To The Victor

a work of fiction

*

"Winner, and still undefeated, Bobby McKay!" The referee raised my gloved hand to the cheer of the audience, all 15,000 of them. I looked through the crowds through tear-stained eyes and a wide grin.

When I had finally beaten my 12th straight opponent, boxing's governing body at last had to admit that I was worthy of a title shot. The exhilaration, the feeling of ultimate euphoria, bathed me in a warm glow and I floated on puffy clouds during the post-fight press conference. She was there. She was always there, standing alone, smiling proudly, and celebrating with me each successive victory.

My mom, Kate. Not some ring girl come to share my winnings and delight in the afterglow of pugilistic achievement; not some party girl groupie that wouldn't mind being used and abused for the night. None of them. Just my beautiful, patient, loving mother. She stood, statuesque, prim and proper, dressed conservatively, long, wavy, brown hair tied into a loose ponytail, and always with admiring blue eyes and a patient smile. She indulged me in my ventures, encouraged me when no one else believed. She was there for all of my failures and all of my successes. She was my rock.

There was no father, at least, not in the social sense. Of course there had to have been one for my biological birth, but he had never been around in my childhood years, except in glimpses and shadows of my long-forgotten dreams and blurred memories. There may have been gifts during birthdays or Christmases, but I never remembered them much. Mom would always provide for my needs and I stopped asking about him before I turned 13.

Now, at age 23, I didn't need a father. I didn't need his permission or approval. I didn't need his confirmation or advice or counsel. I had mom and we were complete against the world. With my winnings ever increasing, she and I would no longer have to struggle. I would provide for her now, all the days of her life, even though I lived on my own in a dingy apartment above the gym I trained in.

Mom had recently kicked her latest boyfriend out following my 12th professional bout and I asked her to join me and my crew to Vegas in order to train for the light heavy weight championship of the world. It took her only a few minutes to decide, throwing caution to the wind and possibly kissing her bookkeeping job goodbye.

We would drive together, slowly and deliberately, across this great nation of ours, stopping at small unknown towns, smelling the roses and gardenias and daisies, enjoying the local food and culture. A barbecue here, a pig roast there. We could be anonymous. We could be whomever we wanted to be and no one would know or care.

"Bobby, come smell these irises!" she said excitedly. "They're wonderful." We were somewhere in Tennessee, not really sure which town. I crossed the parking lot and stood beside her. There were purple flowers growing naturally on a small island that bordered the motel parking lot we were staying at.

I bent low and sniffed. Smiling. "Yeah. They are great. Loved the scent and the colors. Watch out for that bee!"

She shrieked and held onto me, giggling like some school girl. I loved it when mom hugged me. She and I were very touchy-feely and affectionate. We only had each other and I think we both enjoyed the closeness, the warmth. It was safe and loving. I held her close and walked her cautiously away.

She punched my chest lightly. "Big strong boxer and you can't even defend me against a little bee!"

"Men with big gloves on, yes. Lions and tigers and bears, yes. But small bumble bees that I can't punch? Forget it, kiddo! You're on your own!" I said.

We laughed again as she took another swipe at me, which I easily ducked and hugged her from behind. One of the cleaning ladies, a little brown old woman, came out of the adjoining room and smiled and waved at us. She probably thought we were some honeymooning couple or something.

Over dinner at the local greasy spoon, mom flicked the map I was holding up. I looked over the piece of paper and frowned at her.

"Penny for your thoughts, kiddo," she said.

"I was planning our route for tomorrow. We have about 300 miles before we get to the Arkansas border."

"You going to finish your mashed potatoes? You haven't eaten much." She picked at it with her fork, knowing I was going to let her anyway.

"Starch, Ma. I need to cut weight so starch isn't in my diet."

She made a face and shoved another forkful into her mouth. I loved watching mom eat. She had not a care in the world what she looked like while eating and didn't bother with decorum. If she only knew how beautiful she was, even with very little makeup. Her azure eyes simply sparkled and her rouge mouth chewed heartily. She enjoyed life and made sure I was happy, too.

"Starch schmarch. Eat if you're hungry, Bobby."

I shook my head, offering her a kindly smile. "No can do, Mommy. I'm up to 200 push-ups and those potatoes and gravy would slow me down. Wouldn't want to see me get punched in the gut for being too slow, would you?"

"No, of course not. Go do your push-ups then. And go run around the block a few hundred times. I'll watch."

She always did like to watch. On those days at the gym when I was feeling bored or lonely or down about one thing or another, mom would show up and brighten my day. Just knowing she was watching my boring routine allowed me to pep up and finish the day's training with bravado. Gus, my trainer and manager, was friendly enough with mom, but he didn't like women in general in the gym. It distracted fighters and any distraction could prove fatal. Like Rocky's trainer, Mickey, said, "Women weaken legs!" And yes, mom weakened men's legs and caused all sorts of distractions, I could proudly admit.

We shared a two-bed room at every hotel or motel we stayed at, taking turns in the shower or sharing the pool together. Every night, mom would emerge from the steam, her hair balled up in a bun on top of her head, her face and neck still christened with beads of water or sweat. She didn't realize how sexy I thought she looked. How could she? She was her own oblivious force of nature. I know she caught me gazing at her once or twice. She smiled and just kept it to herself.

In the morning, we drove for five hours before stopping at a truck stop diner where several Harley Davidsons lined the parking lot. It was your typical greasy spoon, a couple of very good dishes, but not abundant in services or amenities. Mom and I didn't care. We were hungry and we needed to stretch our legs.

Inside, the bar/diner was a little too dark. A couple of people sat at the bar, three or four of the bikers were playing pool at the lone table, and only one other couple was seated having their lunch. We were somewhere in Arkansas so it was no surprise that some country song was playing on the old fashioned juke box.

"You want to get us a table? I need to use the bathroom." I said to mom as she walked slowly into the place, getting accustomed to the dim lighting.

I was gone for all of three minutes and when I came out, mom was standing at the bar waiting for our drinks. There was a behemoth of a man sitting on the round seat next to her, obviously trying to make small talk. He was massive, probably 350 pounds or more. The leather vest that stretched across his back looked like a child's apron on him. He had long, wiry black hair and a beard and mustache to match.

Mom smiled politely at him and he continued to talk to her, asking where she was from and where she was going. Mom was polite, as usual, and was very vague about her answers. She always was a smart city chick. I joined them and put a defending hand on her shoulder. "You getting our drinks?"

Mom smiled brightly and nodded. I could see that the guy looked up and down her lean back, lingering on the exposed skin of her upper back not covered by her white tank top. Then the giant glanced at me and gave a darkened grin. "Who's your little man here?"

Mom opened her mouth to speak, but I tightened my grip on her shoulder. I spoke up. "I'm her guy, who else? Is that your hog out there? The Fat Boy?"

The guy's smiled turned more genuine. "Yeah, it is. You ever ride one?"

I shrugged. "Not in a long time. She keeps me on a tight leash and I try not to do dangerous things like that. Kind of an office wimp nowadays."

The biker chuckled, his voice rumbling in the small bar. "Well, maybe I could take you and your old lady out for a spin."

"Sure. We'll see. First we gotta eat, you know?"

The giant shrugged and tipped his beer bottle at us. "Just let me know. Ole Georgie here is happy to give any cute dame the ride of her life." He winked at mom and I nodded.

When the drinks were given, we took a seat a few tables away from Ole Georgie. We shared a secret smile and ate our burgers. I showed her the map and told her we would be out of Arkansas in less than an hour and that we could look for a motel or hotel in Oklahoma. Ole Georgie took the opportunity to lean over and ask if he could help us find anything. He was unabashedly interested in my mom and I was starting to get annoyed. For her part, she took it in stride, keeping the mood light and friendly, but not too friendly.

The couple at the other table started to dance to an old Dolly Parton song. Mom nudged my hand and pointed them out. "Aren't they so cute together?"

"Yeah, ma. Cute as a button."

"You party pooper." She slapped my hand. But then, when a Taylor Swift song came on, a faster number called "22", she grabbed my hand and dragged me onto the floor where the other couple was twirling each other. "Oh I love this song! Come on, Bobby, dance with me!" She swung me around and started to hop in place, her hair flailing about. I laughed. It was all I could do. She was in the mood to dance and when mom wanted to dance, she got her way. So I started to do an awkward ditty along with her, hopping about, looking more like a boxer bobbing and weaving and shuffling, rather than keeping in time with the beat. I had rhythm, I could say that at least. And my footwork was one of the only things Gus complimented me on. So we worked up a sweat, laughing and dancing and being carefree.

We were oblivious to the world around us and didn't care if the world was oblivious to us. That is, until the music faded and we saw Ole Georgie and his gang ringing around the dance floor, all eyes leering at mom. My smile faded and I bowed low to kiss her hand. "Thanks for the dance, Kate. Let's finish our meal and hit the road."

"What about me...Kate? Mind if I cut in?" Ole Georgie had stepped towards us and offered his hand to mom. "You don't mind, do you...Bobby?"

"Actually, we were just heading out. Thanks though." I took her hand and started back towards our table.

Ole Georgie blocked our path. Not too slow for a 400 pound gorilla. His smile was dangerous now. "Listen, kid, just one dance. It's not like we're going to initiate her or something." There was some lascivious chuckling from his crew members.

Mom looked at me with a confident gaze. "Don't worry, hon. Just one dance. Then we can go. Let's see if Ole Georgie can keep up."

I nodded. She was being diplomatic. She knew I was ready to fight, I was always ready to fight. And she knew we needed to get out of this place without any trouble. She had probably done the math, figured the odds. If I beat up Ole Georgie, his friends would surely enter the fight. I might be able to take some or all of them, but I could get hurt. I could hurt my hand. I could get stabbed or shot. Then I could kiss the title fight goodbye. Mom saw all of this and decided to be a diplomat. One dance.

The song was another fast beat, but Georgie wanted to make it a slow dance. And when his hands started to roam down my mom's ass, that's when I called it quits.

I took her hand and pulled her away. "Thanks, Georgie boy, but we have to really hit the road now."

Georgie wasn't smiling anymore. "You're not being very neighborly, are you, Bobby?"

"And you're being overly neighborly, Fat Boy." Mom's hand tightened around mine. I let her hand go, knowing I would need my fists at any second.

Georgie's crew, as predicted, step closer behind him. I gave each a quick glance, sizing them up. Six against one. I would have to be quick. Very quick.

Georgie reached up a slow hand to probably grab me by the shirt. Stupid. Slow and stupid. I swatted it away lightly, cut in close, and delivered a four-punch combination: jab to the face, cross to the face, left upper cut, and right hook to his jaw.

His eyes bulged out and then he took a step back and fell. I looked up at his friends, my fists drawn up in the orthodox guard position. They took one look at Georgie, then back at me, amazed.

"Whoa, shit. The kid can fight," one of them said.

"Okay, kid, guess we're even," another one said. "No harm no foul. Georgie was hittin' on your old lady and you gave it to 'im. We got no beef with you, man, okay?"

I nodded, looked down at Ole Georgie, and took my mom's hand. We walked out quickly, not running. When we got into the rental car, I gunned it and headed west.

We got to about five miles through the small town and mom asked me to pull over. Not wanting to be seen, I backed us into a fairly empty parking lot on the side of a Walgreens. There was a dance studio next door so we were out of sight from the street.

She got out, breathing heavily, and coughing. I climbed out and joined her, my own heart racing and sweat alng my collar. "You okay?" I asked her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

When she looked up her eyes were wide and wild. She was smiling broadly and I could see she was shaking. Adrenaline. She had adrenaline coursing through her and her body was reacting. "Oh God," she gasped. "Is this what you go through when you're inside the ring?"

I smiled, trying to calm my breathing down also. "All the time."

She was looking around wildly, then back at me, amazement, euphoria, adrenaline, endorphins all running amok inside of her. "You...you were awesome, Bobby. You took care of that guy like he was nothing. He fell like a sack of potatoes."

"It's what I do for a living, ma."

Ma. She licked her lips. My mom was high on the near-death experience. "You...you called me...Kate."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I wanted them to think you were my girl and that I was going to defend you."

"No, don't be sorry. I...I liked it. And you did defend me. You're my hero." Her azure eyes were sparkling again with hero-worship and I gazed at her moistened lips.

I too was on a high from the fight. I took her hand, squeezed hard, then pulled her to me. I wrapped my arms around her and our lips met in a torrid kiss. Holy shit! My mouth engulfed her and she returned the kiss fervently. It lasted a long time and I could feel her body melt into mine. There, in an empty parking lot next to Walgreens, my mother and I shared a long, intimate kiss.

When my tongue snaked out and touched her lips I felt her hands come up and gently push my chest away. "Oh God...Bobby...I...we..."

I stepped back, blinking. "I'm sorry, mom. I—"

"Sssshhh." She put her fingers on my lips and looked around. "Let's get out of here before those bikers find us."

I nodded dumbly and we got into the car. We drove silently for another two hours and the sun was setting in the horizon. "You ready to find a room and settle in for the night?"

Mom nodded but said nothing.

I feel like I had broken a sacred trust. I had taken advantage of her when she was high on adrenaline from our savage encounter. She was feeling really good about escaping with her life and I took it upon myself like a lustful teen by kissing her. It was not a mother-son kiss, of course. It was more. It was a man to a woman, like lovers. It was forbidden.

My hardness subsided by the time I carried our bags into the two-bed motel room. We checked in as Frank and Nancy Smith. Always a different name, always a different story. We liked that, fooling the proprietors, but some insisted on IDs. We paid cash where we could and most accepted our anonymity.

"About today," I started, when she emerged from the shower, dripping wet and impossibly sexy.

"It's all right, Bobby. Don't worry about it."

"Yeah but—"

"Bobby, it's all right. Let's move past it."

So I let the subject drop.

We shared pleasantries throughout the drive through Oklahoma, but nothing as fun and enjoyable as yesterday. I could tell there had been a veil of silence now and the mood was cautious and tentative. I didn't like it. I wanted my mom back. The fun one! Sure, I made a damn mistake. Sure, I still lusted for her now, admittedly, guilty as charged. Sure, I had to sleep on my stomach most of the night to hide my erection and keep it from tenting my bed sheet. But I wanted my mom back, the old mom, the carefree one that told me jokes and flirted lightly with me. I could suppress my other self, my demon, my dark passenger. I could force him to take the backseat. God, did I really need this distraction before my title fight?

"You ever think about your dad?" She broke me from my reverie. I glanced at her and she was staring out her passenger window, watching the trees blur by.

"My dad? You mean my biological father? I don't have a dad."

"You know what I mean. You ever think about him and where he's at nowadays, what he's doing?" She looked at me solemnly.

I shook my head and offered her a fake smile. "No. Not really. Not anymore. Maybe when I was like 12 or 13. But not anymore."

"Why not?"

"I grew up."

She sighed. "So you don't feel like you need him anymore?"

"Right. I mean, what do you think? I grew up without him. You raised me, ma. You took care of everything for me. What the hell do I need him for?" I was a little more harsh or bitter than I needed to be. Maybe I was lumping all of it up: her silence; her refusal to address our kiss; this new shit about my father. I mean, I really didn't care about him nor want to know where he was or what he was doing. I knew that he still had a pull on her. I knew that he could show up at any second and take her away from me and she would go willingly. I didn't need him. I hated him.

She was quiet then. "You need him, Bobby. You're always going to need your dad."

I let it drop, just like our make-believe kiss.

When we got to Albuquerque, New Mexico, I decided to resume my serious training again, while mom took a shower. It was getting unbearable to see her coming out of the shower, dripping wet and ready, and not be able to look upon her as an admiring man would any fine woman. She drove the hunger in me to unfathomable depths and it was all I could do to control my urges. So I ran. Five miles in the arid heat. I stopped at each mile and did 100 push-ups, regular arm width, close hands, wide arms. I did jumping jacks and shadow boxed for three three-minute rounds. Then back to the run. The heat was suffocating, but it tore down the layers of fat and laziness that had built up these past few days. I know Gus would be screaming at me now if he saw the kinds of breakfasts and lunches I've been having with mom on the road.

Freddie Nunez was the Light Heavyweight Champion of the world and my next opponent. Gus had to do a lot of politicking, but enough Youtube videos of my fight caused a fan-favorite uproar. Seems like my knock out wins are worth a shot at the title. I think so too. But Nunez is no joke. At 175 pounds, this guy tore through the competition in under three years. He got his shot eight months ago and now I'm banging on the door wanting my own shot. The guy can move. He's graceful, lots of finesse. But I can match him in raw power and that Irish temper I'm known for. I may not dance like Nunez, but I can bang harder than any light heavyweight in the circuit.