The Minor Circuit arena let out a series of boos that would have made former referee Mario cringe. Granted, it wasn't the best three rounds that they had seen. Very rarely, in fact, did fights go three rounds here. The judges were just as stunned as some of the other spectators, going over their notes regarding the two men in the ring.
In one corner, a hefty black man in a red track jacket munched on a chocolate bar, trying to piece together what had happened, while a smaller man removed his green gloves and shook out his hands, seemingly fatigued. He licked his lips and took a sip from a water bottle, looking down at his own hands, as if to say "...what have I done?"
This was MacKenzie Avidan, better known as 'Little Mac', a seventeen year old from The Bronx. An unknown in the boxing world; shocking everyone with his appearance alongside former Heavyweight Champion Jerome 'Doc' Louis. Everyone's butts were on the edge of their seats, as it were. Doc Louis was known for several things: His kindhearted nature, his strict training regimen, his love of chocolate, and, quite possibly his notorious Star Punch, which would leave opponents flat on the mat. When Doc Louis took Little Mac's corner, everyone knew that they were in for a real treat.
In the opposite corner, a Frenchman in white shorts was taking heaving breaths. "Mes mains font mal... les gants box sont trop sérée," He muttered, trying to remove his gloves, but to no avail. The gloves, as he said, were too tight. This was Glass Joe, a boxer from Paris quite possibly the most piss-poor record of the WVBA: One win, ninety-nine losses, earning him the unfortunate nickname of 'Glass Joke'. With the new kid on the block and his famous corner man, no one had any doubts that tonight, the record would now read '0-100', and Glass Joe would continue being the laughing stock of the WVBA.
At least, that should have been the case. The match started off with the standard affair; Glass Joe would act cocky, taunting his opponent in the first second, open for a punch. He would then start 'turtling'; alternating between guarding his lower torso and his head. In the first round, Glass Joe had been knocked down twice. However, to everyone's surprise, the unthinkable happened: Glass Joe, the Punching Bag from Paris, managed to knock someone down. The referee started his count, while Little Mac tried to pick himself off the mat with help from the ropes.
Glass Joe laughed proudly, looking down at his gloves as if to say 'Wait, I did that?!', and the crowd went wild, cheering and screaming at the top of their lungs.
The second round seemed to prove a little more difficult for Little Mac, getting hit more often and falling to the mat twice. If the crowd went wild before, they were going absolutely nuts this round. The Glass Joke had managed TWO knockdowns! One more and it'd be all over! TKO in the Second Round, victory to Glass Joe!
But, Little Mac came back, despite looking obviously fatigued, he pressed forward, answering his two knockdowns with one of his own, after Glass Joe's cheer of "Vive la France!" The crowd cheered just as loud for Mac as they did for Joe: Very few people had sent Glass Joe to the floor with just one punch. Granted, the man wasn't the best fighter, but still possessed enough heart to push forward.
The third round, however, was very lackluster in comparison to the first two rounds. Here, one knockdown could make or break a fighter, sending them down to the mat and not getting back up for a while. It looked like it could go either way.
But, something strange had been happening. Glass Joe appeared more daring now, throwing more and more heavy-handed punches. But Little Mac, using his size and speed to his advantage, would be just out of reach every time. Glass Joe flinched – he knew that he was in for a world of hurt. He braced himself for the feeling of leather connecting to his chin. "Attention a mon menton! Ne frappe pas mon menton!" He yelled, before suddenly becoming very confused.
Nothing had happened.
Glass Joe lowered his guard, peeking over the top of his gloves. "Que'ce...?" He asked, before trying to come around with a left. Little Mac dodged again.
"That's it, Mac baby! Dodge and counter! Dodge and counter!" Doc cheered on, before his own cheering died down after a few moments. With every punch that Glass Joe threw, Little Mac would dodge. All Little Mac needed to do was counter.
But he didn't.
The cheers from the crowed faded away, and were replaced with booing, slowly at first, but growing more and more frequent as the match went on. Three minutes passed quickly, and neither fighter had landed a blow on the other. The bell rang and each boxer went to their respective corners, leaving the judges to score the match.
Yes, despite a few miracle knockdowns, Glass Joe felt sick to his stomach. He knew that there was no hope in the world for him. He'd have to retire here, with the worst record possible.
"Wait, WHAT?!" Came the shocked voice of the referee by the judge's table, causing everyone to look their way. Glass Joe, turned around, an eyebrow raised, a slow 'uh?' leaving his mouth. Doc Louis chewed his candy bar nervously, accidentally taking some of the wrapper with it. Little Mac, however, maintained a neutral expression.
The referee and judges, aware now of the unwanted attention drawn to them, lowered their voices. "You CAN'T be serious!" He hissed, "How can you score it like this?!" The Judges, however, were adamant in their decision.
"Jeremy, we score it as we see it. You know how it works; you've been in this business for years. Go on and announce it." The referee nodded, climbing back into the ring, motioning for both boxers to come to the center.
The silence in the Minor Circuit Arena was thick and uncomfortable, despite the obvious feeling of getting gypped in the final round. A microphone was lowered, and the referee cleared his throat nervously.
"And now, Jeremy Buffer with the official decision," a reporter spoke into a video camera, before turning. The camera focused on the older man, a look of disbelief on his face.
"A-Ah, yes. Ahem. After three three-minute rounds, the judges have scored this match as follows: In the first round, 30-29, Glass Joe. In the second round, 29-30, Little Mac. And in the final round, the score is..." The Arena held a collective breath. Would it be here where the predictable occurred?
"Oh for God's sake, read the card!" One member of the audience shouted. Jeremy looked uncomfortable, adjusting his shirt collar. "The final round... has been scored..." His voice trailed off before he threw the paper away. "Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this contest, by split desicion is...
Glass Joe!"
The red-headed Frenchman couldn't believe it. His record was now two and ninety-nine! Not an impressive record, but... it was still greater than one now! His eyes grew wet, threating to stain his cheeks with tears of absolute joy. Doc Lous shook his head, patting Little Mac's back as if to say, "don't worry, kid. We'll train harder next time. You'll get him." even though he thought he knew what had happened.
In a display of sportsmanship, the two boxers shook hands before Little Mac left the ring and went to the locker room. The reporter came up to Glass Joe and proceeded to do an interview, while Little Mac did his best to avoid getting hit by soda cups and other miscellaneous trash.
After all was said and done, Little Mac was outside, waiting at a bus stop, gloves slung over his shoulder. Tomorrow, he decided, he'd go back to Doc Louis and explain himself. He'd apologize. He shouldn't have been so stupid.
"Ahem, uh... Bonjour?" came a voice, snapping Little Mac out of his thoughts.
"Wha-... Oh. Sup, Joe?" Came the reply, Little Mac looking a little nervous. "So, uh... what'cha want?"
"Pardonnez-moi. My eenglish is... not best." Glass Joe chuckled. "You fight good, eh? But sadly zis career path? S'not for everyone, oui?" He took a seat next to Mac. "I understand zis is your premier fois in... 'ow you say, uh, l'anneau?"
"The ring." He replied flatly, having a feeling he knew where this was going.
"Yes! Yes, the ring! It is your first time there, non?" Little Mac could feel heat from under his collar.
"Yeah, so? I'll face you again. I'll rematch you anytime."
"Zat's the spirit! Yes, you have ze coeur of a wolf! Anything that you want to do, you can do if you put your head in ze game. But, ah, something to consider, oui? Maybe you should look into something other zan boxing. I mean, I know my record, it is not the best, but if you lose to me on your first try, well, maybe you need to..."
"Oh for the love of- Stop! Stop talking, dammit!" Mac shot up from the bench, pacing in front of Glass Joe. "You don't get it, do you?! You're really this stupid? How many hits to the noggin' did you take? What're you smoking after these matches?" Mac was seeing red now. If it were possible, smoke would be coming out of his ears.
"You not need to get upset, Mac! I just try to tell you zat...!" Glass Joe tried to get a word in edgewise, but was silenced by Little Mac pointing a finger in his face, causing Joe to flinch.
"Shut up! Just shut your mouth! I DIDN'T lose!" Little Mac exploded.
"But ze judges! Ze score!"
"It means nothing! YOU didn't win that fight! If anything, I won it for you!" Glass Joe's eyes went wide.
"Mac... Did you...?"
"Yes. I threw the fight." Whatever good feelings of his first victory in a long time that Glass Joe had in his heart sunk to his stomach.
"You... Oh, Mac, zis is not funny! You telling jokes, eh? Trying to..."
"Come on, man. You don't really think that YOU, of all people, can beat ANYONE without them playing a sympathy card?" Little Mac lowered his voice to keep the nosy people at bay. "Take your win and get out of the sport, before you pick a fight with someone twice your size and they leave you in a hospital, buddy. The last thing I need is your name in an obituary in some French paper because YOU got a big head after 'winning' against the new kid."
To say Glass Joe felt lower than dirt was an understatement. His eyes were wet again, but this time, they were bitter tears; tears of humiliation. For a moment, Little Mac felt terrible for telling him these things, but he couldn't stop his mouth from saying them. "You're a joke. Your sole existence in this division is to be a complete and total laughing stock of the WVBA. Do yourself a favor, and quit."
A bus pulled up to the stop. The door opened with the creak that all city buses have. "You comin' on, buddy? I ain't got all night."
"Y-Yeah. Gimme a minute." Mac took his gloves from the bench and turned to climb on the bus.
"M-M-Mac..." Glass Joe blubbered, trying so hard not to cry. "'Ow could you...?" Little Mac sighed, slinging his gloves over his shoulder and stepping onto the bus. "Why?" Little Mac continued to ignore him, taking a seat on the opposite side.
"Just go, man. He's not getting on." He told the driver, who shrugged and shut the door. Outside, thunder rumbled. He glanced out the window, counting the droplets of water that were hitting the glass, one by one, before resting his head against the seat.
The bus pulled away, leaving Glass Joe to wallow in his misery, sobbing and sniveling into his hands. He was a failure. And now, he felt like a fraud. His only victory in recent years, that wasn't a victory at all. Maybe Mac was right. He was a joke. And he should just give up.