A roll of white athletic tape lies on a counter next to a tub of Vaseline. Red leather boxing gloves hang from a metal hook. Two bare light bulbs dangle through a missing ceiling tile but fail to brighten the windowless room.

There is a dull shine to the cracked vinyl cover of the trainer’s table where Frank Washington sits quietly, opening and closing his immense hands.

Sal Marciotta is a short man with an enormous girth. His thin-lipped smile is broken by an unlit cigar stub tucked into the corner of his mouth. He cocks his head and squints as he scrutinizes Frank’s face. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Good. I feel good,” responds Frank, his voice low and steady.

“That’s good. You’ve still got more than an hour. We’ll warm up in a little while. In the meantime, try to relax.”

Frank nods and continues to ball his hands into fists. He begins to throw slow punches. The room is warm, and the air is stale, and heat builds under his heavy sweatshirt.

Sal leaves through the open door, his hands never leaving his trouser pockets. Frank continues to move his arms, pumping his fists upward. Slowly at first, then more rapidly.

He stands and faces a mirror that hangs by a string wrapped around a single nail. The mirror’s silver backing is worn, the reflection haphazard.

Frank is brought still by his image. He moves closer, his face filling the round glass. He dabs a fingertip into the fleshy skin beneath each eye, then runs a thumb along the scar imbedded in one eyebrow. The arched hairs are divided evenly between an upper and lower prominence. Frank pushes his nose comically to one side, letting it snap back to settle quietly under the large bump on his nose.

He stretches a smile, his teeth clenched. The upper tier is full where some teeth are newer. There are two gaps in the lower row, and he bumps a finger unevenly across them.

When the inspection is over, Frank’s scowl flashes in the mirror. He backs away and begins to bounce softly on his toes. His shoulders duck and rise, his head bobs and weaves as he resumes his punching.

Minutes later, he walks to the door and peers down the dank hallway. The cinder block walls of the ancient arena are painted dark gray. He sees no one, only a corked bulletin board papered and pin-cushioned. An orange flyer seeking a handyman with the promise of a fair wage is the most prominent. At the bottom of the page are a dozen tags scissored for easy tearing, each with a phone number written in an unsteady hand.

Frank pulls away a single tag. Once back inside the ready room, he slides a brown duffel bag from under the table. He unzips the canvas and drops the orange slip to float inside.

He sits on the table and begins to throw out his left hand in front of him. His arm thrusts quickly in rapid succession. His fist turns slightly at the anticipated point of impact.

“Eeooww,” he cries out before he blows three hard breaths at the water-stained ceiling. Frank contorts his face as his jaw opens wide. His lips and tongue strain in every direction.

Frank pushes himself off the table and walks to the small closet at the back of the room. Inside, white boxing shorts with black piping lie on a shelf. A plain, white terry cloth robe, the collar frayed, hangs alone. There are no inscriptions. A pair of faded boxing shoes have deep creases in the black leather that curve like well-worn smiles. The shoes stand like sentries beneath the robe.

Frank dresses, pulling the upper laces taut so the leather is snug against his calves. He sits on the table and works his ankles back and forth.

Sal walks in, his hands in his pockets until he grabs the roll of tape. “It’s time.”

Frank holds out his right hand. The middle knuckle is grotesquely large with a purplish hue. Blood has collected under the skin. Sal grabs Frank’s hand and presses both thumbs on the knuckle. He rolls his thumbs back and forth over the discoloration. “Anything?” he asks.

Frank shakes his head. Sal nods, and then begins to tape Frank’s hands. First at the wrist, then he moves to the hand, wrapping both in a cushion of white. Next, Sal anchors Frank’s thumb and wrist, pinching the thick connection with a fat thumb and forefinger before moving to Frank’s fingers. Sal seals each finger neatly yet allows them to flex, which Frank does without a problem.

“Okay, gimme the other hand.”

When Sal is done, Frank raises his hands and admires Sal’s work. New polar bear claws, he thinks. Frank nods approvingly and he paws once at the air.

Sal pulls two leather pads from a small cabinet under the table. The pads are the size of extra-large catcher’s mitts. They have canvas handles attached to the back where Sal slips in his hands. Sal shifts his cigar across his mouth with his tongue, then holds up the mitts and faces Frank. “Alright.”

Frank slides off the table and begins to throw punches, hitting the black leather mitts lightly at first, then harder. Sal holds them out in front of him and his hands jump back toward him after each rap. “That’s it. Nice. Eyes steady.”

After a while they stop. A thin bead of sweat runs over Frank’s cheek. His bare shoulders glisten.

Sal checks his watch. “It’s almost time. Hop up.”

Frank sits on the table’s edge and lifts his chin. He closes his eyes.

Sal reaches for the tub of Vaseline, then begins to slather Frank’s forehead, cheekbones, chin, carefully avoiding Frank’s eyes. Sal sticks two fingers into the tub and removes another wedge of grease. He slides the ointment along Frank’s shoulders, then his chest. “You gotta be slippery as an eel for this kid.”

Sal reaches for the gloves. At eight ounces they are much smaller than the sparring gloves Frank has become used to. Sal laces the gloves neatly before tying a double knot. He taps the leather when he is finished. “How’s that feel?”

“Good. Tight.”

“He’s got fifteen years on you. You’re meat.” Sal shakes his head. “But you wanted this. I don’t like it, but you wanted this.”

Frank scans the cement floor. There are traces of old paint, bits of athletic tape, but mostly grime. An old boxing shoe has been kicked to the corner, the laces missing.

Frank is silent. Sal shrugs and turns away. “All I’m saying is that you haven’t had a fight in five years. That’s a lifetime in this game.”

“I’ve been sparring the whole time.”

“Sparring’s not fighting. I don’t have to tell you that. Jeez, you’ve got head gear, padding, the whole shebang. You’re forty-two for chrissakes. You’re no kid, but you’re fighting one.”

“I got the reach. I got the experience. I can keep him off me. I can take this kid, no problem.” Frank places a hand on Sal’s shoulder. “I feel it in my bones.”

“You’d better. Because if he gets inside, your bones are going to get hurt. Really hurt.”

Frank breaks into a big grin. “Thanks, Sal. Good pep talk.”

Sal shakes his head again. “I don’t know what else to say.” He pauses. “Look, I know Marci remarried, but what does your kid say? She’s how old now? She’s gotta tell you what’s what.”

“Seventeen. Jenny turned seventeen last month.” Frank breaks into a broad smile, his lower teeth a picket fence missing two slats. “She’s going to college in the fall. I sent her one of those computer pads for her birthday. Refurbished, you know, but nice. Do you know what she did? She sent it back with a note.”

Sal pinches his cigar butt and moves it to the other side of his mouth. “A note? What’d it say?”

“That she didn’t want me to spend that kind of money. That a card was enough.” Frank winces at the thought.

“She was always a sweet kid.”

Frank is still. He stares at the floor before a wistful smile appears. “I sent her a ticket for the fight.”

Sal moves to the closet and slips the robe from its’ hanger. When he holds it out, the arms are extra wide and leave ample room for gloved hands. Frank nods and slides his arms through.

Frank enters the hallway first and the men walk slowly through the gray passage.

They pass a trainer’s room, much like the one they just left, and halt for a moment. A tall, thin man in a white tee shirt and khaki trousers is working casually on the brow of a fighter. His fingers clamp the man’s flesh tighter each time blood trickles into his battered eye.

There are only a few hundred patrons scattered among the seats when Frank emerges from the tunnel. Most of the fans are seated in old wooden folding chairs in the rows that form the square around the ring. Frank raises a hand as he heads down the aisle. A few old men with white hair and wrinkled jackets, one wearing a bow tie, applaud politely. A woman with teased red hair sniffs at the air.

Two teenage girls wait anxiously with two young men who cheer with their tattooed fists skyward. Their fight programs are stuffed into hip pockets. Down in the front row, two thick men with black wavy hair nod as Frank climbs into the ring. The rim of a gold watch peeks from under the shirt cuff of the taller one. The shorter man smirks.

Sal climbs onto the apron and ducks under the ropes after Frank enters the ring. The men stand together for a moment surveying the crowd. “Not bad,” says Sal.

Frank glares at him. “Really, Sal?”

Frank opens his mouth and Sal pops in a white rubber mouthpiece. Frank bites down hard, his jowls flaring. Sal, a towel draped over his shoulder, pulls an ice bucket from the ring corner.

The announcer introduces each fighter. Frank is first, then the young favorite. Frank’s opponent raises a muscled arm and there are scattered cheers from the sparse crowd.

The referee calls both men to the center of the ring. Neither fighter looks at him while he explains the rules. His opponent glares at Frank, the young man’s large bald head shaved smooth and shiny. Thin blue veins pulse at the fighter’s temples as he bobs back and forth.

Frank stares at the gray-white canvas beneath him. The referee finishes and the men touch gloves and return to their corners.

Frank peppers the air with rapid punches as he bounces side-to-side on the balls of his feet. He closes his eyes and crosses himself. He takes a deep breath and smacks his gloves together once. Frank glances down between the ropes. A ringside seat is empty.

He waits for the bell.

***

Philip Cesario is a short story writer, playwright, and essayist whose writing has appeared in Coolest American Stories 2025, Orca, Fiction on the Web, Eunoia Review, Sport Literate, and elsewhere. His short fiction is forthcoming in Johnny America. He and his wife live in New Jersey.