But the panic was gone.
It had been replaced by a quiet, simmering focus.
Tommy stopped complaining about the pain.
He started studying boxing footage on Ernest’s laptop, watching how the greats slipped jabs, how they managed distance, how they controlled the center of the ring.
One night, while holding the focus mitts, Ernest noticed something.
Tommy wasn’t just throwing punches anymore.
He was predicting Ernest’s movements.
When Ernest feinted a left hook, Tommy didn’t flinch.
He ducked and pivoted, perfectly positioning himself for a counter to the body.
Ernest dropped his hands, breathing heavily.
He looked at his son.
Tommy was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on Ernest like a predator tracking prey.
“You saw the feint,” Ernest said.
“Your left shoulder dipped early,” Tommy replied, his voice flat, analytical.
“You always dip your shoulder a half second before a hook. Hunter does something similar. I watched a video of his last exhibition on social media. He loads up his right cross. He telegraphs it.”
Ernest felt a strange mixture of pride and sorrow.
His boy was learning how to dismantle a human being.
The innocence was peeling away, replaced by calculating survival.
“Knowing he telegraphs it is one thing,” Ernest said.
“Having the nerve to stand in the pocket, wait for him to throw it, slip it, and counter — that’s different. If you miss the slip, he knocks your block off.”
“I won’t miss,” Tommy said.
He raised his gloves again.
The final week before the fight was a masterclass in psychological warfare.
Cole started sending things to Ernest’s garage.
First, it was a brand-new, top-of-the-line set of boxing gear for Tommy.
Gloves, shoes, headgear.
A note was attached: “So you can’t blame the equipment.”
Then came the tickets.
Two front-row VIP passes for Ernest to give to his friends.
It was an insult.
Cole knew Ernest’s friends were blue-collar workers who would look out of place in a velvet-lined ballroom.
He wanted Ernest to feel isolated.
Ernest threw the gear in the trash and left the tickets on his workbench.
He bought Tommy a pair of standard leather gloves from a sporting goods store.
On the eve of the fight, Ernest and Tommy sat on the porch.
The crickets were loud.
The air was thick with humidity.
Tommy was quiet, staring out at the darkness.
“Dad,” Tommy said suddenly.
“What if Cole is right? What if money is the only thing that matters?”
Ernest looked at his worn boots.
He thought about the stacks of past-due bills on the counter.
He thought about the sick feeling in his gut every time he had to check his bank balance at the grocery store.
