The referee paused the fight, waiting for Franklin, who had just arrived, to remove the stool from Jason’s corner. Once the stool was gone, the referee signaled for the second round to start.

Francis charged forward, launching jabs at Jason’s right eye. For the first time in the fight, Francis was landing the jab consistently, whipping it out into Jason’s eye, which was blind from the flow of blood trickling down from the cut above his brow. Once the jab connected, Francis closed and threw punches at short range.

Jason fired punches on instinct, countering with a split jab, moving out to his right, pivoting to Francis’ back. The bobbing drill came in handy now, as did the X drill, because Jason found himself having to evade a flurry of punches from the Jersey Slugger, who closed relentlessly.

Jason had taken one particularly brutal blow to the gut, an uppercut that curved up under his ribcage, when he pivoted out and squared up, throwing out the jab to keep Francis back. The referee stepped in between the two, waving Francis off, and inspected the cut above Jason’s eye. Fortunately, Jason couldn’t see his injury, because it was more of a gash than a neat cut. The referee steered Jason to his corner, where Franklin scooped out Vaseline with his fingers and smeared it over the cut.

“You’ve g-g-got to fight f-f-f-fire, with uh, um,” Franklin looked as though he were trying to swallow something.

Jason couldn’t speak with his mouthpiece but nodded to let Franklin know that he understood.

Jason returned to the referee, who wiped off the excess Vaseline with a handkerchief and chopped his hand downward, signaling for the two fighters to resume.

Jason realized that close range fighting was advantageous for him now, because it was based on feel, and his bloody eye was less of a disadvantage. He felt fire in his veins, outraged at Francis’ cheap shot, but rather than swing in blind rage, Jason became determined to make Francis pay for his dirty trick. Jason began landing body blows, only now he was throwing his hips into his uppercuts, imagining that he was blowing Francis through the ropes. He hammered the Jersey Slugger without letting up, and just when Francis moved to protect his midsection, Jason threw a compact uppercut which connected with the fighter’s chin and hurt him.

But Francis hadn’t exhausted his bag of dirty tricks. The Jersey Slugger leaned his head and his weight on Jason, and threw several uppercuts, one of which caught Jason in the groin. Both of Jason’s eyes closed involuntarily from the pain, but the punches continued, until the referee separated the two, and gestured with his palms up, cautioning Francis, “Keep your punches up!”

Jason was waiting for some kind of count to recover from the pain in his testicles, which felt like they’d been smashed by a baseball bat, and he wondered if he’d be able to work at Dr. Steinman’s, especially if he took another dirty shot like that. Francis charged in, raining blows on Jason’s midsection, forcing him to shell up, tucking in his forearms and elbows to try to protect himself.

“Fire with fire.” Jason remembered Franklin’s advice.

Jason threw a powerful left hook, adding torque from his hips. It was a fearsome punch, but it missed Francis’ jaw.

Jason’s hook was supposed to miss. Following behind his glove, the tip of Jason’s elbow connected with the tip of Francis’ chin, just when the referee was at the Jersey Slugger’s back, and unable to see clearly. The elbow landed with an audible crack, and whipped through in an arc, snapping Francis’ head to the side. The fighter tumbled to the canvas, out cold.

There was no need for a count, and the referee waved the fight over, causing the crowd to erupt into applause. Francis’ corner men rushed out to attend to him, working frantically to revive him. They were forced to slide the Jersey Slugger out under the ropes and carry him to the lockers.

Jason raised his gloves in triumph, relived that he had won, and he felt so happy, that for a moment he forgot about the ugly gash above his eye and the pain in his groin. He went back to the corner, where Franklin removed his gloves.

“Serves him r-r-r-right.” Franklin set down the gloves and wiped Jason down with the towel. “He had it um, c-c-coming to him.”

Jason stood beside the referee, who held his wrist. The announcer hauled down the microphone. “Two minutes and twelve seconds into the twelfth round, winner by knockout, Jason, The Fighting Father, Whitlock!” The referee held up Jason’s hand, and the crowd applauded.

The announcer gestured for Jason to come over. “That was your second win tonight, and it was a slugfest. What did you think?”

“Well, the fans came to see boxing action, and that’s what they got.” Jason replied, resting his wrapped hands on his hips.

“You took both a headbutt and a low blow. How did you recover?”

“I had to buy time, honestly, and I just became determined that I wasn’t going to get fouled out.” Jason wanted to rub the knot on his forehead but resisted the temptation.

“Any last word for the fans? And I think you’ve won some more with tonight’s victory.” The announcer pointed his mic toward Jason.

“I’m with the St. Michael’s Shelter, and we’d appreciate your donations.” Jason blinked when the blood flowed into his eye again. “I’d like to thank my corner man Franklin, and Big Country Milk, who donated generously.”

“Jason, The Fighting Father, Whitlock!” The announcer gestured to Jason, and the crowd applauded again as Jason went back to his corner and slipped through the ropes.

An hour later, Jason and Franklin pulled up to the rectory garage. “Let me get your bag for you, Father Jason,” Franklin volunteered.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” Jason replied, and hauled his bag out of the back seat. “Wait a minute, you didn’t stutter.”

The two men stepped out of the garage, and Jason looked at Franklin.

“Yeah, I get nervous around people, I don’t know why. I know what I want to say; I just can’t say it.” Franklin brought up his bottle of Cold Cock and took a swig, draining the last of it. “But once I get a couple of drinks in me, I’m relaxed, and I can talk. Thanks for the dollar, and for letting me get the hooch here. I like being able to talk and not sound like an idiot.”

“It’s good to hear you talk without struggling.” Jason patted him on the back. “You know, there’s a famous actor who took up acting because he found that when he was on stage or in front of the camera, he didn’t stutter.”

“Who’s he?” Franklin wondered and looked around for a trash bin.

“Bruce Willis.”

Franklin shook his head. “I have no idea who he is.”

“I guess you haven’t seen Die Hard.” Jason smiled and waved good night as Franklin went to the trash can by the church to throw away his empty bottle of Cold Cock. Jason scanned the rooftop of the men’s dorm, but saw nothing.

He was going up to his room when Sister Mildred’s door whipped open, and the rotund sister stepped out in her nightgown. “Father Jason, how’d ya…Lord a’mighty, what happened ta yer noggin?”

Maureen emerged from the room, looking over her aunt’s shoulder, gazing at Jason’s brow in alarm.

“I took a headbutt: I think it was intentional, and a low blow, too.” Jason’s fingers lightly touched his cut.

“Someone should look at that,” Maureen suggested. “At your cut, I mean, not your…”

“We get the idea, dearie,” Sister Mildred glanced at her niece from the corner of her eye.

“Luckily the ring doctor was there and gave me this butterfly bandage.” Jason pointed to his brow. “But it’s one of those things that looks worse than it is.”

Sister Mildred adjusted her eyeglasses to inspect Jason’s wound. “Nobody wants ta lose, but it’s a cryin’ shame ta lose ta a down ‘n’ dirty, cheatin’, underhanded…”

“I didn’t lose.” Jason informed her.

“Oh, land a Goshen!” the sister exclaimed, and clapped her hands in joy. “I think ya need a back rub.”

“I’m fine, really.” Jason tried to wave her off, but she practically dragged him up the stairs to his room.

The sister steered Jason to the bed, where he dropped his duffel on the floor, and directed him to lie face down. “Dearie, get Father Jason a drink, he must be exhausted.”

When Maureen returned with a glass holding an inch of whiskey on the bottom, the sister responded, “Might as well get the bottle, and another glass.”

The sister poured Jason a drink, which he sipped, then handed the glass to Maureen to set on the table. The sister poured herself a generous drink, which she quickly downed. She began kneading Jason’s muscles, causing him to moan out loud.

He thought of the boxing maxim, “When you lose, you get hurt: when you win, you get hurt.” He was distracted by the feel of another set of hands on his lower back, hands that he imagined were pale and freckled.

“So tell us about yer fight.”

* * *

“What a movie. Bill Murray is the greatest.”

Gramps shook his head in agreement. “You know, I can’t believe you did a boxing workout today. No one does a workout on Christmas Eve.”

“In the game, I can’t work out, because I’ve got a fight and I don’t want to over train, but here in the real world, it doesn’t hurt.” Jason finished his third bottled water.

“You know, your stretching during the movie reminded me of Bruce Lee, who would sit at the dinner table eating and pound the bottom of his fist against his chair to toughen his hand.” Gramps got up. “Come on, let’s go to the garage.”

“How late is it?” Jason looked around for a clock, but his grandfather had a thing against phones and watches or clocks. “Why don’t you have a clock?”

“When I worked, I always had to watch the clock, when work started, when it ended, when was break, or lunch, when was lunch over,” Gramps opened the garage door, and stepped onto the chilly concrete floor. “I’ve now reached a point where the time doesn’t matter. Often, I don’t know what day of the week it is, or what the date is. When I worked, I always knew, always. I decided I wasn’t going to be controlled by the clock anymore, ever.”

Jason closed the garage door behind him. “Since you’re leaving soon, we might as well make use of the time.”

Gramps held the shillelagh in his hands. “Whenever possible, I want to use bat grip, holding the shillelagh like a baseball bat. It’s the most powerful blow you can deliver with the stick. Remember, my goal is not to hit the opponent, but to drop him. I want to crush him like a bug.”

Jason remembered another of his grandfather’s sayings. “There’s no kill like overkill.”

“So you remember. Good.” Gramps smiled. “Anybody who faces the big stick is going to try to get you to miss, and then close. Or they’ll try to catch or tie up your stick, and then close.”

As Jason thought about it, he realized that’s exactly what he’d do, try to reach out with his left hand and catch the stick, or wrap it up. “How do you keep someone from reaching out and grabbing your stick, or catching it?”

“You hit hard, real hard.” Gramps launched a two-handed overhand strike that slammed into the heavy bag. “You’ve got to hit hard enough to break the hand or arm of anybody who tries reaching or grabbing.”

“But he’s going to rush in,” Jason objected, “even if his arm is broken, and if he’s got a knife in that other hand, you’re screwed.”

Gramps smiled. “I know that. I’m counting on it. Watch.”

Gramps threw the same two-handed blow into the bag, but then he drew the stick into his chest and slid one of his hands up toward the knob of the cane. Holding the cane with his hands gripping it shoulder-width apart, palm-up and palm-down like a rifle, he threw out the stick, slamming the portion in between his hands into the bag. It was the same blow that Sister Mildred threw in the game, breaking her broomstick on the heavy bag in the process.

Gramps turned from the bag to face Jason. “That’s the slam. So I throw the power strike, and follow up with the slam, which is a close-range strike. You try it.”

Jason tried the combination, throwing the two-handed blow like a baseball bat, then sliding his hand forward to hit with the shaft between his hands. He worked until he could do the two strikes like in boxing, delivered as 1-2, or a pa-pow!

“That looks good. Keep working on it.” Gramps took the shillelagh from him. “Almost bedtime for me, but there’s something I should have told you. You need to get tested.”

“Tested?” Jason was nonplussed. “I’m in great shape.”

“I’m serious,” Gramps said soberly. “It’s potentially fatal.”