The Manager by Caroline Stellings Page A

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he started. When the noise level remained several decibels above deafening, he tried again, this time harder. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted, “a ten round bout.”
    Tina’s eyes caught Jesse’s as he stood up, and she started screaming advice at him. He ignored her, choosing instead to flirt with a young woman who stuck her hand through the ropes and slipped him her phone number. Paul got rid of her quickly.
    The announcer continued, making sweeping motions with his free hand. “In this corner, wearing black trunks and weighing in at one hundred seventy-three pounds, from Halifax, Nova Scotia … MASON PITTS.” The crowd went crazy.
    â€œAnd in this corner, in white trunks” – the booing was loud and steady, with a smidgen of polite applause from older members of the audience and whistles from every woman with seeing eyes – “weighing one hundred seventy-two pounds, originally from Oklahoma, now living in Truro, Nova Scotia … Jesse Mankiller.”
    Tina and I cheered and cheered, but it felt like being in one of those dreams where you want to run from something, but your feet won’t move.
    The referee signalled the two fighters into the centre of the ring and repeated the rules and instructions; neither one heard a word of it. Then they tapped gloves, went back to their corners and waited for the bell.
    By the time it sounded, Tina was standing on top of her chair and several men behind her were hollering at her to get out of the way. She didn’t. Soon they were squeezed between our chairs, breathing down my neck.
    Jesse strolled out at the bell and was more relaxed than any fighter I’d ever seen. He was in no rush, and let Pitts throw the first punch. He ducked it deftly, like he was equipped with the radar of a bat, and when Pitts was wide open, Jesse sent him a left hook to welcome him aboard. That smartened up the Halifax fighter, and from that point, his arm started pumping. Jesse let him do it.
    â€œThat’s right!” hollered Tina. “Wear him out, Mankiller. Give him the rope. He’ll hang himself!”
    Nobody sits higher on the stump than my sister when it comes to knowing how to win a boxing match, but even I could see that Jesse was the better fighter.
    â€œHe’s good, isn’t he?”
    â€œHe’s good,” said Tina. And she expected a lot from a boxer. So if she said he was good, it meant he could win a title. “He’ll take it by the fourth round,” she added.
    I thought so too.
    But after the first round, Jesse hollered something to Paul about his opponent being greased – an illegal act in boxing, where the cut man has applied Vaseline to an area other than the forehead.
    Tina got wind of it and started screaming at Pitts’s manager and the referee, but nobody took notice. That was until she headed over to their side, threw both hands in the air and told them to keep their (she swore here) finger out of the (another one) Vaseline jar.
    When the bell rang, Pitts came out with a long, loopy right that Jesse moved around effortlessly. Then they met in the middle, and for one crazy minute it was nothing but a sea of jabs and hooks until Jesse danced out, leaving Pitts twisting in pain.
    He came at Jesse again, and this time Pitts connected. There was a stream of blood running down Jesse’s face and it was interfering with his sight.
    Paul and the cut man tried to stop the blood from gushing, but the best they could do was slow it down to a lighter but steady flow.
    â€œSee.” Tina’s eyes flashed with anger. “Paul has no time to instruct Mankiller if he’s too busy cleaning him up. Nobody can handle that, Ellie.”
    She was right. Paul looked tired already. Sick, even.
    Tina took over from the sidelines.
    â€œTake him out, Mankiller,” she hollered. “Jab with the right to push him back,” she told him.