Free TKO by Tom Schreck Page A

screw around and treat me like a prop. It was as if I were a piece of equipment for him to use to get his win, and even more than that, I was something to embarrass and show dominance over.
    I threw some jabs that he caught with his gloves and I missed wildly with some hooks. He mugged at me, stuck his tongue out, and did the Ali shuffle. I didn’t mind getting beat but I did mind getting disrespected. Okay, so the kid was near great and going to be great, but he didn’t have to make me into an asshole.
    He kept doing this one move where he’d drop his guard, stick his head out, and then lean in, begging me to hit him. Then when I’d move, he’d lean toward me and flash a jab that would stab me on the way in. Those jabs hurt, but it was actually something I’d hoped he’d do after seeing him do it on tape.
    “DUFFY, DUFFY.”
    “DUFFY, DUFFY.”
    Man, you got to love the Irish. I felt my fist inside the satiny Mexican glove and it was time to give it a shot—probably my only shot. I knew my jab was good but I didn’t know if I could pull off what I wanted to do. Who was I kidding—it was my only shot.
    Marquason started the hands-down-leaning-in routine again. I tightened my fist and waited. He leapt, I stepped slightly to my left and threw the hardest, stiff-armed jab I had, just slightly off-center to his right eyebrow. It caught and I dragged it across his eyebrow and forehead as hard as I could.
    It would take a second to see if it worked.
    He backed up and circled abruptly, abandoning his showboat style. He stopped throwing punches and looked preoccupied. Then I got my first sign of success. Marquason rubbed his eyebrow and looked down at his glove. There was blood and there was a lot of it.
    The expression on his face changed a bit. Blood dripped into his eye and little by little his fancy satin trunks were getting stained. I threw a regular jab that he blocked, but it was hard enough to force his own gloves into the cut. When he pulled back, the cut had spread. It was now almost two inches long and it was a quarter inch deep.
    But was it enough?
    The bell rang to end the second and there was a surge of activity around his corner. Back in my corner, Rudy iced my shoulders and Smitty was saying something I wasn’t paying any attention to because I was trying to see around him into Marquason’s corner. I saw the New York Athletic Commission doc come through the ropes.
    Oh please, please.
    “DUFFY, DUFFY.”
    “DUFFY, DUFFY.”
    It was more than a minute between rounds, which meant the doctor was concerned. He looked at Marquason, turned, and whispered something to the ref. And then it happened—it fuckin’ happened.
    The ref waved his hands over Marquason’s corner wildly and I watched. I couldn’t breathe. Fred Flintstone was throwing a fit, Marquason pushed the ref and was yelling, and the ref approached the scorer’s table. I pushed Smitty out of the way to hear what he told the Commission table.
    “TKO on doctor’s recommendation,” he said.
    I froze. Smitty froze.
    The handsome ring announcer climbed in the ring.
    “On advice of the ringside physician, referee Peter Conboy stops the contest. The winner by TKO, Duffy Dombrowski!”
    I jumped in the air and Smitty and Rudy caught me.
    “DUFFY, DUFFY.”
    “DUFFY, DUFFY.”
    Oh, how you have to love the Irish.

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    Rudy hugged me so tight it hurt, and he wouldn’t let go. Smitty smiled his crooked smile and laughed, shaking his head like a guy who just saw a dog riding a bicycle at the circus. He slapped me on the back and left it there as we headed for the dressing room.
    Just before I left the Garden floor, there was a group of pasty-faced guys with turtlenecks, wool caps, and bad teeth. They had had more than a few and were hootin’ and hollerin’ for me behind some security guards.
    “’Ere’s to ya, Mr. Duff—you done all of us proud tonight, ya know,” said the fattest one with the sweater that didn’t quite cover the