The Unexpected Danny Green

By Paul Robert Friedman

About The Novel Danny Green is an intelligent, physically gifted, good looking fighter with a lethal left hook. An ambitious, determined and intellectually curious young man, Danny earns a spot as an alternate at the 1976 Summer Olympic Games, turns pro and becomes a heralded prizefighter in New York City. He takes on the best a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Robert Friedman
• Release date: Apr 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781792373916

Paul Robert Friedman

About the AuthorPaul R. Friedman spent over two decades creating content for CBS Television, starting as a writer/producer in the On-Air Promotion, and Marketing Departments. He has worked for both the CBS News and Entertainment divisions in New York and Los Angeles. Most recently, as Vice President, Creative Director, CBS Marketing he was responsible for the launch and continued marketing stewardship of the three most successful 'reality show' franchises in TV history: Survivor, The Amazing Race, Big Brother. He also headed up On-Air campaigns for CBS programs: The Grammys, ACM Awards, Kennedy Center Honors, Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, plus numerous other specials, dramas and comedies. He was Executive Producer of the CBS Fall Preview Show from 2013 to 2017, has written extensively for the medium including, the multi-part 'noir' drama, Angel Town, and the new book, Hollywood's UN-luckiest SuperStars.

Book preview

ONE

Danny Green’s first professional fight was a six rounder, scheduled on the undercard at Madison Square Garden early in the evening on a hot Saturday night in June. Two years earlier, at twenty years old, he had fought well in the 1976 Olympic trials, turned pro, and came up to New York from a small town in Mississippi to sign with the Major Deacons’ management team.

The double main event was going to be broadcast live on Showtime, but when Danny fought most of the seats were still flipped, the arena not even a quarter full and the house lights still up. Nobody took much notice of the two fighters in center ring, that is, until Danny knocked his opponent out in the fifth in such spectacular fashion that the few in attendance fell silent. They didn’t quite believe what they had seen until the replay was projected on the large Garden screens. Then they took notice. The vicious left hook had sent Danny’s opponent through the ropes. It elicited a delayed response: spontaneous gasps, a couple of whoops and hollers, and a few oh my God exclamations. Those in attendance looked around to see if others had seen the lightning-fast punch, then shouted at the screens, Play it again, to be sure. Collectively, they slowly pushed back the Yankee caps, rubbed their foreheads, and squinted at the program. Who was this Danny Green kid? Where had he come from?

So precise was the final barrage of three on-the-button punches and so stunning the knockout that the techs in the broadcast truck quickly gathered some slow-motion footage and added it to the TV package to be broadcast later. The highlight reel played on Showtime and in the Garden before the main event. Viewers at home got a front row seat, and the now full crowd had a chance to marvel at Danny’s speed, terrific punching power, and crushing victory. It was just the beginning, but few had ever seen a professional debut quite like this one.

In years to come, die hard boxing fans told their friends about it. Oh yeah, I saw his first fight at the Garden back in the seventies. Unbelievable. They would brag about the great seats they had, the bar crawl downtown afterwards, and the 2:00 a.m. dust-up on the street outside Heartbreaks dance club that required six stitches. See here, they’d say, and point to a barely noticeable scar.

In actuality, for most guys it was just the result of an imagined collective memory, something they only wished they had seen in person. In truth, they hadn’t been anywhere near the Garden that night, probably not even in New York state. Nevertheless, somehow, they remembered.

TWO

Rose May Green was a proud woman, educated, compassionate, the only black teacher at the local grammar school in her small Mississippi town. At twenty-six she’d given birth to her first son, Robert, in the local colored only hospital. She and her husband, Joe, were thrilled with their beautiful, healthy son. But the pregnancy had been difficult, and shortly after Robert’s birth the doctor told them that they could not have any more children.

The news was devastating. Rose May and Joe had always wanted a large family, hoped for it, put money aside and planned to have lots of kids, scrambling around, filling their home with joy and laughter. Though the house was modest—only three small bedrooms and one bath—Rose May kept it tidy and clean, Joe maintained the shingled roof, painted the trim, and reasoned that he could expand its footprint and build an extension out back if he had to.

The hay fields surrounding the home had plenty of room for children to explore and even a shallow pond fed by spring rain with croaking frogs, small fish, and thick green moss growing at its edges. Now it appeared that Robert and the local kids from other families would be the only ones to catch those frogs. Robert was their first and, sadly, would be their last.

When Rose May found out she was pregnant again a year and a half later, she was thrilled, relieved, her prayers answered. She put an old 33 on the record player, pulled Joe out of his chair, hugged and kissed him, and they danced real close.

Daniel was born on February 4, 1958, on a cool, star-filled night.

Look at your little brother, Rose May said softly when Robert came into her hospital room. He hesitated, backed away and grabbed his father’s pant leg.

It’s okay, Joe said, putting a hand on Robert’s shoulder. He’s part of our family now. He sat on the edge of his wife’s bed, took her hand, and squeezed it, tears filling his eyes and running down his cheeks. He wiped them away quickly with a handkerchief and laughed. I’m so proud of you and our two—can you believe it?—two sons."

Neighbors came by the house with deep dishes of food and home-baked cakes. Joe sat out back, on the wooden deck he had built with his own hands, and drank barrel whisky with the men, talking late into the night about the future and the paths he hoped his boys would take. They’d be educated, he assured them, learn to read early and enjoy the great satisfaction sports would bring.

I tell you, that Robert, long and lean, he’s gonna play basketball, one of the men remarked, draining his glass. Too soon to tell about the little one.

Later, as company started to leave and the crowd thinned out, Rose May drew Daniel to her and rocked him gently. He was beautiful, she thought, with long eyelashes and nearly a full head of soft black hair. She had held Robert the same way when he was a baby and thought she could never love a child as deeply. But now Daniel was here, and she knew there was room in her heart for more. She smiled, exhaled, watched a log crackle in the fireplace, split in two, tumble to the brick, and send sparks flying up the chimney. She didn’t know it then, but nine years later she would be blessed with two more children, twins, Brian and Clara.

To say Daniel Green was born on the wrong side of the tracks but to the right family would pretty much sum it up. He was a sturdy, athletic, good-looking kid who was enormously curious, listened attentively, and caught on fast.

Smart was the word his first-grade teacher used to describe him, but his parents already knew that. They had seen how quickly he’d learned his numbers and recited his ABCs, how he had followed his brother around imitating his every move. Though Robert was two years older, they saw that there was no divide between the boys. They were very close. Danny showed great affection for the baby twins, but by the time they came along he was almost ten.

Joe Green ran a lawn mower repair shop out of the family garage, where he had an organized tool wall with everything he needed to do the job. After every use, each wrench, pair of pliers, hammer, and saw had to be returned to its place on the pegboard—a perfectly painted thin white outline kept everything straight. The system was mistake-proof. The kids learned early that if they used something, okay, but better put it back or there’d be hell to pay.

Joe prided himself on precision and his ability to fix anything. The sign above his door told you so: WE FIX IT. Everybody in town brought their mowers to Joe, black or white, it didn’t matter. They knew he had the touch, could figure out what was wrong and wouldn’t charge an arm and a leg. And if you stuck around long enough, you might even get a lesson or two about world events or some story about an obscure inventor nobody had ever heard of.

Let’s take a look and see what’s going on here. We should have you up and running in no time.

A fellow named Earl worked part-time in the shop when things got busy. Earl, who lived nearby, had been a sharecropper and learned how to fix farm equipment, so his extra help came in handy. Joe never finished high school but had a journeymen’s thirst for knowledge. He liked to read biographies about historical figures, people who made a difference, innovators who affected change, and leaders who ruled nations. At least once a week he stopped by the library to check out a book or two on the great orators, thinkers, and artists, fascinated by their achievements. What made them tick? What drove them? How had they overcome the odds and succeeded when others said they would fail? Men and women like Winston Churchill, George Washington Carver, Madam Curry, and Eli Whitney, innovators like Henry Ford, and artists Da Vinci and Picasso—all exceptional people who envisioned the future and actually forged reality from their fevered dreams.

Rose May taught third grade. She seemed to always have time for the kids in her class and her children at home; no one felt short changed. Sure, clothes were handed down from kid to kid and sometimes they shared shoes, but she made it a point to always have plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables on the table. Brain food, she called it.

She liked writing letters to her relatives—some lived in Chicago, some in California—sharing regular correspondence with them. She enjoyed putting pen to paper and jotting notes whenever she had a few spare minutes, with prose that was rich, florid, and filled with visual metaphor. Truth be told, and she would admit it if you asked her, what she really appreciated was getting letters back in the mail, slicing open the envelopes with a kitchen knife, unfolding the pages, spreading them out on the table, sitting with a cup of coffee, and reading. She delighted when a snapshot was sometimes included along with the letter. She’d pick up the photo, study it for a minute or two, laugh, and wave it in the air.

Your cousin Eric has grown so big, she would say. Look how tall he is.

After dinner Joe usually sat in his large, worn leather chair, at his special spot near the fireplace. Even though some of the horsehair was coming out of the armrest, he’d never let Rose May re-cover the thing, because it was just too damned comfortable. He’d crack open a hardcover and lose himself, reading about Alexander the Great, who conquered the known world before he was thirty-five years old, General Douglas McArthur, and George Patton, men he admired who had convinced others to follow them. Sometimes he’d grab one of the kids, put them on his lap, and read aloud. Robert knew to take off right after dinner when he saw his dad had a new book, but Danny hung around. The twins weren’t quick enough to escape Joe’s grasp. He’d reach out and catch one of them, giggling, squirming, slippery as eels after their baths, tickle them, and hold them close. Come here, you, he’d say.

Once caught, they knew their protests were in vain. Joe would gather them up in his powerful arms and read stories of heroes who lived long ago, movers, shakers, men and women who worked hard, sacrificed, sometimes drove themselves to madness but reshaped the world. Usually the twins fell asleep in the warmth of his embrace and the soothing sound of his baritone voice. Then he’d gently pick them up and carry them off to bed.

Danny never fell asleep when his father read out loud to him and added his colorful asides. He was always awake, curious and fascinated, imagining those faraway places, the battles fought, the struggles endured, the strife, pain, and ultimate victories won.

Robert and Danny shared a room, with twin beds that faced each other. At night, Danny would lay awake wondering where he would go in his life and what he could be when he grew up, fantasizing about amazing adventures he’d have.

One night after dinner, Danny saw his mother put a few dollars in an envelope and address it to a relief organization in Africa. She licked the stamps and added extra ones, because it was going clear halfway around the world. There are people out there who need it a lot more than us, she said. We are truly blessed. Danny made it a habit to mail the letters for her. He was conscientious, always peeking into the slot of the mailbox to double-check that the envelopes went all the way down the chute and didn’t get stuck somewhere in the middle.

Danny was tall for his age. At twelve, he shot up three inches; when he reached his teens, he towered over the other boys in his class. He and Robert rarely walked anywhere that they could run to instead. They ran all over town, to school, and afterward, when they had errands to do, they ran back home and out again to play.

Sports came easily to Robert. He was what the coaches called a natural athlete. Danny tried to copy the moves his brother made. The two boys never seemed to tire and loved all sports. Like most kids their age, they had sports heroes: Dallas Cowboy Ed Too Tall Jones, slick Raider running back Marcus Allen, and Moses Malone, the first pro basketball player to go directly from high school to the professional ranks of the NBA.

I’m going to do that, Danny announced at the dinner table one night.

Robert, trying to do his best Dr. J impression, jumped from his bed to slam-dunk a balled-up piece of paper into the wastebasket. He landed hard and banged his head on the sharp edge of the desk.

Aaaah, that smarts, he moaned as he rubbed out the bruise with his palm. Shhh, don’t tell mom.

Those sons of mine, Joe used to shake his head. Always running somewhere, jumping off something, bringing home birds, lizards, snakes.

Where’d you get that? he’d ask. Better if he didn’t know what house they crawled under, what tree they climbed, or God forbid, what rushing spring river those crazy boys jumped into.

The Greens lived near other black families in a tight-knit community where everyone looked out for each other. The small town was divided: white families on one side, blacks on the other. The kids all went to school together, but the grown-ups rarely mixed. They might occasionally have business dealings with each other, as was the case with Joe’s repair shop, but pretty much two towns lived separately in one. Their parents might not mix socially, or live near each other, but the young folks didn’t care much about that. Until, that is, they got older.

All the kids in the neighborhood were welcome at the Green home. There were always extra gloves, bats, and balls in the front closet. Kids came in, and like the tools on Joe Green’s wall, they borrowed the things they needed and brought them back when they were done.

Black kids knew to be careful crossing over to the other part of town. If they did, someone was sure to ask them, What you up to, boy? and Where you think you’re goin’?

Danny and Robert usually ran near the train tracks, sometimes joined by their white friends Mitchie and Lance. Once, on a hot day after school when Danny was about eight and Robert ten, the four kids pooled their pocket change and found they had enough for two sodas. They passed a local feed store and walked up the wooden steps to the Coke machine under the green-and-white striped canvas awning. They didn’t go inside (they knew better), but slipped a quarter and a nickel into the vending machine, planning to share the drinks on their way home.

Before they could buy the second Coke or even pop the top on the first, a fat man in a white apron burst out of the store carrying a broomstick, the screen door swinging wildly and knocking against the side of the building before slamming back with a crack. He grabbed Robert by the ear and twisted it.

What you doin’ here, boy? he demanded.

We’re buying a drink, Robert said. He could barely get the words out.

You got no call to hurt him, mister, Mitchie said.

We haven’t done nothin’ wrong, Lance protested.

Danny stepped forward and balled his fist. The fat man turned to him, red-faced with rage.

What’s that in your hand, boy?

Tears welled up in Danny’s eyes. My fist.

Do I see a weapon?

No sir, Danny said.

Robert kicked at the man and stepped down hard on his leather shoe. He managed to wriggle free, and the boys ran for it.

Y’all better git, the man shouted, shaking the broomstick at them as they gained distance. And don’t come ’round here again.

Screw you, mister, Robert called back. The other boys kicked up dirt in the man’s direction and made faces at him.

I told you to git.

Kiss my butt, Mitchie yelled. The boys laughed and ran off.

When Danny and Robert told their dad what had happened, he listened silently, nodding his head. He didn’t scold them for being in the wrong part of town or admonish them in any way. He closed his book slowly looked at his two sons, and put a hand on each of their shoulders.

I believe you are talking about Mr. James, he said quietly. I know him. He brings his mowers to me. Maybe I’ll have a talk with him next time he comes around.

As the boys searched their father’s face, he saw fear in their eyes. Don’t you worry, my sons, he said. Then he drew them in with a big hug. Rose May stood in the kitchen, drying dinner dishes as she watched the exchange.

It was just a matter of time before James came by Joe’s shop with his mower, bringing his young son with him to help unload it from the truck. It was spring, and the grass was growing tall and fast.

She’s just not runnin’ smooth, said James. Missing a whole lot.

Let’s take a look. Joe took a wrench from the wall, bent down to the mower, and started loosening some bolts. Earl, he called out to his helper. I think I might need a fan belt. He unscrewed and pulled out the spark plug, which was black with carbon soot. He held it up to the light. And get me a Champion five-eighth.

Earl climbed the shop’s ladder and reached for a box of spark plugs on the top shelf.

Joe continued to tinker with the mower. I understand you met my sons, he said, not looking up.

Your boys? James asked. No. When?

About two, three weeks ago, I think it was. Still working, Joe gestured with his hand. Robert is about so high and Daniel, about so. It was outside your store. He unscrewed the carburetor and blew into it, then looked at James’s son. My younger one looks to be about the same height as yours, I guess.

James shook his head. Don’t think so.

It was a hot day. They were buying Cokes out of that machine of yours. You shushed them away.

Your boys? the fat man repeated. He was starting to sweat.

Joe looked up and smiled. Yup. He paused to let the moment fill the space. I don’t know, maybe I’m mistaken. Let’s see what we have here. He loosened a few more bolts. Here’s your trouble, right there.

Earl handed him the spark plug, and Joe screwed it in. Hand me a Phillips. Earl gave him the screwdriver, and Joe adjusted the pin on the throttle. He started up the engine. Smooth. Not going to need that belt after all, he said.

James looked relieved. He wiped his face with a handkerchief.

There ya go, Joe said. You can get a couple more years out of her. He pointed the screwdriver at him. Just be sure to bring it in for regular maintenance. He turned to the boy. Remind your daddy, okay?

Yes sir, the boy said.

Right, right, said James, still nervous. Okay now, what do I owe you?

Joe stood up, coming face-to-face with the fat man. A moment passed. Then James reached out tentatively to shake Joe’s hand. Joe wiped his on his work shirt before taking it. He held the fat man’s hand firmly and didn’t let go, narrowed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and then spoke softly. You ever touch one of my boys again, a lawn mower will be the least of your problems.

Your boys?

Yeah.

James grew defensive. I didn’t know they were yours. I swear, Joe.

Mine or anyone else’s, doesn’t much matter.

You wouldn’t be threatening me now, would you?

No sir, I don’t make threats, Joe replied. Let’s just agree. You don’t touch my children, and I won’t touch yours. With that, Joe broke his gaze and called out sharply. Earl, help Mr. James load his mower onto the truck. He released the fat man’s hand. No charge.

Let me pay you something.

Joe shook his head. No sir. Then, after a pause, he said, You know, come to think of it, how about you make a donation to the church down the road. They certainly could use some help after the fire.

Danny and Robert were just coming home as James’s truck was heading down the drive. The fat man looked straight ahead, pretending not to see the two boys, but his son waved through the rear window as they passed by. James hit the gas, kicking up dust, turned onto the main road, and sped off. The boys were surprised, standing in silence for a moment watching the swirling cloud rise up and float away.

Close your mouth, Danny, Robert said. Come on, squirt, bet you can’t beat me. With that, he turned and started running toward the house, Danny sprinting close behind. Dad, Danny yelled, that was the man . . .

But his words were swallowed by the wind.

•••

In junior high, Danny played basketball, baseball, and was a running back on the football team until a knee injury sidelined him. He wasn’t exactly crazy about school—sitting in class for what seemed like hours, listening to lessons that mostly bored him—but he dutifully completed his math homework and writing assignments and, like his dad, he enjoyed reading. His mother was there at the kitchen table to check grammar and catch spelling mistakes.

The more you improve your vocabulary, the better you’ll be able to express yourself, she told her sons.

Robert paid five dollars for an old guitar he saw hanging in the pawnshop window and taught himself to play some chords. He listened to the radio, picked out songs he liked, practiced, and got pretty good at copying the styles of Chuck Berry and Robert Cray. There were a couple of other guys in his grade who also played, so they formed a four-piece combo and started working some high school assemblies, a grad night, backyard parties, and eventually gigs in a few local clubs before they were old enough to drink.

The twins were still young, but growing up fast. They had developed their own language that nobody else quite understood, and giggled a lot when they were together.

What’s going on with those kids? Joe asked his wife.

I think the eccentricity gene comes from your side of the family, Rose May teased.

•••

Roman Charles ran the boxing gym in town. He was around sixty-five, with deep creases in his face that made him look older and a nose that had been busted so many times, he had lost count. His left hand was gnarled, fingers curled inward with arthritis. He still had all his teeth and when he smiled, which he didn’t often do, the full set was on display.

The boxing gym was really a converted warehouse near some hay fields, the corrugated steel siding pitted and rust-stained. Its sliding door, open wide during the day, was secured with a big chain and padlocked at night. The gym had an old ceiling fan up top that creaked every time it made a full rotation, spinning lazily and barely moving the thick hot air around. A couple of worn leather heavy bags hung from the wooden beams, and in a corner dangled some old speed bags that had been patched too many times with inner tube rubber. In the center of the space, a rope ring with stretched canvas was suspended on old pallets.

The workout floor was polished concrete, which made it easy to wash down with a garden house. There weren’t any lockers, just storage baskets improvised from old fishing nets that could be hoisted up to the rafters and suspended high above the floor. When the summer wind blew through the warehouse, the chains and pulleys that secured them swayed gently like below-deck hammocks on an old sailing ship.

The gym was a place for older guys mostly, nothing fancy. Black men came to sweat out the indignities of the day, to test themselves, and talk about the greats they had seen fight, or claimed to have seen. The air inside ripened with the season, especially in the summer months when humidity climbed to eighty percent and sweat ran down the arms and chests of the fighters in hot rivulets. Not everyone was welcome; newcomers were looked upon with suspicion. Their test would come soon enough, with all questions answered on the sweat-stained canvas and between the sagging ropes.

The gym was not in a direct line with Danny’s high school, but he found it by accident one day. To get there, you had to turn down a couple of blocks, go out of your way, or know someone who could tell you where it was. One afternoon in late March, when Danny was sixteen, he came upon the gym, looked inside, and took a few tentative steps toward the door. There was something about the choreographed action and loud voices that drew him in, a kind of easy camaraderie and no-nonsense competition that took place when the bell rang. Roman saw Danny standing in the doorway, and motioned for him to come in.

Ever box? he asked, handing Danny two worn cloth wraps. Learn to put these on first. Start with the thumb. That’s it . . . not too tight.

It wasn’t long before Danny was hooked. At home, he couldn’t stop talking about the workouts. Robert came to Roman’s to check it out a couple of times, but didn’t feel the same charge or have the same hunger that Danny seemed to have, so he left halfway through a workout to shoot hoops over at the high school.

Danny began craving the ritual, the preparation of winding the wraps around his hands. It helped him focus, flexing his fingers and feeling the firmness in his hands when he made a fist, before squeezing into the Everlast gloves. He enjoyed working the heavy bag, especially when the padding gave beneath the leather as he struck it. Good exercise, good release. At sixteen his punches were already solid, and the thudding sound made others in the gym take notice.

Though he preferred to spar without headgear, he minded when Roman told him.

"Son, you’re not getting in my ring without it. Put that damn thing on your head and tighten the strap."

In the corner of the warehouse were two stacks of old dog-eared copies of Ring Magazine, dusty and yellowed.

Lot of good information in there, worth the read, Roman would say. You get the history of the sport and build on the past. Wanna be good? You better learn from the guys who came before you.

Roman’s AM radio in the gym was mostly tuned to Motown. Workouts would pick up when the Temptations or Four Tops thundered and slow down when Marvin Gaye crooned a ballad. The musical choice was predicated on the whims and special tastes of the local disc jockey, who of course had no idea how his temperament was affecting the ebb and flow of momentum in the gym. Some of the boxers tried to call the station, tired of hearing the same old songs, but the unanswered phone would just ring and ring.

You think this music is unpredictable? Roman said during training. Wait until your opponent hits you square on the jaw for the first time. Better be ready to change your latitude—he snapped his fingers loudly—just like that. Everyone has a plan until that first punch. Then strategy goes out the window, and very soon you find out who you really are and what you’re made of.

Training was hard, grueling, sweat-stained, and bloody. But Danny loved it all, doing push-ups, lifting weights, roadwork outside, and jumping rope, feeling his muscles tear down and build up again. When he stepped into the ring there was a fierceness that came out from inside, surprising him. If he got hit, he hit back harder; if his sparring partner (mostly older adults) tried to clinch and bully him on the inside, he made sure to clamp down hard on their forearms and elbow them sharply on the break. He wasn’t going to take shit from any of those guys.

Roman saw what was going on and took him aside. The energy is good, he said, but for God’s sake, don’t let anger get the best of you. Understand?

Yes sir.

Roman turned away, shaking his head. So full of piss and vinegar. Then he got up in Danny’s face. Control the power. Channel it.

Yes sir, Danny repeated.

It was getting harder and harder to find willing and able sparring partners for Danny, so it was left for the new fish to be thrown in with the kid when they first arrived at the gym. Even the big guys, the loudmouths, got their chance.

Get in there, Roman would say to the new guys, tossing them a pair of gloves. Let’s see what you got. Lace ’em up. Danny took his time in the early rounds, feeling for his opponent’s strengths—if he had any—and where he might be weak. Then, in later rounds, he’d turn up the gas: hook, jab, go to the body and the head, step to the right, deliver a left cross, and watch as the new guys floundered in the deep water of the late rounds. With their bodies weakened, arms heavy, will sapped, they usually folded after a barrage of relentless power punches.

Roman coached from the corner, adjusting Danny’s headgear between rounds and reminding him to shorten up his punches.

Come on, man, he’d whisper. Try the uppercut. Get on your toes. Then he’d slap him on the back and send him out for more.

For brief moments, Roman allowed himself to wonder how far his talented young charge would go. He had seen potential in other fighters before and been disappointed, so he wasn’t about to get his hopes up real high. But then again, prospects like this didn’t come around all that often. He really did think Danny had something special, but true tests, big-time tests, would surely lie ahead if he stuck with it.

The new guys were relieved when their trial by fire was over. Where was this kid getting the power from? they wondered. Most had come for a workout and thought maybe they had something. They were tough guys and assumed that they could easily dominate in the ring.

Why not turn pro? a buddy had said after they kicked ass in a bar fight or parking lot brawl. But quickly these new guys realized liquor and adrenalin-fueled rage never beat calculated strategy and deliberate skill. After a beat-down by Danny, their arms pummeled black and blue, some didn’t even come back to the gym a second time, or if they did, they were humbled, and kept their heads down, worked hard, understood the sacrifice it took to get good, and acknowledged how tough the game really was.

You’re costing me money, Roman said to Danny, laughing as he watched potential gym members run away like little scared rabbits.

•••

Miss Willis, the school’s sociology teacher, had come from West Virginia. She had lots of new ideas about stimulating young minds and challenging her students. For maybe the first time, Danny actually enjoyed class; something about her lessons clicked with him. He listened and took careful notes, even though she often used examples that seemed off-topic to make her point.

One day during class, she wrote on the blackboard: A work of art is never completed. It is just abandoned.

"What do we mean by this? she asked the class. Suzy Reynolds, a pretty blond girl with a big personality, was first to raise her hand. Suzy, let’s give someone else a chance, said Miss Willis. Anyone?" There were no takers.

All right, Miss Willis continued, let’s break it down. ‘Abandoned.’ Meaning . . . ? Come on, class. Danny?

Danny thought for a moment. To leave something, discard it, and walk away, I guess?

Yes. To throw away, desert, cast off, those are other ways to define it. Who can use it in a sentence?

Suzy’s hand went up again, extending high into