Claude

Claude could have made a beautiful heavyweight. Quick, six-foot-six in his socks, and a straight left like a steam-hammer. But Claude had never stepped in the ring. The moment anybody raised their fists he cowered. Claude couldn't stand to be hit.

He never amounted to much; hauled cow carcasses in a slaughterhouse, railroad work, logging, even once ran whisky; got married once, divorced once, had a son somewhere who was no good; grew old and found himself living on no savings and a government pension. Spent most of his time in the pub with other old men.

Then, one day, one old man said "Hey, Jack Renault! Gentleman Jack Renault! I saw you knock out George Godfrey in twenty-three. I made twenty bucks on that fight. Let me buy you a drink."

The man's name was Herbie Bee. Claude didn't correct him, so long as he bought the beer Herbie could believe what he liked.

But Herbie kept talking - Buzz Buzz Buzz - and soon every man in the pub thought Claude was Gentleman Jack Renault, national heavyweight champion from March '23 to June '23. He became a local celebrity, everybody wanted to be his buddy, he didn't even really have to lie, just nod and smile. For two months he never once bought his own beer.

Then one night an old black man walked into the bar, walked on a cane in fact, walked over to Claude and said, "Jack Renault, I'm Battling Jim McCreary. We fought in 1920 and you won the newspaper decision. I want a rematch. Right now."

What could Claude do? The man was an easy ten years older than him and a head shorter, but he took off his coat and raised his fists. It took all of Claude's self control not to run away, the thought of being hit terrified him, but the thought of coming clean was worse. He tried to back out of it, said they were both too old, but the crowd got excited, and Herbie had a space cleared, allocated corners, rapped his knuckles on a pint glass and shouted "Round One!"

McCreary came out low and wary of the bigger man, kept moving, danced a little on old feet. Claude walked backwards away from him, threw that left jab but missed by a mile, kept his right close up against his face so nobody could see him whimper. The crowd bayed, money changed hands, McCreary threw a right hook that slammed straight into the side of Claude's skull and sent him crashing through a table.

When he came round they were still arguing, as clear a knock out as any of them had ever seen except that the table had held Claude up for a second and McCreary had hit the floor first. Battling Jim McCreary had that one punch left in him - and nothing more.

Herbie Bee was happy "Lucky punch Jack," he said, "lucky punch." And he still bought the beer.