A Champion’s Heart

Leonard Varasano

 

Within the most famous and storied indoor arena on earth, two modern day gladiators squared off in a winner-take-all battle to determine the undisputed middleweight boxing champion of the world, on the weekend before the eleventh Thanksgiving feast of the new millennium.

Beneath the pall of smoke and blinding haze of television lights, the ferocious bodies of the sinewy combatants were the glistening epitome of athletic fitness. Throwing heed to the wind, and all the considerable strength each possessed at the other man, they asked for no quarter, and gave none.

Five rounds had come and gone when it became readily apparent that the younger, faster, stronger challenger was the more rugged man. Just before the round ended, he nailed the champ with a pulverizing left hook that would have felled a lesser fighter. The champ staggered to the wrong corner at the bell.

“He’s ready to go-look at his eyes,” the challenger’s trainer and head cornerman hissed excitedly into his fighter’s ear. He squeezed water from a big yellow sponge onto his man’s sleek pate. A stream ran down the sweaty, muscular frame, through the trunks to dribble in a growing puddle on the ring floor.

The two men malevolently eyed the exhausted fighter in the opposite corner, bleeding, beaten, propped up by his frantic corner team, the seat of his trunks, and little else.

“He’s mine…he comes out…he’s dead,” the scarcely marked challenger grunted through clenched teeth, his dark eyes devoid of merciful humanity. Still breathing through his nose, fresh as round one, he looked every bit the champion he had boldly predicted he’d be when this fight was over. “Give me some water.”

“He’s yours, Dorsey…but he’s still dangerous…still the champ ‘til you take his crown. Don’t leave it to the judges. Take him out. Put him out of his misery,” the trainer quipped, squirting some water into the fighter’s mouth, who in turn spat into a bucket offered by another cornerman.

As Dorsey grunted, his eyes bolted to the curvaceous round card girl, swishing center ring with legs up to her neck. She made special sure to make eye contact with the soon to be newly crowned champion. “Hey, Baby!” he winked.

“Never mind her, Dorsey. Here’s your mouthpiece. This is your round, Champ! This is YOUR time!”

The ten-second whistle sounded. Dorsey stood and nodded, adjusting his mouthpiece with an 8-ounce glove. Across the ring, the beaten champion was helped to his feet, forbidding his cornermen from stopping the fight. Both eyes still streamed blood, his team unsuccessful in stemming the flow during the brief respite from the beating. Finally, the head trainer threw his hands up. “Okay, Champ.”

The referee wanted to stop the contest, but the champ’s corner argued to let it go, as it was a world title fight. Shaking his head, seemingly against his better judgment, the ref called “Second’s out.”

Through the din of the vociferous crowd, for an instant, the two fighters eyed one another. Dorsey admired the champion’s guts; the champ, Dorsey’s strength. As the men stared across the ring, each gave the other a slight nod. During that fleeting moment for the two warriors, there was no one else in the world.

Then, the bell rang. Dorsey swiftly crossed the ring. The champ was wobbly, still on queer street from the unabated beating of round five. Dorsey snaked in with a left hook, then let loose an unanswered barrage of vicious uppercuts, crosses and hooks that had the champion reeling on the ropes, backed into a corner. Though the roaring crowd was permeated with blood frenzy there were many cries of “Stop the fight!” sounding through the Garden, from the ringside seats especially, where the champ had a huge following in attendance.

The champ’s cornerman threw in a white towel. As the ref was about to leap between the men and stop the fight anyway, the flash of white hastened his decision.

Dorsey saw the ref out of the corner of his eye moving towards him. He knew the champ was beaten and barely conscious. Loading up on one final overhand right, he landed a clubbing blow that snapped the champ’s head back on the turnbuckle. In the brief instant he was allowed, Dorsey saw the man’s eyes roll white before he pitched forward onto the canvas, not even extending his arms to break the fall.

“Back off, neutral corner,” the ref barked at Dorsey, shoving him away. Picking up the ten count, he reached four when he saw that something was drastically wrong. He waved his arms, signaling the fight was over, and bent down towards the fallen ex-champion’s head. Frantically, he beckoned to the fighter’s cornermen, who were through the ropes in a flash.

Dorsey raised his strapping arms in victory. Jumping into the ring with ecstatic abandon, his corner enveloped him in a surge of rejoicing humanity, hoisting him upon their shoulders. It was there, in the new champion’s throne, that he noticed for the first time the huge crowd was strangely quiet.

There were few cheers, some booing, but mostly silence from the stands.

His moment of triumph was lost, evaporating in a pall of chaos. He couldn’t see his vanquished opponent, swarmed by cornermen, EMT’s, and the ring doctor.

“At thirty-six seconds of the sixth round, the winner, and NEW middleweight champion of the world, DORSEY ‘THE ROCK’ WATKINS,” the voice boomed through the cavernous Garden. Except for his corner and a handful of fans, a chorus of boos rained down on the new champ. Dorsey beamed, hiding the inner hurt that the crowd hated him. Why? He pondered.

“Champ, congratulations on a super showing,” the pay for view, ring announcer cornered Dorsey, thrusting a microphone forward and forcing an immediate live interview before millions of viewers. Dorsey beamed, exhilarated by the rush of adrenalin coursing through his veins. “Thank-you, Jim.”

“Champ, you stated repeatedly before this fight that you would win by knockout. Your prophecy was right on target. What do you have to say about your spectacular showing?”

“First, I’d like to thank my team for preparing me for this fight. We knew coming in that it would be tough, that Eddie Dwight is a warrior. I couldn’t have done this without them.

“But I knew he couldn’t keep up with me. It’s out with the old, in with the new.”

“Your final barrage was so devastating. Care to look at the replay and comment?”

Dorsey looked down at the monitor. “Well Jim. I knew I had him at the end of the fifth. I’m surprised he came back out. See…he had no legs. I led him off with a left hook…then put him away…” His voice trailed off as he watched the devastating final flurry playing out from different angles. It was painfully obvious that the ex-champ didn’t have a chance. He was hit flush by dozens of vicious blows. All that kept him standing was the champion’s heart beating within his chest.

And then, that final overhand right; it was a brutal shot, shown repeatedly. Dorsey tried to speak, but the savageness of the final blow caused him to lose his words. The live camera caught him wincing.

“Do you think the fight should have been stopped sooner, Champ?”

Dorsey’s expression belied his answer. “I don’t second guess the refs. They’re in the best position to see what’s happening. In title fights…the champ is entitled to the benefit of the doubt. If he had the opportunity, he’d have taken me out. Tonight, I was the better man, so I took him out.”

The interviewer paused for an instant, listening to the voice in his earpiece. “They’re removing Eddie Dwight from the ring…on a stretcher.”

Dorsey looked around. Through the commotion, he caught glimpses of the ex-champ. He was still out cold. Still bleeding. His gloved hands hung off the stretcher, arms bobbing lifelessly. Dorsey tried to get to him, but there were too many people in the way.

Dorsey turned to his cornermen. “Let’s get out of here.” As they made their way through the aisle leading to his dressing room, he was verbally pelted by the partisan Eddie Dwight crowd. “CHEAPSHOT” was the slur he heard most, over and over.

After his shower and massage, while dressing in one of his tailored silk suits, Dorsey instructed one of his assistants to find that leggy round card girl who had seemed interested in a post-fight rendezvous. Dorsey always picked up a woman after his fights, looking to break his self-initiated, pre-fight celibacy as soon as possible.

For this fight, it had been six weeks.

As Dorsey examined his mildly bruised eye in the mirror, the girl was led into the locker room. She was a pretty young thing, fine, with those long, shapely legs accentuated by a black miniskirt and high heels. She smiled coyly, but the look in her eyes told Dorsey much more.

The champ drew close so he could whisper in her ear. He found out her name was Eva. He made it clear what he was looking for. She closed her eyes as he softly kissed her neck.

She agreed to accompany him to his hotel room. After that they’d head out to the victory party. Dorsey whispered to one of the men in his champagne-sipping entourage, then took Eva by the hand and slipped out the door.

They snuck out a Garden service entrance. Eva began nuzzling Dorsey’s neck as they strode arm in arm.

“Excuse me, Champ. Congratulations,” a small man suddenly appeared before them.

After the major league jeering he’d received inside, Dorsey didn’t know what to expect. “Thank-you.” He tried to sidestep the man, who started walking with them.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Champ. I was hoping you could do my kid a favor.”

“You want an autograph?”

“Well…not exactly. I was hoping you could come with me to the hospital. That’s where he’s at.” The man remained in stride.

“Tonight? You kidding? I just won the championship of the world! I need some time to celebrate.”

The man continued. “You see…he doesn’t have much time left. You’re his favorite fighter…favorite athlete…his inspiration…the way you spoke of overcoming the odds and being a winner really hit home with him…”

Dorsey suddenly felt bummed and didn’t want to be. “Look…I’ll give you an autograph, but I’m not going to the hospital with you tonight.”

“My son might not make it through the night…he’s real sick. I contacted ‘Make A Wish’ to request you to visit, but they said you were too busy in training.”

Now Dorsey knew exactly what this was all about. His manager had approached him during the last few weeks leading up to the fight about visiting some dying kid in a New York hospital. Dorsey had nixed the request, preferring to stay focused for his battle with the champ. Now that the fight was over though, maybe he’d find the time. “Look… Tonight’s not good. Maybe tomorrow.”

The man began pleading. “Please, Mr. Watkins. It would mean so much to him to meet you…before….” He trailed off, unable to continue.

“Man…I’m celebrating tonight.” Dorsey found it hard to look the man in the face. “Give me the name of the hospital and your kid’s name, I’ll see what I could do.”

The man was on the verge of tears, his voice cracking. “Please, I’ll pay you…”

Dorsey chuckled without mirth, his answer harsh. “Come on, man…I made 7 figures tonight. Your money…I don’t need.”

“He probably won’t make it through the night…”

“Look…I’m sorry about your kid, but I’m not going with you now. Give me the info…like I told you…I’ll see what I could do.”

The man was devastated. With a trembling hand he wrote on a pad and tore the page out, handing it to Dorsey. “Thank-you, Champ.” He turned and walked away into the night, the weight of the world upon his slight shoulders.

Dorsey watched the man disappear. “Do you believe this? I win a world championship, and I have to have someone dragging me down in MY time of glory.”

Eva turned to Dorsey. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

Dorsey shook his head. “No, Baby. You and I…need to be alone. And then, my victory party.”

Dorsey guided her to a waiting limo, and they were off into the night. Dorsey didn’t see the man standing in the shadows beyond the aura of a streetlight, watching them drive away.

Two hours later, Dorsey showed up at the raucous party in his honor. The large hotel suite was brimming with his friends, entourage, reporters, and, most important to the champ: lots of pretty women. The music was loud and hot, and people were dancing fast and close throughout to the throbbing beat and flashing strobes.

Suddenly, the DJ announced Dorsey’s arrival. Everyone began applauding the new world champion, who at once found himself surrounded by more beautiful women trying to secure his undivided attention. Eva remained latched on to Dorsey’s bulging arm. The other females eyed her with unconcealed distaste. The champ sometimes enjoyed when women fought over him, babe-a-holic that he was.

“Champ, any comment on Eddie Dwight’s condition?” A fight reporter well known in Dorsey’s camp squeezed through the throng of women.

Dorsey smiled, clearly thrilled with the undeniable prospect of more bedroom liaisons, tonight. He grabbed at a champagne flute from a waiter’s tray and took a sip. “What condition is that, Joe?”

 

Joe eyed the champ with a peculiar look. “I guess you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“Eddie Dwight’s on a respirator. Cerebral hemorrhage. The prognosis is bad.”

Dorsey’s smile vanished. “What do you mean?”

“He’s in bad shape, Champ…severe bleeding on the brain. They’re operating on him now.”

Dorsey felt his gut clench…his mind racing back to the fight. “He’s mine…he comes out…he’s dead”, he remembered growling to his trainer before the sixth round. Now, the words echoed hauntingly in his ears. “What hospital’s he at?”

“Doctor’s Hospital, 39^th Street.”

“I’m sorry Eva. Ladies, I have to go. I’ll try to be back soon.”

Eva protested above the lament of the other women, but Dorsey just waved her off as he had done to countless female liaisons in the past. He signaled for two burly men who followed his every move with their eyes. Falling in step behind their boss, they left the room quickly before anyone else realized that the champ was gone.

Dorsey was silent during the ride to the hospital. The evening was certainly not going as planned. Sure, he had won the biggest fight of his life. And Eva. She was certainly a bon vivant way to end a dry spell.

Yet now, it all seemed cheap and incidental. The importance of his victory, and his frivolous sexual liaison in the overall scheme of things left him feeling hollow where his heart was. He knew that Eddie Dwight had a wife and kids. What if they were at the fight? At the hospital? And he had to face them. Jesus.

Then he remembered something given to him earlier, by the man outside the Garden. Flicking on the dome reading light he removed the paper from his pocket. ‘Michael Giorgio-Doctor’s Hospital’. Dorsey nodded slightly. “Michael,” he whispered, the name a faded memory from a happier time and place. Maybe some good would come of the night after all.

Dorsey was surprised by the amount of reporters at the hospital ER entrance. His driver asked if he should try and find another way in. Dorsey shook his head. “I’m not ducking anyone.” He told his bodyguards that he’d do this alone.

Exiting his car, Dorsey was immediately swarmed by reporters. “I’m here to visit Eddie Dwight.”

Cameras clicked in his face incessantly and he was photographed at least twenty times before entering the hospital. A couple of reporters asked him his thoughts about the ‘cheapshot’. He started to lose his cool. “Please respect my space…DON’T FOLLOW ME!”

As he glared at the reporters, his fight face contorted into ready evidence.

No one tried to follow him after that.

Inside, the ER was chaotic. This was a busy city hospital on a Saturday night, and the appearance of the new world middleweight champ only added to the spectacle. Dorsey signed a few autographs, including one for an elderly security guard, who compared the champ with pugilistic throwbacks like Ray Robinson, Marvin Hagler, and the contemporary Roy Jones, Jr. and Joe Calzaghe.

 

The ultimate in boxing compliments, to be mentioned with that lofty fistic quartet lifted Dorsey’s sagging spirits a bit.

Dorsey asked one of the nurses for directions to Eddie Dwight’s location. Her eyes betrayed her, widening as she realized whom she was speaking with. “Follow me,” she said, looking Dorsey over with passion hardly concealed.

Even here, he thought to himself. She walked ahead, and Dorsey couldn’t help but look at the way her firm, plump behind jiggled.

They walked through a series of corridors. The din of the ER was soon gone. “Here you go,” the nurse offered, gesturing to a small waiting area, where a distraught, pretty young woman and two men huddled.

Dorsey recognized the men as Eddie’s manager and trainer. He figured the woman was Eddie’s wife. Hesitating for a moment, he took a deep breath. At least their kids aren’t here, he thought.

Clasping his hands in front of him, Dorsey humbly approached. “Excuse me. How’s Eddie?” He looked at the faces, surprised with his appearance. The woman was still crying. “I’m real sorry, Mam,” he said to her, and she nodded slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden presence of the man who had put her husband here.

“They’re trying to get the brain swelling down. They’ve been in there for a couple of hours now,” the manager answered, shrugging his shoulders.

There was an awkward silence. Dorsey wanted to say more, but the words would not leave his lips. He’s mine…he comes out…he’s dead sounded out in his head, over and over. The four of them stood there, silent.

Dorsey wished he could just disappear. Then he remembered the kid Michael Giorgio. “Listen…there’s someone else here I’m going to visit…I’ll be back soon.” Eddie’s wife nodded, trying to smile. The men nodded too.

Dorsey spoke to a woman at the lobby information desk to find out where the kid was. Though he expected the worst, his stomach knotted a bit when she said “Oncology-Pediatric.”

Walking with a stoop, Dorsey wandered the corridors aimlessly, moving slowly up towards the sixth floor where the cancer ward was located, trying to garner the courage to meet with the kid.

Here was a man, who had brutally conquered a dangerous champion, afraid at the prospect of meeting a kid with cancer.

He really wasn’t afraid of the kid. He was afraid of himself, afraid of his own frailty. Sick people made him feel bad. Sick children made him feel weak in the gut, eradicating what little faith he possessed. Why would God allow bad things like that?

The harsh reality of growing up in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, certainly factored into Dorsey’s beliefs. He was one of the lucky ones, having a mother, who despite being widowed at an early age was able to hold her family together. She instilled in Dorsey and his younger brother the value of being a good person, and having faith that God watches over all.

Yet her message was nearly lost on Dorsey, who watched his little brother, Michael, die in a hospital ward, followed by his mom just two years later. Literally on his own at 16, Dorsey graduated high school, never really got mixed up with the gangs or dope, and stayed out of jail. This was a tribute to his mother’s steadfast, nurturing influence, as well as his own strength of character.

Boxing was his salvation, best friend and mentor. After winning the New York City Golden Gloves title, he turned pro. He trained like a man possessed. Every fight saw a vast improvement in his fistic abilities over the last. He was ranked after just fourteen fights, and after a succession of three knockout victories over top 10 opponents, the fight with Eddie Dwight was signed, his first seven-figure payday guaranteed.

But boxing is anything but a nurturing medium. A brutal sport run by mostly unsavory people out for the buck, to the detriment of the fighters, Dorsey learned early on what really makes the world tick. Without his mother’s compassionate influence, he grew into a hard-hearted man.

Not a bad man, certainly not evil, but utterly self-centered, and at times, downright selfish. His “screw the world” attitude pervaded his everyday life, and if something did not please him, he would not deal with it. Luckily, he had befriended some boxing writers who had given him good press, quoting him in a positive manner through the media. But the manufactured hype was a far cry from the truth.

So when requests came in through his agent to speak to school kids, or honor ‘Make A Wish’ requests, or donate time or money to charitable causes, even ones from his old neighborhood, he’d just blow it off, telling his agent to handle it, concerning himself solely on his daily training acumen, and what skirt would throw herself at him next.

He hadn’t prayed in years. What for? The two times that he had in earnest, someone in his family died. Not exactly a confidence builder in a kid.

Dorsey continued his aimless walk through hospital corridors, though he avoided the sixth floor. He thought of splitting out a rear entrance of the hospital. Heading towards an illuminated EXIT sign, he entered the stairwell, climbing down to the ground floor. He was about to leave the building when he came upon an elderly black man pushing a mop across the floor of the vestibule in front of the door.

Dorsey tried to sidestep him, but the man looked up and smiled as Dorsey approached. “Excuse me, aren’t you Dorsey Watkins?”

Dorsey didn’t want to be rude. “Yes, I am.”

“Congratulations, Champ! You looked very impressive tonight.”

“You saw the fight?”

“I sure did. You reminded me of Archie Moore.”

“Archie Moore?” Comparisons to Robinson, Hagler, Jones, Calzaghe and Moore…all in one night. Dorsey knew it couldn’t get better than that.

The man held out his hand. “My name is Artemis.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Artemis.” Dorsey shook hands with him.

Artemis gestured to the door blocked by the mop bucket. “Are you looking to leave?”

Dorsey gave a half-hearted nod.

“Who were you here to see, Champ?”

Dorsey grimaced. “Didn’t you hear what happened?”

Artemis shrugged. “You mean with Eddie Dwight?”

“Yeah.”

“Warrior’s sport…warrior’s risks.”

Dorsey nodded to the old man but said nothing.

Artemis leaned his mop against the wall. “I heard he’d be all right.”

“Oh, you did? You heard he’d be all right? I just left there. That’s not the impression I got.” Dorsey looked at the man, feeling disarmed by his positive demeanor.

“Did you stop and see the Giorgio kid?” Artemis asked nonchalantly.

Dorsey nearly was at a loss for words. “How do you know about that?”

“I’ve known the Giorgio’s…since Michael’s been here.”

“So what does that have to do with me?” Dorsey felt himself growing defensive.

“I just heard that you were supposed to visit him tonight.”

Dorsey glared at the old man. “You seem to hear a lot of things.”

“Couldn’t you stop and see him for a few minutes? You’re already in the building.”

“Why should I? What’s it to you anyway, old man?”

Artemis seemed hurt by Dorsey’s flippant response. “It’s really nothing to me. But it sure would mean something to a little kid on the sixth floor.”

It hadn’t happened to him in years, not since his mother died, but Dorsey felt his eyes welling up. “What did anyone ever do for my family? For my Mama, for my little brother Michael? For me?”

Artemis shook his head. “Bad things just happen. But you were put where you are to make things better for others.”

“Better for others? When did anyone ever make it better for us? When did anyone ever help us?” Dorsey began to weep, mostly from the shame that he was feeling. The shedding of selfishness was not without its pain.

Artemis spoke. “You can make all the difference in the world to a child with no hope…no future…with only despair as a mentor. Wouldn’t you have given anything to have spent time with the champ when you were a kid?”

And this hit Dorsey hard. He would have given plenty to spend some time, any time, with a male role model figure, a mentor of positive influence. He and his brother were never that fortunate. Not ever.

That Dorsey did not nurture a kind side was of small wonder. But no one should ever assume anything about a man, no matter how lofty his accomplishments or how dismal his failures, until they’ve walked a distance in his shoes.

Suddenly, the light of realization shined upon Dorsey’s thoughts. Could he really make a difference in a child’s life? The answer was obvious: Of course he could. He could make a difference in the lives of many children if he tried. His heart lightened considerably with this noblest of discoveries. He looked to Artemis, who nodded his head as if he seemed to understand what Dorsey was thinking.

“I guess I’ll head up to the sixth floor now,” Dorsey said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Way to go, Champ,” Artemis nodded.

Dorsey started up the stairwell. He was at the second floor when he realized that he wanted to talk to Artemis once again, to thank him. He turned around and headed down quickly, gone no longer than five seconds. “Hey Artemis…” His voice trailed off, as he noticed the vestibule was empty. He looked up the long hallway and out the door, but Artemis was gone. So was the mop and bucket.

Dorsey didn’t understand how the old man could move so fast. No way could he move that fast. Bewildered, he shook his head. Maybe Eddie Dwight had hurt him more than he thought.

Then he remembered that he had to visit the sixth floor but he didn’t want to go empty-handed. So he quickly left through the exit where he had the conversation with Artemis. The cool night air refreshed him.

He headed to a dark sedan parked on a side street and tapped on the front window. His driver opened it with a surprised look. “Where you coming from, Champ?”

“Long story. Pop the trunk.”

 

The driver did as instructed. Dorsey went and retrieved a small duffel bag, glanced inside once, then closed the trunk. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, why don’t you take the rest of the night off.”

Now the driver was really perplexed. “Champ, I’m not going to leave you here.”

“Look, Duane. Go back to the party and enjoy yourself. I’ll try and get back there soon. Now go ahead.” Dorsey gave such an unaffected underhand wave that Duane burst out laughing. “OK Champ!” The sedan disappeared into the night.

The reporters saw Dorsey again, but this time gave him a wide berth. Nodding to them as he entered, he headed to the lobby elevator and was on his way to the sixth floor in no time. He was nervous, but adamant on seeing this through.

The sixth floor was a somber place with no set visiting hours. Dorsey approached the nurse station. “Would you please direct me to Michael Giorgio’s room?”

The woman looked up. “He’s in 612.” She pointed up the hall.

“Thank-you.” He headed to the room then stopped at the door, peering in.

He saw the man who’d approached him outside the Garden, seated next to the bed, along with a woman. They held hands, looking to their son, as the woman read from a small, red book. From the angle where he was standing, Dorsey couldn’t see Michael.

The man looked beyond sad. The woman tried to sound cheerful, but her voice scarcely belied her feelings. “And for all I know he is sitting there still, under his favorite cork tree, smelling the flowers just quietly. He is very happy.” She slowly closed the book, smiling to her son.

Dorsey knocked quietly on the doorframe. The man’s face lit up with delight when he saw the champ standing there. “Michael…Michael…Guess who’s here?” His voice brimming with excitement, he jumped up and clasped Dorsey’s hand, pulling him into the room. Dorsey managed a wide smile, even when he saw the poor kid on the bed. Worse then he had imagined. So damn skinny…

“See Dad. I told you he’d come. I told you.” Michael smiled to Dorsey, who’d mentally readied himself to leave the room if he felt he was going to lose it.

Dorsey sat on the edge of the bed. “My brother’s name is Michael too.”

“Really?” The kid was ecstatic.

Dorsey realized what he had said. Time to change the subject. “I had a fight tonight…a real tough one.”

“I bet you won!”

“I did, Michael. It was a tough fight, but I’m the champ now.”

The boy nodded to him. “You’re the champ.”

“I brought something for you.” Dorsey reached into the bag he carried and pulled out a shiny red pair of 8 oz. pro gloves. “These are for you. I’ll sign them.” Dorsey saw how happy he had made the kid and his parents, by doing such a simple act of kindness that certainly did not set him back in any way.

He liked the way he felt inside, a revisit perhaps, to feelings long gone, but not forgotten, from happier times in his distant past: When he had a family of his own.

Dorsey stayed and chatted with the Giorgio’s until Michael grew tired. As the boy’s eyes drooped, he opened a tiny hand, and Dorsey placed his big hand atop it. “Sleep tight, Michael.”

As Dorsey stood at last both of Michael’s parents embraced him. The looks in their eyes said it all, that a stranger would be so kind to their son, in the dimmest twilight of his life, as this man was.

Waving goodbye once more, the champ left the room and took the elevator to Eddie Dwight’s floor. When he got there, only the manager was outside. Dorsey approached, expecting the worst. Absently, he crossed his fingers behind his back.

The manager looked up at Dorsey. “They got the swelling down. It’s still touch and go, but the doctor said the odds are much more favorable now.”

Glancing heavenward, Dorsey closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of his chance meeting with Artemis, and what the man, or whatever he was had said to him. “Any chance I could see him?”

“I’ll ask his wife. Wait here a second.” The man disappeared into the room. Dorsey leaned with his back to the wall. After a moment, Eddie’s wife came out, followed by the manager. “You want to see Eddie?”

“Yes…please. I need to see him.”

The woman’s eyes searched Dorsey’s face for an instant before she stepped aside to let him into the room.

As he entered, the champ saw his vanquished foe, head bandaged in a swath of gauze, still breathing through a respirator, oblivious to everything around him.

Dorsey approached the bed. “I’m real sorry, Eddie,” he whispered, taking hold of the man’s right hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly. I wish…I could take it back…take it all back.” He stopped, looking at the swollen forehead peeking out beneath the gauze; the closed eyes, the look of peace.

“But you showed us, Eddie, showed me, showed the world, that there’s more to being a champ than just winning fights. Coming out for the sixth round like you did, you showed everyone what it means to have a champion’s heart, what it takes to stand up and face your demons.” Dorsey envisioned the little kid upstairs and his own little brother too. Personal demons of a vastly different sort, but demons just the same.

 

And then, lowering his head and clasping his hands, Dorsey knelt alongside the bed. “Dear God,” he started, his demons fading into darkness, vanquished by the dual lights of compassion and mercy as he prayed into the long night ahead for the life of Eddie Dwight.