No answer. They stared at Joe, and some wrote down a few words. One of
them looked at Alix.
"How about you, Alix? How do you feel?"
Alix, the humble, the new day Uncle Tom, the subservient. Alix lifted
his chin and didn't smile. "Confident. I'll win."
"How?" another asked.
"Hitting him harder, and oftener. What's he got but a hook and an iron
jaw?"
"Guts," one of them said. "You've got to hand him that, Alix."
"I concede nothing," Alix answered. "We'll see, tonight."
* * * * *
There were no further questions. They went down the long aisle that led
to the bright ring, Manny and Alix and the other handler, who'd been
waiting in the prelim boys' shower room.
Eighty thousand people in the Bowl, a clear, warm night, and millions
watching on the video screens around the globe. Video hadn't hurt this
one--this was history, a robot crossing the status line. They wanted to
be a part of this.
The referee was black, Willie Newton. It would look like less
favoritism, if the referee was black, reasoned the white man in their
left-handed reasoning.
Bugs around the arcs, and big, ebony Willie in his striped shirt,
waiting in the ring, smiling, just _happening_ to be in Alix's corner
as he climbed through.
Willie bent, pretending to help part the ropes. Willie whispered,
"You'll get all the breaks you need, Alix."
Alix came through and stood erect. "I don't want a single break,
Willie, just a fair shake. _You_ can understand it has to be like that."
"I can, Alix. I'm sorry. About the name--just Alix? Or I could blur the
rest."
"Alix one-three-four-oh, not blurred. It's my name."
He turned from Willie then, acknowledging the thunder behind him,
both hands high in salute. He could see the rows stretching out from
ringside--the first twenty all white. Most of the thunder came from
high in the stands.
And now the champ came down his aisle, his faded purple dressing robe
across his bulky shoulders, his handlers a respectful few paces behind
him.
Nick Nolan, the middleweight champion of the world. His ears were
lumpy, his brows ridged with scar tissue. His round head centered on
those bulky shoulders, apparently with no neck to connect them. A
fringe of red hair and a brutal, thick featured face.
Made in His image?
Some words ran through Alix's mind--"Is this the Thing Lord God made
and gave--To have dominion over sea and land...?"
This was a hell of a time to be recalling Markham.
Nick came over to his corner, the false geniality on his face as phoney
as the gesture of a champ coming to the challenger's corner. Nick said,
"Best--between us, huh?"
"The better," Alix corrected him. "Keep them above the belt, Nick."