“ATTABOY VERNO! BRING IT ON HOME, COWBOY!” my uncle Frogger shouts out while he shadowboxes in front of the TV, eyes fixed on the screen as he grips a PBR tallboy. Frogger kills the tallboy, then crushes the empty can in his meaty fist and tosses it into a plastic orange pail on the floor of our trailer. He drops his exhausted body back into his pleather recliner chair and, catching his breath, reaches down and peels two more tallboys from a six-pack on the floor. Eyes still glued to the TV screen, he tosses a beer over to me on the sofa and says in amazement, “Will ya lookit that lil’ fucker go to town – he’s dag near lickin’ the scuzz outta her cooch while he’s doggin’ her!”

Frogger has been obsessed with a homemade “celebrity sex tape” made by the diminutive (2’8”) actor Verne Troyer (“Mini-Me” from the Austin Powers trilogy) and Verne’s much taller (5’7”) girlfriend ever since Frogger’s best friend Skippy burned the video onto a DVD and gave it to Frogger for his fortieth birthday. Though Fogger must’ve watched this video at least fifty times by now, his boyish enthusiasm never wanes.

“I mean how’n the fuck’d that lil’ sparkplug never make it bigger in Hollywood?” Frogger quips. “I know he’s a midget an’ all but Pacino ain’t much taller’n him an’ lookit his movie career – got at least seven or eight Oscars under his belt.”

I nod back to Frogger. “Well, I don’t think there’s a whole lotta great roles for midgets in Hollywood ever since AI and the actor’s strike and all, but Verne’s definitely one of the top ten or twenty of all time.”

Frogger’s been my legal guardian for over ten years since my dad died from a heroin overdose when I was seven. He’d moved in with us a couple years earlier after his second tour in Iraq left him with a Silver Star, Purple Heart, and a steel plate in his head after a sniper’s bullet ripped a chunk of his skull off, leaving it (with a few brain cells) in some rubble-strewn shithole in Fallujah.

Frogger gazes in awe at the TV screen while his pint-sized hero hammers away at his colossally bored co-star – now propped up on her elbows while her stony-eyed gaze shifts from the top of Verne’s shiny bald pate to the video camera set up next to their bed. Verne’s piston-like hip thrusts accelerate as his face contorts into a strained scowl and loud guttural grunts escape from his open mouth. His girlfriend stifles a yawn.

“Now that,” Frogger exclaims with a loud belch as he throws another crumpled beer can into the pail, “is a man on a mission!”

I take a pull from my tallboy, then look over at a large black cockroach climbing up the brown linoleum wall toward the ceiling of our trailer. It climbs about two feet up, then falls back down into the filthy carpet at the foot of the wall. After a short pause, it renews its effort, undeterred, climbing even faster this time. I’m mesmerized.

“Aw Jesus mother a’ fuck, I gotta piss again!” Frogger bellows out as he grabs a large plastic Gatorade bottle, already half filled with beer piss, off the end table next to his recliner, then shoves it between his legs beneath his plaid tartan kilt. He leans his head back against the recliner headrest while his piss streams noisily against the inside wall of the bottle. “I gotta empty this fucker out again after this beer,” he muses. “That’s the thing about drinkin’ beer – y’always gotta piss!”

Frogger rips out a loud fart while, back on the TV screen, Verne kneels in front of his girlfriend, stroking himself through a messy finale while she coaches him along in a flat dispassionate voice that sounds like she’s ordering a pizza. The video ends after a spent Verne collapses onto his girlfriend’s glazed stomach while she reaches over and grabs a white porcelain skull-shaped bong from the bedside nightstand. She puts the bong to her mouth and takes a long hit as Verne rolls off her. The screen goes black

“That’s a fuckin’ wrap alright! Good work, Verno!” Frogger shouts at the TV before finishing off his beer with a final chug and pushing himself up from his recliner. As Frogger stands up, his pale flabby gut laps over the belt of his kilt through the unbuttoned flaps of a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt that he’s now worn at least ten days in a row. “As Einstein once said, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it,” Frogger explains to anyone who asks why he never changes his favorite shirt.

As Frogger shuffles off to the bathroom on dirty yellow flip-flops to empty out his piss bottle, I finish off my beer and look up at the cheap water-stained mineral board tiles covering the ceiling of the trailer. I close my eyes and flip through my mental catalog of daydreams. I pick out the one of me standing in a grassy pasture with cows grazing by a wooden fencepost. As I walk toward the cows, they stop and look up at me expectantly. I’m not sure where I am or what the fuck they want, and I don’t really care. I just know it’s not here.

***

Lance “Frogger” Macauley is the youngest of four siblings, born six years after my dad from an unplanned pregnancy when my grandmother was in her early forties. A hyperactive and mischievous kid, Frogger was always getting into trouble in and outside of school. His aging parents didn’t want to deal with him after raising three older kids.

Frogger earned his nickname after he ran away from home and disappeared for a day when he was six. The cops found him at an arcade a few miles away in downtown Troy playing the “Frogger” video game, which he’d been grinding away at for four straight hours with a roll of quarters that he’d swiped from my grandfather’s dresser. From then on, he was officially dubbed “Frogger” Macauley. Most people outside our family don’t even know his real name.

After a short stint in juvey for stealing a car with Skippy when they were sixteen, Frogger and Skippy landed part-time jobs at a boxing gym in Troy owned by a good friend and drinking buddy of Skippy’s dad, Marv Sigsworth, who welcomed their youthful vigor and cheap off-the-books labor. When he wasn’t working, Frogger started hitting the bags under the tutelage of Marv’s son, Bobby, an amateur boxer who took a liking to Frogger’s boundless energy and good-natured personality.

Frogger took to boxing like a fish to water from the first time he laced up the gloves. Boxing allowed him to channel his energy into a structured sport while giving him an excuse to stay away from home until the gym closed at 8:00 p.m. every night. And it quickly became evident to anyone watching that Frogger had the talent and tenacity to be a great fighter. Before long, he was sparring and holding his own against the best fighters in the gym. Recognizing his potential, Marv and Bobby began to seriously train Frogger for an amateur boxing career. He was their next great hope.

By his eighteenth birthday, Frogger had become one of the top amateur middleweights in upstate New York and was invited to compete in the New York State Golden Gloves tournament. Just out of high school, Frogger was able to focus entirely on boxing and spent the summer before the Golden Gloves training up to sixteen hours a day at Marv’s gym. He ate, drank, shat and slept boxing for three months straight, and became so ferocious that Marv had to hire outside sparring partners after the club regulars refused to step into the ring with him and risk getting killed.

A lean, nasty fighting machine with quick-as-lightning hands and a powerful jab, Frogger “The Trojan Tornado” Macauley tore through the Golden Gloves competition like a knife through warm butter, winning every fight by knockout and the middleweight championship by a unanimous decision over an outmatched boxer from Long Island who had to be carried out of the ring after he somehow managed to survive three rounds of Frogger’s relentless pounding.

Frogger turned pro after winning the Golden Gloves and, by age twenty, held an unblemished 11-0 professional record with eight knockouts. He was considered one of the top prospects in the middleweight division and, after knocking out the seventh-ranked middleweight in the country, was fast-tracked for a title shot.

But then 9/11 happened. After the US declared war on Iraq, Frogger and Skippy enlisted in the Army over the strong protests of their parents and Frogger’s trainers. But Frogger marched to his own drummer and was hell bent on fighting Al Qaeda while putting his boxing career on what he thought would be just a temporary hold. Eighteen months later, Frogger’s dreams ended abruptly that fateful day in Fallujah – his military service and boxing career over in the blink of an eye.

As an Army Ranger involved in some of the most violent combat in Irag, Frogger had seen some ugly shit and, for the first few months after he moved into our small house in Latham, he barely left the basement. Most days, he’d drink himself into oblivion while suffering PTSD episodes so vicious that my dad and me – often with the help of our next-door neighbor – had to use leather belts to tie his arms down to a bedframe to keep him from scratching his eyes out. No matter how bad it got, Frogger refused to go back to the VA hospital, and my dad wouldn’t force him to despite my mother’s protests and insistence that he couldn’t continue to live with us. My mom couldn’t take it anymore and, two months after Frogger moved in, up and left one day. We never heard from her again.

Frogger felt responsible for my mom leaving so finally agreed to outpatient counseling. And it helped. After a few months of treatment, he settled down and improved to where he was able to hold down a decent full-time job installing glass windows and doors for an old high school buddy who owned a contracting business in Schenectady.

While Frogger began to get his life back together, my dad’s went the other direction. He spiraled fast after my mom’s abrupt departure left him devastated and overwhelmed by the responsibilities of single parenthood. His drinking picked up as he battled depression, only leaving the house to go to the local Ford dealership where he worked as a car salesman. He started popping Oxys that he bought from another salesmen who was running a side hustle with an eighty-pill scrip’ he got refilled every week and sold off at twenty bucks a pop.

After the pill doc got busted and his Oxy supply was cut off, my dad graduated to heroin and got hooked quickly. Just two months after his first fix, he lost his job at the dealership after not showing up to work during a five-day binge. A week later, he overdosed in some rat-infested flophouse in Albany. After searching for three nights in a row, Frogger and Skippy found him stiff as a board with a needle still stuck in his arm. The dozen zoned-out junkies strewn across the floor around him didn’t even notice.

After burying my dad, we stayed in the family house for as long as we could. But after Frogger injured himself hauling glass a couple years ago – ripping tendons and rupturing two disks in his back – he was unable to keep working and went on disability. No longer able to afford the house, Frogger had to sell it and use the small amount of money left after paying off the mortgage and property taxes to buy the small trailer where we live now. It’s cold and drafty in the winter even when the heater works, hot and muggy as shit in the summer since we can’t afford an air conditioner. But it’s home. And it’s all we have.

Though he’s never said it, I know that Frogger feels responsible for what happened with my parents – and he’s promised to pay for my college to get me out of this shithole. “You’re goin’ to college even if I gotta raise the money by blowin’ truckers at rest stops off the New York State Thruway,” Frogger assured me one afternoon a few months ago when he, Skippy and me were outside on the patio discussing my future. “You just get into some college and I’ll take care of the rest.” Though I didn’t expect anything from him, I knew he was sincere so I just nodded my head and thanked him.

“Why don’t you start raisin’ the cash today, Frogger?” Skippy asked with a laugh. “There’s a few good ole’ boys trollin’ the New Baltimore truck stop who could use some fresh meat.” He turned to me and added, “Although the way Frogger’s lookin’ these days, don’t expect him to earn the dough to send you to Harvard anytime soon, Petey.”

When Frogger went back inside the trailer to fetch a fresh sixer from the fridge, Skippy turned to me with a serious look. “Y’know Pete, I’ve known that fat drunken bastard my whole life. We grew up together, went to school and worked together, served in Iraq together. He may be a fuck-up, but he’s the most loyal sonofabitch I ever met. There’s nobody else I’d want on my six. He loves you and when he says he’ll get you to college however he has to, he means it. Trust him. And let him help – he needs it as much as you do, know what I mean?”

I looked at Skippy and held his eyes for a long moment, then nodded my head. “Yeah, Skip, I do know what you mean.”

Skippy smiled, gave me a fist bump and raised his beer. “We don’t have much here, kid, but we do have each other,” he said as we tapped our beers together in a toast.

***

After a good senior wrestling season where I won the conference and placed third in Albany County, with decent grades to boot, I was offered a half scholarship to a small college in rural Pennsylvania. I don’t know much about Kutztown, Pennsylvania – just that it’s somewhere other than here, which is all that matters right now.

Even with the half scholarship, the cost of college including room, board and everything else will be about twenty thousand per year. If I can somehow get the money for the first year, I can get a job or maybe even earn a full ride to pay for the next three years. I’ll worry about that when I have to. For now, I need twenty grand … which, by the way things are going for us lately, may as well be twenty fucking million.

“Don’t worry, Petey, I got me an idea – just gotta discuss it with Skipper and Bobby but I think it’ll fly,” Frogger assures me after I tell him the amount of money I need for college.

The last time Frogger had a brilliant idea, our trailer nearly exploded from the homemade meth lab he and Skippy tried to build after watching some dark web DIY video. But I have no choice and, for better or worse, I actually do trust the fat bastard.

One April afternoon when I come home from school, Frogger and Skippy are already buzzed with about a dozen empty bottles of Genesee Cream Ale (“Genny Screamers,” Frogger calls them, “cuz’ you’re screamin’ all the way to the toilet”) littering up the scratched-up plastic patio table between them. When I pull my bike into the gravel driveway next to our trailer, they rush me at once, anxious to fill me in on the brilliant new plan they’ve hatched to raise my college money.

“Okay,” Frogger says to me eagerly with his eyes lit up as he pops the cap off another Genny Screamer and hands it to me. “Me an’ Skip got started in with the beers early today cuz’ this’ll be my last day drinkin’ for a long time!” Frogger and Skippy smile and clink their bottles together in a toast.

I look from Skippy to Frogger with a straight face and say, “What’re you pregnant, Frogger? Good job, Skip. I didn’t know that could happen with two guys but—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Frogger laughs while playfully smacking the side of my head. “I ain’t drinkin’, son … CUZ’ I’LL BE IN TRAININ’!”

Before I can rattle off another wiseass retort, Skippy pipes up, “And he ain’t trainin’ for a buffalo wing eatin’ contest, neither. The Trojan Tornado over here is gonna dust the cobwebs off the ole’ mitts and step back into the ring!”

Frogger looks from Skippy to me with a wide grin, then breaks down and starts shadowboxing between us with his right fist still closed around his beer bottle. “Damn straight, Skipperoo! Frogger Macauley is comin’ back, baby!”

I look at Frogger and shake my head. “Tell me you’re not fuckin’ serious, Frogger. What about your head and your back? You’ll never get sanctioned to fight again with your injuries. And even if you could, who’s gonna pay you to fight at your age and fifty pounds overweight?”

“Well, it’s all dependin’ on me gettin’ down to 175 so I can fight light-heavy, and also passin’ a physical,” Frogger explains. “Bobby and ole’ Marv got a buddy downstate who’s trainin’ a former contender who’s comin’ off a two-year suspension for dopin’ and needs the dough and an easy win to get back on track. Name’s Felix Watson.”

“Whoa!” I exclaim. “Felix Watson? He’s under thirty and built like a greyhound. He’ll fuckin’ destroy you, Frogger! And what about your head? And your back? You’re gonna get murdered!”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Pete,” Frogger replies sarcastically. “Watson just turned thirty-one, by the way, and I’ve watched his tape. He’s good but he ain’t a legit contender … and he never was. The competition is weak these days. I’d have mopped the floor with his ass back in the day, even as a 155-pound middleweight. My back’ll be fine, especially after I lose the weight. And let me worry about my head.” Rapping his knuckles against his skull, Frogger says, “There’s a US government-grade steel plate in here, so maybe Felix is the one who’s gotta be careful.”

Skippy laughs while knocking his own fist against Frogger’s skull, “And not enough brain cells left in that noggin’ to even know when it’s gettin’ crushed!”

“Well,” I say, shaking my head, “I can’t stop you, Frogger, but at least I can help you train. Starting tomorrow morning at 6:00 a.m. Roadwork.”

“Now that’s a deal, kiddo!” Frogger replies with a smile.

Skippy raises his beer bottle for a group toast. “To Frogger’s last dance!”

***

Hauling Frogger’s fat ass outta bed the next few mornings is a tough slog, even with Skippy’s help after he moves into our (already overcrowded) small trailer to assist with Frogger’s training, sleeping on an air mattress squeezed into the fifty roach-infested square feet we call the living room.

“227,” Skippy reads from the bathroom scale, where Frogger stands naked as a newborn baby the first morning of training. “Only fifty pounds to lose in four months, big boy!”

Twenty minutes later and just a quarter mile into our first morning run, Frogger lurches to the side of the road, bends over and pukes up an ugly stew of Genny Screamers and stale pepperoni pizza. Skippy, trailing us on his old junkyard bicycle, looks down and proclaims, “Well you’re already down to 225 after that!” Turning to me with a smirk, he adds, “Hey Petey, tell the twelve disciples that Jesus just gifted ’em leftovers from the last supper!”

“For fuck’s sake, Petey, can’t we do this later?” Frogger whines at me after gulping down half a water bottle that Skippy had handed to him from his rusty bicycle basket.

“It won’t be any easier later,” I replied. “You just gotta push through.”

Frogger nods reluctantly, hands his water bottle back to Skippy, and resumes the run. Another quarter mile later, he collapses into a roadside ditch.

But with our help, and daily double training sessions with Bobby Sigsworth at Marv’s gym (not to mention a padlock on the refrigerator to keep him from raiding it every night), Frogger struggles through the first few weeks of training and starts to get back into fighting trim. After he completes his first five-mile morning run with me about a month in, we take him for a celebration breakfast at his old favorite – IHOP. When Frogger orders just a low-fat yogurt parfait and fruit cup, we know he’s committed. Skippy pats Frogger on the back, then looks over, winks and flashes the money sign to me. Frogger is in.

“Whatever the hell you guys are doing at home is working!” Bobby says to us at the gym one afternoon about six weeks into Frogger’s training. “He weighed in under 200 today. Still got twenty-five pounds to go but I think he can make it at this pace.” He nods over to Frogger, who’s in the corner of the gym popping the speedbag with the skill and ease of a seasoned pro.

“He’s training like he was twenty years ago for the Golden Gloves!” Marv adds. “It’s like staring into a time warp.”

“He’s gettin’ his mornin’ wood back too, I think,” Skippy chimes in with a chuckle. “I woke up to a whole lotta groanin’ today … and it wasn’t comin’ from that skin-headed midget on the TV screen!”

For my high school graduation in late June, Frogger has to borrow a sport coat and slacks from Bobby since his are about four sizes too big. At the ceremony, I catch more than one single mom checking him out.

Frogger “The Trojan Tornado” Macauley is back.

***

The morning of the Watson-Macauley undercard fight at Madison Square Garden, the Las Vegas odds are set heavily in Watson’s favor – giving Frogger just a 20-1 chance to win and a 40-1 chance of a knockout win – against the far younger and (as far as everyone knows) faster and stronger Felix Watson. Frogger’s guaranteed payday is $10,000 with a win bonus of another $10,000.

Frogger weighs in at an even 173. For the first time in my life, I see the Frogger I’d always heard about as a kid: lean, mean and laser-focused.

While Frogger keeps his head down as he approaches the ring in his green robe with the hood pulled low over his head, quietly shadowboxing with short jabs and uppercuts, Watson is all smiles, blowing kisses to the crowd while he struts toward the ring with his training team.

Bobby smirks. “Watson’s not expecting much outta Frogger tonight. He’s treating this fight as an easy warm-up on his road back to a title shot.

“Frogger was once a top contender too,” remarks Skippy. “Nobody here includin’ Watson ever saw him at his best. They don’t think this fight gets outta the first round.”

Frogger turns to us with an angry scowl. “If that’s what they think, they’re in for a big fuckin’ surprise,” he says as lowers his head to climb through the ropes.

***

“What the fuck is Frogger doing in there?” I scream to Bobby in the middle of the third round. “Has he even thrown a punch?”

Bobby looks over at me. “Believe it or not, this ain’t our first rodeo, kid. It’s just been awhile since your uncle’s been in the saddle.”

Frogger has spent the first three rounds hunched over with his arms covering his ribs and his gloves over his face while Watson unloads a flurry of uppercuts, jabs and body shots. But few if any of his punches land squarely or faze Frogger. Watson is frustrated.

When Frogger walks back to his corner at the end of the third round, Skippy asks, “So whaddaya think, Froggy? Time to unleash the tornado?”

“This guy’s a fuckin’ hack,” Frogger says confidently. “He’s frustrated and now he’s gettin’ tired. Punches are gettin’ slower, weaker. Hands are comin’ down and he’s leavin’ himself open.”

“I’m seeing it too,” Bobby agrees. “Think you can take him out this round?”

“I could,” Frogger replies, then looks from Bobby to Skippy with a sly grin. “But let’s toy with him a little more to jack up the odds.”

Skippy grins and pats Frogger on the shoulder. “Now you’re talkin’!”

“Uh, somethin’ goin’ on here I don’t know about, Skip?” I ask Skippy after Frogger stands up from his stool and walks back toward the center of the ring for the start of the fourth round.

Skippy chuckles. “There’s plenty you don’t know, college boy. You never seen it, but me an’ Bobby sure did back in the day.”

“And what exactly is that?” I ask.

Bobby looks over at me before Skippy can reply. “Your uncle at his best. Just watch and learn, kid, cuz’ you may never see this again.”

After touching gloves with Watson to begin the fourth round, Frogger covers himself again and continues to plod around the ring allowing Watson to thump him. Watson grows more and more frustrated until, finally, he stops and puts his hands down while goading Frogger. “Start fighting, you washed up ole’ fuck!” he shouts at Frogger. “You’ll get your ten grand to buy your booze and fix up your shithole trailer, but at least throw a punch you fuckin’ clown!”

As if on cue, Frogger steps forward while cocking his right arm and throws an embarrassingly telegraphed right hook at Watson’s head. Watson easily ducks Frogger’s swing while laughing at him. After his missed punch, Frogger loses his balance and drops to a knee on the canvas. 

The crowd boos Frogger. “THIS IS A FUCKIN’ JOKE!” someone screams from the back of the arena. “MACAULEY’S DRUNK!” The crowd erupts in laughter.

“What the fuck is he doing, Bobby?” I scream as Frogger rises to his feet, heavily winded after his mishap.

“Patience, grasshopper. Patience.” Bobby replies with a coy smile.

Seeing his opportunity as soon as Frogger stands up, Watson closes in and lands a solid body shot. Frogger winces in pain and lowers his gloves to his ribs long enough to expose his head to Watson’s right-handed jab that sends Frogger reeling back into the ropes. Watson lands a flurry of body shots followed by a swift uppercut that sends Frogger to the mat with ten seconds left in the round.

The crowd boos louder. “Stay down you punk!” someone shouts. “Call the fight, ref!”

The ref begins his ten-count while Frogger lays sprawled out on the canvas, his face contorted in pain and chin tucked into his chest while grabbing his ribs. When the ref barks out “seven,” Frogger sits up and slowly rises to his feet. The ref grabs his gloves while looking into his eyes and asks him something. Frogger responds with a nod and the ref backs away to let the fight resume. The round ends after a few more seconds of Frogger plodding around the ring with his face and body covered up.

Frogger stumbles back to his corner breathing heavily, then collapses onto his stool. I hurry over to Frogger with my mouth open, but before I can protest him going back in for the next round, Frogger suddenly catches his breath and smiles at me. “Relax kiddo, I’m fine.” He turns to Skippy and asks, “What’re the odds on the KO?”

Looking down at his phone, Skippy’s eyes pop out of their sockets. “Holy fuck, it’s at 100-1 now!” Looking back up at Frogger, he asks, “So? Whaddaya wanna do? It’s your call.”

Frogger looks over at Bobby, who nods in agreement and says, “We trust you, brother. You’ve been in the ring with this guy for four rounds, you know what you can do. Make the call.”

Frogger smiles and looks up at Skippy, then utters two simple words: “Do it.”

With a quick nod, Skippy looks down and raises his thumb to the keypad of his phone.

***

Forty seconds into the fifth round, The Trojan Tornado comes to life.

When an out-of-breath Watson lowers his gloves to take a break from another pummeling of the covered-up Frogger, Frogger darts forward and lands a hard jab with a right hand faster than a blur, followed by a quick left uppercut that snaps Watson’s head back.

Watson is confused and disoriented; Frogger’s sudden attack out of nowhere is the last thing he expected after Frogger hobbled around the ring like an old cripple for the first four rounds. He falls back against the ropes while Frogger pounces on him like a jungle predator, landing the fastest, hardest body shots I’ve ever seen – crushing against Watson’s exposed ribs like a battering ram. When Watson hunches over and lowers his gloves to defend his midsection, Frogger plants his feet, bends his knees, then thrusts his right fist upward with all his power and lands a devastating uppercut to Watson’s jaw – rocking his head back violently and sending him straight to the canvas. The ref looks down at Watson and doesn’t even bother with the ten-count. Watson is out cold.

The crowd goes deafeningly silent, in utter disbelief at what they’ve just witnessed. After a few seconds, a lone chant emits from the back of the arena: “Frogger, Frogger, Frogger!” The rest of the crowd joins in and soon the chant grows loud enough to fill the entire arena. ““FROGGER, FROGGER, FROGGER!”

Frogger stands on the bottom rope in the corner of the ring and gazes out to the chanting crowd, pumping his fists with his gloves raised. He smiles, closes his eyes and soaks it all in. Maybe it won’t last long, maybe it’ll never happen again, but for right now – in this moment – Frogger Macauley is exactly where he belongs. And always did.

***

Marv rents us a stretch limo to celebrate Frogger’s win. On the long ride back upstate, Skippy and Bobby explain everything to me with boyish excitement while gunning down beers and shots from the limo bar.

After Watson’s beat-down of Frogger to end the fourth round, the Las Vegas odds for Frogger to win by knockout – a seemingly impossible longshot at that point – jumped to 100-1. With Frogger’s go-ahead, Skippy called in a $10,000 bet (the amount of Frogger’s guaranteed payday) for Frogger to win by KO. The unlikely bet hit for a cool million.

“When all is said and done, we won’t see anything close to a mill but it’ll still be one hell of a payday,” Bobby explains to me with a smile.

“I ain’t complainin!” Frogger chimes in while he and Skippy each chase another Jameson shot with a Heineken.

“Are you guys fuckin’ crazy!” I bellow out amidst their laughter. “We coulda lost the only ten grand Frogger was gonna win! He was gettin’ killed in the fourth round!”

“It was a show, kid,” Frogger assures me. “I was in control the whole time and knew I could knock Watson out in the fifth – he was tired and frustrated. I just needed to run the odds up a little to pad the payout.”

I just look at Frogger and shake my head in disbelief while he, Bobby and Skippy all look back at me laughing with shit-eating grins.

“So now we’re rich?” I ask incredulously.

“I wouldn’t say rich,” Frogger replies. “But now we got enough scratch for your entire four years of college plus a new car to take down there to East Jesus so you can come back home and visit us chumps whenever you want. So all ya’ gotta worry about down there in college is rasslin’, partyin’ and tryna’ get laid!”

“And maybe do a little studying while you’re at it – it is college after all!” Bobby adds.

Skippy glances over to Frogger and chuckles. “Now I know why we never went to college, Frog – studyin’ wasn’t our strong suit in high school!”

“As for us geezers, why don’t you tell him what we got on tap, Bobby,” Frogger says.

Bobby nods and looks over at me. “The old man’s pushing seventy now and getting tired of work and the upstate New York weather. So he plans to retire and move to Florida with the money he’ll make from selling the gym.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Marv’s owned that gym forever – who’s he sellin’ to?”

“You’re lookin’ at the new owners right here!” Skippy replies with a grin. “That’s what our side bet was for. Bobby’s gonna stay and manage the place for us – with a nice pay raise and piece of the ownership – and Frogger’s gonna be our head trainer and faceman. After what he just pulled off on national TV, his name is back front and center and a lotta local fighters’ll wanna be trained by Frogger Macauley! We’re gonna turn Marv’s into the best boxing gym in upstate New York!” Skippy beams and adds with a laugh, “And my role? Well, I’ll be the Paulie to Frogger’s Rocky – I just need to start smokin’ cheap cigars, drinkin’ Wild Irish Rose and upgrade my collection of grease-stained wife-beaters!”

“Yo, Adrian!” Frogger shouts out while raising another shot glass.

We all laugh and settle back in the limo for the most relaxing ride I’ve ever taken. After a long pull of ice-cold beer, I lean my head back against the cushioned leather seat, close my eyes and dial up my go-to daydream. The cows in the pasture aren’t looking to me for help anymore. They’ve broken through the wooden fence on their own and walk through it toward the larger pasture beyond. The bright morning sun flashes sharp rays across the long green grass, glistening off the morning dew. I squint to see off in the distance, but I’m blinded by the sunlight. I shrug my shoulders and walk forward through the fence. I can’t see shit and I have no idea where this path will lead me but, fuck it, I’m going anyway.

THE END