gladiatorial Rome to the present day â¦
Over the years, he had dreamed of one day committing related knowledge to print. Yet, to date, he had published a mere two articles touching on the subject. The reason being, as he was aware: he couldnât evaluate any contenderâs performanceâthat is: critique it in printâwithout ever having stepped into a ring, without ever having taken a punch in his life.
While his love for the sport had never faltered, it had remained, thus far, vicarious. In youth, the allure of music, books and film (along with a field of grass) had piqued his interest as much as the fight game. He hadnât played organized sports in school. Most of his adolescence had gone into priming the noggin for freelance reporting. His twenties had passed in a flurry of same, with all the attendant indulgence in vice. His body had held up remarkably well, considering. So had his mind, for the most part. Until now, plenty of time had remained for âsalvaging mortal wreckage,â as he termed itâor, less dramatically, getting in shape.
Decidedly, that was no longer the case.
At present, his physical constitution, though not yet waning, had certainly peaked. His tide was now all the way in, so to speak. (And he hadnât even
tried
to quit smoking in a decade.) The number of seasons remaining to pick up the sport, from the inside, proper, was limited. Learning the ropes could go on for years. Owen had five of them left, at best.
If ever he planned on entitling himself to write on the subject, or even to watch it, then now was the time to find a gym, quit smoking and work like never before. He couldnât expect to have anything up on the matadors, cops and bear hunters out thereâthe algebra teachers and ATF agents and all the wrong cowards at large on the rockâwho wouldnât have lasted a round in the ring, who wouldâve been spat on and booed and insulted and driven right out of the house as disgraceful (not to mention the legion of half-witted journalists already plaguing the sport) without having warded off incoming blows on his own, and throwing a few in return.
His conscience simply wouldnât allow for it.
He had come âhomeâ to get punched in the face.
With that in mind, he had settled on Stepford for two basic reasons, both of them practical: first, between Philth Town, Pittburgh, Rudding, Horaceburg, Alleytown, Stepford and Yorc, Pennsyltucky probably harbored the richest boxing tradition on earth. Residing in any one of these towns would have tapped him into the source directly. And, like it or not, despite his absence, he already knew his way around Stepfordâadding to which, as importantly,
second
: he also had ties to Roddy Lowe.
Three time Golden Gloves state champ and, presently, accomplished professional junior welterweight, Roddy was truly a home-town legend. He and Owen had met through a mutual friend. (Which is to say: their medicine dealer.) Courteous, humble, attentive, impeccably groomed and tailoredâand charming to bootâhe often prompted the same remark from strangers: â
Iâve never met anyone like him
.â Dependably brimming with euphemisticvernacular, Roddy had always presented a figure more suited to 1940: one part dying breed / old-school gentlemanâa deferential ham with the ladiesâone part dutiful Christian soldier / chevalier of the righteous light, and one part anachronistic cross of beatnik, homeboy and wharf rat brawler: a throwback in every regard, if incongruous, more: a decidedly singular character.
And
he was loyal. Roddy wouldâve bent over backwards to help out a friend in need. Owen had known he could count on as much. It was taken for granted ahead of the move.
While puttering north in his overstuffed Legacy, Owen had accepted, then embraced, his decision. Fifteen hours behind the wheel, nonstop, and heâd surfaced from Dixie intact: as usual, Stepford appeared and
Over the years, he had dreamed of one day committing related knowledge to print. Yet, to date, he had published a mere two articles touching on the subject. The reason being, as he was aware: he couldnât evaluate any contenderâs performanceâthat is: critique it in printâwithout ever having stepped into a ring, without ever having taken a punch in his life.
While his love for the sport had never faltered, it had remained, thus far, vicarious. In youth, the allure of music, books and film (along with a field of grass) had piqued his interest as much as the fight game. He hadnât played organized sports in school. Most of his adolescence had gone into priming the noggin for freelance reporting. His twenties had passed in a flurry of same, with all the attendant indulgence in vice. His body had held up remarkably well, considering. So had his mind, for the most part. Until now, plenty of time had remained for âsalvaging mortal wreckage,â as he termed itâor, less dramatically, getting in shape.
Decidedly, that was no longer the case.
At present, his physical constitution, though not yet waning, had certainly peaked. His tide was now all the way in, so to speak. (And he hadnât even
tried
to quit smoking in a decade.) The number of seasons remaining to pick up the sport, from the inside, proper, was limited. Learning the ropes could go on for years. Owen had five of them left, at best.
If ever he planned on entitling himself to write on the subject, or even to watch it, then now was the time to find a gym, quit smoking and work like never before. He couldnât expect to have anything up on the matadors, cops and bear hunters out thereâthe algebra teachers and ATF agents and all the wrong cowards at large on the rockâwho wouldnât have lasted a round in the ring, who wouldâve been spat on and booed and insulted and driven right out of the house as disgraceful (not to mention the legion of half-witted journalists already plaguing the sport) without having warded off incoming blows on his own, and throwing a few in return.
His conscience simply wouldnât allow for it.
He had come âhomeâ to get punched in the face.
With that in mind, he had settled on Stepford for two basic reasons, both of them practical: first, between Philth Town, Pittburgh, Rudding, Horaceburg, Alleytown, Stepford and Yorc, Pennsyltucky probably harbored the richest boxing tradition on earth. Residing in any one of these towns would have tapped him into the source directly. And, like it or not, despite his absence, he already knew his way around Stepfordâadding to which, as importantly,
second
: he also had ties to Roddy Lowe.
Three time Golden Gloves state champ and, presently, accomplished professional junior welterweight, Roddy was truly a home-town legend. He and Owen had met through a mutual friend. (Which is to say: their medicine dealer.) Courteous, humble, attentive, impeccably groomed and tailoredâand charming to bootâhe often prompted the same remark from strangers: â
Iâve never met anyone like him
.â Dependably brimming with euphemisticvernacular, Roddy had always presented a figure more suited to 1940: one part dying breed / old-school gentlemanâa deferential ham with the ladiesâone part dutiful Christian soldier / chevalier of the righteous light, and one part anachronistic cross of beatnik, homeboy and wharf rat brawler: a throwback in every regard, if incongruous, more: a decidedly singular character.
And
he was loyal. Roddy wouldâve bent over backwards to help out a friend in need. Owen had known he could count on as much. It was taken for granted ahead of the move.
While puttering north in his overstuffed Legacy, Owen had accepted, then embraced, his decision. Fifteen hours behind the wheel, nonstop, and heâd surfaced from Dixie intact: as usual, Stepford appeared and
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