He couldn’t hear also. He had lost both those abilities seven years before, his last time in the ring. It was Svenson who did it. Gordy “Knockaround” Svenson who knocked around some wiring in Punchy’s head, cutting it loose from its fleshy skull plugs. Synapses not sparking, pathways blocked or clotted or severed by violent jabs to the head that Svenson had thrust at Punchy’s face. This last fight had left Punchy lying spread-eagled on the mat, watching the little yellow birds dipping and diving across his blurred double vision. Later, he remembered a massive body of confusion running into the ring, leaning over him, blocking out the bright lights of bloody fame he was used to dancing in. The ring. The beautiful violent mastery of the squared circle. And this would be the last time he would ever be in it, lying down as if he was back in his bed at home. Or patiently waiting for his death shroud to envelop his sore body, and make the buzzing pain finally stop. Back in the locker room, he tried to make out what his coach was saying to him.
