Openweight

By Jo Lee

★★★The awe-inspiring story of guilt, grief, love, and revenge ★★★

 

'A guilt-ridden middleweight ex-boxer, haunted by his last fight is pushed back in the ring to face the current abusive British heavyweight champion in a no love-lost openweight grudge match...'

 

Salvatore 'The Saviour' DeLuca never stepped back into the ring after what he caused. Some "saviour" he is. Instead, he feels he is better off dead but doing that himself he feels is too light a sentence. His family do not speak to him, governed by that of the iron fist of his unforgiving family-proud father. All Tory lives for is the countryside farm where he works and the potwash he slaves over, not to mention alcohol and cigarettes. Such a sad guilt story for someone who once had the sporting world in his grasp and the girl of his dreams.

 

But after an altercation with the current British heavyweight champion, Logan 'The Devil' Devlin, the fight goes viral. Word spreads fast throughout the boxing community. It becomes the talk of the town and media. People debate who would win. Who would win? People want this fight to headline the upcoming Everlast Openweight Grudge Match Tour arriving in the UK over Christmas. Middleweight Tory refuses until Logan and his heavy hand make it more than personal. Revenge. The fight is on! "The Saviour" versus "The Devil" it is. Location? Nothing other than the London O2 Arena. A Box Office sell out! The whole world gets excited for Christmas Eve, not just for festivities, but for the most anticipated fight in years…

 

...and I welcome you to witness the spectacle…

 

This fictional boxing lad literature is perfect for anyone who likes full-contact sports such as boxing, martial arts, UFC, bare-knuckle boxing (BKB), openweight bouts, and is fitting for young adults, teens, and adults. Contains a little profanity and covers topics such as domestic abuse, alcoholism, suicide. The perfect underdog story of redemption...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo-Lee
• Release date: May 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638775157

Jo Lee

Jo-Lee is an author from Dorset, England. Typically specialising in writing his own screenplays, he ventured forth adapting his own scripts into novels in order to gain more exposure to his work. His ethos is to educate, entertain, empower, and enlighten his readers through the power of story.

Book preview

OPENWEIGHT

By

Jo-Lee

––––––––

Copyright 2021

Oculus Publications

©Copyright 2021 Jo-Lee

ISBN: 9781638775157

Front cover image:

Pro boxer Jake Best & Coach Steven Bendall

(courtesy ORV Photography)

DEDICATION

Sylvester Stallone

My biggest idol, role model and inspiration in life.

––––––––

Tyson Fury

For teaching us all ‘heart’ in and out the ring

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

––––––––

Mum, Steve, Dad, and Bro for all the support.

Jake Best for allowing me to use the cover image but most importantly coming into my life and showing me true beast-mode when I needed it the most.

Eoin Friel CEO @ The Action Elite

(theactionelite.com)

&

ORV Photography for the cover image (orvphotography.com)

Table of Contents

The Devil...

The Saviour....................................4

Foreclosure

Viral

Trick or Treat

Vinnie

The Calling

Bro

Ti Amo

Secret Meeting

Fight On

Doing it Alone

Truth Hurts

Training

Daddy

Enough

Fight Night

Rekindled

The Devil...

––––––––

Fight Night spectacle.

London’s O2 Arena.

Full house.

Logan the Devil Devlin – six-feet-four, built like a tank, and in his prime, fought hammer-and-tong with the current British champion AJ when the tapping sound ringside rung out to indicate ten-seconds remaining of the round.

The Sky Sports commentators, Adam Smith and Johnny Nelson, sat glued to the edge of their seats, both like wide-eyed children in anticipation to the developing fight.

‘Final ten seconds of round six, and the Devil is standing his ground well with AJ!’ Adam shouted to Johnny. Even sitting at his side, he could hardly be heard over the chanting of the crowd.

‘A-J—AJ—AJ...’

Logan ducked a killer punch, countering with a brutal right hook square on AJ’s jaw.

The crack of bone on bone broke through the chants. AJ crashed to the canvas and stirred on his back.

‘AJ is down!’ screamed Johnny with a broken voice.

‘I don’t believe it!’ exclaimed Adam.

A buzz filled the ring as the entire arena stood stunned, filled with disappointment for seeing their dearest favourite stirring on his back as the referee begun the count. ‘And for only the second time in AJ’s career, he is down!’

Would he get back up? Could he get back up?

Johnny scanned the arena. ‘The entire London O2 Arena is on its feet.’ They were all waiting.

The bell rung, breaking the stunned silence and ending the round.

‘Saved by the bell. What a right hook from the Devil.’

Smiling through his black gum-shield at his tank-like coach, Buck, and Buck’s skinny, knowledgeable assistant, Larry, both in their forties.

Logan headed to his corner. He winked to his black-haired beauty, Faith Jenkins, who was sitting nervously on edge ringside. She sat, all alone, with no makeup on and far too underdressed for such an event. A faint green bruise stained her pale face, like the bruise on an apple, ruining such beauty. She nervously fiddled her engagement ring and smiled a broken smile up at her poised warrior as he waltzed smugly to his stool.

Behind Logan, AJ rose on wobbly legs with the referee scrutinising him before giving the all-clear to return to his dismayed corner.

AJ’s corner sat him on the stool and frantically tended to him. The advice from each corner couldn’t have been more different. Logan’s was more of the same onslaught, whilst AJ’s was to recover and counter the Devil’s onslaught and to try and return fire with the jab.

The bell rang for time; the two fighters rose off their stools with guards raised and ready to fight.

‘Into the eighth round,’ announced Adam.

AJ hadn’t even time to settle into the round before Logan had him against the ropes, unleashing swift, powerful combos to body and face — a killing machine — finishing with a solid right uppercut. Sweat sprayed off AJ’s face as he hit the canvas for now the third time in his career. The crowd was further dismayed.

‘He’s down — he’s down again!’ roared Adam.

‘AJ is down and doesn’t know what day of the week it is!’ affirmed Johnny. The referee waved his arms to the judges ringside — fight over.

‘It’s over! The referee has called the fight and Logan ‘the Devil’ Devlin is the new British Heavyweight Champion!’ cried Adam, wiping the sweat from his flustered face.

‘I don’t believe it. I really don’t, and nor can the crowd,’ declared Johnny.

AJ’s coach and assistant leapt through the ropes to his aid, along with the medics, as the referee sat the disorientated AJ up.

‘This man is an animal.’

‘I know, Adam. I mean is there anyone out there who could go the distance with the Devil? Let alone defeat him...?’

‘I don’t think so, Johnny. Even God himself would have trouble against the Devil...’

...The Saviour

––––––––

Days later, on a wintry night, a ship’s foghorn echoed across the misty harbour of Poole Quay, Dorset. Traditional quayside pubs spanned across this old pirate’s haven. Boats docked outside the old Customs House converted into a bar\restaurant; a picturesque Georgian building. The regal sweeping staircase led to happy diners bestowed with such a sea view.

Inside the empty kitchen, Salvatore De Luca’s brown soulless eyes stared into space as he mopped the floor. He was in his mid-thirties and it was clear that life hadn’t been all that good to him. Or was it the other way around? Either way, his black scruffy beard and messy hair told the world that this man no longer really gave a damn. Five-feet nine inches, his body definition beneath his sweat-stained work clothes was evidence that this man once looked after himself.

The time was coming up to 11pm, nearly the end of his shift when the two young and spritely chefs, Macky D and Chef, entered the kitchen with no regard for the nice clean floor.

‘Good shift, Tory!’ said Chef, checking the burners were off.  ‘Better than that last retard, right, Macky D?’

Macky D came across as somewhat simple, but a big friendly giant nonetheless. Huggable. He simply fixated on Tory with smitten eyes, making Tory feel somewhat...awkward.

Chef held out a hand to Tory for a high-five, but Tory, clearly not a ‘peoples’ person’ left him hanging and simply frowned down at the muddy footprints across his pristine floor.

‘You don’t talk much, do you?’ probed the chef.

‘What you want me to talk about, chef?’

‘Boxing!’ blurted out Macky D whilst beaming his fixed grin.

Chef frowned at Macky D, but Macky took his opportunity and went for it.

‘You’re one of my heroes. I’m...I’m fighting! December.  White Collar! For charity. Got any tips?

Tory nodded down at his mop bucket and the once shiny floor.

‘Wet floors can be slippery,’ said Tory, resuming the mopping.

‘Ah, come on, man. I’m being serious. I mean for my white-collar charity fight I’ve just signed up to do.’

‘Lay off the Macky Ds,’

‘Easy, Tiger, it’s only a bit of fun.’

Tory halted mopping and cast his thousand-yard stare at Macky D. ‘Fun? Go fly a kite.’

‘It’s for charity.’

‘Put money in a box, a Trust—Foundation...something...’

Macky D noticed the fire arising in Tory’s eyes and shut his mouth.

‘Ah, come on, be a sport, brother!’ said Chef, clearly not knowing when to keep his mouth shut.

Tory slowly peeled his eyes from the floor, strangled the mop handle and threw a murderous glare at Chef.

‘You’re not my brother!’

Macky D was the first at noticing Tory’s beaten and deformed knuckles straining white and awed, causing a knock-on effect to Chef.

Chef surrendered his arms out wide. ‘Okay—okay! Jees!’

As if some kind of divine intervention, the kitchen door swung open breaking the awkward silence with a burst of noise from the restaurant, and the young, sweet barmaid in her early twenties, Bonnie, popped her head around the door. ‘Um...the Devil guy is in the bar? Chef and Macky D stared blankly at Bonnie. ‘The champ?’ finished Faith with a little shadow punch.

Chef awed at Macky D. ‘’Maybe he’ll be kind enough to give you some tips!’

He hurried out the kitchen leaving Macky D just stood admiring Tory.

Awkward.

Tory nodded at the footprints then to the door. Macky D finally got the hint. ‘Oh! Sorry. Soz!’

Macky excitedly hurried out of the kitchen to meet the new champ.

Could it be? The new British heavyweight champion is in here? Now? thought Tory. But why all the way down south, here in Dorset? he pondered before looking down into his mucky bucket to find his pitiful, bearded face staring back at him. A final plunge of the mop distorted his reflection as he returned to kitchen-mopping duty, washing away any thoughts of boxing.

Tory couldn’t hide in the kitchen forever to avoid all the action out in the bar. He signed out, pinned his apron, and pulled his black hoody over his head. He stepped into the bar area avoiding contact while minding his own business and hammering away on a hand exerciser.

A small group of customers, along with Macky D and Chef, congregated around the Devil who sat proudly on a leather sofa, taking selfies with fans and writing out autographs. He bared his golden grin. The rows of golden teeth in his mouth glinted, only adding to the sinister air of his demeanour. It was now Macky D and Chef’s turn. They were crouched down low on either side of the Devil taking their picture with the champ.

When Tory entered the bar, his mind was fixated on the repetitious squeak of the exerciser. He wanted nothing to do with any of the fuss and simply wanted to get as far away from the boxing scene as possible.

Bonnie tried to stop Tory before he escaped through the noisy bar. ‘They’re all round that way,’ said Bonnie to Tory.

‘Not my scene,’ said Tory, hammering away at his hand exerciser.

‘Boxing? Not your scene?’ said bonnie.

Tory stared into space as horrific flashbacks returned to mind. He simply shook his head.

Bonnie sensed his anguish, reached for a pint of beer bubbling away on the bar.

‘Here. A miss-pour,’ said Bonnie, passing Tory the pint.

Tory broke a thankful smile and took the well-earned pint.

‘I don’t blame you for not going over there. What an obnoxious man he is,’

Faith exited the toilets with her eyes pinned to the floor and brushed past Tory. As the two passed and touched, Faith uttered a quick nervous apology under her breath at the hooded stranger, and in that very same instance Tory sniffed the sweet scent of perfume in the air and felt an overwhelming awareness course through his body—a sickly sensation in the deepest depths of his gut and with a skip of his broken heart’s beating, his squeaky hand exerciser stopped. He shuddered and slowly turned around in awe to indeed find his gut-wrenching senses hadn’t deceived him. Because right there, right in front of him, was Faith heading towards all the action. She was the only person who could have stopped Tory in his tracks from his sole mission to abandon ship and get as far away from this place as possible.

‘Faith?’

She stopped in her tracks for a mere heartbeat before continuing into the bar. Faith knew exactly who it was calling her name; this was once their local hangout after all. Without looking back at Tory, she moved on but this time faster and with more conviction. A ship’s foghorn sounded danger as Tory followed her. As if on autopilot, completely oblivious to his scruffy look and his reeking kitchen clothes, he moved towards the action he’d wished to avoid so