Hank Bellakoff felt sick to his stomach as he reeled backwards, his swollen face barely recognizable through the blood and sweat. He heard his head thud on the canvas floor, and his eyes, although more than half closed, were watching the swirling merry-go-round world of the Boston Arena spinning by.
He became aware of two legs near his head, legs in black pants, grey socks, and very well-shined black Italian leather shoes.
“Four," the owner of the legs called out. “Five…Six…Seven."
At “Seven," Hank’s head and vision had cleared just enough for him to make his re-entry into the Middleweight fight, now in the eighth round, that he had been in until being rudely interrupted by a leathery black blob that had mashed the left side of his nose, probably breaking it.
"Watch out for his fuckin’
