You Must Remember This

Chapter 22 - Why we fight

Brooklyn, June 1, 1941 

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the thirteenth annual Pentecost boxing match! Have we got some headliners for you today! We'll start with a man who needs no introduction and one of our very own Brooklyn boys! Please give it up for James 'Buckyyyyyyyy' Barnes!"

Bucky's body moved on its own, so accustomed to the routine. He barely heard the cheers and clapping, barely saw the smiling faces around him. He climbed into the ring, the thick rope heavy in his hand. Why did it feel like a thousand pounds?

"And now," continued the master of ceremonies, "coming all the way from Harlem, a man who has won no less than five matches by single knock-out in one round — Mikey 'The Boulder' OOOOOOOO'Neal!"

The Irish roars drowned out the booing. Bucky's eyes wandered over his opponent as O'Neal stepped into the ring with him. The thirty-somewhat chrome dome was a full two heads taller and sported a neatly trimmed beard. By the bruises on his muscled torso and the one cut above his left eye that hadn't quite healed yet, Bucky gathered O'Neal was getting thrown into one match after another to get to the quota Miss Donnelly spoke about.

Bucky kneeled to his father and Lucas — his coach and second, respectively. But as soon as he squatted, his attention was drawn to the person sitting right behind them as her siren voice reached him again. Evelyn's hair was up in a tight bun, held together with a fine blue ribbon. The sun made the caramel locks shine like a halo. She'd taken off her jacket and wore a dark blue blouse and a cream-colored pencil skirt with matching pumps.
Their eyes met as Evelyn looked up from her conversation with Rebecca. She seemed to stiffen, but Bucky then saw her mouth curl up into a little smile. She averted, cheeks slightly pinker than they usually were. Bucky's heart thumped. Did he make her blush like that?

"Bucky! Pay attention to Lucas, dammit!"

A snapping voice made Bucky jerk his head down. His father's scolding glare instantly made him feel like he was ten years old again.

"Sorry, Pops," said Bucky hastily. "What were you sayin', Lucas?"

"I looked into O'Neal," said Lucas, "and I talked to Declan Gallagher when he got here."

"Gallagher... Ain't he a sports reporter for the Times or somethin'?"

"Yeah, he's been followin' upcoming boxers in greater New York for his latest piece. It's bad, Bucky. O'Neal is brutal. He knocked a guy into a coma for three days, and his last opponent shot himself this morning. There was barely anything decent of him left. It's impossible to beat O'Neal, but from what I gather, there was someone a few months ago who made him sweat and got him to draw. He kept moving and tired him out. That's what you gotta do. And stay the hell out of the corners. That's how he gets ya."

"Don't get cornered and keep'm dancin', got it."

"Son, take this seriously, please," implored his father.

"I am, Pops," assured Bucky.

He got a grunt in reply. "I'll keep the towel at hand, just in case this gets out of hand."

"Don't you dare!" Bucky raised his voice. "I've never thrown in the towel, and I ain't about to start now."

"Bucky..."

"Pops, I mean it. Promise me you won't throw in the towel."

Bucky met his father's gaze. It was plain as day he was reluctant to agree, but he eventually nodded his consent.

"Fighters, to the center of the mat!" yelled the MC.

The cheers from the crowd rose as Bucky got to his feet. He caught one last glimpse of Evelyn and held on to her encouraging smile before he turned to face The Boulder.