It is twenty years since I saw that punch. Arcing through the floodlights above the ring, sending him barreling to the canvas like a suicide jumper from the Brooklyn Bridge. But it is him alright, still with that wiriness about him, breakfasting on bourbon and cigarettes, his hollow face caught in the slow flickering neon sign hanging in the barroom window. He was up on all three judges’ cards when he took that punch. Three minutes away from a belt. Three minutes away from a big pay night.
When it landed, the splutter of camera shutters exploded around the ring, flash bulbs puncturing the night air. But even before the crowd somersaulted out of their seats, Manny’s life had changed course. He started at the bottom of life’s arc: sleeping under bridges, working street corners, running for the drug bosses, booze and hookers. But then he started to win; fast and skillful, diamond hard and durable. Eventually he fought on the undercard at the Garden then out in Atlantic City when Sugar Ray came to town. Fighting and winning. Then came that punch on the biggest night of all. And as he crumpled to the floor, sweat pluming off him, gum shield skidding towards me across the canvas, the arc of his life peaked, glimpsed the summit and then started down. He fought on for a while then unraveled into drugs, hard liquor and a gambling habit that wore him out more than skipping rope had ever done. He glances through the window, eyes watchful. I doubt he recognizes me but I sense a flicker as he pulls on his cigarette and swishes his glass. I hesitate for a moment, wondering just how close he is to the bottom of life’s arc. Close I think. Close.