Lucas had had enough. He had moved to New York to make a positive difference in the world but instead, had become another statistic. Sure, times were tough and the economy was in the toilet but it didn’t mean that sitting on a street corner waiting for hand-outs was the answer. If he was going to change his situation, he needed to do it himself and stop waiting for some miracle to do it for him. They said that if you could make it in New York, you could make it anywhere and it was time to take on the world. But where to start? It’s tough to get a job when you only own the clothes on your back and tough to get clothes without money. It was an endless cycle, and Lucas decided to look to what was familiar for his solution. He found it in the help wanted section of yesterday’s discarded newspaper.


The single story building on Front Street had probably been built in the early 50s and it had left its best days behind. Graffiti decorated the red brick surface now where flower boxes might once have been. The bulb in the cracked and dirty yellow sign blinked sporadically to either warn or welcome passers by. It read “McMillan’s Gym” in bold black letters and an arrow pointed to an old green door with sun bleached streaks. Financial cutbacks by the city had left this part of Front Street cracked and broken, swept under the rug of the mayor’s office. Though the gym was in obvious disrepair, McMillan’s would be perfect; if they would have him.


Lucas pushed through the front door to find a cramped, dingy stairwell leading to the basement. A single bulb hung from a string to illuminate the dusty passageway. He descended into the building’s depths and another doorway opened into the main training area. The room was large and the overhead lights gave the entire space a sterile feel that was common in these kinds of places. A dozen boxers went about their daily training routine; either working on the speed bag, jumping rope or using other miscellaneous equipment. The walls had been painted a deep burgundy, the sporadic cracks and scuff marks showed that another coat was long overdue. A boxing ring took up the center of the hall and it’s faded blue canvas and ropes were a comforting, familiar site.


An old oak desk had been set in a closet sized office and a hard looking older man, probably in his late sixties, had planted himself there. His head was completely bald and a pair of black rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he read the morning newspaper. His white collared t-shirt was loose fitting but immaculate, as if it had just come off the rack. An old black and white picture hung on the wall behind him, a captured image of the fighter from long ago in his glory days.


Without looking up from the paper, the man addressed Lucas with a gravelly voice. “What you want kid?” He asked.


Lucas placed his own newspaper down over the man’s and pointed at the small rectangle of information he had circled.


Help wanted
McMillan’s gym
77 Front Street, Brooklyn
Handyman, janitor, jack-of-all-trades
Boxing experience a must


“I’m here about the job sir.” Lucas answered politely.


The man reached up and took his glasses off before squinting an eye and studying Lucas carefully. He snorted a snort of fained disgust and stood up to his full 5’4 height. The desk didn’t prove an obstacle and the short, old man navigated around it easily to step out onto the gym floor. Lucas followed behind him, waiting for what would happen next.


“Gregore!” the grizzled trainer called out, his gruff voice echoing in the cavernous room. “We got an interview!”


The heavy bag in the corner that had been lurching wildly a moment earlier stopped moving as two gloved hands gripped and steadied it. A huge, barrel-chested man with no visible neck line leaned to the side to get a look at the applicant. The man at the heavy bag didn’t look as much like a person as he did a shaved gorilla. It was obvious that his training had focused on bulk instead of speed and it was working very well. Gregore smiled menacingly at the new arrival, showing his stained teeth as he stared. The look made Lucas feel like he was a glass of water to a thirsty man who had just crossed the Sahara. Gregore stood about 6’3 and had at least 50 pounds on Lucas. A match against him was not going to be a picnic.


“Coming coach.” Gregore said in a heavy, Russian accent.


The old man beside Lucas seemed pleased with himself as he crossed his arms across his chest. “Last chance to back out” He warmed, the hint of a smile creeping onto his lips.


Lucas held Gregore’s stare. The fight had already started as each fighter tried to gain a psychological advantage before the gloves went on. “I don’t have any gear.” The young man said without looking away. “Got anything I can borrow?”

Clenching his fists inside his gloves, Lucas felt the white tape between his knuckles stretch slightly in response. He had missed the feeling of anticipation before the start of a match and pounded his gloves together to help shake away any doubt or panic that might start to build.


Across the light blue ring stood Gregore, a tower of muscle mass who was charged with conducting the “interview”. His cleanly kept hair and bulging physique fit the stereotype of a boxer that most people imagined when thinking of the sport. The Russian Goliath peered at Lucas, unblinking. A hunger behind his eyes was waiting to be fed.


It had dawned on Lucas while he was getting ready for this fight that McMillan probably didn’t expect him to win. Gregore was several weight classes over the young mutant and mismatches like that were commonly reserved for sparing. The likeliest scenario was that the veteran coach wanted to gauge Lucas’ skill in the ring as much as his character in defeat. This didn’t mean that Lucas planned to lie down and lose however, far from it. That wasn’t in his nature. He already started to study his opponent, absorbing any and all information provided.


Standard tactics against a larger, stronger fighter was to assert dominance early to keep them wary and then fight defensively until they tire and their power dips. Luckily for Lucas, Gregore had already tired himself with training. The thin layer of sweat on his skin painted the picture of a fighter who had been exerting himself in his morning workout for at least an hour, if not more. The large Russian was still dangerous of course, but his strength might drop off quicker than if he was fully rested. The smart play would be to box a few rounds, but that might not be enough to win Lucas the job.


The Soviet giant called out to Lucas, goading him. “When fight is over….you goes back to soup kitchen. Da?”


The other boxers who had gathered to watch the match chuckled and smiled to themselves, waiting for the match to start.


“Nah, I think they are serving Borscht today. I’m not a big fan of Russian cuisine.” Lucas kidded back with a cocky grin.


Gregore’s smile was hidden by the large black mouthpiece protecting his teeth but Lucas understood its meaning. The larger man had tried to intimidate his opponent and Lucas didn’t back down. The young mutant had passed the first test. The next would not be as easy.


The sneers and cat calls from the audience started to intensify before the coach yelled out to quiet the peanut gallery. “You ladies got nothing better to do then snicker and bicker? Either shut it or get back to work!” The gym didn’t get much quieter after the order but that had not been its purpose. The idea was to stop any kind of disrespect and it had done the job. Friendly shouts of encouragement and advice fell upon both fighters’ shoulders now. The excitement of the upcoming battle was too great to pass up and no one at ring side wanted to be forced off to train when they could watch the match.

The bell sounded and the large Russian lurched forward to squash his prey. Lucas knew he couldn’t win by trading blows in the center of the ring so he brought up his arms defensively and moved away from the corner to more open territory. Gregore came in strong, leading with a two jab combo to the stomach and finishing with a right cross to the side. The jabs were insignificant but the right cross had connected solidly with Lucas’ ribs. The power behind the punch caused the young man’s body to shift farther then he expected, unbalancing him for a moment. It was a solid blow and would probably leave a bruise.


The Russian was obviously strong but it seemed he had some skills as well. The combo was meant to feel out the smaller mans defence and formulate a plan of attack to finish things quickly. It was aggressive for an opener but it had given Lucas another clue to the fighter standing in front of him. Gregore was dropping his left shoulder when he punched from the right to gain more power with his extension. It was a subtle flaw, easily corrected, but it was there to be exploited.


Gregore struck again with another three punch combo to the head and chest but the young mutants arms help up to the onslaught and protected him. A quick shift of weight and a few deft steps to the side pulled Lucas out of striking range and gave him another second to analyse. This combo was more advanced but the dropped left shoulder was there again. His opponent was an excellent fighter and the error was subtle. If he could get a punch in at the right time, it would be enough.


Mistaking the look in Lucas’ eyes as fear, Gregore sneered and tried to taunt his opponent. “What is da matter liddle mouse? You not want to hit me?” He said as he threw himself forward to attack again.


In Lucas’ mind, the fight was already over when the giant opened his mouth. The verbal quip had telegraphed the coming attack and that was the last piece needed to drop the man. Gregore’s padded fist bounced harmlessly off Lucas’ left forearm as he dodged right and brought a sweeping hook around to connect with the Russian’s temple over the lowered shoulder. The punch disrupted the giant instantly and the muscular man lifted his left arm up, overcompensating to cover his exposed cheek. This cleared up the center, leaving it virtually unprotected. The opening seemed as wide as a chasm to the smaller boxer and his lightning quick hands took advantage. Lucas’ bicep bulged a he brought his left fist up in a devastating uppercut. It connected solidly with Gregore’s chin and the barrel-chested fighter’s knees turned instantly to Jell-O. A final right cross cut past the weakened left guard and slammed into the man’s jaw, sending his mouth guard flying and the lower half of his face wagging like an excited dog. The entire combo was executed in less than a second, leaving the gawking crowd almost as stunned as the recipient.


Gregore tumbled to the mat, his eyes glassy and staring into oblivion, unable to do anything but lie on his side and push out laboured breath. Lucas turned and leaned on the ropes with his arms as a trainer sped into the ring to check on the fallen fighter. The Russian would recover his senses soon. His pride might take a bit longer.

“What do you think coach? Am I hired?” Lucas asked innocently.

The sound of the broom swishing across the weathered hardwood floor was all that could be heard as Lucas cleaned the gym. It was late and the last of the athletes were long gone, leaving the young mutant to prepare the room for the following morning.

He had a place to live now. McMillan gave him a small room in the back when he was hired and it fit his needs perfectly. It wasn’t extravagant, only a simple bed and dresser, but it was a definite step up from the alleys he had been sleeping in. With access to the kitchen and the communal showers, things weren’t bad. Sure, the pay wasn’t great but with no bills to speak of, it was more than fair. He had enough to get a few more pieces of clothing and even go out if he wanted which was a nice step up from his time on the street.

“What you still doing here?” McMillan’s gravelly voice boomed, cutting the tranquility of the brooms rhythmic sound.

Startled, Lucas quickly turned to face the old coach, his heart jumping out of his chest.

“You scared me coach” he chuckled as his bodies flight response died down to normal once again. “Just finishing up. What are you doing down here at this time of night?”

McMillan made his way across the gym floor and sat down on a weight bench near to where Lucas was working. The older man nodded his bald head towards the nearby stationary bike, an invitation to have a seat implied in the gesture.

Leaning his broom against the free weight rack, the young mutant accepted the break and mounted the bike. Sitting down, he started to peddle idly without a word while waiting for the other man to continue.

“You have guts kid.” the grizzled coach said. “You knew the Ruskie had every advantage but you got up there and popped him anyway. Size, strength and the backing of the crowd; none of it mattered to you when you got in the ring.”

Leaning forward, McMillan rested his head in his hands, seeming a bit frustrated. “You got talents too. You had Gregore cold. Figured out in less than a minute while he pranced around like he was the Lord of the Dance. One combo and you had him seeing birds.”

Lifting his head back up, the old coach gave Lucas a stern glare. “So where is the pride in yourself?” He asked angrily. “You came in here looking like you had been living on the streets. You could be in that ring fighting, earning good coin I bet. Instead, you’re cleaning my toilets. Explain to me how something like that happens?”

Lucas wasn’t sure what to say. McMillan had demanded an answer, but to do that the young mutant needed to know how things had gotten so bad himself. If not for a chance encounter with a young woman and a taxi to shake up his life, he might have still been out there begging for change. Lucas hadn’t realized it had been a rhetorical question.

“I’ll tell you how it happens.” The old coach continued a bit calmer now. “You lose site of what you want. You lost your focus kid. Tomorrow, I am going to give it back to you.” The coach stood up from the bench and began to walk off. He called back over his shoulder as he left. “I’m going upstairs and hitting the hay. If I were you, I would get some rack time too. We have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Get up yah pansy!” The bald man yelled, waking Lucas with a start. “Are you planning to snore the whole day away?”

Coach McMillan stood in the doorway to Lucas’ room, a bundle of cloth tucked under his arm.

“What time is it?” the young man asked sleepily as he rolled his legs off the bed and rubbed his eyes.

“Time to get off your arse.” The coach answered gruffly as he threw the bundle of clothes at the young man. “Put these on and meet me out here when you’re done with your make-up. Every minute I wait will cost you a mile.” The little man disappeared back through the door, leaving Lucas to change. He unfolded the bundle to find an old pair of sweat pants and a faded NYU t-shirt. As quick as he could, he pulled the clothes on and sped out of the room to find his new mentor waiting impatiently by an old scale near the full length mirrors

“Let’s get this done muffin top. On the scale so we can see how man donuts you’ve been eating.” He said as he gave a curt nod towards the old machine.

Lucas jumped and the old man started fidgeting with the weight bar so he could get a reading. He took a mental note and then looked into the younger man’s face. “Now it is time for us to have a little warm up.” The smile on the old man’s face did not reassure Lucas at all and he suspected that he wasn’t going to like what came next.

“Lawrence!” the coach yelled out. An African American man with long dreadlocks stood up from a rowing machine and jogged over. When he arrived, the coach continued his instructions. “You’ve been looking for a morning running partner right? This here is Lucas. He owes me four miles today. Take him out.” With that said, McMillan turned and stormed off towards his office.

Face Lawrence, Lucas let his plea for mercy show on his face.

“Don’t look at me dude.” Lawrence said with a laugh. “If we aren’t out of his sight by the time he sits down at that desk he’ll tack on two more for lollygagging so let’s hustle.” The young black man made an exaggerated imitation as he emphasized the word ‘lollygagging’, earning a smile from his new running mate.

The two men turned and quickly fled up the stairs to avoid further wrath from their coach.