His nose broke with that last punch, I could feel it. I also heard the sickening crunch. He had dropped his left hand just briefly and with lightning speed I hit him with my right hand springing from my chest. Every ounce of my weight was behind the shot.

His nose stuck to the right side of  his face. Blood poured profusely from the one nostril that could be seen. The blow stunned him and in a flash my left fist crashed violently into the right side of his head. The move was just reactive, gained from hundreds of fights. That move usually ends fights, as it surely would now.

The blow to Pedro Martinez’s head dropped him to his knees. He balanced precariously for the briefest of seconds before falling to the canvass on his face. He hit so hard he actually bounced on the ring floor.

It had been early in the second round, but the fight was over. It would be the rare individual who could get up from the fury I had just unleashed. As I expected, the referee called the fight immediately and directed me to return to my corner. Pedro’s trainer rushed out, followed by the fight doctor, to take an assessment of the now unconscious fighter. So much for his number three ranking I thought, he had just been knocked out by a relative newcomer on the professional scene. I had not been ranked and quite frankly, that irked me.

I headed to my corner, barely sweating. the third-ranked fighter had hardly landed a punch on me in both rounds. It was my twentieth professional win in a row, with no losses or ties. It was also my fifteenth knock out. In fact, nobody had gone the entire ten rounds with me. Two of my foes had quit in the middle of the fight, wanting no more of what I was offering.

A stretcher was called to haul the still unconscious Pedro away. An ambulance had been backed into the arena. The crowd had gone dead silent except for one lady in the front row just behind me asking her escort what had happened. I turned around to her and smiled.

They were taking a lot of time with Pedro so I wandered over to see if he was going to be okay. I couldn’t tell because he was still out cold. The referee ordered me back to my corner. Pedro’s trainer, Tommy Franks, an aging ex-boxer and somewhat of a friend stared at me in awe, or was that anger, or possibly even fear. I overheard him tell the referee nobody had ever hit Pedro that hard nor had anyone knocked him out cold. I walked back to my corner and sat down, spitting the mouthpiece into a bucket on the side of the chair.

Looking out over the Las Vegas crowd was strange as it seemed they were all stunned waiting for Pedro to get up on his own. This had been advertised as a great fight and ticket prices were high due to Pedro’s appearance and somewhat because of my reputation. I would imagine a ton of money had been lost betting on the number three boxer in the world getting beaten so quickly. The people in the arena that might have bet on me stood to make a nice profit. I knew this as I had made money betting on myself as well. My bet was done through one of my buddies so that if I lost the Boxing Federation couldn’t say I threw the bout. Given the odds were greatly stacked against me, I made an additional $25,000 over and beyond the paltry percentage of the fight proceeds, a million dollar purse. Martinez had demanded 75% of the purse, leaving me with just 25%  which to my surprise my manager agreed to. He said it would be great publicity for me.

Then the Boxing Federation wonders why some fighters bet on themselves to win. Martinez made $750,000 to let me smack him around and I got $250,000 to beat his ass. Just seems backward to me and that all fights should be a 50-50 affair or maybe 100% to the winner. Oh well, I made $275,000 tonight so I shouldn’t complain too much. It was the most money I ever made in a fight in my life by far. I made $2,500 for my last fight.

The fact was, Pedro’s manager booked this fight with me because he thought it would be an easy win for his fighter, at least that was his opinion. They erroneously thought I hadn’t boxed anybody of Pedro’s caliber and was prey for an easy victory for their man. Guess they were wrong. I’d had tougher fights with the cowboys back home in Wickenburg.

My trainer, Jerry Shipley, was shaking me by the shoulders to congratulate me. “Jason, you beat him like a red-headed step kid.” He stepped into the ring to take my gloves off. “Everybody’s going to know the name of Jason Johnston from now on. Congratulations kid. You’re going to be a ranked fighter after this!”

Me: “Thanks, Jerry. That boy had no business with a number 3 ranking though. He really wasn’t that tough.”

Jerry: “Whatever you say,” as he made a mock bowing motion. “When the rankings come out though, you surely will be at least the number three contender, or possibly higher.”

Finally they carried Martinez off the floor and into the ambulance. When I was allowed to leave the rink the crowd gave me a measured ovation. They must still be still in shock of how quickly I dispatched the favored boxer.

I showered before heading back home, dressing in my usual worn blue-jeans and T-shirt with my weathered cowboy boots. No fancy suit or jumpsuit for me. I climbed in the back of the long black limo my manager had hired. He thought it important I ride to and from this event in grand style. Who was I to argue? It had been my first limo ride and I had to admit, I liked it. I normally drove my old Ford pickup to fights, usually around Vegas. Vegas fights seem to always pay more, or at least for a fighter that’s not ranked. I thought I might buy a new car with some of the money.

My wife, Jenny, refuses to attend my bouts, fearing it will be me having to ride in an ambulance, so I am usually by myself. Once in a while she will let our son, Rocky, go. Yes, we named him after that Rocky. Cheesy perhaps, but we liked it. She figured if Rocky saw how violent the sport is he would shy away from it when he got older.

On the way home to Wickenburg, over 200 miles away, I had lots of time to reflect. Before we had gotten out of Vegas I checked the sports channel on the television in the back of the limo to see if they reported on the boxing match. I was delighted to hear they did in fact report on the fight and hearing my name as the victor. They even called it a crushing victory by me. But then I was shocked when they said Martinez was in surgery to have a blood clot removed from his brain. His prognosis, they said, was poor.

Me, mumbling out loud while turning off the television, “Shit!” I must have said it louder than just a mumble.

I hadn’t meant to hurt him so badly, I was just using what tools I possessed to win the fight. Evidently the limo driver was listening to the radio as well as he was staring at me in the rear view mirror.

Me, returning the drivers stare: “Well, that sucks.” I wondered what he was thinking – fear, awestruck, pity, all those thoughts were crashing around my head.

The driver shook his head and sped out of town.

Not wanting to hear any more of the gory details, or the clamor that was now going on about me by sports reporters, I put in my earbuds to a classic rock mix I had made. Santana’s guitar wailed in my ear. The driver was still stealing looks at me so I raised the window that separated me from the driver.

I reflected back on the fight and the incidents leading up to it. While I never wished any ill will toward my opponent, I hadn’t intended spending too much time worrying about him until I heard his prognosis report. A boxer knows they take the chance of getting seriously hurt every time they enter the ring. Had Pedro beat me he would be bragging about it all over town, I was sure of that. During our pre-fight weigh-in he acted like a total jerk. I showed up in a suit whereas he showed up in a purple jumpsuit with gold piping and matching chains hanging from his neck. One of the chains had large gold letters on it saying “CHAMP.”

Changing into boxing trunks, just plain black with no advertising for me or the manufacturer, Martinez showed up in bright purple trunks still wearing the heavy gold chains around his neck. He had a gold toothpick in his mouth. He kept hotdogging, bragging to the crowd and television camera’s how he was going to drop me like a bad habit. Even put his damn gloved hand up to my nose. I let him carry on, not retaliating or saying anything. I just stood where they told me. I knew he was going to showboat as he did anytime he had an upcoming fight. Kept shooting his mouth off, at one point calling me “White Boy.” Everyone within earshot laughed at that comment. The press had picked it up too and repeated the clip often.

Towards the end of his antics, it appeared to me I might have rattled him some by showing no reaction – perhaps he saw a steeliness in me that he hadn’t before with other opponents. I was two inches taller and outweighed him by five pounds, more if he took off the chains. He was expecting me to get mad and add to the bravado of the event and had to be deeply disappointed in my total disregard of his existence.  

As the fight drew nearer Pedro kept telling the press how badly he was going to beat me. Said he was going to hit the white boy so hard my mother would hurt. His antics scared my wife and kids. I just took it all in to feed my own internal fires.

The window between me and the driver went down interrupting my reverie. The driver was looking in the rear view mirror at me again.

Driver: “You been listening to the news, buddy?”

Me, taking out one earbud: “No, why?”

Driver: “That kid you fought, Martinez. He died on the operating table. Never regained consciousness. They said it was an intracranial hemorrhage.”

Without saying anything, I nodded at him and then looked down at my hands. I think I was in shock. When the window went back up I said a prayer, a favorite of mine. ‘Heavenly father, change my mind, my approach, my mind, and my reactions. Amen.’  

My God, I hadn’t counted on this. Pulling out my phone, I called my wife. I wanted to hear her voice as it would soothe me. Surprisingly, I was close to tears and felt so alone all of a sudden. I never meant to kill anybody.

Jenny answered on the first ring. She had anxiously been waiting for me to call to ensure I was okay. She never watched or listened to my fights so she had no idea what had happened.

Jenny: “Hey lover buttons, how’d it go tonight.”

Me: “I won in the second round…”

Jenny, interrupting me in mid-sentence: “That’s great, hon. When ya going to be home?”

Me, hesitating before continuing. What time I would be home seemed so unimportant right now. Finally, I just blurted it out: “I killed him, Jen.”

She must have thought I was joking or did not understood the gravity of the situation. “Oh yeah, what round did he go down?”

Me, choking back a sob: “Did you hear me, Jen? I killed him. I killed a man. He went down in the second round and they hauled him to the hospital for emergency surgery. He died on the operating table.”

An awkward silence ensued. I kept trying to hold back a sob.

Me: “Jen, you there? Please talk to me woman.”

Jenny: “Oh, my God, Jason. That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

Then she began to cry. I began to cry with her. We did this for at least five minutes.

Me: “I feel so horrible, Jen.”

Jenny: “What’s going to happen to you, Jason?”

Me: ‘I really hadn’t thought much about that. Maybe I should…”

Jenny interrupting me again: “I mean are you going to be in trouble with the law? Are they going to charge you with murder?”

In my miasma I hadn’t thought about that either, but since she brought it up, I was now. I recalled there had been many boxers who died in the ring, or not long after. In fact, there was a boxer just recently that died last month. John Cooney from Ireland was boxing someone by the name of Howells from Wales. Cooney died seven days after that fight.   

Me: “I don’t think so, hon, so don’t worry about it. I’ll be home in about five hours and we’ll talk about it some more.”

Jenny: “Jason, I love you. I know you never meant to hurt someone.”

I returned the sentiment and hung up. I wanted to be alone. I leaned my head back against the plush leather and closed my eyes. I reflected back on my life and what got me to this point.

Raised on a small struggling ranch just outside of Wickenburg, my life was anything but easy. My abusive alcoholic father beat on me constantly as a kid. If I didn’t get chores done, or if they did not meet the old man’s expectations I got a beating. If I brought home a bad grade, he would beat on me. Not with a belt and certainly not a swat on my rear, but a real beating, with his fists. He constantly bloodied me. Mom always said my grandfather was the same way, beating on dad all the time when he was younger, as if that was an excuse. I wouldn’t beat on Rocky that way in a million years.  

The beatings happened pretty much weekly. Seemed like I always had a black eye or a swollen lip where he hit me. My right ear still rings from a punch he made that I tried to duck but hit me in the ear. I never fought back, just took it from him. This went on for years.

In turn, I took it out on the kids in my school. Years of being a boy working like a man on the ranch had both strengthened and hardened me. I hadn’t reached my growth spurt in school yet and at the time was built more like a fire plug. I wasn’t looking for fights, they found me.

My old man towered over me and I feared his wrath at just about anything, especially when he’d been drinking, which was most of the time. I feared him so much I think I developed an ulcer.

He liked to smack my mother around too, which made me feel worse than if I had taken the beating. What was I to do, he was my father. He kept this up until one night, during a nasty fight with mom at dinner. He had just thrown my sisters dinner on the floor because she said something he didn’t like. I think she wanted to get her ears pierced. My mother, always protective of her children mustered up the courage to yell at him about his ridiculous acts toward his children and got up to clean the food up with my sister. The old man got up too, knocking over a kitchen chair and walked around to where my mother was standing. He raised his hand, getting ready to backhand her. I caught his hand behind his ear. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I did that.

Me, seething: “You son-of-a-bitch old man…”

My voice was quavering, not out of fear but pure rage. “ever hit her again I’ll kill ya. You got that?”

He looked at me wide-eyed, never expecting such insolence from a member of his family. Nobody back-talked him as we were all terrified of his temper. Then his eyes softened and a crooked smile came to his face. “You think you can whip me, boy?”

Me: “I don’t know you son-of-a-bitch but we’ll damn sure find out.”

My sister was bawling now. My mother ran to my side.

Mom: “Don’t worry about it, Jason. It’s not worth it.”

And then it happened. My old man smacked my mother across the face while still staring at me. The son-of-a-bitch was mocking me.

I instinctively hit him in the side of his head with a balled up right hand. That one punch staggered him momentarily. Mom and my sister screamed in unison. They knew a new line had been drawn in the sand and they feared the retribution they would surely see.

I was stunned myself, mostly at the power of my punch. Those years of hard labor had made me stronger than even I knew. I could not believe one punch would stagger such a violent man.

The old man looked at me, while taking off his belt. “Outside!” he barked at me.

Me: “If we’re going to have a fight you need to leave that belt here inside. Or I’ll wrap it around your skinny neck, you son-of a-bitch.

With that my sister ran from the room crying. My mother grabbed me to beg that I not go outside with him.

Dad: “What’s the matter, mama’s boy? You afraid of going outside?”

Me: “Let’s do it right now!”

We walked out into the yard, my mother still begging me to back off. The more she begged, the more determined I became to go outside and finish these beatings once and for all. I turned to ask mom to go back into the house when the old man reached out and slapped me in the back of the head.

I never saw it coming and it sent me forward. Blood and anger rushed to my head. I turned and rushed at him, grabbing his torso in full flight, sending us both to the ground like a football tackle. I landed on top of him and began to beat him with both fists. I think I was out of my mind at that point, so I kept pummeling him. Left then right, then left until his face, nose, and ears were bleeding, but I kept beating on him. My mother was trying to pull me off him, but I kept hitting his face, over and over. Finally, she screamed at me to stop and tackled me from the side.

I got up but the old man didn’t. I apologized to my mother, then went back into the house to start packing. I was sure I would be kicked out of the house when the dust settled from this battle. The old man spent a night in the hospital with a concussion. Fortunately he didn’t press charges against me, probably because he didn’t want anyone to know his kid had beat him up.

By the time he got out of the hospital I had left the house. I stayed with a buddy until his parents had had enough of me. With nowhere to go, I slept in my pickup truck in a park in Wickenburg.

Within no time news got around town about me beating my father. Guys who used to be my friends shunned me. Some had to take me on in a fight of which I always won, but there was always someone bigger that thought they could whip me, so the fighting continued, each time by someone bigger or older. Nobody beat me, but they didn’t quit trying. The situation at school became so contentious that I left halfway through my sophomore year.  

My mother cried again when I quit school. I went to console her one morning when I thought my old man would be at work. He had stayed home that morning and kept egging me on to fight him again. Said I got lucky the last time. We ended back out in the yard and the fight was over in just a few minutes, this time him lying on the ground and me standing over him. It was the last time I saw him as he died of a heart attack a few months later.

I found a job as a ranchers hand up in Prescott so I moved up there with my pick up and suitcase. The rancher, a wonderful man named Oscar allowed me to sleep in his bunkhouse with the other hands. We worked hard six days a week and usually went uptown to a bar on Saturday nights. The other ranch hands working for Oscar would goad other ranchers into fighting me, always betting on the outcome. I fought bare fisted a couple times a night, losing only one time when I slipped. The one guy I lost to kept egging me on to fight again, and when we did, I beat him soundly. He never asked again.

I made the ranch hands some betting money and my reputation began to grow. This went on for a couple of years before getting noticed by a professional fight promoter.

I went pro then but kept my job at the ranch. Oscar always let me off plenty early for fights and even attended a few. He was proud of me, something I never felt before from my old man. I took a couple days off for this Vegas fight so I could get there early.

When I finally got home I rushed in to see Jenny. Even though it was late, she had stayed up most of the night waiting for me. When I walked in the door she rushed up to me with a big hug. The hug felt so good. Without talking about Martinez we went to be to get some sleep. There would be plenty of talk once we had gotten sleep.

I slept fitfully and finally got up after about three hours to make coffee. Jenny followed me and hugged me from the backside while I was waiting for the coffee to brew. I hadn’t meant to wake her.

We went to the living room so I could sit on my favorite rocker and drink coffee while she on the couch nursing a Diet Coke. Rocky came in a few minutes later and I jumped up to hug my son. He asked me about the fight and I just told him I won in the second round. Nothing further was said to him about the fight but I thought I detected a funny look on his face. It occurred to me he might know the truth by watching ESPN or something, but he didn’t say anything. After an hour of him grilling me about the fight he went outside to play ball.

Jenny: “Did you hear anything further, Jason?”

Me: “No, but I haven’t listened to any news or the radio. You?”

Jenny: “Same here.”

Me: “I figure someone will call me to let us know about anything. My manager hasn’t called me either, which I find a little odd. Also odd was the fact he didn’t come into the locker room after the fight like he normally does.”

Jenny: “You suppose you should call him?”

Me: “I suppose.”

I pulled out my phone but before calling I brewed another cup of coffee. I was procrastinating.

I sat back down in my rocker and pulled out my phone to call Ted, my manager. The call went straight to voice mail. Was he avoiding me I wondered.

Jenny: “How do you feel, Jason?”

Me: “Other than the tremendous amount of guilt I’m carrying, I feel fine physically. He barely laid a glove on me. I sure never meant to kill him though.”

Involuntarily, I started to bawl. I have no idea where that came from, but there I was bawling like a baby. Jenny got up to console me, but I felt inconsolable. The words ‘I killed a man’ kept reverberating through my brain and it wouldn’t stop.

My phone rang, showing it was Ted calling me. I stopped bawling to answer, putting the phone on speaker so Jenny could hear.

Me: “Ted, thanks for calling me back.”

Ted: “Sorry I didn’t answer when you called. I was talking to the idiots on the boxing commission. They intend to conduct a full investigation, whatever the hell that means. I suppose they have to say that for the public.”

Me: “You think I’m in any trouble, Ted?

Ted: “No, but they have to cover their ass so they will make a big deal out of their investigation to show their importance. In the end, it was just a fight and you happened to catch that Martinez fellow in a bad spot. Nothing further to it.”

I felt a little relieved hearing those words.

Ted: “Ah, I’ve got another fight for you next month if you want to take it. It will be in Vegas again and the purse will be higher now that you’re famous.”

Me: “I’ll think about it and call you back tomorrow, is that okay?”

Ted: “Sure thing, slugger, you should sleep on it before answering.”

I hung up while Jenny looked at me suspiciously. She had something on her mind, I could always tell.

Jenny: “I don’t think you should take that fight, Jason. You’ve just gone through a highly emotional experience and I don’t think you should jump back into the ring. Just my two cents.”

I nodded and drank more coffee. I definitely had some things to sort out.

That night I didn’t sleep well again, tossing and turning all night. I had Martinez’s death on my mind and it wouldn’t go away. The following morning I showed up early to the ranch to work a full day and think. Oscar tried to send me home with pay, but I said I needed the physical labor. I worked hard that day, harder than usual. When I arrived back at home Jenny had a steak dinner waiting for me. She was unusually quiet though.

Me: “What’s wrong?”

Jenny: “I just keep thinking of that last fight and Ted wanting you to get back in the ring so soon.”

Me: “It’s on my mind too. Thought about it all day in fact.”

Jenny: “Did you reach any decisions?”

Me: “ I did. I’m not taking that fight. I won about a quarter of a million dollars in that last fight and we don’t need any more this year. Oscar intends to keep me on as long as I want, and quite frankly, I enjoyed working hard today.”

Jenny: “I couldn’t agree more, hon…”

I cut her off while slicing up the steak.  She had made these on the grill and they were delightfully good.

Me: “In fact…” I chewed some more before finishing. “I’m done with fighting. I quit, I’m retiring.”

Jenny looked shocked. “Are you…are you sure Jason?”

Me: “I think so, hon. Going to call Ted after dinner. I will probably never get over killing Martinez and I don’t want to chance ever doing it again. I made a lot of money on the last fight, I have a good job, and I’m not getting any younger. Plus, I will retire undefeated.”

Jenny smiled at the last comment. “I’m fully behind you, Jason, whatever you want to do. Yes, I would like you to stop fighting but I also know it is a good way for you to get some aggression out that your father put in there.”

Me: I thought bout that too. Screw him! I’m not fighting for him and certainly not quitting because of him. In fact, I will never fight again unless I see some guy pinching your ass.” We both grinned at the last comment.

Me, continuing I just never want to hurt another soul again.”

After dinner I called Ted, putting him on speaker again. As I thought, Ted did not agree with my decision.

Ted: “I understand you’re feelings about that Martinez kid, Jason, but you eventually will get over that. You’re a rising talent, you’re ranked number four in the world right now. You’ve got big bucks coming to ya, kid.”

Me: “Don’t care, Jason, I just want…out.” I began to choke up again.

Ted: “Why don’t you take a month or so off to clear your head before making that decision? You worked hard to get where you’re at.”

Jenny: “Ted, do you understand he killed a man with his fists?”

Ted: “I do, Jen, but I think Jason is making a rash decision. Anybody could have hit that kid there with the same results. It was just a bad break for him…and Jason of course. But he’s in line to make some major money with that new ranking. People are talking about him.”

Me: “I won’t change my mind, Ted. I’m retiring undefeated and working at the ranch. I might take some of my winnings and put it on a down payment for my own ranch.”

The last comment startled Jenny as I had never mentioned it before. Ted kept trying to change my mind but I wasn’t budging. He wished me well in life and we hung up.

I slept much better that night. The following morning I emailed Ted and the boxing commission that I had officially retired from boxing. The commission emailed me back an hour later stating they would send me the documents to retire, which I found odd that documents were needed. Ted had been copied and he sent a message that this was standard procedure for boxers.

The documents arrived a week later. I filled out the information and sent it back with my signature. I was officially retired from boxing. For the next month the sports world talked about me killing that Martinez kid and my surprise exit from boxing, commenting how the boxing world may have lost the next ‘Great White Hope.” I cringed every time I heard it so I stopped watching sports, except for football. I’m addicted to watching Arizona Cardinals football and that’s enough violence for me.

A year later Oscar sold me his ranch, lock, stock, and barrel. Oscar moved to Scottsdale and that bow-legged son-of-a-gun took up golf.

With my first cattle sale I sent Pedro’s widow a check for a hundred thousand dollars with no explanation. She must have kept the money as the check cleared the bank. I know it wasn’t enough to take the place of her husband but in all honesty, it made me feel better. I read somewhere he had two small children so perhaps she will put the money towards their education. I might send her more money if the ranch does well.

I’m at peace with myself now. My fighting now is limited to my cattle, and I think they are winning.