and the referee calls us into the middle. One final handshake before the last round. It’s always the same … until today.
My head is jolted back by what I see.
Is it real? I ask myself. Is … because there, in front of me, Rube is wearing only one boxing glove and his eyes circle inside mine. He’s wearing one boxing glove, on his left hand, just like all those times in the backyard. He’s standing there, before me, and something very slight glimmers across his face. He’s a Wolfe and I’m a Wolfe and I will never ever tell my brother that I love him. And he will never tell it to me.
No.
All we have is this…. This is the only way.
This is us. This is us saying it, in the only way we can possibly do it.
It means something. It’s about something.
I return.
To my corner.
With my teeth, I take off the left glove. I give it to Bumper, who accepts it
Mum and Dad are somewhere in the crowd, watching.
My pulse does a lap of the silence. The ref calls something out. Sight.
Is that what he yells? No, it’s “Fight,” although … Rube and I look at each other. He comes forward. So do I. The crowd erupts.
One fist covered. One fist naked.
That’s all.
Rube throws first and takes me on the chin.
It’s over. I’m hurt, I’m … but I throw a punch back, just missing. I cannot go down. Not tonight. Not now, when everything hinges on me staying on my feet.
I’m hit again, and this time the world has stopped. Opposite me, Rube’s standing there, wearing a solitary boxing glove. Both his hands are at his side. Another silence gathers strength. It is broken, by Perry. His words are familiar.
“Finish him off!” he calls out.
Rube looks at him. He looks at me. He tells him.
“No.”
I find them. Mum and Dad. I collapse.
My brother catches me and holds me up. Without knowing it, I’m crying. I’m weeping on my brother’s throat as he holds me up.
Fighting Ruben Wolfe. He holds me up. Fighting Ruben Wolfe. It hurts.
Fighting Ruben Wolfe. His fight inside.
Fighting Ruben Wolfe. Like the rest of us.
Fighting Ruben Wolfe. Not fighting him, no. It’s something else….
“Y’ okay?” he asks me. It’s a whisper.
I say nothing. I just cry on my brother’s throat and let him hold me up. My hands feel nothing and my veins are on fire. My heart is heavy and hurting, and out there somewhere, I can imagine the pain of a beaten dog.
I find that nothing more has happened. The bell rings and it’s over. We stand there.
“It’s over,” I say.
“I know,” Rube smiles. I feel it.
Even in the following minutes, when scattered money falls into the ring, and when we walk back through the murmuring crowd, the moment carries on.
It carries me back to the dressing room with Rube at my side, as people stare at us and nod and reach out not for Rube or for me, but for this moment that is both of us. “That was some fight,” some of them say, but