Requiem for a Heavyweight Ch. 01

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Retired ex-champ steps out of retirement to fight one more fight for one more big payday.

Announcing in this corner...The Background. Ex-heavyweight boxing champion, Hank Johnson, steps out of retirement to fight the current, heavyweight boxing champion, George Williams in a title match of epic proportions. Bigger than thriller in Manilla with Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier, bigger than George Foreman vs Ron Lyle, it was a bigger fight than the Rocky Marciano vs Joe Walcott fight.

The biggest heavyweight fight ever held at the old Boston Garden, now called the TD Garden. Newspapers, television, and radio had hyped this championship bout for months. Deemed the fight of the century, closed circuit televised sold out across the country and all over the world. An unprecedented heavyweight fight, there was much at stake. It was more than just a world heavyweight championship match. It was the old, experienced ex-champion against the young, cocky, continue to wanna be champ. Sylvester Stallone couldn't have written a better script for Rocky 8.

Even though he was the current champ, with him now facing the old champ, and with Hank Johnson one of the greatest boxers ever to lace on gloves, George Williams was deemed the underdog. Even though he was the current champion, especially those who remembered Hank Johnson's greatest fights and who were still fans of retired, ex-champ, considered George Williams the contender. Las Vegas had 3-1 odds that the ex-champion would beat the current champ in a first-round knockout.

Those who had watched the ex-champ fight before he retired wanted to watch him win just one more time for them. Betting on his experienced against the younger and faster champion, they hoped that Hank would give them just one more knockout. An unprecedented move at his age, they'd like nothing more than for the old man to reclaim the title bout again. With God Almighty in his corner, they all hoped that he had one more fight in him.

"Ding!"

By every judge's scorecard, after the eleventh round, it was a virtual tie. With neither boxer ever having gone the distance, neither fighter, Johnson or Williams, could knock out the other. There'd be no knockout tonight. There'd be no technical knockout tonight. This bout was going the distance. This bout was in the twelfth round, the last round. Just as those who bet on the ex-champ were poised to win a lot of money at 30 to 1 odds for a 12th round knockout, the bookies stood to lose a lot of money if their favorite, the current champion lost, to the ex-champ.

"Welcome back to the twelfth and final round," said the referee. "Touch gloves and...fight," he said stepping back.

The fighters touched gloves and the ex-champ ran out from his corner. Immediately, he backed up the current champ and put him against the ropes. Blow after blow, Johnson hit Williams with jabs and undercuts. Seemingly biding his time and waiting for the opportunity to get his punches in, playing rope-a-dope in the way of the old Muhammad Ali, the champ covered up his face and head with his upraised hands.

Ken, the ex-champ's trainer and manager, realized the change in the reversed choreography of the fight immediately. This wasn't what they had practiced. This wasn't what they had rehearsed. Now with Johnson fighting his own fight instead of fighting the fight that Ken had choreographed for him, Hank was going off script and was in dangerous territory.

Turning the tables, a flurry of unanswered punches thrown by the current champ, now moved the ex-champ, the current challenger, back against the ropes. A right combination, a peppering of left jabs, a huge right uppercut, and a devastating left roundhouse all found its mark. Johnson was in trouble and Williams was now ahead in points. At the very least, unless Johnson knocked out Williams, the current champ would win by a unanimous decision on points.

* * * * *

Now with his fighter taking punishing blows, Ken was ready to throw in the towel.

"Someone stop the fight," yelled Ken!

Ready to throw in the towel, Ken stood and yelled from below the ring, but his voice of mercy was lost in the wake of ten thousand drunken fans wanting blood and wanting either one of the boxers dead. As if in slow motion and replayed on the jumbo telethon screen everywhere in the arena, a hard left to the body buckled the challenger nearly in two.

'Wham!'

Then, another devastating right uppercut stood him back up.

'Bam!'

Finally, a left to the right temple leveled him.

'Slap!'

He was down. The ex-champ was down on the canvas for the first time in his boxing career.

"Whap! Bam! Slap!"

It was over in a second. It was over with three, quick punches.

This was the first time that either fighter hit the canvas. An unexpected turn of events, this wasn't supposed to happen. The old champ being knocked down was not in their rehearsed fight plan. It was shockingly apparent that the challenger had deterred from what was expected and what was practiced. It was understandable, after all.

A fighter who had always controlled all of his fights himself, playing it by ear, and reacting to how the fight progressed, Johnson wanted to win the fight on his own and not by some computer program administered by an electrical engineer. Instead of using their choreographed dance, that Ken knew was not the way that Hank learned how to box, Johnson was determined to fight his own fight, if only for one round, the last round. No doubt, for him to fight in this choreographed way, Hank figured that he was cheating.

He was a fighter, a champion, and not a dancer or a computer geek. Now instead of being the champ, he was the challenger trying to regain his title and not some computer geek. Instead of regaining his title belt, instead of being the heavyweight boxing champion again, he was down for the count.

The referee stood over the fallen fighter and using his right index finger as a pointer, he rhythmically counted loudly for all to hear.

"One... Two... Three... Four... Five... Six... Seven... Eight... Nine... Ten... You're out!"

As soon as the referee waved his arms spread out over the fallen fighter, the fight was over. It was over. It was all over. George Williams, the current champ won and Hank Johnson, the retired, ex-champ lost.

"Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!"

As if the bell was a premonition and as if Hank Johnson was a fallen firefighter answering the last call, the dinging bell hauntingly reverberated throughout the huge auditorium.

"Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!"

The bell rang again in the way of a judge's gavel while hoping to regain order and control of the huge crowd of fighting fans.

"Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!"

After three, quick punches, in one last round and one last fight, it was the end for Hank Johnson.

* * * * *

In seconds the crowd changed from a screaming mad mob to a quiet, worried group. Ken broke through security and was up on the apron staring down at the dead fighter. The referee summoned the doctor and kneeling over the fallen fighter with the fighter's corner people, the doctor shook his head with a look of grave concern. When the referee waved in the reverend, everyone knew the real outcome of the fight and that this was Hank's last fight. Everyone knew that this fighter would fight no more.

Along with the doctor, the reverend, and the corner people, Ken looked down at the loser lying motionlessly upon the canvas. The blood that had trickled from the dead boxer's mouth, nose, and ears stained his boxing gloves and pooled on the white canvas by his head. Upon recognizing Ken standing helplessly in the middle of the ring, the fighter's fans banged their chairs to the chorus of a chilling chant. Picking up the call and slowly gaining momentum throughout the arena, the angry crowd sang the murky music of their song.

"Murderer!" Boom! Boom! "Murderer!" Boom! Boom! "Murderer!" Boom! Boom!

Signaling the end of the drunken party with the same startling, stark effect, as if pulling the plug on the jukebox at a dance, the huge, powerful, house lights popped on and illuminated the giant hall. The darkness that hid his hurt gave way to the sobering man-made suns of reality and Ken stood helpless, and defenseless in the middle of the ring to answer the crowd's hasty conviction. Gradually growing louder and more defiantly defined, the sound erupted from the back of the hall like a tsunami wave speeding forward. It erupted in a discourteous discourse of determined chanting. It grew louder as it washed across the huge hall.

"Murderer!" Boom! Boom! "Murderer!" Boom! Boom! "Murderer!" Boom! Boom!

Spreading up to the balcony, the sound emerged from the right cluster of rear seats before exploding over the middle seats and across the left seats. Erupting in an echo of angry voices, the yells reverberated throughout the entire auditorium. The clamorous noise continued to wash over the crowd from the right to the left and back again, and from the front to the back and back again. In the manner and sound of a loud, tidal wave, the noise gathered boisterous accompaniment and out of control momentum as it passed over each row of fans. Ken was responsible for killing their champion.

"Murderer!" Boom! Boom! "Murderer!" Boom! Boom! "Murderer!" Boom! Boom!

Gradually, in the way of the sound of a ship's fog horn that slowly neared the shore closer and closer while growing louder and louder, the shuddering sound replaced the chair banging charge of a capital crime. The ruckus roar graduated to a continual, resounding, unified, loud and unrelenting voice. With their outraged aimed at those who stood in the ring, commonsense not only dictated but also demanded that they should duck for cover.

"Booooooooooooo! Boooooooooooooo! Boooooooooooooo!"

Someone threw a bottle, then another and another until a shower of broken glass bombarded the rows of floor seats and the canvas of the ring. While people ran for cover, EMT's hurriedly carried out the stretcher that cradled the wasted warrior. Security tried to take control of the rowdy group but to no avail. Fist fights erupted everywhere throughout the arena, until it appeared that the entire hall gave host to a hundred, impromptu mini, unscheduled fights.

More fans scurried for cover as more bottles were launch like flaming, glass arrows in a Crusades campaign. With dozens of people hit, injured, and bleeding, everyone in and around the ring ran for cover. Some didn't make it with bottles hitting their heads and knocking them unconscious.

Feeling responsible for yet the death of another fighter, anguishing over the loss of his friend, Ken remained the lone man standing in the middle of the squared circle as a target for the fight fans hatred of him. Showering him in a shimmering of shattered glass and sending him to the canvas floor in an unconscious pile of limp limbs, a brown beer bottle found its mark and broke against his right temple. Sleeping silently still, he lay remembering how it all began.

* * * * *

Ken sat forward in his chair and intently watched an old news segment about Hank Johnson, the retired, heavyweight boxing champion. Announcing his plans for a comeback, Johnson hoped if he won his fights that it would lead to an eventual title shot with the undefeated and recently crowned champion, George Williams. Even though Hank was older than George by nearly twenty years, there was something that Ken saw in the old, retired ex-champion that clued him in that he could beat the current, younger champion, should the two get together for a title fight.

He watched as the news report highlighted several of the ex-champ's most recent comeback fights. He continued watching as the news report highlighted several of his most famous, old fights. Already Johnson had compiled six consecutive wins with five by knockout and one by technical knockout when the challenger was injured enough that he no longer could fight. He wondered how the old warhorse did it. It wasn't easy to stay in shape at his age, nearly 50-years-old. It was an impossible feat to fight a challenger who was almost twenty-years younger.

He wondered why a 49-year-old, 6'4" tall, 265 pound, overweight, has-been would even consider such a ludicrous and impossible feat in trying to regain the heavyweight boxing title. Perhaps, wanting to see how far he could go, he needed the money. He settled back in his chair prepared to view some old fights of the ex-champ in his prime.

Tall and lanky thin, Hank was a marvel to watch and a master of the squared circle. A Cinderella story, retired at 35-years-old, old for a fighter, it had been nearly fifteen years since Hank Johnson won the World's Heavyweight Boxing Title and quit boxing to answer God's call. Forsaking the challenge for his title belt, he became a preacher and a minister to young, black men in trouble.

Underprivileged, uneducated, and destined to follow in his discouraged father's footsteps, Hank pulled himself up from out of the ghetto by stepping in a boxing ring. When the ex-champ was in his prime, he was fast, powerful, strong, skilled, and smart; the epitome of a boxer's boxer. Excitingly wonderful to watch him fight again, Ken felt saddened, nonetheless, to see the ex-champ tarnish the glorious memory his many fans had of him by undertaking such a fool-hardy comeback. He got up, stretched, and walked to the fridge for another beer.

'He must need the money. Definitely, money is why he decided to fight again,' he thought. 'Why else would he undertake something as suicidal and crazy as to step in a ring with someone faster, stronger, and nearly twenty-years younger?'

He remembered so many boxers who thought they had one last fight. He thought of the Great Joe Louis and Muhammad Ali in particular who ruined their health for that one, last, big payday. Time was the biggest defeater of boxers. Once the legs go, there's nothing left in the tank but to flay helplessly at a younger and in better shape opponent who was on his bicycle avoiding his desperate blows.

* * * * *

The next day, the sun from the unseasonably warm, March morning brought with it the first promise of Spring and Ken awoke feeling unusually rested. He felt encouraged that his idol, ten-years his senior had the audacity to laugh at age. When younger athletes retire and developed second careers as radio broadcasters, doing television commercials, and making guest appearances in situation comedies, Hank Johnson was issuing challenges to his sport, to others, and to himself. He marveled at his determination and fortitude. He was an example for the rest of us couch potatoes to emulate.

Determined to regain his physically fit body, in the way that Hank Johnson had, Ken replaced the beer with water and substituted fish, chicken, vegetables, and fruits, beef, fast foods, and sweets. He started a regular routine of push-ups, pull-ups, crunches, and skipping rope to increase his strength and stamina. He hated jogging, especially early in the morning before he had his coffee. He found that skipping rope was just as effective if not even more effective.

Resurrecting his speed and body bag, he worked to regain his power, timing, coordination, and speed. Lastly, to improve his strength and muscle tone, he exercised on alternating days with progressively weighted dumbbells. Hank Johnson served as Ken's inspiration and fueled his motivation that he could, indeed, be the manager of the next heavyweight boxing champion of the world.

With Hank his idol, Ken remained motivated for several weeks while continuing to increase his strength, overall physical fitness, and stamina. He noticeably turned a considerable amount of body fat of his 6'2", 210-pound frame into muscle. He joined a boxing gym and enthusiastically participated in some impromptu sparring matches. Now, with more energy and a confident outlook that showed upon his posture and in his stride, he felt better about himself. Proportionally redistributing his weight, friends, co-workers, and relatives favorably commented on his improved appearance. He wished he had found this inspiration ten years ago.

'I could have been a contender', he laughed while mimicking what so many boxers say.

* * * * *

When not working overtime around the clock on a rush contract, Ken worked 3 days a week, twelve hours a day, as a computer programmer of CAD-CAM, computer aided design and computer aided manufacturing. A graduate of MIT, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, he had a master's degree in electrical engineering, robotics, and computer programming. His job description, better termed master, electronic engineer, referring to his occupation as a computer programmer was an exaggerated understatement. Using the latest rendition of graphic software, he was an electronic marvel working in Cambridge, Massachusetts while employed by Advance Robotic Engineering in a Virtual Reality environment, doing business as AREVR, Inc.

Specifically designing and redesigning robots to perform occupational functions too monotonous or too dangerous for humans, AREVR, Inc. developed robots for manufacturers. Using 3-D holographic aided, computer graphic software with state-of-the-art artificial intelligence that was the mainstay of virtual reality to help engineer the plans, AREVR, Inc. built working, robotic prototypes. Then, once perfected, they hired outside companies to manufacture and mass produce the robots from their specified prototype. If the government or NASA contracted them to design a specific robot, for reasons of national security, they would not subcontract out any of the work, but built it all in-house themselves.

Presently, AREVR had two such contracts in-house. NASA awarded them a contract for the development of a robot to gather rock and soil samples for the exploration of the planet Jupiter. The United States government, and the Defense Department in conjunction with the Pentagon, awarded them a contract to design a robotic arm for the installation of laser nozzles for the Star War Defense program that has since been scrubbed. Nonetheless, even when the contract ended, AREVR owned the technology. Able to use the technology elsewhere and for something else, they still learned from all that they designed.

Although defense contracts were financially lucrative, it was difficult working with the federal government. The GAO, General Accounting Offices, were slow to allocate funds, demanded special accounting of monies spent, were ambiguous with the project's requirements, and accessed fines for missed deadlines. Ken believed, because of national security issues, that the ambiguity was intentional because the government didn't want one company responsible for the development of an entire project. Nevertheless, due to duplication of effort by several competing companies, the extra measure of security meant over-budgeted spending, cost overruns, and delays.

Ken loved his job, but he wished that he could exercise more creativity by using many of the innovative technical aspects and science fiction components of his profession. He wished he were free to do research and development exclusively on designs that cluttered his head. Friends with several employees secretly working on special science fiction, elemental type projects, he'd give anything to be part of their team. He tried several times to transfer to the R & D department, but the competition for the limited openings was always too great and sometimes too political.

He spent his free time exercising, watching boxing videos, programming his personal computer, and constructing his personal robot, Better Artificial Robotic Technology, code named BART, and better named Bartholomew. Allowing his imagination to run free from the interference he felt at AREVR, building BART was fun because he was able to exert more creativity. He bought electronic equipment and component parts and conducted experiments in his home laboratory in the way that other men bought tools and busied themselves in their home workshops. Ken was determined to build the perfect robot, one that was more human than robotic and possessed enough artificial intelligence to learn from its mistakes.