The heavy door opened with a squeak that carried across the gym as if it were a vaulted chamber. Mac sidled inside. At this hour, the place was closed to all but him. The half of the gym not in use was unlit, the foldable steel chairs piled against the wall, and the floor was being swept in long, slow swishes. The stale odour of sweat and talcum powder hung in the air, vaguely comforting in its familiarity.

"Gaw thaw miwk y'wahned, Dawk."

Doc straightened and paused to rest a hand on his hip, the other holding his broom upright. "Son," He chortled, "Do me a favour and chew, swallow, then try that again. Here," he leaned the broom against the nearest wall. "Let me get that bag off your hands."

The teen gave him a sheepish look only made more pathetic with a piece of jerky sticking out of his mouth, grateful when his hands were freed. He had no excuse other than that hunger had been gnawing away at him and thought he could eat and jog and haul heavy groceries at the same time. "Sorry." He wiped a bit of saliva from one corner of his mouth.

"Mmmm-mm~." Raising the carton from the bag, Louis studied it as if it were a polished trophy. "Knew I could count on you!"

Mac looked on expectantly, knowing better than to let himself become peevishly impatient with Doc when he'd go dreamy-eyed over chocolate. Everyone had their vices, he reasoned, and in the grand scheme of things this was a small thing to put up with - if he was to put it that way.

Doc had told Mac a few times before that, as a child, he had always had something of a sweet tooth made worse by his generous mother who expressed her doting love by way of spoiling him with treats. But only once had he mentioned that his fondness for chocolate had grown after the loss of his heavyweight championship belt. But while Mac worried on occasion for his trainer's health (the irony of that was lost on him,) he felt he had no right to criticize something Doc eagerly enjoyed, and to some extent, probably conditioned himself into needing on an emotional level. He had learned all too quickly that even playfully knocking a chocolate bar out of Doc's hand was a sure-fire way of pissing him off. At least Doc could joke about his weakness - which was encouraging - and he had not let it consume his life. After all, he could still cycle and spar with him several times a week, more often if a match was just around the corner - and Mac could not have asked for a more dedicated trainer working with him to improve his footwork, his form, and his endurance.

"Huh? Oh." At last, guiltily self-aware, Louis looked to Mac. "Now, I worked you pretty hard earlier in the day, baby. Think you're up for a little more before we go flyin' to Hollywood?"

The bout was only two nights away and the kid would have been lying had he said he weren't already feeling the adrenaline-jitters, the anxiety bubbling inside him from two weeks ago, given how much more was at stake this time around. But, every day, every hour he commit himself to his training, ducking and weaving and throwing all his strength and heart and youthful ambition into every punch with Doc overseeing him, he'd feel infinitely steadier, calmer, and surer of himself. Meeting his mentor's gaze, he let the readiness in the firm line of his jaw and the burning determination in his eyes speak for him.

There was a moment's hesitation before Louis socked the boy's shoulder, causing him to stumble slightly. " Hahaha, now why'd I even ask? I must be gettin' old!" Then, his voice softening, he added, "Now you finish up that jerky and get changed, kid. I'll go put this stuff away."

Smiling, Mac turned and disappeared.

Jerome 'Doc' Louis still remembered the day - May 2nd, 1983 - when a gawky kid barely pushing four feet nine inches tall first stepped into his renovated warehouse-turned-gym, looking about apprehensively at the men surrounding him as if he had lost his way. Doc had thought he was in need of directions, perhaps to the arcade across the street - until the boy cautiously approached him, gazing in awe for a moment before half-mumbling something about wanting to purchase a gym membership.

"I-I have money." The kid had said, making a point of digging around into his pockets for a few crumpled bills before half-extending them almost pleadingly.

'Hey! Does your mama know you're here?' Someone had jeered while passing by.

Of anyone looking to avail themselves of the space and practice in his gym, Doc simply demanded three things: that they left any attitude at the door, that they respected the equipment, and that they could keep up with payments for every month they meant to attend. Before then, the youngest aspiring boxer with a gym membership had been seventeen - and here was this fourteen year old who was downright adamant on spending a nice chunk of pocket money on something other than gumballs or sports cards or a nice bike.

Doc had pitied the kid's naivete. Anyone older knew it was wiser to feign uncertainty and haggle for an affordable price than to reveal a strong readiness to pay any stated amount upfront. He felt a tinge of guilt at the prospect of pocketing the kid's money, but business was business, and ultimately, neither pity nor guilt would pay the bills.

"Got thirty five on you, son?"

"Yeah..."

"Give me thirty."

The boy froze, a wide-eyed, puzzled expression stealing across his face. "For real?"

Chuckling, Doc gestured for the money with a beckoning wave of his fingers. "Yeah, for real, son, before I change my mind."

In an instant, his face lit up and he cracked a smile, all the anxiety he held seeming to melt away. He had an earnest face, the kind that could be read like a book. "I'm... real grateful, Mr. Louis! Y'won't regret it!"

"Should hope not, kid." The older man laughingly shook his head. "That five bucks could have bought me two chocolate bars."

In the days to follow, the boy had faithfully shown up gloveless, and in a tank top which Doc supposed he wore out of feeling intimidated. When he had not been watching others spar with a mixture of envy and hopeful resolution, he ducked his head, pinning his attention on a punching bag that looked heavier than he did. He kept out of people's way, but the braggarts of the gym gave him trouble nonetheless. In their idler moments, while wiping their grinning faces dry with towels slung over their shoulders, they would snicker and scoff about the kid making a joke of the place. The boy feigned indifference to every disparaging remark - muscles rippling tensely in his clenched jaw - and would pound the bag with dogged fierceness, lashing out at it until conscious thought wore down to nothing and all his anger and frustration leaked out of him from every sweating pore. There was no doubt in Doc's mind that the boy had some fire in his belly, but so did many of the novices thrashing canvas bags and training dummies in his midst. And they had not been handicapped by their height.

Louis focused his attention largely on the happenings in the gym's ring, appraising the techniques unique to every boxer and shouting advice emphatically from the ringside. But on occasion, in between bouts, he would still flick a curious glance in the kid's direction half-expecting for him to drop out early from his month-long commitment. Not out of spite or condescension, but from experience. He had seen all too many young, vibrant fighters beam at the prospect of starting their training only to realize the challenges were steeper than they had imagined. Considering the possibility that the boy had only hung on to get his money's worth for what he had paid for, Doc had decided he would wait a little longer before attempting again to gauge the kid's interest in the sport. It went this way for one week in the second month, then two weeks, until at last, one evening a few minutes short of closing time, Doc wearily dragged a hand across his face and sat up from his chair, finally walking over to him.

"Hey, son," He sighed, knitting his brows. "You're gonna ruin your knuckles that way."

Panting, the boy had paused and lifted his head in quiet attentiveness, his short, dark hair glistening with perspiration. His unwrapped knuckles were deeply bruised, hands damp and shaking from adrenaline and exertion.

"Look " Doc held his gaze steadily. "I've seen you around and I don't know why you don't wear gloves, son. But if you need them, I got a couple old extras in one of the lockers in the change-room. Just take a pair, and when you're done, clean 'em and put 'em back, alright?"

Swallowing, the boy nodded dimly, a flicker of relief in his half-lidded eyes at not having been pressed for an explanation. "Thanks." He breathed, his voice thin and his heart thudding furiously. And then he was left standing there as Doc turned on his heel and walked off.

"Now it's time to go, alright? Y'got five minutes. And ice those hands at home, son."

While they continued to pass each other by, that was the most Doc and Mac had spoken to one another until seven months later. It had been on a Friday evening after Doc had dropped in last-minute at a nearby club doubling as a small boxing venue, looking to scope local talent. Having never learned the boy's name and only carelessly glancing at the advertisement for the evening's fight posted on the door, he struck dumb to see him - that very same dark-haired fourteen year old - enter the ring under the pseudonym, "Little Mac". Opposite him was a fellow small-timer, Mark "The Crusher" Cohen. A full grown man with a shaven head, a tribal tattoo on the left side of his chest, and a neck almost thicker than the kid's thigh. The crowd roared and whistled their approval, beer flowing from the taps of the open bar.

It was insane.

Everywhere Louis turned, he had seen the eager, riveted eyes of people hungry for entertainment. And then, suddenly, the bell rang and he had felt the bottom of his stomach drop out seeing Cohen sink into a crouch. Mac was going to have his opponent's glove tattooed to his face and kiss the canvas within seconds of the first round, plain and simple. That must have been the singular thought shared by every man and woman that had come to the club and had been gawking at the spectacle, drinks suddenly forgotten in their hands. The tension in the air was electric, near-palpable.

And it should have ended when "The Crusher" sent his fist rocketing at a downward angle for Mac's head- - but then, miraculously, the kid had weaved under and to the left of Cohen's arm, springing into the air to smash his left fist powerfully into his opponent's jaw. The club erupted into wild applause as the man staggered, dazed and uncomprehending, and Mac laid into his stomach with a few hooks. While his footwork had been a little sloppy and his form improper, there was no denying the boy was wicked-fast and heavily relied on that quickness to maneuver himself around some of the heavier blows thrown at him. One also didn't need to be right up by the ringside to tell Cohen was fiercely pissed at being made a fool. At last, a failed attempt at countering a straight punch opened Mac up to an underhanded uppercut square to the gut. Doc winced in sympathetic pain as the kid absorbed the shock of the blow and was sent reeling into the straining ropes, clutching at his midsection before his legs gave out beneath him.

The countdown had begun and spectators had risen from their chairs, thrusting their hands into the air and hollering their throats hoarse in protest. Dry-gagging, Mac fought to his feet with the support of the ropes, his knees trembling like jelly when he stood at the count of seven.

Cohen awaited him, mashing his fist into his palm.

The last fifteen seconds of the round had slipped away uneventfully, the boxers retiring to their corners. Cohen's manager pumped his arm, squirting water in his mouth to rinse out the blood; but Mac was alone. The kid flumped down over his stool, his shoulders hunched, and wiped his brow with his forearm, taking as deep lungfuls of air as the pain would permit. His dark, sweat-stung eyes drifted across the club. The referee came to him after a moment, leaning in to ask him something unheard over the crowd. Nodded dazedly, Mac had then been ushered to his feet, his gloves raised defensively. Blocking, however, was not the protective measure to take against someone who had over a one hundred pound advantage over him and he had known it.

The middle of the second round had exploded with a flurry of punches thrown by Cohen, the last of which clipped Mac's jaw, rattling his skull. Huffing furiously, the man took a counter-strike to his jaw as if he were a brick wall and lunged to deliver a vicious uppercut to Mac's face - just a second after the boy had squeezed his eyes shut, sharply twisted his body, and slammed his glove deep into the right side of Cohen's ribs. "The Crusher's" eyes had bulged and he bent double, his face twisting up - and the kid's head snapped backwards, flecks of blood and sweat spraying into the air. The blow had opened up an ugly, oozing cut over one of his eyebrows, the blood threatening to seep into his eye.

But Mac had hung on. Teetering and drunkenly stumbling forward, he seized the chance to throw every last ounce of desperate strength in him into nailing the underside of Cohen's chin while his slack-jawed opponent was still dazed from the shot to his liver. The effect had been as instantaneous as it had been unexpected. "The Crusher" had tipped forward and dropped bonelessly to the mat, Mac barely able to step back in time. Gasping and deaf to the referee's countdown, the kid had been left staring blankly at his fallen opponent, seeming completely lost until the referee yanked up his arm and the club rocked with applause.

Leaving his drink half-finished at a table, Doc had caught up with Mac when the ruckus had died down to excited chatter, finding him in a bare-walled back room not far from restrooms. The kid had sat bent over in a wooden chair with worn leather gloves at his feet, pressing a bag of ice to his face. He helped himself to a thirsty gulp of water from a bottle he clutched in one hand, wincing as he swallowed.

"Hey there, son."

Mac had raised his head, his right eye nearly swollen shut and a large blood-spotted swatch of gauze taped to his forehead. His left eye widened with incredulity. "Mr. Louis!"

"That was one hell of show."

The teen remained silent, anxious and hopeful as he searched Doc's face like a hungry dog looking for scraps. But the old man's tone only sharpened. "Y'could have gotten yourself real hurt out there, you know that?"

Adjusting the dripping bag of ice in his hand, Mac let his head drop. On his lap was a thin wad of twenty dollar bills.

"And all for a couple of bucks?"

"It ain't a couple of bucks." Mac shot back.

"Well, it ain't worth you getting busted up this bad either, kid." Louis gestured to the money with a grim jerk of his chin. "You let 'em take advantage of you!"

Anger flashed in Mac's eyes. "This is my life, okay?"

And he had been right. Letting out a tense breath, Doc broke eye contact and started for the door, massaging his temples, only to return to slumped figure in the chair. "Look, son, do your parents even know you're here?"

No response had come. Mac's chest only rose and fell sharply.

"If you need a quarter for a pay phone, I'll give you a damn quarter. Here."

The boy hadn't so much as glanced at Doc's hand. His knuckles whitened around the water bottle - the plastic crinkling - and in a sudden blur of motion, he had jumped to his feet and whipped it at the wall a few feet from the man. Water splashed over the floor.

"Yeah? N' who am I gonna call?" Mac snapped, his voice raw and cracking. He fixed Doc a fierce, unblinking stare, jabbing a finger at his own chest. "I ain't got nobody, alright? I ain't got nobody! N' even if my ma and pa was here, think I'd want 'em takin' a look at me? They ain't never had no faith in me with this! I told 'em I'm sick a' comin' home with a bleedin' nose, that punchin' that bag at your gym makes me feel like I can do somethin', that bein' a boxer's what I wanna do. They looked at me like somethin' ain't right in my head!"

He faltered, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Everywhere I go I got people I don' even know tellin' me I can't do nothin' 'cause I ain't even five damn feet tall. Managers can't make no money off me, neither! I ain't no good at math, and I ain't real good at writin' or drawin' nice pictures - so what am I supposed t'do? Huh?" He threw out his arms. "What am I supposed t'do? I got bills, okay? I gotta bills t'pay so them couple 'a bucks mean helluva lot t'me!"

Tearing his gaze away from Doc's, Mac had run a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and sagged back into the seat as if all the life had drained out of him. He looked to his shoes, chest heaving, his empty hand curling into a fist. Fingers clenching and unclenching restlessly. When he had spoken again, his voice was lower, in defeat. "Just-" He shook his head in a fit of frustration, "Wh-why don'tchya just- -"

Breaking off, the kid wearily rubbed at his forehead, wincing, before letting his hand drop powerlessly to his lap. His shoulders began to tremble quietly.

Doc stood there, unmoving.

Mac slid lower in his seat, slowly lifting an arm to hide his face, like a child. A thick, hitching breath punctuated the silence, a moment later. "Sorry," He moaned, barely above a whisper. "M'sorry."

Slowly, the old man pulled up a chair next to him, heaving an imperceptible sigh as he settled down into it. And with dark, unfocused eyes, he gazed at the wall ahead, waiting, just waiting with all the patience in the world for the kid's anguished breathing to even out and for silence to settle between them. "...I saw some good fighting out there, kid." He said thoughtfully, after a long moment.

The manager of the club had later asked Mac if he would like to return the following Friday. The unbalanced match-up with Cohen had drawn a sizable crowd which had been good for business. The kid agreed to a second fight, which Doc had attended; and even though Mac had been knocked out in the fourth round, suffering his first loss, the former heavyweight champion saw potential in the way the kid ducked and weaved, reading the moves of his opponents like a chess connoisseur before countering viciously. Not every boxer was capable of thinking sharp on his or her feet, and especially after taking half a dozen solid blows from an opponent easily twice their weight. With proper guidance and some work, he had felt increasingly sure that this rough-edged, unpolished gem of a boxer could really shine in the WVBA world.

The kid had stared awestruck when Doc had proposed becoming his manager. He had braced the wall with one hand and dropped into the nearest chair as if his legs had buckled on him. Why him, his wide, wondering eyes had asked; why had Jerome Louis chosen to commit himself to his career when other potential trainers had turned him away, and why wouldn't a man of his experience invest his time and energy in a fighter who was a little older, a little taller, and a little more skilled?

"If I wanted something easier, kid, I'd have gone for that already." The old man snorted, and then after a beat, he had held out his palm. "Guess I like you, Mac. You surprised me. You make your size work for you in that ring, and I think somewhere in you, you've got that fire to make it far. Now it's gonna be a hard road, and if you're gonna let me take you there, y'gotta give me nothing less than 110%. Make that 120%."

For a moment, it had seemed as though Mac had forgotten how to form words. "Mr. Louis- -"

"Save some tears for when I stretch out your hamstrings, son. And call me Doc."

The kid managed a soft, shaky chuckle and clasped his manager's hand, firmly shaking it.

Three years later, Louis could sometimes hardly believe the progress they had made. Good things truly did come in small packages. Look at you now, he mused, armed with punching pads he thrust relentlessly in Mac's direction.

While he hadn't grown so much as an inch in height, Doc's protege had undeniably grown as a fighter, rounding out his skills and even filling out his tank top better as he packed on some muscle. The teen bounced lightly on the balls of his feet - teeth clenched, sweat-stung eyes pinned forward - and with a tight ripple of muscles in his back, he drew from deep-seated power at his navel and drove his fists into the pads, over and over again. Feeling the raw power behind them, Doc gave a thrilled whoop.

"Woo, now that's it, Mac baby! That's what I'm talkin' about! Woowee!" Breathless himself, Louis rested his hands on his hips with an air of satisfaction. "You'll make Super Macho Man's big ol' head spin when you give him the one-two!"

Relaxing his orthodox stance, Mac gratefully took his first opportunity in half an hour to catch his breath. "That's what I keep hearin'." A hint of a tired grin teased the corners of his lips.

"Speakin' of that joker, you all packed?"

There wasn't all that much for Mac to lug with him to California. He had thrown his green trunks, a couple of muscle shirts, a t-shirt, boxing shoes, some underwear, and toiletries into a duffel bag, and intended to stuff in his training suit and gloves in when he had gotten home. If his luggage was too heavy or wouldn't zip up, he was certain he would be able to toss his gloves with Doc's belongings. "Uh-huh."

"Good." He clapped Mac over the shoulder, mindful to be a little less forceful than last time. "Now it's gettin' late, baby. Go stretch, shower up, n' get your food from the back. You try gettin' some shut-eye and I'll call you... don't you go forgettin' to set up that alarm clock!"