The old man watched everybody.
Not casually.
Precisely.
His eyes followed foot placement.
Shoulder rotation.
Breathing.
Distance.
Timing.
He wasn't watching punches.
He was watching what happened before the punches.
Draven stopped speaking.
The old man was studying the gym.
And nobody noticed.
Not yet.
Nobody's Opponent
At 6:45, Coach Draven gathered the fighters around the ring.
“Open sparring tonight.”
A few fighters cheered.
Derek smiled.
Open sparring was his favorite part of the week.
It gave him an audience.
Draven pointed toward the younger fighters.
“Technical rounds. Three minutes. Nobody goes stupid.”
His eyes stopped on Derek.
“You hear me?”
Derek lifted both hands.
“I always keep it technical.”
“You keep it technical until you get embarrassed.”
The room laughed.
Derek shrugged.
“Never happened.”
Draven ignored him.
Pairs began forming.
The old man remained against the wall.
A teenager glanced toward him.
“You spar?”
The old man looked at the boy.
“Sometimes.”
“Boxing?”
The old man smiled faintly.
“Something like that.”
The teenager didn't know what to make of the answer.
Before he could ask again, Draven called his name.
“Marcus. You're with Eli.”
The boy jogged away.
The old man continued watching.
Derek finished his first round quickly.
His opponent was a younger fighter named Luis, who had excellent hands but poor defense.
Derek caught him with a right hand.
Luis stumbled.
The gym reacted.
“Nice shot!”
Derek smiled.
He touched gloves with Luis.
“Again?”
The second round was even more one-sided.
Derek's confidence grew with every exchange.
When the bell rang, he looked around.
Then his eyes found the old man.
Still watching.
Derek walked toward him.
“You've been staring at me for twenty minutes.”
The old man looked surprised.
“I was watching everybody.”
“You were watching me.”
“I watched you too.”
Derek laughed.
“Want to tell me what you see?”
The old man hesitated.
“You're fast.”
Derek smiled.
“Thank you.”
“But you get impatient.”
The smile disappeared.
“What?”
“You rush after you land.”
Derek stared at him.
The old man continued.
“You think the first clean punch means the exchange belongs to you.”
A couple of fighters nearby stopped talking.
Derek stepped closer.
“You a coach?”
“No.”
“Then don't coach me.”
The old man nodded.
“Fair enough.”
He turned away.
Derek couldn't let it go.
“What's your name?”
The old man looked back.
“Samuel.”
“Samuel what?”
“Reed.”
Derek nodded slowly.
“Well, Samuel Reed, if you're going to sit here judging everybody, maybe you should get in the ring.”
Silence spread through the gym.
Samuel looked at the ring.
Then at Derek.
“I didn't come here to fight you.”
Derek laughed.
“Why not?”
“Because you don't need to prove anything to me.”
Someone in the back whispered, “Damn.”
Derek's jaw tightened.
Draven stepped between them.
“Enough.”
Derek backed away.
Samuel didn't move.
Draven studied the older man.
“You have experience?”
Samuel shrugged.
“A little.”
“How much is a little?”
Samuel thought for a moment.
“Enough to know when not to fight.”
Draven almost smiled.
Almost.
“That's a better answer than most fighters give me.”
Derek walked away.
But he kept looking back.
For the first time that evening, Samuel Reed had become visible.
And Derek didn't like what he saw.
The Challenge
By seven-thirty, the rain had become heavier.
Water struck the windows hard enough to drown out the traffic.
Inside, the gym grew hotter.
Sweat darkened shirts.
The air smelled of leather, rubber, disinfectant, and effort.
Samuel sat alone on a bench near the lockers.
He opened his duffel bag.
Inside were almost nothing.
A towel.
A water bottle.
A pair of old hand wraps.
And a small photograph.
Samuel took the photograph out.
It showed a young man in boxing gloves standing beside another man.
The other man was Samuel.
But not the Samuel sitting in Southside Striking.
This man was younger.
Much younger.
His shoulders were wide.
His face was hard.
His eyes were cold.
Across the bottom of the photograph was written:
PHILADELPHIA GOLDEN GLOVES — 1978
Samuel stared at it.
Then carefully returned it to the bag.
He heard footsteps.
Derek appeared in the doorway.
“You really are hiding something.”
Samuel looked up.
“I don't know what you mean.”
Derek leaned against the frame.
“Old guys don't walk into boxing gyms carrying twenty-dollar day passes for no reason.”
Samuel smiled.
“Maybe I wanted somewhere dry.”
Derek laughed.
“You're funny.”
“No.”
Samuel stood.
“I'm tired.”
Derek's smile vanished.
“Of what?”
“People trying to figure out who I am.”