Fuzz charged like an idiot, growling, hands low, ready to throw everything at his target. Instead of backing up, Hugh took a quick step forward and threw the same left hook he’d nailed Patterson with. It landed perfectly on the mouth and dropped Fuzz onto his butt, as if pulling up a chair. He looked around in disbelief and tried to stand. He stumbled, fell into the ropes, and struggled to steady himself. As the referee counted to ten, the crowd screamed even louder. At ten, Fuzz nodded and began his growling again.
The two met in the center of the ring and brawled like street fighters until the bell saved their lives. The ref rushed to break them up. Both noses were oozing blood. On his stool, Hugh guzzled water and tried to catch his breath while a second crammed swabs up his nostrils. Buster was saying something like, “You gotta cover up! He can’t keep going like this.” But his words were just part of the noise. Hugh’s head was throbbing and it was impossible to think of anything but survival. When the bell rang, he jumped to his feet and noticed how heavy they were.
If Fuzz’s corner wanted a slower pace, the advice was ignored by the fighter. He charged again, the instinct to brawl undeterred. Hugh covered up for a moment on the ropes and tried to slide punches, but there was no fun in getting hit. Because Fuzz fought with his hands at his sides, his head was always exposed. Hugh saw an opening, shot a quick left-right combo, made perfect contact, and watched proudly as Fuzz hit the deck hard and rolled into a corner. The noise from the crowd was deafening. “Stay down, dammit!” Hugh said, but Fuzz could take a punch. He jumped to his feet, flailed his arms in a sign of invincibility, waited for the ten-count, then attacked. Thirty seconds later, Hugh was on the deck, flattened by a wild right that he never saw. He was stunned and groggy and for an instant thought about just staying down. It was safer on his back. A loss in his second real fight was no big deal. Then he thought of his father and Nevin Noll, and Keith and all of his friends, and he got up at five and started bouncing on his toes.
Halfway through the second round, it became obvious that the winner would be the guy still standing at the end of the third. Neither backed away, and for the last ninety seconds they went toe-to-toe and slugged it out. Between rounds, the referee went to both corners to observe the damage. “He’s all right,” Buster assured him as he wiped Hugh’s face with cold water. “Just a bloody nose, nothing broken.”
“I don’t want to see a cut,” the ref said.
“No cuts.”
“Has he had enough?”
“Hell no.”
Speak for yourself, Hugh almost said. He was tired of fighting and hoped he never laid eyes on Fuzz Foster again. Then a loud chant of “Let’s go Hugh! Let’s go Hugh!” started again and shook the walls of the gymnasium. The fans were loving the old-fashioned alley fight and wanted more. To hell with gentlemanly boxing. They were after blood.
Hugh got to his feet, heavy as brickbats now, and bounced around waiting on the bell. There was a commotion in the other corner. The referee was yelling at Fuzz’s coach.
Buster said, “Boy’s got a cut above his right eye. Go for it. Attack it! You hear?”
Hugh nodded and tapped his gloves together. He could feel his own right eye closing and his left one was blurred.
The bell sounded and Fuzz got to his feet. The ref was still talking to his coach, who slid under the ropes. With the threat of disqualification for a lousy cut, Fuzz needed a quick knockout. He came in fast and landed a low shot to Hugh’s right kidney. It hurt like hell and he bent over in pain. Fuzz rocked him with uppercuts, and within seconds of the last round Hugh was back on the mat, scrambling to get on all fours and remember his name.
The crowd reminded him with “Let’s go Hugh!”
He got to his feet for the last time, shook his head at the ref as if everything was just wonderful, and braced for the onslaught. He and Fuzz swapped punches and commenced beating the crap out of each other while the fans yelled for more. Much to Hugh’s surprise, Fuzz went down after a flurry and looked like he was finally out of gas. Hugh certainly was, but there was at least a minute to go. Fuzz lumbered to his feet. The ref made them touch gloves, then signaled for more fighting. They tied up in the center, both too fatigued to throw more punches. The ref suddenly stopped the fight and led Hugh to his corner. He wiped his face and said to Buster, “He’s cut. The other boy is cut. Both have busted noses. Both have been knocked down three times. I’m calling the fight. It’s a draw. Enough is enough.”