[legendsport]

Tampa, FL: November 23, 1911:

The Ybor City Assembly Hall was a flat, rectangular structure northeast of downtown Tampa, Florida in an area known - as the name would indicate - as Ybor City. Founded about 30 years earlier as a focal point for the production of fine cigars, Ybor City was populated almost exclusively by immigrants. To Joe Barrell, this was a change from his recent experience in rural Georgia, but having spent the bulk of his life in Brooklyn he was not uncomfortable surrounded by people speaking languages other than English.

The Hall itself was fittingly enough shaped like a cigar box and held about 1500 people. Tonight - fight night - it was packed. Joe pegged the actual attendance as something north of 2000. If there was a fire, that would be bad news. And, it being Ybor City, the entire place was obscured by a slowly swirling, incredibly dense cloud of cigar smoke. So... hopefully the place wasn't particularly flammable.

Joe was standing outside the door to the backstage area, watching the crowd - most of whom were busily making wagers on the upcoming bouts. As a kid in Brooklyn, watching crowds was something he had done frequently - he found humanity in general to be endlessly fascinating. He had envied his father who traveled all over the country, meeting all kinds of new people. Now, just 17 years old himself, he figured he was about to embark on a career that would - assuming he could hack it - take him all over the country and maybe even beyond where he could meet a bunch of interesting people - and punch some of them. Boxing was big business in England and while it hadn't quite caught on in the States just yet, it was definitely growing. And Joe planned on being in the forefront of making his chosen sport a popular one in his home country.

He was also scanning the crowd for a particular purpose - well, two of them actually. First, he was looking for his family. He knew that his parents were out there somewhere - as was Possum and supposedly at least three of his brothers. The second reason was one he was thus far keeping to himself - her name was Edna Farmer, and he had managed to get her from Atlanta to Tampa without the knowledge of her father, which was quite the trick, since he also happened to be Joe's cut man.

Joe's trainer, Cooter Daniels, brother of Rollie 'Possum' Daniels, tapped him on the shoulder and said in his husky voice, "We need to get back there," a nod over his shoulder towards the backstage area, "and get you rubbed down."

"Yeah, alright. I was trying to find my parents," he said, trying to keep any disappointment - or worse, nervousness, out of his voice.

Cooter smiled and patted him on the back, "They're sittin' ringside, son. Too many heads between us and them. But you'll see 'em just fine when you get into the ring." Then he put his arm around Joe's shoulders and added, "Now let's get you all stormed up so you can rain all over that boy from Mississippi, son."

Joe smiled - Cooter often sounded just like Rollie.

The past three months had gone by in a blur. A blur that smelled of sweat and old leather. Joe had spent a lot of time in the hole-in-the-wall gym Cletus 'Cooter' Daniels owned in Atlanta. The place looked like it might have been one of the few buildings to survive when Sherman had torched the city during the war. Certainly it looked like it had survived at least fifty years... fifty hard years. Inside, the roof leaked, the wooden floor creaked and the chains that held the bags squeaked. And grown men pounded heavy bags and speed bags and oftentimes each other while Cooter and his partner Reuben 'Rube' Farmer watched over the festivities, offering some strangely effective combination of ridicule and encouragement to the would-be pugilists under their tutelage. And in this environment Joe Barrell had slowly learned to put the natural ability he had fostered since childhood into a scientific approach to both hitting an opponent and successfully avoiding being hit in return. Results so far had been somewhat mixed in training, but there had been definite improvement. And now it was time to put what he had learned to the test.

The gym was also where he had met Rube's daughter. The obvious parallel to how his own parents had met was something of which he wasn't even aware. Right now he knew he had to put away his thoughts of her and concentrate on the task at hand - a middleweight from Mississippi by the name of Mike Wilson.

Cooter had trained Joe hard to keep him at middleweight. Joe was six feet tall and the middleweight limit was pegged by the American Boxing Federation at 160 pounds. Joe showed up to the gym in August weighing eight pounds over that limit. Cooter had told him that he'd probably be a heavyweight someday, and a light heavyweight someday sooner than that, but he wanted to start him at middleweight, and called Joe a "lunch puppy" - which he learned meant he was too heavy (he wasn't - at least in his own opinion) and that he was as "lost as last year's Easter egg" when it came to boxing. Luckily, he (Cooter) would set him straight. Joe shook his head - he hadn't believed that there could possibly be anyone like Rollie Daniels - until he met his brother.

Back in the dressing room, Rube Farmer was straightening his tie. He was wearing a white shirt and a black tie and he looked in the mirror and said over his shoulder, "Don't go getting any blood on my white shirt, ok, Joe?"

Joe smirked and said, "Stand back so you don't get spattered when I clobber Wilson."

Cooter grinned, pointed at his partner and said, "Heck, son, ol' Rube must be confident if he's wearing that particular shirt."

Rube turned and glared a bit, saying, "So I'm confident. Joe's ready, isn't he?"

Cooter's grin grew even wider, "Is a five pound robin fat? Hell, yes, he's ready."

"I'm so glad you guys can talk about me like I'm not standing right here," Joe groused.

Cooter slapped the table, "Well I aim to remedy that - the part about you standing there anyways. So let's get you ready. Lie down and I'll give you a rub, son."

The fight card for the evening featured ten bouts and was topped by the ABF's heavyweight championship. Joe's fight was the first event on the card - six rounds of middleweight action to warm up the crowd. He was hoping to meet Ken Phillips, the defending champ, but so far hadn't even caught a glimpse of him. When he mentioned this to Cooter, he was told that Phillips was the kind of guy who kept to himself. "He lets his fists do the talkin' son - and you should do the same."

Fifteen minutes later, just about the time Joe was tiring of Cooter's advice about the fight, a knock came on the door: "Time!"

Joe shrugged into an ill-fitting cotton robe of unknown provenance that might have been white once upon a time (he figured he shouldn't ask) and followed Cooter through the door and then out into the main hall, down an aisle where the ring slowly appeared like a desert oasis through the cloud of cigar smoke. He saw his parents as he climbed the steps beside the ring and smiled at his mother as he ducked under the ropes. Alice Barrell looked worried but Rufus looked surprisingly comfortable. Joe figured that as a former athlete himself, his dad might have been nervous for his son, but wouldn't show it. His grandfather sat beside Alice and was patting her hand while saying something Joe couldn't hear. Then Cooter appeared next to him and they watched as Mike Wilson climbed into the ring in the opposite corner.

Wilson was shorter and thicker than Joe. Cooter had told him that Wilson was about 5'8 and 155, and he looked strong. He was 25 years old and had a few fights on his resume. His record thus far wasn't impressive: 6-7-1 but he did have three knockouts, so he had at least some power. Joe rolled his head side to side and bounced on his toes. His nervous energy was off the charts and he was eager for the opening bell. At the center of the ring the referee called the fighters over and gave them both the expected spiel about the rules and a clean fight; a bunch of things Joe barely heard.

Then it was back to the corner where Cooter slipped through the ropes, said, "Nothing fancy, son. Just whup his tail so we can get back to Georgia and line up the next one." Joe was surprisingly relaxed by his trainer's confidence. He nodded, looked at Rube and nodded again as Rube said, "The nervousness will go as soon as the first punch is thrown," and then realized he had no idea where Edna was sitting. Then the bell rang. Showtime!