His opponent, Rafael Cruz, posted a video laughing.
"If Damon can't hit the janitor, good luck hitting me."
That clip received twelve million views.
Damon smashed his phone against a locker.
Coach Hale watched.
"You done?"
"No."
"Good. Because the phone didn't do anything."
Damon paced.
"Everybody thinks I'm a joke."
"Everybody thought you were unbeatable last week."
"Exactly."
Coach Hale shrugged.
"People are stupid both weeks."
Damon stopped.
"You don't get it."
"I get it better than you."
"My entire career is image."
"There's your problem."
Damon looked at him.
Hale pointed toward the ring.
"Your career should be boxing."
For several days, Damon trained angrily.
He punched harder.
Ran farther.
Sparred recklessly.
His performance became worse.
Arthur continued cleaning.
They did not speak.
Then one evening, Damon remained after everyone left.
Arthur was sweeping near the ring.
Damon sat on the apron.
"How did you do it?"
Arthur kept sweeping.
"Do what?"
"You know."
"No."
Damon sighed.
"Dodge."
Arthur leaned on the broom.
"You want the answer?"
"Yes."
"Because you told me exactly what you were going to do."
Damon frowned.
"I didn't."
"You did."
"How?"
Arthur pointed toward Damon's right shoulder.
"Before your right hand, that lifts."
Damon looked down.
"By maybe half an inch."
Arthur pointed toward his hip.
"Your weight shifts too early."
Then his eyes.
"And you look where you're planning to hit."
Damon stared.
Arthur continued sweeping.
"Your jab is better."
"Why?"
"You don't think before throwing it."
Damon remained silent.
"Can you fix it?"
Arthur stopped.
"I'm not your trainer."
"I know."
"Then ask your trainer."
"Hale says the same stuff."
Arthur smiled slightly.
"Then listen to him."
Damon looked toward the empty gym.
"Why did you stop your punch?"
Arthur knew which punch.
"Because I didn't need to throw it."
"You could've embarrassed me worse."
"That wasn't my goal."
Damon laughed.
"You sure?"
Arthur put down the broom.
"My son was about your age when he stopped speaking to me."
That answer surprised Damon.
Arthur sat several feet away.
"I spent years thinking strength meant having an answer for everything."
He looked at his hands.
"Someone insults you, answer."
"Someone hits you, hit harder."
"Someone doubts you, prove them wrong."
Damon listened.
"Eventually you spend your whole life reacting to people who don't matter."
Arthur looked at him.
"That's weakness."
Damon frowned.
"Not hitting back is weakness?"
"No."
Arthur shook his head.
"Needing to is."
They sat quietly.
Then Damon asked:
"Was my punch actually bad?"
Arthur smiled.
"No."
"Would it have hurt?"
"Probably."
"Could you dodge it again?"
Arthur stood.
"Now you're asking the wrong question again."
"What should I ask?"
Arthur picked up the broom.
"Why are you so afraid of being laughed at?"
Damon had no answer.
Arthur returned to sweeping.
That night, Damon did not post anything online.
For the first time in four years.
The next morning, he arrived before sunrise.
Arthur was surprised.
"What are you doing here?"
"Training."
"Gym doesn't open for another hour."
Damon nodded.
"I know."
He started jumping rope.
Arthur watched for a moment.
Then continued working.
Damon returned the next morning.
And the next.
After a week, the cameras stopped following him.
The designer clothes disappeared.
He trained in old shorts and a sweatshirt.
Something was changing.
Slowly.
Coach Hale noticed.
So did Arthur.
Three weeks before the Rafael Cruz fight, Damon asked Arthur a question.
"Will you watch me spar?"
Arthur shook his head.
"Hale watches."
"I want you to."
"Why?"
"Because you see things."
Arthur looked at the ring.
Then at Damon.
"No advice."
"Fine."
"No coaching."
"Fine."
Arthur sat beside the ring.
Damon sparred six rounds.
Afterward, he approached.
"What did you see?"
Arthur laughed.
"You said no coaching."
"I lied."
Arthur stood.
"You drop your left when you're tired."
Damon nodded.
"Anything else?"
"You rush after landing the right hand."
"Anything else?"
Arthur looked at him.
"You're scared of Cruz's hook."
Damon's expression changed.
"I'm not scared."
"Then you're stupid."
Damon almost argued.
Then stopped.
Arthur smiled.
"Better."
"What?"
"You almost listened."
Damon laughed.
It was the first time Arthur had heard him laugh without arrogance.
Two days later, everything changed again.
Arthur received a letter.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
His son Michael.
Standing outside King Street.
Recent.
On the back were five words.
He came looking for you.
Arthur sat down.
His hands began shaking.
Coach Hale found him ten minutes later.
"What happened?"
Arthur handed him the photograph.
Hale stared.
"When?"
"I don't know."
"You haven't seen Michael?"
"Twenty-two years."
Coach Hale sat beside him.
"You going to call?"
"I don't have his number."
"Find him."
Arthur shook his head.
"What if he doesn't want that?"
Hale looked at the photograph.
"He came here."
Arthur stared.
That was true.
The next day, Arthur searched.
It took less than an hour.
Michael Reed was living two states away.
Married.
One daughter.
He worked as a paramedic.
Arthur found an email address.
He wrote a message.
Deleted it.
Wrote another.
Deleted it.
Finally, he sent five words.
I heard you came by.
The response arrived ten minutes later.
I did. We should talk.
Arthur stared at the screen until the words blurred.
For a man who had stood beneath arena lights before thousands of people, those five words frightened him more than any opponent ever had.
Rafael Cruz arrived in the city undefeated.
Fourteen fights.
Fourteen wins.
Twelve knockouts.
Unlike Damon, Rafael had no interest in fame.
He was cold.
Disciplined.
Methodical.
Most analysts believed he was the better fighter.
Damon's confidence had once come from assuming everyone underestimated him.
Now he understood something else.
Cruz did not underestimate him.
That was more dangerous.
On fight week, Arthur stayed away from media events.
But Damon asked him to attend the final training session.
Arthur agreed.
He sat in the back.
Damon moved differently now.
More patient.
Less wasteful.
He was learning to watch.
After training, Damon approached.
"What do you think?"
Arthur shrugged.
"Cruz still beats you."
Damon laughed.
"Appreciate the confidence."
"You asked."
"Why?"
Arthur looked at him.
"Because you're still trying to win every second."
Damon frowned.
"Isn't that the point?"
"No."
Arthur pointed toward the clock.
"You need to win the fight."
"Different thing."
Damon considered that.
Arthur continued.
"Cruz wants control."
"Okay."
"He wants you frustrated."
"Okay."
"He wants you to feel behind."
Damon nodded.
"So?"
"Let him."
Damon stared.
Arthur smiled.
"Sometimes a man shows you his entire plan when he thinks it's working."
Fight night arrived.
The arena held eighteen thousand people.
Arthur sat beside Coach Hale.
He had not attended a major professional fight in twenty-seven years.