Free TKO by Tom Schreck Page B

circumference of his belly.
    “To Mr. Duffy!” he screamed, and his four friends yelled, “Hear, hear!”
    The little guy at the end reached over the Garden security guard and handed me a full beer.
    “You could use a pint, Duff,” he said.
    I couldn’t remember smiling harder in my life, and I raised my glass to my new friends.
    “To the Irish!” I said, and I headed into the locker room with the impatient inspector from the Commission, who had to take my gloves.
    This was by far the biggest win and moment in my boxing career.
    I didn’t feel real, and although I beat Marquason by exploiting his tendency to cut and by throwing a somewhat questionable punch that utilized the construction of the glove, I wasn’t besieged with guilt. See, inside the ropes, there are rules and then there are the real rules.
    Fighters operate on a certain code, and I didn’t violate that code. The code is you do anything you can with what you have at your disposal as long as your opponent has that same opportunity. We wore the same gloves and I hit him with a legal punch. I didn’t lace him in the eye, I didn’t kick him, and I didn’t bite him in the ear. I didn’t hold him and hit him, I didn’t hit him on the break, and I didn’t put any illegal substance on my gloves. I did hit him in a way that would bust his face open, and that may seem gross, but hey, this is the sport we both chose.
    Marquason and his entourage weren’t happy but they knew my win was on the up and up. Still, there would be complaints, protests, and undoubtedly a lot said. All of this came with upsetting a prospect and it didn’t bother me in the least. It was a great moment and I wasn’t in any hurry to get home.
    “So, this punch looked an awful lot like that shit you’ve been doin’ on the bags this week,” Smitty said.
    I smiled and laughed while he shook his head. I sipped my beer.
    “It was a thing of beauty, kid,” Smitty said. “I’m proud of you.”
    “Smitty, if it wasn’t for you, where would I be—shit, who would I be?” I said.
    Rudy came in from getting a beer and joined us.
    “Hey, let’s get out of here and celebrate. I don’t feel like watching another three hours of boxing. Let’s get to AJ’s,” Rudy said, and I couldn’t have agreed more.
    The hour-and-half ride was the best time I ever spent in a car—a few cold Schlitz travelers and fresh memories of something special. We were almost to the front door of AJ’s when I remembered the fact that I hadn’t divulged to anyone that I had gotten a phone call from a suspected serial killer the day before. Sooner or later I’d figure out what to do about all that, but for now all I knew was that it was Schlitz City.
    Smitty passed on beers, as he often did, and shook my hand before Rudy and I went inside. He pulled away smiling from ear to ear.
    “No, I ain’t buying it,” TC said.
    “I’m tellin’ you, it’s the truth,” Rocco said.
    “Hold it.” Jerry Number One was now involved. “You believe that men think of sex every seven seconds?”
    “That’s what they say,” TC said.
    Jerry Number Two was already counting.
    “Five … six … seven … All right, Rocco, what are you thinking of?” Jerry Number Two asked.
    “That you’re an asshole,” Rocco said.
    “That could be considered sexual,” TC said.
    “Hey, what are you saying, asshole?” Rocco said.
    “He didn’t wait another seven seconds that time,” Jerry Number One said.
    Jerry Number Two was counting again.
    “Six … seven … TC, what are you thinking of?” Jerry Number Two asked. TC was in the process of ordering.
    “AJ, I need another B&B,” TC said.
    “Hmm … what does that tell us?” Jerry Number Two said.
    “Huh, were you talking to me?” TC said.
    “What sexual thought did you just have?” Rocco asked.
    “I was just thinking about a drink. You can’t count those seven seconds.”
    Jerry Number Two was into another cycle.
    “Five … six … seven … TC, what