The gangman came out of the rally winded, perplexed, and disturbed.
His cheek was bleeding, one eye was in distress, and he had hardly
touched his agile opponent.
He rushed again. Nothing but his temper, the lack of self-control that
made him see red and had once put him at the mercy of a first-class
ring general with stamina and a punch, had kept Jerry out of a world
championship. He had everything else needed, but he was the victim of
his own passion. It betrayed him now. His fighting was that of a wild
cave man, blind, furious, damaging. He threw away his science and his
skill in order to destroy the man he hated. He rained blows on
him--fought him with head and knee and fist, was on top of him every
moment, controlled by one dominating purpose to make that dancing
figure take the dust.
How Clay weathered the storm he did not know. Some blows he blocked,
others he side-stepped, a few he took on face and body. He was cool,
quite master of himself. Before the fight had gone three minutes he
knew that, barring a chance blow, some foul play, or a bit of bad luck,
he would win. He was covering up, letting the pugilist wear himself
out, and taking only the punishment he must. But he was getting home
some heavy body blows that were playing the mischief with Jerry's wind.
The New Yorker, puffing like a sea lion, came out of a rally winded and
spent. Instantly Clay took the offensive. He was a trained boxer as
well as a fighter, and he had been taught how to make every ounce of
his weight count.
Pages:
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177