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The Fighter
Boyd McCall believed there were only two kinds of days: good days — when something happened; and bad days — when nothing happened. Today was shaping up to be one of those bad days; at least it was until Big Will Grayson showed up at the lumberyard. Boyd was getting a load of lumber ready for delivery when he noticed his boss, Bert Williams, at the back door of the lumberyard office with Big Will Grayson. Bert was pointing across the graveled yard in Boyd’s direction. Boyd climbed up on the truck bed and started double-checking the items on his delivery list. He pretended to not notice as Will Grayson walked across the yard and stood by the flatbed trailer. After a full minute the big man finally said, “Boyd … Boyd McCall!” Boyd feigned surprise as he looked up from his clipboard. “Hey, Will.” Boyd laid the clipboard down, removed his gloves and pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket. He took off his wide-brimmed felt hat and wiped the sweat from his face and neck as he walked over and stood at the edge of the truck bed. He looked down on the big man. “What brings you into town in the middle of the week?” “I come here to whup your ass,” the big man said. Boyd did his best to suppress a smile, because there was nothing Boyd liked better than a fight. He had fought just about every fighter in the surrounding three counties and most of them didn’t want to fight him again. “Now look here, Will,” Boyd said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I don’t want any trouble.” Boyd was an expert at starting fights, and he knew the surest way to get into a fight was to act like you didn’t want one. “What’s this all about?” “I heard you was bad-mouthing me over at Ray’s Saturday night,” Will said. Boyd didn’t have the slightest idea what Will was talking about, and he really didn’t care. He had been at Ray’s Roadhouse on Saturday night, and he usually had a lot to say — especially when he was drinking. Maybe he had said something about Will —maybe he hadn’t. It didn’t matter. Fights were getting mighty hard to come by, and here was Will Grayson, looking for a fight. Boyd considered it an early Christmas present. Boyd stuffed his handkerchief back into his hip pocket and put on his hat. He jumped down from the truck bed and stood up close to the big man, measuring him. Will was big, but that probably meant he was slow. Boyd had beaten bigger men than Will. Even more important was the fact that Boyd had known Will since they were kids, and he couldn’t recall Will ever being in a fight. That was to Boyd’s advantage, too. When it comes to fighting, there is no substitute for experience. “I can’t fight you right now, Will. Mr. Williams would fire me for sure,” Boyd said, nodding toward the lumberyard office, “But I’ll tell you what — I get off at four. If you still want to fight, I’ll fight you then.” Will nodded once. “I’ll see you at four.” He turned and walked back across the yard. When Boyd drove back into town after making his delivery, he saw Will sitting on the bench in front of the barber shop across the street from the lumberyard. Several men were with him. When Boyd checked later, Will was still sitting there, and there were more men and even a few women gathered around. Evidently, word of the fight was spreading. By four o’clock, a crowd of at least forty people was gathered in front of the lumberyard, waiting to see the fight between Boyd McCall and Big Will Grayson. At 4:02, Boyd came out of the lumberyard office and faced Will Grayson and the crowd of onlookers. “You still planning to whup my ass, Will?” Boyd asked. Will nodded. “Okay, then,” Boyd said, “Let’s go around back.” He turned and motioned for Will to follow him — but then he stopped, turned back to Will and said, “But I got to warn you, Will. My ass don’t whup so easy.” Boyd grinned and gave a wink to the crowd before leading them down the alley toward the empty lot behind the feed store that fronted on the next street over. Boyd knew that nobody would object to them fighting there, because Jim Turner, the owner of the feed store, was at the front of the crowd of eager spectators that followed Will and him down the alley. As Boyd neared the center of the dusty lot, he looked down at his and Will’s shadows, judging how far the big man was behind him. Boyd intended to come around fast and sucker-punch Will. That was Boyd’s number-one rule of fighting: if you’re going to be in a fight, make sure you get in the first punch. If you can do some damage with that first punch, you’ve got the advantage. Will had 40 pounds on him, so Boyd meant to take every advantage he could get. Boyd shortened his stride, and Will came up closer behind him. Boyd came around fast—but just as he did, Will grabbed the brim of Boyd’s hat and jerked it down over his eyes. Boyd swung blindly and missed. He grabbed the brim of his hat with both hands and started to back away, but Will caught him under the chin with an uppercut that knocked Boyd flat on his back. Boyd was stunned, but he instinctively rolled on over and came up on his feet, backing away, expecting to be hit again. When his hat came off, he stopped. Will was still standing in the middle of the lot, with a hint of a smile on his face. Okay, Big Man. Boyd thought. You got in the first punch, but you should have followed up on it. That was your mistake. Now, I’m going to knock you down to size and kick the crap out of you. Boyd flung his hat aside and charged at Will. The big man stepped slightly to his right and planted a crushing right-cross to the left side of Boyd’s face. Boyd’s momentum carried him on, staggering sideways, trying to regain his balance, until he crashed face-first into the dust. Boyd didn’t get up quite as fast this time. He raised himself until he was on his hands and knees and shook his head, trying to clear it. His mouth filled with blood from a cut on the inside of his left cheek. Everything was a blur. He spit out a mouthful of blood and dirt — then he turned, so he sat facing Will Grayson. Boyd was seeing double, but he could tell that Will was still standing in the same spot, and he was definitely smiling. That was when Boyd broke his number-two most important rule of fighting: never, never-ever get mad when you’re in a fight. He staggered to his feet as quickly as he could and charged toward the big man in a blind rage. This time, Will Grayson stepped to his left and landed a short left to Boyd’s right jaw. Boyd dropped like a steer at the slaughterhouse. When Boyd regained consciousness, he was lying in the shade of the alley and most of the crowd was gone. He refused offers to take him to the doctor, and walked home alone. By dinnertime, Boyd could barely open his mouth and sipped a little soup from a bowl. He took four aspirins and went to bed early. As he stretched out in bed, he thought about the fight. He wanted to smile, but his face hurt too much. It had been a good day.
Michael L. Youther
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