The Second Chance

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The blue-and-silver bus shouldered its way through the brawling, irritable traffic of the big Midwestern city. It turned slowly off a narrow street into the covered ramp of the terminal, and in the enclosure the heavy motor sounded louder. Lew Barry stood up, his tall hard body cramped from too many miles. The pest beside him stood up too, flashing his eager, terrier smile.

“Like I was saying, Champ, if you was to try a comeback now, you couldn’t pick a better time. The division is full of bums. I know you the minute I lay eyes on you. Even if it is five years. I sure’d like to see you back in there.”

Lew had endured the chatter uncomplainingly. In a sense it had helped. It had kept him from thinking too much about what was waiting, from wondering too much and too long. Lew was a big man in his middle thirties, and he showed the indelible marks of sixty-three professional fights: Brown hair thinned by the arcs. Brows and lips thickened and white-laced. Big hands broken and mended too many times. The thickness of brows made his clear blue eyes look small, sunken, cold and remote. But he still carried his weight high, in chest and neck and shoulders, and moved his body with spare, effortless economy.

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