The Knockout

by

George R. Lasher

word count: 2,367

I'm a lucky guy. My wife's a real knockout. I tell people that all the time. Most folks figure I'm referring to how beautiful she is, and I am, but there's a story behind my compliment. Let me explain.
        At the end of my shift one Monday morning, Mel Savage, the sports director at News-Radio 770, said, "Skipper, this Friday night there's a heavyweight championship fight in the Astrodome. You've been buggin' me for a break, so here's your chance. Today, around noon, I need a three-minute interview with the Champ. Do a good job and that interview will be fed to over two-hundred stations. Now that's what I call decent exposure, wouldn't you agree?"
        How could I not? Man, talk about excited! After years of laboring in obscurity at a small-market radio station, I had finally landed a weekends only, graveyard-shift job at what, in the 1970s, was the biggest, news and sports station in Houston. Hopefully, this job would provide opportunities to climb further up the broadcast tower to better hours and higher pay. Mel made sure I understood a deadline existed. "To have enough time to edit and distribute it, we need the interview tape back by one. Are you up to that challenge, Skip?"
        "Skipper Morgan is your man, Mr. Savage!"
        Having closely followed the Champ’s career, I knew a few things about him. His stats: Undefeated after 41 professional fights with 36 kayos. His reputation: Bruiser Jordan, one of the biggest, strongest, fastest fighters in heavyweight history, chased women and punched annoying reporters. If you wanted an interview, and expected to walk away unscathed, you had to abide by his rules: catch him before the workout started, or when he emerged from his dressing room after his rubdown.
        Arriving at the makeshift training camp in the Astro-domain exhibition hall, I spied Joey Terranzo, Benny "Jaw-Breaker" Robbins and a host of prominent ranked boxers working out who were scheduled to be on the upcoming fight card.
        I gulped when I noticed a crowd of people watching the Champ jumping rope. Without notifying the media, he had begun his workout early, meaning only one chance remained to get my interview. To make matters worse, the post-workout interview period might not start in time for me to get the cassette tape back to the station by one.
        Bruiser finished jumping rope and moved to the light bag, designed to improve a fighter's ability to throw punches and keep his hands and arms raised, even when tired and sore. After that, he punished the heavy bag. Each thunderous, potentially bone-crushing punch sprayed beads of sweat in all directions. The sand-filled bag jerked and jangled at the end of its chain like a condemned prisoner dangling from a hangman's rope.
        Finally, Bruiser climbed up onto the canvas apron of the ring and ducked through the ropes to spar. At the end of each three-minute round, a new, leather-helmeted patsy would climb into the ring, as his predecessor was being helped out. Rather than trying to beat The Champ, these men were paid to simulate the style of The Champ's upcoming opponent, Black Cat Johnson.
        When the fourth sparring partner collapsed in the corner nearest to where I stood, the Champ announced, "Dat's enough head bustin' for today!" He slipped into his yellow satin robe, and blew kisses of appreciation to his cheering fans. His ego sufficiently massaged, he stepped through the ropes and headed for his private dressing room with me in hot pursuit. I knocked on the already-locked door to the Champ's retreat less than thirty seconds after it banged shut.
        From inside came angry words and the sound of the door's latch being undone. The Champ's corner-man, fifty-year-old Andrew Washington, poked his graying, crew-cut head out. "Whatchu want?" He demanded.
        Trying to remain confident, I replied, "I'm Skipper Morgan, News-Radio KTKO. I’ve been sent to get an interview. The Champ started his workout ahead of schedule, so I missed getting to talk to him. I'll probably have to leave to get back to the station before he conducts his post-workout interviews, so I need to see him now, for just about three or four minutes."
        Annoyed, Washington shouted, "Champ ain't gonna see you." He stared at me like I’d lost my mind. "He don't see nobody ‘til after he gets dressed. Them's the rules!" The door slammed in my face.
        Frustrated, but unwilling to give up, I did a little boxing of my own, pounding the door until it opened again.
        Washington poked his head back out. "Listen," he said, sounding even more annoyed, "Champ ain't talkin' to no rookie reporters today!"
        "C'mon," I pleaded, undaunted. "Pretend I'm not a rookie for a minute. If I don’t get this interview, it could cost me my job. There must be some way..."
        "You got a woman with you?" Washington asked. A lecherous smirk spread across his face. "Champ would let you in if you had a pretty lady with you."
        Sexist issues aside, my chance to get this interview was being TKOed. How could I possibly find a woman on such short notice? "How long is the Champ gonna be in there?" I asked.
        "’Bout thirty minutes, or so," Washington shrugged, "dependin' on how he feels."
        Thinking faster than the Champ's celebrated fists moved, I calculated the time it would take to reach the station, grab Theresa, the new receptionist, and drag her back to act as my ticket to get into the Champ's dressing room. With luck, it might only take twenty-five minutes. I turned and high-tailed it for the parking lot.
        Theresa Jacoby sat at the receptionist's desk when I burst through the station's front door. In front of her lay her black-leather Bible, the station's appointment book, and a bottle of cotton candy nail polish. Playboy pulchritude with a puritan persona, she wore a hot-pink, V-necked, cashmere sweater, revealing a less-than-innocent amount of cleavage.
        "Come with me," I panted.
        "Why, where are we going?" She asked, her mascara-coated eyelashes fluttered in bewilderment.
        "We're going to interview the Champ, Bruiser Jordan."
        "I can't go," she protested. "I have to —"
        "You have to help me get this interview," I interrupted. "If anyone says anything, tell them I made you do this. Come on."
        Grabbing her arm, I dragged her to the elevator. Thank goodness she wore flats. Fashionable, five-inch heels would have slowed the mad dash we made from the station to the car, and then, with her complaining the entire way, from the car to the Champ's dressing room.
        Resuming my assault on the dressing room door, I prayed that Bruiser hadn't left. Standing next to me, Theresa fluffed her blonde hair with one hand as she stared into her compact mirror to be sure she looked presentable.
        When Bruiser's corner-man peered out, he didn't exactly welcome me back with open arms. "I thought I told you... " Noticing Theresa, his gruff tone trailed off and changed to an enamored, "My, my, my." He took his time, performing a head-to-toe and back-up-again, inspection of the angelic vision beside me.
        Theresa’s sparkling blue eyes projected a "what-am-I-doing-here" kind of uncertainty and the aura of someone with less on her mind than yours truly had in his overdrawn checking account. Hey, she wasn't dumb, but she didn't know the first thing about boxing. Ask me about trigonometry or nuclear physics and I'll act and look about as glazed as a Krispy Kreme.
        Eager to get my interview and return to the station, I reminded Washington, "You said, if I brought a woman . . ." I added, "She qualifies, don't you think?" He nodded, and stepped aside.
        Contrasting with the bright lights and noise of the exhibition hall, the small dressing room seemed particularly dark and quiet. The sounds of training fighters vanished - The clang of heavy, free weights, the whoosh of jump-ropes cutting through the air and clicking rhythmically against the concrete floor, the grunts and groans accompanying thrown punches, and the smack of gloved hands against human flesh.
        Sweat and liniment lingered in the still air. One dim light with a dark green, metal shade hung from the ceiling, providing barely enough illumination to get around.
        Stretched out on a seven-foot-long, flat table lay the thirty-year-old, Heavyweight Boxing Champion of the World. Other than the white, modesty towel draped over his hindquarters, the well-chiseled champion wore nothing. An oriental gentleman kneaded Bruiser's massive hamstrings, while Tony Moretti, the trainer, rested on a metal chair in the corner, sipping a can of diet soda.
        Lying on his stomach, Bruiser appeared as lifeless as a stiff in the morgue. His face turned away from the door, his arms lay against his sides. His hands, which reached just beyond the point on his thigh where the white towel stopped, were relaxed and open, rather than tightly clenched into the fists that earned him millions.
        "Champ," Washington spoke softly, "Champ, you got someone here to see you."
        Without moving a muscle, the Champ replied, "Bruiser Jordan don't never see nobody during his rubdown, Drew. You knows that."
        Washington cast a nervous glance at Theresa and said, "I knows you don't normally see nobody, Champ, but you gonna want to see this body, trust me."
        My gaze shifted from The Champ to Theresa, whose owl-like eyes were riveted on Bruiser - her expression, one of shocked embarrassment.
        At last, the Champ moved. Without rolling over, he raised his head, and turned it toward us. He began to undress Theresa with his eyes. That had been inevitable, I supposed, but I felt bad, anyway. Even in the dim light I could see her face turning red. The more his eyes moved up and down the length of her body, the redder her face became.
        Intending to start the interview and stop the torture, I pressed record on my cassette player. Prepared to ask my first question, I held the Sony out in front of me, but Bruiser beat me to the punch.
        "Are you a boxing fan?" the Champ asked.
        If Bruiser wanted to ask a few questions, no problem, as long as it helped move things along. "Sure am, Champ," I replied. "I'm Skipper Morgan, News-Radio 770. Followed your career since you won the Gold medal in the Olympics —"
        "I ain't talking to you, sonny," Bruiser interrupted.
        An amused snort came from the corner of the room, where Washington stood.
        Determined to take control, I said, "We've got 200 stations across America waiting to hear what you've got to say —"
        "Then shut up and listen."
        "But, but what about the interview we were supposed to —"
        "Don't make me get up from this table, kid. I said, shut up and listen." Bruiser sounded serious.
        Like an injured fighter, leaning against the ropes, I fought to regain my wits.
        "All right," the Champ nodded. "Now then, young lady, I asked a question. Are you a boxing fan?"
        Theresa glanced at me, seeming unsure as to whether she should answer, or what to say if she did.
        “Go ahead, Theresa," I encouraged her. "Answer the Champ."
        "Well..." she squeaked. If she had been auditioning for the role of a tiny mouse in an animated film she'd have won the part, for sure.
        "Well?" the Champ asked again. "Are you?"
        "Not really," Theresa admitted. "I don't like violence."
        Hanging my head in dismay, I hit stop on the recorder and thought, Thanks Theresa. If you'd said you were a fight fan, we coulda possibly got this interview back on track, but no.
        From the metal chair where he still sat, Bruiser's trainer said, "Bet she ain't never seen a knockout, Champ."
        "You know what, Tony, I bet you're right. Is that true, little lady?" the Champ asked.
        I sensed something fishy going on, but didn't know what until Bruiser got up and let the towel fall to the floor.
        "Well, now you have," the Champ leered. "Ain't that a knockout?" Bruiser planted his hands on his hips and stretched to his left, from the waist. Then he repeated the motion, towards his right. As he stretched from side to side, something impossible to disregard, almost inhumanly large, disproportionate, even for a man of his size, swung and swayed, back and forth.
        Bruiser's exhibition could have been a scene for a sleazy film, The Pit and the Organic Pendulum, by Edgar Allen Porn. The bizarre sight inspired feelings of awe and inadequacy, conjuring memories of being a young boy at the zoo with a peanut in my little hand, reaching through the metal bars towards the extended trunks of the giant elephants. However, in this case, I didn't have a peanut to offer, and didn't want to get any closer to that trunk.
        As Moretti, Washington, the oriental masseuse, and Bruiser howled, I cringed. I was a dead man, for sure.
        Theresa's expression reminded me of a cartoon where the blood rose in a character's face, resembling a thermometer about to burst. Her eyes threatened to pop out of her skull. She made little choking noises for a moment and then cut loose with a blood-curdling scream.
        While the Champ and his entourage cackled with delight, she wrestled with the locked door, fumbled desperately with the latch, got it open, and fled from the dressing room.
        "Oh, thanks," I said, over the chuckles and snorts. "Thanks very much." Pointing towards the opened door, I made sure they knew what they had done. "I have to work with her, you know."
        "Maybe not anymore," Washington quipped, generating a new outburst of guffaws.
        "Guess who has to drive her back to the station? She's gonna kill me!"
        "Ooooh," Bruiser shook his head. "You in mo' trouble than Black Cat Johnson." Wiping laughter-induced tears from his eyes, he said, "I guess I owes you a good interview."
        A quick glance at my watch showed the time to be twelve-thirty-five. Once again jabbing my trusty Sony towards the Champ, I said, "Let's do it."
        Bruiser opened up to me in a way he hadn't with any other reporter. Calls came in from everywhere, praising me for eliciting candid responses from such a tough guy. The interview floored my boss. That Friday, Bruiser did the same to Black Cat Johnson, Kayoing him in less than two minutes of the second round.
        I got promoted to a full-time position on the KTKO day shift and received a fat bonus, to boot. Theresa received a well-deserved bonus, too. After all, the Champ never would have seen me if she hadn’t been such a knockout.
        I owe so much of what I've become to Theresa. These days I'm a big-time sports announcer, making heavyweight money. And, you know, without that crazy beginning to our relationship, I might not have asked her to dinner to make up for what I put her through. And we might never have been married.
        So, now, when I say my wife's a real knockout, you know exactly what I mean.

The End.

If you enjoyed The Knockout, another Spencer Morgan adventure exists... The Blooper:

The Blooper  (13+) An embarrassing blooper occurs at a girls softball game. #1550587 by George R. Lasher

Or, if you need a story with a caffeine kick to pick you up, try this one:

Folgers Falls  (E) A funny way to start the day #1594139 by George R. Lasher

I always appreciate hearing from readers. Feel free to comment or ask questions regarding anything you see. Contact me here, on the writing.com website by emailing me at [e-mail] or [e-mail]
or come check me out on Facebook. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1625773285&aid=36414

Hey, be sure to check out my novel, The Falcon and His Desert Rose. This 280 page, romantic, international thriller is available online in two formats: eBook (for $5.99) or paperback (for $12.99) from World Castle Publishing, or Amazon.com
http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/georgerlasher.htm
http://www.amazon.com/Falcon-His-Desert-Rose-ebook/dp/B005UD7R1C/ref=tmm_kin_tit...

Although you can't actually walk into a book store and find it on the shelves, The Falcon and his Desert Rose is available online from Barnesandnoble.com and many other websites.

Kindest regards,