Page 2 of On the Ropes
“How long has it been since you quit?” he asked.
My shoulder muscles twitched again. “I retired three years ago.”
“Huh,” Fred said. “Time flies. You were really somethin’ else in that ring. But I guess you already know that.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I mumbled.
I got all kinds of responses from fans who had opinions on my early retirement from professional boxing. Sometimes fans like Fred were the hardest. The wistful ones. Like I was already a has-been, and they were sad for me about it.
“Listen.” His voice dropped even lower. “Take this from a, uh, friend from around the way. But with what this city is facing in terms of fixing up vacant lots, they’re not in a rush. I don’t think they’ll care at all what you do with it. Clean it up, put it to good use? If they come knocking five years from now and you’ve basically done their job for them, for free, they won’t be complaining. You get what I’m saying?”
I spotted Rowan on the corner. I raised a hand in greeting. “You think we should fix it ourselves?”
“Exactly. I gotta go take the next call, but it was a real honor chatting with one of the greats. My buddies aren’t gonna believe it.”
I winced as my best friend reached me. “Thank you for your…advice.”
“God bless, and go Birds,” he said and then hung up.
Rowan cocked a lopsided grin my way before clapping me twice on the shoulder. “Are you about to punch something, big guy?”
I slipped my phone back into my pocket. Shoved open the door. “I’ll tell you at the bar.”
It was darker inside. Cooler. Two giant TVs displayed the bottom fifth inning of the Phillies game. Benny’s Bar hadn’t allowed smoking in years, but there was still a whiff of it in the air. An angry slew of curse words went up—directed at the pitcher on the screen—as Rowan and I moved through the tables to the stools.
The bartender gave me a nod of recognition. I held up two fingers, and he sent Yuenglings our way. Rowan perched on the edge of his stool, legs spread, elbow propped up as he took a swig. Rowan O’Callaghan had been my friend since we were four years old. He’d grown up next door to me, living with his grandmother Alice. Like so many others, her family had moved from Ireland to this part of Philadelphia when she was a little girl. Her accent was as strong as ever. Even Rowan picked it up a bit when he was around her.
Rowan and I had grown up together, gone to school together. Were brothers more than anything else. While I got pulled into boxing, he was a baseball player who’d gotten drafted into the minor leagues right out of high school. He’d even been called up to the majors before he blew out his shoulder. If anyone understood the pain and frustration of a career-ending injury, it was him. He was almost as tall as I was, rangy and too confident, with dark red hair and pale skin.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What’s that smile for?”
“I’m in a good mood ’cause I had a great date.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was past 8:00. “Did you leave her somewhere?”
He smirked. “The date started at eight last night. And that’s why I’m smiling.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You like her?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I liked having fun with her. She was looking for the same kind of thing, so it worked out.”
I sipped my beer and sniffed. Dating was always easy for Rowan.
He tapped my knee. “Who was on the phone?”
“The city,” I said. “Finally got through to someone about Annie’s old place. The guy said the city doesn’t have any plans for it. He told me on the sly that we should fix the damn thing ourselves.”
He scoffed into his beer. “Figures.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a loud table of local guys sharing a pitcher. I thought I heard my name.
“You could do it though.”
I tapped the side of my beer and looked at the TV instead of Rowan. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve got some extra time on your hands,” he said. “If you started cleaning it out yourself, you don’t think everyone on that block wouldn’t come help?”
My hackles wanted to go up at the mention of my extra free time right now. But it was Rowan. He was only saying a nicer version of the words I heard in my head every day: You retired from pro boxing three years ago. You haven’t moved on, and news flash? You’re not doing shit.
