Read by Oliver Yellop (third story in podcast at 29m 45s)
Two hours until the fight. An empty dressing room – the loneliest place on earth. The officials, promoters and cornermen have all gone. Now it’s just Darren Steel and his young daughter, Charmaine. Time alone, like he requested. He needs to be present – to focus on her, not on the fight. Not on Viktor Kovalyov.
“Sally’s daddy says you’re fighting a bad man,” Charmaine says, perched on his left knee. She threads plastic charms onto a necklace.
“He’s not a bad man, sweetheart. Just a boxer, like me.”
Darren’s been repeating that line to himself since the fight with Kovalyov was announced. He almost believes it now.
Lisa’s never allowed Charmaine to watch his fights and tonight’s no exception. But he begged to see his daughter before stepping into the ring. Given his opponent, even Lisa couldn’t refuse. A final request for the condemned man? Maybe that’s how she sees it.
Darren’s hands aren’t made for threading beads. His thick, callused fingers fumble at the twine. But time with Charmaine is precious, and if she wants to make necklaces two hours before a world title fight, then that’s what they’ll do.
“Daddy … not just pink!” she huffs, reaching into her treasure chest. “Pink and purple!”
“Sorry, darling.” He winces slightly as she shifts onto his right knee – the one that keeps locking.
Across the corridor, Viktor Kovalyov is probably putting in some final pad work, honing the power that’s flattened all 20 of his opponents. One thing’s certain – the giant Russian won’t be making Hello Kitty necklaces.
“You promised not to fight any more,” Charmaine says, slipping into the same tone she uses when being denied sweets.
“This is the last time, baby, for sure.” Darren kisses the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo. “The first fighter got injured, so Daddy’s filling in. They’re paying me lots of money, so I can’t say no.”
“Will you win another shiny belt?”
“You bet. And you can tell that to Sally and her daddy too.”
A £5 million purse. Enough to secure his future – and Charmaine’s. The divorce was settled a year ago, so no matter how good Lisa’s lawyers are, she won’t see a penny of it. She told him he was crazy for taking this fight. Told him he’d get himself killed. Was that her bitterness talking, or had she been reading the press?
“Daddy, look at the television!”
Charmaine points to the corner of the room, where the muted screen shows Darren in the gym with his trainer Gavin Clarke. Darren watches himself on screen, a smile creeping into the corners of his mouth. He’s just turned forty, but still looks the part – not as lean as a decade ago, but the square, stubbled jawline is unmistakable. His dark hair, shaved into the familiar fade, sprouts no grey. Not the greatest former champion, but surely the most handsome.
“Mummy says I can’t watch because you might get hurt,” Charmaine says, turning away.
“I won’t get hurt. Anyway, this is just a recording of me and Uncle Gavin.” Darren swaps the half-finished necklace for the TV remote. Charmaine hops down from his knee as he stands up to raise the volume. Onscreen, Sky’s white-haired boxing correspondent gives the lowdown on the fight before the backdrop of the Wembley boxing ring, concern etched across his face.
“Kovalyov/Carter would have been the fight of the year. The unbeaten British contender versus the unstoppable Russian champion. But after Francis Carter’s injury, promoters Fight Time had two options. Either cancel the event, and refund millions of pounds in tickets and pay-per-views, or find a replacement…”
“That’s me!” roars Darren in the style of a ring announcer, his arms aloft. “The Replacement!”
“… but fans will surely feel short-changed by the choice of Darren Steel, the former champion whose comeback has been underwhelming.”
Darren scowls. “I’m unbeaten in three years. What more do they want?”
“Steel’s last bout, a first-round knockout of Johnny Watkins, was only a month ago. He’s popular, in-shape and available, but hasn’t faced anyone of Kovalyov’s calibre in ten years. Winning the heavyweight title tonight isn’t something even his biggest fans would bet on. Most are just hoping he walks away in one piece.”
“Clueless!” Darren snaps, turning the television off. He sits down.
Soon there’ll be a knock on the door, and security will escort Lisa inside to take Charmaine home.
Darren pulls his daughter into his body and plants a bristly kiss on her cheek. She squirms a little but turns towards him and kisses the end of his nose.
“I love you, daddy.”
“I love you too, darling.” He hugs her even tighter.
“I’ll see you on Monday, won’t I?”
He hopes so. He really hopes so.
*
The routine’s the same. Hands wrapped. Gloves on. A final talk with Gavin.
Darren’s expecting tactics. The talk about taking it steady and feeling his way into the fight. Instead, his trainer steps in close, light bouncing off his bald head, glasses slipping down his nose. His hands are on Darren’s shoulders. He’s so close, Darren smells the coffee on his breath. The eye contact’s intense. Too much.
“Daz. I’ve been your trainer for a long time, yeah? You’re not just a fighter to me, you’re a mate, and … I don’t know how to say this, but if the going gets tough out there … Don’t be a hero, you know …”
Darren stares. Can’t believe he’s hearing this. Is his trainer telling him to … give up?
“You’ve got to think of Charmaine,” Gav says. “This Kovalyov. He’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, mate. He put one guy into a coma, remember? Permanent brain damage.”
“What?” Darren shakes his head. He pulls away. Bangs his gloves together. He doesn’t need this kind of shit right now. Even his own bloody corner’s written him off.
But Darren’s at his best when defying the odds. Remember Ernie Charles? America’s golden boy? Darren was a 10-to-1 underdog that night. But he won the fight. Won the heavyweight title.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s time.
He’ll show them.
The walk is long, through endless corridors and the concrete underbelly of the stadium. His hood is up, his blue robe swaying with every step. A cameraman retreats in front of him, lens inches away from Darren’s face. He knows they’ll all be watching. His face already filling those big screens above the ring.
The noise builds. Louder. And then – the roar. He emerges under the white lights of Wembley. Body humming with adrenaline, he sneaks a glance at the screens.
Focused. Intense. Ageing like cognac. What he’s lost in speed, he makes up for with ringcraft. All that crap Gav was saying? Forget it. Kovalyov’s just another young lion. He’s the old master. That’s how tonight will go. He’ll pull it out of the bag. For the crowd, for his legacy, for Charmaine.
He climbs through the ropes, shakes off his hood, and raises a glove.
The ring announcer’s voice booms around Wembley. “Ladies and gentlemen, making his way to the ring, the Beast from the East, Viktoooor Kovalyooov!”
The lights cut and the music drops. Heavy. Ominous. Darren stares ahead. Then he sees him. The towering frame as he prowls to the ring. The wide shoulders, shaved head and eagle-tattooed chest. Kovalyov climbs through the ropes, eyes cold and dark – the same eyes that burned into Darren’s soul at the weigh-in. He looks away. Instead he pictures Charmaine, her arms around him as he holds the belt aloft.
One last time, Daz. One last time.
Opening bell, and Darren bolts to the centre of the ring, bouncing on the balls of his feet, ignoring the throb of his knee. A quick jab thuds into Kovalyov’s guard, then a sharp right to the ribs. Darren feels lighter. Sharper. Expectation ripples through the crowd.
“Stick to the plan, Daz!” barks Gavin. “Keep your guard up!”
Play safe? What sort of plan is that? To just survive? No chance. This is it. No one expects me to win, I’ll go out swinging.
He explodes with a vicious combination – hooks, jabs, body shots. Wembley erupts.
“Steel! Steel! Steel!”
For three minutes, he dances, high on adrenaline. Blow after blow hammers into Kovalyov’s guard. The Russian barely responds. Just flicks out lazy jabs.
“Fight smart, Daz! What are you doing? You’ll gas out!” screams Gavin.
When the bell rings, Kovalyov nods. Was that respect? His first sign of emotion? He is human after all, and human means beatable. Darren returns to his corner.
“First round’s mine,” he pants.
“You’re being reckless,” scolds Gavin, pouring water into Darren’s gasping mouth. “No way you can keep up that pace.”
The second round starts the same. Rapid fire and big bombs. Kovalyov seems rattled and unsure. But an old man can’t sustain this pace. Every blow that Darren lands, costs him. He’s gulping at the air, forced to slow down …
That’s when Kovalyov strikes.
An iron jab slams in, snaps Darren’s head back like a branch. He stumbles, vision swimming. A sledgehammer right follows. Somehow, he slips it. But his back’s burning on the ropes. Wembley’s silent.
The blows rain in on his body. One after another. He tucks his elbows in, takes everything on his arms and gloves.
“Get out of there! Get out of there!”
Gav again. But which direction? Which way’s out? He slips to the side. A blur of red flashes past his nose. Then, somehow, he’s holding on. The sweat, heat and pressure of the clinch. A head burrows into his own. Russian snarls in his ear.
“Break! Break!” The referee. He’s trying to separate them. No chance. Darren grips tight.
But they’re wrenched apart. Darren throws desperate jabs. Hitting nothing. Anything to buy time. The bell rings. Thank God.
He’s not sure how he makes it to the stool, just that he’s there. Gav’s in his face, flinging water.
“Come on, mate,” he says. “You need to think out there. You know what I’m saying, don’t you?”
“I’ve got this, Gav.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m good to go.” This is just like the Ernie Charles fight. The title win. Behind on all the cards – written off. Came out for the eleventh, knocked him out. Boom.
“Seconds out … Round Three!”
Two options now: drag things out or go hell for leather. Fuck it. Let’s go.
He meets him in the centre of the ring. Fires a straight left then a solid right, straight into the Russian’s ribs. He doubles up. There’s a grimace. Follow it up! He lands again. The crowd roar, like the sound of a breaking storm.
Kovalyov stumbles back. This is it. This is his moment!
He can almost feel the weight of the title belt around him. There’ll be –
Darren doesn’t even see the punch. Like a bomb exploding on his head. One minute he’s bouncing across the canvas towards Kovalyov, the next he’s lying on it, blinking at the stadium lights.
1 … 2 …
“You promised not to fight any more.” Her beautiful voice, soft and certain. Who let Charmaine into the ring?
3 … 4 …
He pushes up to his elbows. Blinks. Got to get her … She’s not there. The canvas though … it’s covered in pink and purple beads.
5 … 6 …
On one knee. There’s no girl, no beads, just ropes and a ring. He can get up. He’s done it before … Permanent brain damage. That poor guy. Months in a coma.
7… 8 …
The stadium’s restless, but he sees the ghosts. The old fighters who stayed too long. The slurred voices and the blank stares.
9 …
Maybe Gav was right. His knee stays down.
10.
The referee waves the fight over. Kovalyov raises his arms. The crowd boo. Let them. Five million in the bank. The past is gone. That night against Ernie Charles? That’s his forever. But the future is his too. His and Charmaine’s, spread out before them like a sea of plastic jewels.
On Monday he’ll pick her up from school, and she’ll run to him like always. He’ll hold her aloft and beam into her smiling face.
And when he does … he’ll be the champion.
(c) Neil James, 2025
Neil James is a writer from Stoke-on-Trent, England, & the author of Stoke and I : The Nineties (Pitch Publishing). His fiction has been published by Literally Stories, Cranked Anvil Press & Wensum Literary Magazine, amongst others. He lives at www.neiljameswriter.co.uk & can be found mainly complaining about football on Twitter/X @TrouserdogSCFC
Oliver Yellop is an actor from Essex & a graduate of both The Royal Central School of Speech and Drama & The National Youth Theatre of Great Britain. Oliver has performed in plays at The National Theatre, The Park Theatre, the Bush & The Queens Theatre Hornchurch.
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