Jason’s trembling leg gave way, and he dropped to one knee, causing Maxie’s punch to sail over his head. The referee began a ten count, waving back Maxie. Jason caught himself with one glove on the canvas as the count began, but when he looked up, he saw that Maxie stood frozen, followed by a wave of unbearable pain flashing over his face.

Rosenbloom clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth, then spat out his mouthpiece. Clutching his right side, he dropped to one knee, so that he and Jason were eye-to-eye, or would be if Maxie were not looking up at the ceiling in agony. The ‘Ghetto Wizard’ fell to both knees.

The referee then added a second count. “Two!” pointing to Jason, then “one!” pointing to Maxie. “Three!” to Jason, then “two!” spoken to Maxie.

Jason recognized that with his last gasp punch, he landed the liver blow, the most brutal punch in boxing. Always, the boxer who is struck with the liver shot has no immediate response, but there is a delayed reaction of a second or two, until a storm of pain rages through the boxer’s body and he wilts to the canvas, unable to continue. The body knockout does not actually knock the opponent unconscious; instead, the pain is so excruciating that even the toughest boxer, with the strongest of wills to continue, is crippled by the pain, resulting in a stoppage.

“Seven!” followed by “Six!” Maxie rolled over onto his side, and rocked back and forth, racked by agonizing pain.

As Jason stood up shakily, the referee waved both hands over his head, declaring the fight over. Maxie’s corner men jumped into the ring to attend to him.

The arena went silent. In the second delayed reaction of the evening, there was a stunned pause before the crowd exploded into shouts of surprise and disappointment. Shouts of “Aw!” and muttered curses followed the discovery by many men that that had lost the certain money they’d bet on Maxie, while the few foolish souls who bet on Jason whooped with joy upon learning that they had won on 15-to-1 odds. There were also cheers for the underdog victor in his crude gray sweat shorts.

The badger in the pinstriped suit downed his glass of wine in one gulp and gestured with a downward snap of his clawed paw for another drink. The liquor was being sold here illegally, and nobody wore face masks or practiced social distancing, but Jason surmised that the proper people had been paid off—there was simply too much money in the joint for the patrons not to be able to afford whatever they wanted, and grease as many palms as necessary.

Franklin clambered through the ropes and embraced Jason. “I knew it, Father! I t-t-told you it was, uh, duck soup!” Franklin lifted the canteen to Jason’s lips, and he drank freely. Franklin helped Jason take off his gloves.

The referee motioned for Jason to come to the center of the ring, while Maxie was being carried off to the lockers. The announcer entered the ring and snagged the large metal microphone sliding down from the ceiling. “47 seconds into the second round, winner by way of knockout, Jason ‘The Fighting Father’ Whitlock!”

“What do you have to say to this ritzy crowd this evening?” The announcer pointed the microphone at Jason’s mouth.

“I’m honored to be in the ring with a fighter as talented as Maxie.” Jason took another drink of water, and sweat was rolling off of him now.

“It looked like you were in real trouble there for a stretch.”

Jason leaned into the mic. “I was in trouble the whole fight. I nearly got knocked out, and realized I only had one shot. By a miracle, I landed it.”

“Anything else you’d like to say?” The announcer snapped the microphone forward to catch Jason’s remarks.

“I represent the St. Michael’s Shelter, and I’d like to thank Franklin for coming out to stand in my corner tonight. All of us at St. Michael’s depend on donations, and we’d appreciate your support.”

“Well, tonight you certainly delivered far beyond anyone’s expectations, and I’m certain you’ve won over some new fans.” The announcer gestured to Jason with his free hand. “The Fighting Father, ladies and gentleman!”

The crowd applauded, and the two of them went to the lockers, where Franklin borrowed a pair of scissors to cut through the cloth tape fastening Jason’s handwraps. Jason was packing everything into his duffel bag when Willie came in and handed Jason an envelope.

“That was one hell of a performance out there.” Willie said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Frankly, I thought you were going to ride out in the meat wagon. If you can do that every fight, you’ll make us both a bundle of money. Who’s your manager?”

Jason shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t have one.”

Willie looked at the priest’s trunks, and figured he was a low-budget operation. “Come in Monday afternoon, and we’ll talk.”

“Sure.” Jason waved to Willie as he left. Looking into the envelope and riffling through the bills, he counted 25 dollars.

Franklin leaned over to look into the envelope as Jason counted the money. “You sure got a lot of c-c-c-, uh, lettuce there.”

Jason removed a dollar bill and tossed the envelope into the duffel. “Here you go, Franklin. This is for you.”

Franklin’s eyes lit up and he ran both hands over the dollar. “Wow, F-f-f-father Jason, you’re the cat’s m-m-m, uh, pajamas.” He picked up the duffel and leaned over to speak in a low voice. “You think I could buy a b-b-bottle of, um, Cold Cock?”

“Sure,” Jason replied. “Just don’t tell anybody, okay?”

Once they were in the car and drove out from behind the Eureka, Jason asked Franklin, “So who was the badger at ringside?”

“Lucky Luciano. He runs the m-m-mob.” Jason caressed his dollar bill with both hands. “Did you see that g-g-guy’s moll? What a, um, dish!”

Jason had an uneasy feeling about the mobster in the badger’s body, an unsettling premonition. But for now, he’d won, and he hadn’t let down the men of the shelter. Plus, he had 24 bucks to buy food.

* * *

“So how did your fight go?” They were in the stands for the Spud Bowl, where the Boise State Broncos played the Fresno State Bulldogs.

“I won by a miracle, a last gasp prayer of a liver shot that connected and dropped the guy. We did a double ten count.” Jason took a sip of his coffee and pulled his orange and blue blanket around his legs.

“It wasn’t a miracle—you worked your ass off for that fight.” Gramps adjusted his gloves. “Who was it who said, ‘The harder I work, the luckier I get.’? If you do the work, you’ll find that those breaks are often going to go your way.”

“You know the other day, I was talking to Lynn, the attractive teacher at school. I told her about the Midas Game, and how I was getting my financial house in order, how I thought the game would be successful, and…” Jason hesitated for a moment. “This is going to sound crazy, like I’m imagining things, but she looked at me as though she’d seen me for the first time. I swear I could feel her warming to me. Or am I just deluding myself?”

Gramps crossed his arms and blew out a misty cloud into the chill air. “Remember, with women there are only alphas and betas, winners and losers, lovers and providers, yes and no. There’s no middle ground. I think you just passed the ambition test, showing that you want to achieve something, that you have financial goals that you’re working toward, that you’re not going to settle for being a teacher. That might have been enough to make her reevaluate you, flip the switch from off to on. If the Midas Game takes off, it could be worth a fortune. I think that’s enough for her to be willing to get your plate spinning, especially if you start showing results.”

The Fresno State Bulldogs, wearing red and white, charged onto the field, receiving a few scattered boos.

“Lord, I hate Fresno.” Anger crept into Gramps’ voice. “If they were honest and humble, and just said, ‘Yeah, we know we’re a shitty city, but we’re trying our best,’ that might be sufferable. But they’re so frickin’ delusional. When San Diego gets rated one hundred places higher on best places to live list, Fresnans are like, ‘What’s San Diego have that we don’t have?’ How about a coast, dumbasses?”

Jason and his grandfather rose to their feet to applaud and cheer the BSU Broncos as they ran onto the field.

“Whoo!” Jason shouted. He spoke to his grandfather through the side of his mouth. “When my students are surprised that I despise California, I tell them that there are nice places in California—it’s just that a normal person can’t afford to live there.”

“Tell me about it. My dad was a cop, and my mom worked at the bank. When they retired, they decided they wanted to live in Carmel, where Clint Eastwood lives. They went down there one day, looking to buy just a small place where the two of them could live in my dad’s retirement. They soon found out they couldn’t afford anything, not even a rat hole, because the real estate prices were astronomical.” Grandpa clapped and then took a seat with the rest of the crowd. “My dad dreamed of retiring in Carmel, but it was way out of his reach. It didn’t have to be.”

“But hadn’t your parents’ house vastly increased in value?” Jason had to speak up to be heard over the Blue Thunder, the Boise State band.

“Yes, but so had the real estate in Carmel, only several times more. You can sell your house at a nice profit, but if you’re going to buy another house, you’ll spend all that profit you just earned to replace it. And if you’re trying to move from central California to the more expensive coast, forget it.”

“So what’s the answer?” Jason wondered.

“Keep your house but save money and invest in stocks.” Gramps readjusted his blanket on his lap and whistled. “Stocks have a better return than a house.”

“Earlier you said your answer to success with women was leverage. What did you mean by that?” Jason wrapped both hands around his cup of coffee to keep them warm.

“You’re going to retire. If you retire in Carmel, you put a huge strain on your limited, fixed budget, because everything you buy is so much more expensive. You could move to San Francisco, where a one-room dive is $3000 a month. So what do you do to maximize your income?”

Jason laughed. “Sorry, I was distracted by the fans at midfield: the orange and blue Elvis, Fred Flintstone, and pimp, if that’s what he is. I guess move someplace cheap, like El Salvador. But what’s that have to do with women?”

“Everything,” his grandfather replied. “Archimedes said, ‘Give me a place to stand and I shall move the world.’ He’d discovered the lever. If you’re standing in the right place, you have enormous leverage. Suppose I want to be a star athlete. What do I do?”

“Get realistic and realize there are limits.”

“No, find a position of advantage.” Gramps slapped his gloved hands onto his thighs to emphasize his point. “Suppose I join a tribe of pygmies, a leper colony, fake a disability to play in the Special Olympics. Somewhere, there’s a place where I have an added advantage, or leverage.”

“Okay, so getting back to women…”

Jason and Gramps rose for the kickoff, so their conversation was placed on hold while the drums rolled and the crowd cheered. The Broncos kicked off, and the Bulldog receiver scrambled as far as the 32 yard line.

“Rough start,” Jason said as the they sat down.

“In small-town Idaho, you’ve got an average salary, which means you’re screwed with women. Note, not screwed by women, but with women.” Gramps ignored the game in his enthusiasm and turned to speak to Jason. “In New York or Los Angeles, you’d be poor, and really screwed. Move someplace where you’re rich, and you’ll have plenty of women. That’s leverage.”

“Dammit!” Jason cursed. Fresno had just connected with a pass play for 29 yards.

“Check your watch.” Gramps nodded his chin toward Jason’s wrist.

“What’s the one new icon, like a dialogue bubble?” Jason wondered.

“It means you have a message.” Gramps pointed to the upper corner. “Your payment posted today, knocking $800 off of your student loan debt, so there’s a bit of loot for you. You keep hacking away at your debt like that, and you’ll soon be free.”

Jason looked at his phone. He had a message from his father. “Don’t mary the wrong women or yur life is rooned Im tired of all this bulshit to dam tired.”

“Gramps, look at this.” Jason held up his phone so his grandfather could read it.

“Shit,” Gramps cursed.

“It’s that bad, huh?”

“Fresno just reached the seven yard line.” Gramps slapped his hands together. “Come on, defense! And yes, it is that bad.”

Jason was already on the phone, trying to text his dad, then he tried calling. “He’s not answering. I’m worried.”

Gramps rose and folded his blanket. “Me, too. Let’s go before he does something drastic. I don’t think he’s pawned all his guns yet.”