“It’s very relevant.”
Harris shook his head and continued.
“I thought I was tough.”
Elijah nodded.
“You were loud.”
“Same thing at twelve.”
“No.”
That answer came quickly.
The laughter faded.
Coach Harris looked at Adrian.
“Elijah ran that program for twenty-seven years.”
Adrian’s eyebrows rose.
“Twenty-seven?”
“Kids came in angry. Scared. In trouble. Some could fight. Most couldn’t.”
Harris paused.
“He made every one of us learn the same thing first.”
Adrian looked toward Elijah.
“What?”
Elijah answered without looking up.
“How not to hit somebody.”
That quieted the room again.
Coach Harris nodded.
“Distance before power.”
“Balance before combinations.”
“Defense before offense.”
Elijah tightened the wrap around his wrist.
“And manners before gloves.”
This time, everyone knew who that comment was for.
Adrian looked down.
For the first time that afternoon, embarrassment touched his face.
But pride is stubborn.
It rarely leaves a man simply because he has been proven wrong.
Adrian cleared his throat.
“So you fought too?”
“A little.”
Coach Harris smiled.
Adrian noticed.
“How little?”
Elijah looked irritated.
“Harris.”
“What?”
“Don’t start reciting numbers.”
“You agreed to spar him.”
“I agreed because you’re annoying.”
Coach Harris turned toward Adrian.
“One hundred and twelve amateur bouts.”
Several fighters stared.
Adrian’s expression changed.
“Seriously?”
“Eighty-six wins.”
Elijah sighed.
“Those numbers get better every year you tell them.”
“They’re official.”
“Official people make mistakes.”
Coach Harris continued.
“Three state titles. Two national Golden Gloves appearances.”
He paused.
“Never won nationals.”
Elijah nodded.
“There. Important part.”
Adrian looked confused.
“You fought nationally?”
“Lost nationally.”
“Same tournament.”
“No.”
Elijah pulled the last wrap tight.
“Different result.”
A few people laughed again.
But Adrian’s smile had faded.
He was studying the old man now.
Elijah was not physically imposing.
He could not have been more than five-foot-nine when he was young. Age had likely taken another inch.
He weighed around one hundred and seventy pounds.
His shoulders had lost their old thickness.
His hands looked slower than Adrian’s by an almost ridiculous margin.
And yet, when Elijah stood, something changed.
It was subtle.
He did not suddenly become younger.
His muscles did not grow.
His face did not harden into something theatrical.
He simply stopped looking like an old man preparing for exercise.
His feet settled naturally beneath him.
His shoulders relaxed.
His chin lowered.
His eyes changed.
Adrian noticed.
So did everyone else.
Coach Harris handed him sixteen-ounce gloves.
Then headgear.
Elijah stared at the headgear.
“I hate this thing.”
“You’re wearing it.”
“I didn’t wear headgear half my life.”
“You’re seventy-two.”
Elijah stared at him.
Harris stared back.
Finally, Elijah put it on.
Adrian laughed quietly.
Elijah turned his head.
“Something funny?”
“No, sir.”
The word sir appeared for the first time.
Coach Harris noticed.
So did Elijah.
Neither said anything.
“Three light rounds,” Harris announced. “Nobody’s trying to win.”
Elijah looked across the ring.
“You hear that?”
Adrian nodded.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
They touched gloves.
The bell rang.
And Adrian moved.
The First Round
Adrian came out fast.
Not with power.
Coach Harris had made the rules clear.
But Adrian’s idea of light and Coach Harris’s idea of light had never been identical.
He bounced on his toes.
Double jab.
Elijah barely moved.
The first jab touched his glove.
The second fell short.
Adrian circled left.
Elijah turned with him.
No chasing.
No wasted movement.
Adrian jabbed toward the body.
Elijah shifted back half a step.
Adrian feinted high.
Nothing.
Another feint.
Nothing.
Adrian smiled.
“You gonna throw?”
Elijah looked directly at him.
“When there’s something worth throwing at.”
Several fighters reacted with low laughter.
Coach Harris hid a smile.
Adrian increased the pace.
Jab.
Jab.
Right hand toward the chest.
Elijah blocked.
Adrian stepped around him.
Elijah turned again.
Always balanced.
Always in front of him.
The first minute passed without Elijah throwing anything meaningful.
Adrian began to get impatient.
That was exactly what Elijah wanted.
Coach Harris recognized it immediately.
He had seen the trap when he was thirteen.
Fourteen.
Sixteen.
Twenty-one.
Elijah had never been the fastest fighter.
He had never possessed frightening knockout power.
What he understood better than almost anyone Harris had ever known was impatience.
Elijah did not create openings by being faster than his opponents.
He created them by making people tired of waiting.
Adrian doubled the jab.
Then whipped a quick left hook toward Elijah’s head.
Elijah leaned just outside it.
Adrian immediately came back with a right hand.
Elijah’s left glove rose.
The punch landed against the guard.
Adrian stepped forward.
And suddenly, Elijah was gone.
Not literally.
But the angle had changed.
A tiny pivot.
A short step.
Adrian turned to find him.
Before he could reset, Elijah touched him with a soft jab directly on the chest.
Tap.
Nothing hard.
Barely more than a reminder.
Adrian looked down.
Then back up.
Elijah had already moved away.
“Point,” Elijah said.
Adrian frowned.
“This isn’t a point fight.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why you letting me hit you?”
The younger fighters laughed.
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
He came forward again.
This time he threw a combination.
Jab.
Right hand.
Left hook to the body.
Elijah blocked the right, shifted away from the hook, and moved toward Adrian’s lead side.
Adrian tried to trap him near the ropes.
Elijah stepped out.
Adrian pursued.
Again, no hard punches.
But the pace increased.
His feet became louder.
His breathing slightly sharper.
The old man seemed to grow quieter with every second.
Adrian threw another jab.
Elijah parried it.
Another.
Parried.
Another.
Elijah slipped outside.
Adrian followed with a right hand.
Elijah leaned back just enough.
The glove missed.
Adrian overextended by a few inches.
That was all.
Elijah tapped him with a short left to the body.