Scattered weights, jump ropes and leather headgear seemed forgotten in the heavy smell of sweat and liniment. Motionless punching bags hung like stalactites along the stained walls and overturned spit cans. In the center was a squared boxing ring with a pair of abandoned leather shoes under a stool in the Champion’s favorite corner. The ring itself rose above the debris like a pagan altar amidst empty lockers and jumbled benches. Yesterday it was filled with the murmurs of an expectant crowd watching the Champion prepare his mind and body for the struggle ahead. Talk of body punches, hooks and combinations had turned to the odds on which one will win the gaudy belt tomorrow night. It was quiet now. Gamblers, wise guys, and reporters had all gone back to the city, awaiting the brutal ritual that will only last about sixty minutes, or less, in another squared ring far from this ancient place.

A shrill voice, like a sharp left hook, rushed from the far side of the cavernous room. “WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYBODY?” a wiry little man shouted in a high raspy voice and burst into the gym squeezing new leather luggage in both fists. A glinting gold crucifix bounced under his open blue Hawaiian shirt as he looked around the gym in a panic. “THOSE CLEANUP GUYS WERE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AN HOUR AGO,” he yelled into the emptiness, dropped the luggage, and swiped at his nose with a tissue. “AND WHERE’S THE CHAMP?” he shouted in a quick jabbing way and looked surprised no one answered him. “AND WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU, HAROLD?” I GOTTA GET THE CHAMP INTO TOWN FOR THAT FUCKING WEIGH-IN!”

A large round-shouldered black man carrying several orange athletic totes, and his own beat-up overnight bag made his way into the gym. He started to say something but the little man just kept talking. “You got all his bags, Harold? I don’t take chances anymore. Two of everything’s my new motto. I’ve turned into a fucking Boy Scout with hay fever,” he said, waving his damp tissue. “I hate trees, the fucking grass, and that goddamn lake out there. I need a good hit of bus fumes to straighten me out.”

“Hey, Renz,” Harold managed to get in before another rush of the little man’s tirade started up again. “You up for taking on any new boys?”

“I’m always looking for new blood. Bring the kid around. I’ll run him through some stuff and let you know if he’s got anything,” Renzo mumbled, wiping his nose.

“I meant me!” Harold said, dropping the bags. “I thought we could do a few bouts together,” he said, taking a few quick shuffle steps. “I’m ready to fight again.”

“Yeah, sure,” Renzo replied, with a wave of the wet tissue. “We’ll talk. Right now I got to find those goddamn cleanup clowns...and the limo guy. We’ll never make the weigh-in at this rate.”

“I need a manager,” Harold said quickly.

“Jesus, you had a whole week for this. I got things going on here, man.”

“But I need to know now...before you go.”

“Still think you got a few fights left, eh?”

“I got years, Renz. Years. I can feel it.”

“Call me in a few days after the Champ finishes with Montoya. We’ll do contracts...the whole schmeer.”

“I knew you was a right guy, Renz,” he said, picking up the totes again.

“Forget those bags. That’s the limo guy’s job. I’ll get his ass moving. TELL THE CHAMP I’M OUTSIDE,” he yelled, and headed out under the exit sign like a sudden gust of wind.

Harold looked around, sat down in one of the folding chairs at ringside and stretched his legs to ease his morning stiffness. It had been almost five days since he showed up. He’d felt slighted at first when the Champ didn’t recognize him, but once he did they talked and drank like old times. Good scotch and the Champ drinking his special vitamin water. They drank to those days when they struggled to get the rent for some dump they shared on Lenox Avenue. Harold never had to tell the Champ that he needed a job. He just handed him a roll, and said they were “winding down for the Montoya fight,” and told Renzo to give him something to do. It felt like old times.

Harold leaned over, opened one of Renzo’s orange totes and pulled out a few rolls of half-inch tape. From another bag he took out a couple of mouthpieces and stuffed them into his own bag, checked the room again and went back for a pair of boxing gloves he’d seen Renzo shove into the bottom of another bulging tote. He didn’t think it was stealing because he’d need all the equipment he could get for his comeback. By the end of the year he’d be in shape again. All Renzo had to do was book him a few bouts and he’d be back in the game.

“How would you take him, Harold?”

The deep voice seemed to come out of nowhere and resonated through the cavernous room like a growl. He raised his hands in a clumsy way that made him look like he was frightened or had done something wrong. He couldn’t see the Champ in the deep shadows and wondered how long he’d been standing there and if he saw what he’d taken out of Renzo's bags.

“Champ? That you?” he asked, still not seeing him.

“How would you take him, Harold?”

The voice came at him again and he caught a glimpse of the Champ in his pinstriped suit, light blue shirt, and red tie. His brown skin glowed in the dim light as he headed for the ring with that hypnotic walk that riveted a crowd.

“Take who?” Harold asked.

“Montoya,” the Champ said, brushing past him.

“The big Cubano?” Harold asked, slipping into a hunched fighting pose. “I’d crowd him. Keep him off guard. I’d go easy in those early rounds. Take him out into deep water past the fifth, sixth, maybe even the seventh round. Make him fight your fight.”

“Sounds like you been figuring this one,” the Champ said, jumping up onto the ring apron.

“Yeah,” Harold answered with a short laugh. “Just remember, you got what he wants, Champ. All you got to do is look for his weak spots.”

“I did that the last time we fought. I won, but it felt like I’d fought a tank. He’s got no weak spots.”

“Everyone’s got to be wobbly in there some place.”

“You wobbly, Harold?”

“Aren’t you, Champ?”

“No,” the Champ replied.

The punching bags along the wall swayed imperceptibly as the Champ stared back at Harold with those dark eyes that pierced through a man. He took off his jacket, folded it, and draped it over the ropes. “This whole game’s got its weak spots,” the Champ said. “Hiding yours and finding the other guy’s is really what it’s all about.”

“You talking about fighting or those fancy threads you're wearing?”

“The threads are just one of the wrinkles. You’ve got to look good or they won’t believe you’re the Champ. Blue and gray’s for the TV cameras. The latest style is to let them all know I’m still the one on top.”

“You mean like that last Montoya fight?” The Champ stared down at him. “I figure you made that fight close so you could get the crowd back for another shot. Make him look good...pick up another bundle on the rematch.”

“I don’t carry anybody. Never have, never will,” the Champ said, slipping through the ropes and into the ring. Harold laughed in a loose, nervous way. “You earn every inch in this game. This isn’t Wall Street, or Main Street. It’s Blood Street with black and white trunks. When you’re up in here you do the heavy work.” He threw easy jabs and danced across the flat expanse of the sweat-stained boxing ring. “Montoya’s weak spot is that he thinks he knows more about me than he really does. In this game that’s a weakness that can get you killed.”

“How you figure that, Man?” Harold asked, climbing up into the ring with him.

“That kid, Montoya,” the Champ said, doing a quick dance step along the ropes. “He’s inside the numbers.”

“Numbers?”

“All those numbers that make up the game, Harold. They’re everything. I crawl inside those numbers every time I step through these ropes. It’s the numbers that take you through the maze,” the Champ growled, moving out into the middle of the ring.

“You talking money numbers?”

“I’m talking the only numbers that matter,” the Champ said, dancing around the ring throwing quick combinations into the space between them.

“You’re talking crazy, Champ.”

“I’m talking ten rounds. Fifteen rounds. Three minutes each. One minute rest. My measurements. His measurements. The odds. The hours. The days. The weights. The big-ass cash register and those next three minutes again. They’re the only numbers that count,” the Champ said. “They talk to me. I’m so inside them I can’t get out anymore. They’re part of me. Montoya’s in there too, and I got him figured.” He began to shadow box around the ring. “It’s when you’re outside that makes it hard to figure,” he said, shuffling from side to side, pursuing an imaginary opponent.

“What do you mean...outside the numbers?”

“My wife. The kids. The lawyers, the limo guy, those dumb reporters, even the referee,” he said. “They’re all outside.”

“But you said you’re caught inside.”

“You got it,” the Champ said, dancing across the canvas. “Up here in the ring...I understand things,” he said, stopping in front of Harold. “Sometimes I even get lost in them and that’s when the confusion becomes clear. The order. The numbers. They come home...and everything falls into place again.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other in the middle of the ring. “I think I know what you mean, Champ,” Harold said. “About being inside the numbers. I remember a kid that could tell exactly when the round would start, when it got to be half over, when it would end. Like some kind of clock was in his head. This kid could even guess your weight and was never off more than a pound or two. It was hard to beat that kid. Then one day he just walks out. Never comes back to the gym again. He quit. Never could figure that kid.”

“That’s cause you think a guy is inside but he’s really outside. That’s the guy that’ll burn you,” the Champ said.

“But Montoya’s in the numbers...isn’t he?”

“Montoya’s deep inside. I don’t worry about him,” the Champ said, brushing against the ropes and heading back to the center of the ring again.

“If it’s not Montoya...who else is there?”

“You,” the Champ said. “I worry about you.”

“Me?”

“You’re outside, Harold...and dangerous.”

He never saw it coming. The Champ just laid it out there and danced away, his body shifting under his shirt and tie, jabbing the air. “I know you went looking for work over at Montoya’s before you came here,” he said. “I knew it even before you showed up. That kind of talk runs fast between training camps. Fact is, we were expecting you.”

“Hell, yeah,” Harold said. “I went over to Montoya’s looking for a sparring job. I figured it’d be a lot easier sparring with him than you. Just trying to protect my end a little and not get hurt.”

The Champ stopped bobbing and weaving. “But you ended up here, didn’t you?”

“The kid didn’t have any work, so I figured—”

“He had plenty of things for you to do though. The minute he saw your eyes he could tell you were outside and scratching to get back in.”

“I ain’t outside nothing. I’m ready to go again.”

“What kind of numbers did you get, Harold? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand?” The Champ picked his jacket up off the ropes and slipped back into it. “What kind of money did he give you, Harold?”

“You’re talking crazy,” Harold said, taking a short step back towards the edge of the ring. “Ask Renz,” he said, pointing toward the exit. “He’s waiting for me right now. He knows I’m straight. Ask him!”

“Renzo’s been onto you ever since you got here,” the Champ said. “He knows who you been calling...and what you been dealing.”

“He just told me he’d represent me. Get me some fights.”

The Champ buttoned his jacket, straightened his tie, and started for the ropes. “Renzo knew what you were after and gave it to you. He let you think we were worried about that dumb left-hand combination of Montoya’s. He also told you I’m out of shape and can’t go past ten. You forgot the basics, Harold. It’ll take Montoya about five rounds to figure out I can go the distance. That’s when he’ll try his dumb left-handed combination and I’ll be waiting for it. You gave him what we wanted...no more no less.”

“You got it wrong, Champ,” Harold said, staring into those dark, deep eyes. “The Cuban kid’s gonna whip your ass. And after that he’ll fight me. And I’ll nail him cause I got him figured. I got him cold!”

“Not if you’re out of the numbers, Harold and you been out for years.”

“That’s bullshit! I’m the guy you could never get by, you sonofabitch,” Harold snapped. “We used to be friends before you stuck me on some back burner.”

“The Champ isn’t allowed to have friends. When they hand you that belt it’s like being shoved into a dark, lonely cave where you just wait to fight again and they wouldn’t let me work up a sweat over you. You’re not worth it anymore.”

Harold moved across the ring toward the Champ in a quick shuffle. “You’re lying!” he shouted. “You gave that Cuban cock two shots but you never once looked my way. You kept me down!”

“You’re the only one keeping you down and it’s been that way for a long time.”

Harold shifted his feet and hooked his fist upward. The Champ took the punch but didn’t move. A soft cry came out of Harold as he swung out with both hands, his fists hitting the Champ’s chest.

“Don’t fight the numbers! Take them as they come! ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! Harold’s arms began to weaken, his legs slipped away on him, and he had to hold on to the Champ’s arm to keep from falling. “I should have taken you out a long time ago,” the Champ said, as Harold tried to swing at him again. “SIX. SEVEN. EIGHT. NINE.” Harold’s knees buckled and he dropped to the stained canvas. “TEN!” the Champ called. “It’s over! Get out! Don’t come back!”

Renzo’s squeaky voice yelled up at him, “CHAMP, YOUR HANDS! YOU CRAZY? YOUR HANDS! I told you to stay away from him. He’s a loser...all wrong!”

“He's finished,” the Champ said as Renzo checked his hands. “The numbers just ran over him like he wasn't even there.”

“WHAT NUMBERS?” Renzo yelled, but the Champ had already started to hear them clicking in his head under the sharp blare of a car horn. “It’s the limo guy, Champ. We got to go.”

The Champ stepped over the man sprawled at his feet, slipped through the ropes, went out past the punching bags hanging along the walls and into the numbers.