The old man prayed for patience. He shouldn’t smack the punk; he knew he shouldn’t; Mary would be sad. He could already hear her chiding him, “Is it really worth it? It’s bad for your blood pressure. You’re too old to be getting in fights anymore.” She wasn’t wrong, he knew that. His scarred knuckles and clicking elbows had seen better days. Hell, long before she’d met him, his nose had that broken bend to it the doctors couldn’t quite click straight. That bend often caused a slight whistle noise when he breathed heavily.
The old man could hear that whistle now; he fell back into that familiar stance. There was the click of the jab extending out, the stretch of the scars pulling into a fist just before impact, and finally, that old iron smell he knew so well, getting dragged back with a snap. A broken nose wouldn’t knock him out, but it hurt like hell, and it stayed that way. Depending on how the fight went, the bend was a good reminder not to mess with its owner or repeat the arrogance that earned it. The old man was going to make this a lesson on both, relishing the excuse to do what he was great at.
His body could have one more fight; it was caustic to the soul not too. The old boxer prayed for strength.
