got four days left. You’ll make the weight easy. Better lay off the steam room, you’ll drop too much. Adams is a natural middleweight now and he’s had weeks to come down. After the weigh in, he’s going right back up.”
“I’ll send over another southpaw tomorrow,” Harry said. “Someone built more like Adams. Go four rounds with him. Okay?”
Bobby nodded.
“Then go on home and eat a good meal and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll see you in the morning.”
After he left, Harry asked, “Do you really think the odds are going to come down?”
“If you’re going to bet on him, call your bookie now.”
Word had spread quickly about the beating Bobby had given McCarthy. The next day two sportswriters and a photog showed up at the gym and watched the workout. I wouldn’t let the newsies talk to Bobby so they interviewed Harry. He played it cozy, not talking Bobby up or down, only promising that Bobby would make it a good fight.
3.
When Wednesday rolled around, we took a cab to the Garden for the noon weigh in. One-forty-seven was the contract weight for noon, with any fighter not making the weight given until six p.m. to make it at a second weighing.
Bimmy Franco, Adam’s manager came over and we shook hands. “This is a great opportunity for you, kid,” he said to Bobby. “I know you can’t win but make it a good fight. Crowd pleasers always get fights. Isn’t that right?” he said that last to me.
“Other than you, who says he can’t win?”
Bimmy grinned. “That’s right; you gotta have confidence in your fighter. Now let’s see what the scale says.”
Bobby stepped up on the scale, the towel still wrapped around his waist. “One forty-six even,” the official read. “Plenty to spare.”
Adams approached the scale, sauntering with the upper torso of a middleweight on his way to becoming a light heavy. His shoulders and arms were massive, his left shoulder and triceps covered by a huge green dragon tattoo. He posed for the news photogs and the dragon’s wings rippled as he flexed his muscles.
“Look at his face,” I told Bobby, trying to distract him from the obvious size differential. “It’s still all marked up from Soto slicing and dicing him for twelve rounds in the title fight. He’s as easy to hit as Mike was.”
Bobby grinned. “That was pleasure; this is business.”
Adams stepped on the scale, smiling for the photog. “What’s it say?” Harry asked.
“Just over one-forty-seven.” Adams smiled and dropped his towel.
4.
I led Bobby into the arena, his head covered by the cape and his gloves resting on my shoulders and we danced down the aisle to the ring. In the ring, I pulled his cape back and he danced around, throwing combinations at the air.
When the fighters were introduced there was only a smattering of applause and lot of boos for Bobby. The cheers were all for Adams, after all he had been the champ and this was a comeback fight.
“Just fight him like you did Mikey,” I told him. “Slip and hook, slip and hook.”
Adams smirked as they touched gloves. Bobby just stared at him. Back in the corner, I told him again to take the first round slow, get a sense of his southpaw rhythm. The bell rang and Bobby danced out and met Adams in the center of the ring. Adams came in high with his left carried low, trying to entice Bobby into an early exchange. They circled warily; throwing jabs at each other, Adams landing a pair on Bobby’s left cheek. They were moving along one of the sides, Adams keeping his left still low, flicking sharp rights out at Bobby’s head and ribs. He was sure he was the faster fighter but was surprised when Bobby suddenly threw two right hooks, landing both of them, the second right under Adam’s left ear, causing him to cover up against the ropes.
“Don’t punch yourself out,” I said to him in the corner. Jimmy rubbed extra Vaseline on his left cheek, covering the bright red spot where Adams’s jabs had hit their mark. “And get your jab off first, force him to counter from that low position.”
Bobby winked at me as he got off his stool for the second round, ready to go before the bell sounded. I could see Adams still seated on his stool.
Both fighters were still cautious, mainly trading jabs, looking for any weaknesses that they might exploit. Near the end of the round, Bobby double-jabbed at Adams’s nose and Adams threw a counter right hook, catching Bobby on the left cheek. I could see the flesh swelling almost instantaneously.
“You’re doing great,” I said when he came back to the corner, his cheek looking a ripe peach. “Don’t talk, just listen. Keep landing on the dragon, you’ll bring his left down further. Then you can double hook him before he can get his arm up. And slip his jab, for chrissakes, you can’t block them all.”
When Adams came out for the third round, he was holding his right higher. Bobby’s jabs were getting to him. I could see his nose and right cheekbone were swelling and if we were lucky, Bobby’s hooks would rip the flesh wide open. Adams was smart though and even though he kept his hands high, he could sense when Bobby would try and slip his jab and move to the left and instead of doubling his right, hooked the second punch as Bobby slid to the side, landing solidly and driving against the ropes. He managed to land a three-punch combination to Bobby’s head before being tied up. But he didn’t show much after that, content to stay outside, jabbing and when Bobby would move forward, he grabbed at his arms, tying him up.
By the fourth round, Bobby was giving Adams a real contest. They were in close, trading jabs, and when Adams tried to clinch, Bobby slapped his arm down and threw a left and right hook to Adam’s ribs. He was bringing the left up for a hook to the head when suddenly he stopped and sank down and then just as suddenly bounced back up and danced away. The referee waved Adams to a neutral corner and picked up the count.
“Did you see the punch?” I asked Jimmy the cutman. He shook his head.
“His knees didn’t even hit the canvas,” I said.
“I couldn’t tell,” Jimmy said.
“It was a slip,” I yelled at the ref who was wiping off Bobby’s gloves.
Adams was bouncing up and down in the neutral corner, smacking his gloves. The lust for victory filled his face.
“What happened? Didn’t you see the punch?” I asked him at the end of the round.
“His kids,” he sighed, as Jimmy toweled off his chest.
“Whaddya mean his kids?”
“His kids are at the fight. They’re in the second row with his wife. I just saw them.”
“So what?”
“I can’t hurt a guy in front of his kids,” Bobby said. “That’s why I couldn’t take Kernan out in AC. His wife and little girl were there. Otherwise, I could have ended it in the third round.”
“Jeezus Christ,” Jimmy said.
I
