The crowd was bigger this time. Jack wasn't just a warm-up act anymore. "Way to go, Devil!" someone hollared, and Jack realized that he actually had fans these days. "Give 'em hell!"

I'll do my damndest, he thought, facing off against his latest opponent. Dave "Madman" Mack was a major heavyweight contender, not nearly as green as poor Frankie Miller, whom Jack had ultimately beaten by knockout. Jack knew it was going to take everything he had to stay in the ring with Mack, let alone beat him.

Mack came on strong, closing on Jack to fight inside the strike zone, but Jack held his ground, giving as good as he got. All those hours of training on the rooftop, performing for pigeons, were definitely paying off; his speed and stamina were as strong as they'd ever been. Jack felt like his old self again, back in his prime.

Thanks to Matt, he thought gratefully, moving hs head side to side to avoid Mack's inside punches. He gave me a reason to turn my life around. A surge of anger flared in his cheat as he remembered the stricken look on Matt's face that day down by the docks. He took that fury and channeled it into a right-left combination that left Madman Mack reeling. I'm never going to disappoint my son again!

His fist flew like a battering ram and Mack ate leather. The poleaxed fighter crumpled to the mat, oblivious to the bellowing count of the ref.

"...seven...eight...nine...ten!"

Mack stayed down, and the delirious audience roared in approval as the ref lifted Jack's glove in victory. The cheers of the crowd rained down on him like a cleansing shower, washing away all the mistakes and setbacks of the last few years.