Grandpa asked me to sit with him on the front porch. He fingered a dip out of the tin and stuffed it in his lower lip. The sun flared in the dark blue sky as a hawk soared overhead. It was too hot, and I remember sweating through my shirt.

“How you doin’, Tuck?” Grandpa said.

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah? School’s good?”

I leaned back and the wooden rocking chair creaked. “It ain’t good, but it ain’t bad, neither.”

Grandpa considered it. “School’s for the birds.” He paused. “Any more fights?”

“A couple.”

“How’d you do?”
“Undefeated.”

“You must be fightin’ girls,” he said, then smiled, letting me know he was just busting my chops. “You got friends?”

“A couple,” I said again, wondering what this was all about.

Grandpa nodded, his square jaw and sandpaper cheeks smooth. He shaved twice a day, said naps were for pussies, and still worked forty hours a week at the mill. Drank corn liquor every night from jam jars with hands the size of telephone books. When he caught me with a backhand because I’d skirted my chores, my ears rang for damn near an hour.

“I want to tell you about your dad,” he said, catching me off-guard.

“My…”

“Your dad. My son.”

I’d never met the man. Not once. I’d asked Grandpa so many times I’d lost count, and he always told me to mind my business.

Grandpa spat a rope of tobacco juice that landed eight feet away on the dirt next to the porch.

“He’s a fighter. Made it all the way to the show. Pay-per-view,” he sang. “People spend good money to watch him fight now. I guess you could say he’s the biggest thing to ever come outta’ Macklyn.”

Confused thoughts swirled in my head.

The biggest thing to come outta’ Macklyn?

 “I don’t understand,” I said.

“How many boxers you know came outta’ Macklyn, Tuck?”

“One. Dante Rhodes.”

“That’s him.”

“Dante Rhodes is my dad?”

“He changed his name when he left, but that’s him all right. Chose a Black name, but it works for him.”

I must have looked like a fish, mouth opening and closing, gasping for air. I’d always been bad with words. I knew what I felt but the sentences got stuck somewhere between my brain and mouth.

“Say something, boy.”

What could I say? I had about two million questions. Why had Grandpa kept this from me? Does that mean we’re rich? If so, how come we lived hand to mouth? Why didn’t Rhodes reach out to me when my mom died? Does he even know I exist?

Of all the questions I could have asked, I chose, “What’s my dad’s real name?”

“Raymond Joy.”

Same last name as me.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this before?” I said.

Grandpa spat again, another impressive strand of saliva. “You were too young. You’re fourteen now and fourteen is a man. Ray fights tonight, on your birthday. Seems fitting we watch.”

Grandpa smiled. He was a hard man, set in his ways. He knew engines and we’d restored two Chevy half-tons, got them running really good. We had a big garden, and Grandpa taught me how to can vegetables and make jams. I cried the first time he made me slaughter a chicken. He called me soft, and even though I’d slit the throats of dozens since then, Grandpa wouldn’t let me forget.

“How’d Rhodes get out of Macklyn?” I asked, trying to figure it out. No one gets out of this town.

Grandpa said, “The day after his fourteenth birthday he quit school and stole a car. Drove to the city and got a job as a dishwasher in a Polish kitchen called Janik’s. Ray smelled like cabbage rolls for two years.” Grandpa smiled. “He lived in hostels and joined Romano’s Gym. Trained with Romano himself, a small Filipino who knew Pacquiao back home. Ray’s thirty-five now. Not too many fights left.” Grandpa nodded, confirming something within himself. “A boy should see his dad work. It’s good for his soul.”

That night we drank and smoked and watched the fights on the undercard. One kid who looked my age got knocked out in the Third, and for a moment I thought he was dead.

Grandpa’s buddy, Darrell, sat next to me. The liquor was sweet and potent, burning the back of my throat. Darrell drank fast, talked with his hands like he knew karate, and vibrated in a twitchy way that made me uneasy. He never shut up, addicted to the sound of his own voice. I’d been drinking and smoking since I was eleven, but not like this.

At 10:30 _PM Grandpa told Darrell to shut his pie hole, as my Rhodes’s opponent walked to the ring wearing a long, shiny white robe with tassels that dragged on the ground at the back like a bride’s dress, yet the name on the back instilled fear.

Sal “The Killer” Vicente.

Even though I’d never Dante Rhodes, I panicked, struck with the notion that he could get seriously injured. Killed, even.

Vicente dropped the robe and danced in his corner, shadowboxing. His chest was flat, his abs washboard. Back layered with muscle and a tattoo of an angel with massive wings that swept across his shoulders. The wings dripped blood and the angel’s face was a skull.

But Vicente froze when ‘Copperhead Road’ began. Everyone did.

The tune blared, fireworks lit up the arena, and the crowd went off like the Fourth of July as my dad sprinted to the ring like he couldn’t wait to fight. He wasn’t wearing a robe, and his team followed him at a distance, unable to keep up. When he got to the ring the cut man slapped on the grease, and he ducked under the ropes.

That’s when Grandpa tossed a small baggie on the coffee table. Meth, most likely. I knew a few kids who’d experimented with it, but I stayed away from those guys. Their lives were worse than mine.  

Grandpa opened the bag, picked up his knife, and used the tip to lift a pile to his nostril.

Inhaling, the powder disappeared. He looked at me.

“Special occasion,” he said.

Darrell did the same, then closed the baggie and tossed it my way.

“Pick-me-up?” he asked me.

Grandpa flicked his chin ever so slightly, giving me permission to take a bump. The ring announcer saved me, introducing both fighters and drawing our attention to the television.

The fight began and Vicente sprang from his corner and stepped forward quickly, his hands up high. He threw first, and often, and Grandpa got frustrated by Rhodes’ inaction.

“Hit the guy!” he shouted.

Darrell laughed and drank. Grandpa did another bump, loaded his lip, and spat into a tin can. He sipped from a glass.

Round Two and Three looked just like One. Vicente used Rhodes’ face for target practice, and except for a right, left, left, right flurry, my bio-dad did sweet fancy nothing.  Rhodes didn’t look hurt, though. In fact, the guy didn’t smile or grimace when he got hit. He just ate the punches.

“The fuck’s wrong with him?” Darrell said. “Throw a punch!”

“It’s like his arms are glued to his body,” Grandpa said. “Come on, son. I taught you better.”

In the Fourth, something changed.

Rhodes opened with a left hook that got through, and he followed it up with three or four punches in succession, forcing Vicente to lock on to him until the ref separated them. Vicente retaliated with a hard, straight right between Rhodes’ mitts, bloodying the older fighter. But Rhodes didn’t react, he just kept moving forward.

Both fighters were sweating hard now, hair matted, blood on each of their faces.

In Five, Vicente got Rhodes good and dropped him. Rhodes opened a cut above Vicente’s eye in Six, a nasty gash the size of a caterpillar. The fighters went toe-to-toe in Seven, and by Eight, the fight had become a brawl. A carnival-like atmosphere wafted over the crowd, and by Nine, people stood, smiling, grabbing each other, and screaming, astonished at the carnage they were fortunate to be witnessing.

I looked at Grandpa and Darrell. They stared at the TV, rapt, and I wondered about them, if they’d lived lives they were proud of, or did they have too many regrets to count. I saw the baggie on the table and felt sweat trickle down my back.

Rhodes trapped Vicente against the ropes in Ten, pounding his body until Vicente fell to the canvas. Vicente got up quickly, and Rhodes gazed across the ring, waiting for more. The commentators described his neutral expression as ice cold. Round Eleven was uneventful, but Twelve took off like a rocket. Vicente flashed a grin, the ref stepped to the side, and the men met in the middle of the ring as if planned, throwing wildly, alternating between lefts and rights.

I couldn’t say for how long it lasted. Five seconds? Ten? Twenty?

Rhodes drove Vicente back, stunning him with a right that clipped the younger man’s chin. Staggering, Vicente tossed his arms up to protect himself, but Rhodes was patient. He let the hands go up and then hit Vicente with two body shots. Vicente winced and stumbled, holding his side.

Then Rhodes unleashed a punch from three years ago, aiming for the fifteenth row, through Vicente’s face, and when it connected, I knew the fight was over. Vicente fell hard, a sack of hammers, his limp body crashing to the mat.

Grandpa and Darrell jumped to their feet, hollering and backslapping, old men excited like children pulling their first fish from the pond. The camera zoomed in, and Rhodes smirked but didn’t raise his arms. Trainers, doctors, cornermen, and security rushed in, causing a ruckus. Rhodes’ team picked him up and carried him around the ring on their shoulders.

Grandpa shouted, “That’s my boy!”

I was standing, too, jumping and high fiving.

Rhodes grabbed the mic in the post-fight interview.

“I been fightin’ my whole life,” he said, breathing hard. “But I can’t do it no more.”

Shock played like a song on the interviewer’s face. “Dante, are you retiring?”

“Yessir.”

Rhodes walked out of the ring without another word. That was my dad, my blood, and I felt kinship with him, with these men here now. We were all connected, from the same place, and that meant something.

Grandpa did a bump and held the knife out to me.  

“Want one,” he said.

The commentators were going back and forth in the background, calling it the fight of the year, an instant classic. Darrell’s eyes bugged out of his head, and he swayed on his feet. His awful smile was full of lies. Grandpa wasn’t much better. His white stubble had come in and it made him look unkempt and mean.

“Want one?” he repeated.

My life had consisted of catfishing, school, and tending to my chores. School had been a burden. I had a couple friends, boys from farms near us, but we weren’t close. Maybe it was the booze, the excitement of the fight, or the shock of learning that I had a famous dad. I’m not sure but I accepted the knife.

“Do I plug my nostril?” I asked.

“Up to you,” Grandpa said.

I pressed my left index finger to my nostril, brought the knife to my face with my right hand, and breathed in. My brain shivered with pleasure as the drug seeped into my blood and life made sense, like each event was meant to be. My mom’s overdose. Grandpa’s harsh lessons. Dante Rhodes. All of it. I felt like I mattered.

That night we got belligerent.

More booze, dope, and at some point, women arrived with young, stupid giggles. Darrell and I laughed, listening to Grandpa’s heavy breathing from down the hall.

At first light, the house looked and smelled like death. Empty glasses. Ashtrays overflowing. Sticky spills on the floor. A condom wrapper. It made me sad. I packed a bag and crept out of my room. Darrell was tangled in a blanket on the couch, but Grandpa wasn’t there. I found him smoking a pipe on the porch, looking like an unmade bed. Hair mussed. Grey skin. Bloodshot eyes.

I suddenly saw my future if I stayed there. Cutting lumber at the mill. Drunk every night. Fistfights. Maybe jail.

I walked down the steps to the yard.

“Go get’em, Tucker,” Grandpa said, and held out his hand.

And that’s when I knew he’d brought the drugs out to save me. To get me out of this town. This life. I took the money from his hand and didn’t look back.

That afternoon I stole a car from the gas station and drove to the city. I had a hundred bucks and a dream.

Joel Nedecky is a teacher and writer from Winnipeg. His short stories have appeared with Punk Noir and Guilty Crime Story Magazine. His novel, The Broken Detective, will be released with Run Amok Crime in 2025. 

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