Johnathan Cable:
“Yes… My name is Johnathan Cable. I need to get an estimate for a job, but I require some very specific things. I believe a man of your skill and particular expertise is exactly what I need for this.
…
Well, they may seem a bit odd, but I have need of a few particular requirements for this project.
…
First, while this is technically salvaging work and not an excavation, a salvage team would do me no good at all. You see, I recently had a fire. It was a total loss on the property. The thing is that the property was my gym and my home, and the gym happened to be recognized as a Historic Landmark by the National Boxing Association. A lot of history was in that building and I need someone who can find as much of it as they can.
…
I understand the odd nature of my request… but if you could just meet me at the site and take a look at it, I could make it very much worth your while.
…
Well sir… I happen to know that you have your heart set on a new discovery in England. You believe you have found the resting place of some very important men, and you are waiting on funding for your expedition correct?
…
Yes… I understand how that goes… but I don’t have to wait on anything. I can fund your trip by myself and I can sign the check today… IF… you can do what I ask of you.
…
That sounds good. I will have my assistant send over all of the info for the site. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.
…
Thank you for your time. Goodbye.”
of the rooftop, and below us we see a twisted brick building, charred beyond repair, the bricks of the old walls tumbling down into the piles of ash and soot. The broken bricks and splintered, charred fragments of what used to be beloved furniture or trinkets, now is nothing more than soot covered garbage. The wreckage of Johnathan Cable’s home, the Historical Monument, the gym where literally thousands of world renown superstars across the board in all manners of combat sports have trained to become the fighters that they are, the place where John’s ONLY fond memories in life took place… all twisted and mangled… laying at odd angles to each other piece… covered by greasy, black, sooty, resin.]
[The camera pans across the forlorn scene, and we see several of what used to be the antique weight machines, the metal once gleaming and nearly undamaged by the years, now stained a dark blue purple from the intense heat of the blaze that melted hundreds of lives with it’s very touch. The seats are gone, burned away in the rage of the fire, their ancient leather covers shriveled and charred, turned to ashes now that have blown away to farther, far more happy places, on the winds that whip ashes up into tiny tornadoes and drop them back down again among the rubble.]
[We see too, three standing ring posts, once shining black steel, reduced to charred remains, blackened rings and bolts hanging from each of the connections where the blue leather wrapped ropes once were. They jut out of the ruins of the gym like sentinels, refusing to topple over, and standing in eager defiance of the tragedy that happened here, looking down upon their fallen comrade that we can see sticking out at an odd angle from beneath piles of debris. Even the ring feels the bitter bite of loss, as we look for any traces of its remnants aside from the three ring posts and a handful of charred metal hardware, standing silently by mourning the loss of the fourth to the hatred of one man.]
[The camera pans across the tragic scene slowly, and we see, sitting on what remains of the twisted stair case that once led to his home above the gym, Johnathan Cable. He has his head bowed, his back rolled forward in what must not be a comfortable position, and his hands are resting on his knees stretched out before him. He is wearing a plain gray tee shirt streaked in black grime, and a pair of plain blue jeans nearly covered in the ‘blood’ of his home. He is wearing his black mask, and a pair of black work boots. As the camera pans closer, we see his shoulders quiver, and he reaches up to wipe a stream of tears from his face. Loss. Anger. Hatred. John looks up slowly as the camera approaches him, and tries to speak, but nothing comes out of his mouth. The words choke in his throat. The anguish of this all seems to be far too much… and really who can blame him? In one weeks’ time, John has lost everything that was important to him in his life. He wipes more tears from behind his mask, and attempts to begin again. This time, his voice, unusually horse and grating, floats over the charred remains of his life to our ears.]
Johnathan Cable:
“Karl… you have gone too far.”
[Johnathan stands slowly, his knees shaking as he does so. He steadies himself on a twisted bit of metal sticking out of the pile of burned broken bricks, and looks around what used to be his gym, and his home. John tries to soak in the sheer enormity of it all.]
Johnathan Cable:
“Do you have any idea at the number of people you have touched with this Karl? Can you even imagine the sheer amount of history of the beginnings of our industry that you have just destroyed? Did you know that within these walls were housed some of the earliest memorabilia for our profession, that’s your profession, my profession, and that of every other fighter worldwide? Do you even care that you just decimated decades of history? The men who built this place… were pioneers of our sport… and you have reduced all that they, and everyone since them has worked for… to a ruined pile of ashes, twisted metal, and charred bricks. This place… Karl… while being my home, was more than that to hundreds of thousands of people throughout the years, and you… you selfish morally debased prick… have taken it upon yourself to destroy that which millions have worked to build.”
[John kicks a chunk of broken brick across the rubble field, and it smashes to dust against the jagged section of what remains of one wall. He flings his hands out to his sides, stretching his arms wide, his palms upturned, and spins slowly around taking in the destruction all around him. His mind races with the amount of destruction caused by one man throwing a tantrum.]
Johnathan Cable:
“But seriously though… Karl… all of THIS, just for me? I mean really… I am FLATTERED! No… seriously, Karl. I’m not Slater. Sarcasm was not intended there buddy… in fact… I quite meant it. I am really FLATTERED. I mean look here Karl… look around me…”
[John continues to spins slowly around on top of a pile of ashes and bits of the life he once knew with his arms outstretched, palms upturned.]
Johnathan Cable:
“You tout yourself as the Morality Champion of the XWF… and THIS… this is how you prove your moral superiority? Obviously… I pissed you off so much that you turned your back on every ounce of your purpose, just to get back at me. You told the entire XWF Universe that you were here to show us what good, morally upstanding, boring old cardboard cutouts of you could make this company into. You came out and tried to brag to the whole planet that you were a morally superior Superstar in all respects, and that you would show us all what life could be like if we followed your morally righteous ways. And then… once you set yourself up around here to show us all what it was like to be just like you, and be righteous… you went and turned your back on every fiber of your being and took a Venom style **** on any morals you ever had, and for what? A European Title that doesn’t belong to you? To be a ‘Champion’ in the company that you never deserved to have dropped in your lap? To gain a fan base that are as demented as THAT GUY and will cheer for anyone, regardless of how upstanding they are or how many lies they tell? Was it to destroy the headquarters of a company that helps millions of people eat every day? Or maybe to bring to dust a company that furthers scientific discoveries that can save lives by the millions? Or Karl, did you turn your back on everything you ever wanted to be just for ME? Did you cast aside your Morality Ideals just because I angered you Karl? Again… I am seriously flattered, but I don’t think that was it really. I mean… I hope that you didn’t give up your entire life’s work JUST because of me. Or… God forbid… you gave it all up JUST for the European Championship. Now THAT would be a tragedy.”
[John tilts his head to the side and puts on his best ‘Standing Thinker’ pose, looking quizzically at the camera.]
Johnathan Cable:
“What’s that, Karl? Why, oh why, would THAT be a tragedy? I mean… you DID get the XWF European Championship HANDED to you by Randall Cross on the world stage! I bet you are standing on the mountain tops with your pride of lions and your gaggle of geese saying now that your soul was a fair trade for the prestige of being the first EVER XWF European Champion? You scream to the heavens of your defiance, and know deep down in your soul-less heart that it was all worth it? Well Karl Cross… I hope it WAS all worth it merely to keep MY European Title warm for me until Monday. THAT is really the tragedy here. The fact that you gave it all up for a ONE WEEK TITLE REIGN is the REAL TRAGEDY. I hate to see a person go back on their principles for nothing… and that is what you did Karl. You gave up everything you were to hang your entire career on a hunk of gold that you won’t even be able to call your own longer than seven days. Now THAT… that is the REAL tragedy here."
[Jonathan lowers his arms, and crouches down to the ashes at his feet. He reaches his hand down into the rubble, and picks up one of the few bricks that are actually whole, unscathed, and intact. He turns it slowly in his hands, studying the sides of it. He runs his fingertips over the red, dirty surface of the antique brick made in a time when men were better than they are now. He looks it over carefully, and without ever looking up to the camera, he begins again, lost in his own thought about the brick.]
Johnathan Cable:
“I remember the day I first came here.”
[The scene shimmers and fades to black. The screen waves as if a massive heat were placed under it, the air shimmering in our sight. It fades back in to a shot of the gym, what can only be ages ago, the white paint crisp and clean and new. The door is firmly in place against the white brick, not banging against the frame in the slight breeze, the wooden screen door a matching crisp white of fresh paint. A van pulls up into the drive way in the alley behind the gym, and a short middle aged blonde woman climbs out of the driver’s seat, and makes her way around to the back passenger door. As soon as she opens the door, a young boy with blonde hair shoves it into her, knocking her to the pavement, and takes off down the alleyway towards the street not far away. His legs are pumping as fast as they will carry him, and his arms are flying forward and back propelling him faster and faster. He can taste the freedom on his lips, as it creeps across his tongue and down his throat. It is the sweetest thing he has ever tasted, and now, turning back has faded as an option for him. There is danger in the world, but there was one thing for certain with him: He would not be held prisoner by another foster mom or dad and kept like a house slave. He was no one’s property, and there was no way he was going to go back once he made it to the end of that alley. He would make a break for it, and disappear in the throngs of people in the busy city streets. No… he didn’t have anywhere to go, and he had not a single bite of food to eat, but freedom was more important to him than life right now. There was no way he would remain a ward of the state one more day.]
[As the boy ran, he grew closer and closer to the elusive freedom that he yearned for. Then, far too late, he saw him. A man, small in stature and thin of frame, dressed in a simple cotton robe like you imagined to see a monk of the Mountains wearing, stepped lightly into the center of the mouth of the alleyway. He was quick. He was far faster than his age belied him to be. The grey hairs stuck out at wild angles on the sides of his head, and the top of his scalp gleamed in the sunlight. He was a bit stooped shouldered, and his spine was bent forward just a hair. His legs stuck out at a strange angle when he stood that bowed his knees out to his sides. He peered at the boy barreling headlong down they alleyway at him over a pair of fairly think glasses, and placed his hands on his hips. The boy tried to skid to a halt, but it was too late. His trajectory carried him right into the chest of the old man. The man, miraculously, didn’t even shudder as the boy hurtled into him, and bounced… backwards… ass over tea kettle… head over heels… rolling onto the concrete just short of the freedom of the open streets of Jacksonville. The old man looked down at the boy and smiled a very warm smile.]
Hank Winthrop:
“You must learn to stand tall and strong. When no one can move you, then you are your only master. Welcome to my home Johnathan. I offer you all that I know and am on two conditions.”
[Young Johnathan looked up to the old man terrified of him suddenly.]
John:
“Wh… What are they?”
[His voiced quivered as he lay on the pavement awaiting the man’s response.]
Hank Winthrop:
“One… you must always honor my home and hospitality. Any dishonor that you show to me or to my home will see you thrown into the streets. Understand… this is a last stop place for young men just like you. You have a long track record in your short years for causing problems, and the state has asked me to try to help you. This is the last thing they are attempting to do before they ship you off to a military academy. You either TRY to make a change to better yourself here, or they will MAKE you make a change for the better there. It is up to you.”
[Hank studied the boy intently for a moment before continuing in his stern tone of voice.]
Hank Winthrop:
“You must honor yourself, and teach yourself how to love who you are… by becoming the man you were meant to be. This place can teach you a great many things. The fact that you ran today tells me that you are not afraid, and you have a strong spirit. You refused to be… ‘owned’… am I right?”
[He pauses for a moment until John shakes his head weakly yes.]
Hank Winthrop:
“I own no one save myself. We each are only responsible for our own actions. There is never a time when you do a thing that anyone else requests of you that are not your own doings. You will respect yourself here, and learn to treat yourself as you should treat all people, and how you should expect others to treat you as well.”
[John looks back up the alleyway to the woman who is standing by the van. She shrugs her shoulders and offers no help to his plight. This is obviously his last hope, so to speak, of having some semblance of a normal life. He looks back up at the old man, a serious expression on his young face.]
John:
“OK. I get it.”
[John slowly gets to his feet as the old man approaches him.]
John:
“So… you going to give me a tour of this shit hole, or what?”
[The old man shoots a hand out faster than sight, smacking John in the side of the head, knocking him over face first on the concrete. The blow sent bursts of white light to fill John’s vision for endless moments. The pain tore through his face as he held his jaw, and worked the muscles side to side.]
Hank Winthrop:
“That is your only warning about violation of my rules. The next time, I will toss you into the street. Do not test me.”
[Hank walks steadily to greet the woman who had brought John here. The distance to the street wasn’t that great. John looked back at the old man as he scrambled to his feet. He wasn’t even looking. John thought to himself that maybe he could make it, and be free. He considered that the rules here seemed pretty simple… and while the old man was a hard ass, at least you knew what to expect from him right up front. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a warm bed and not have to sleep with one eye open night after night. Maybe… maybe he would just sleep on it tonight, and decide in the morning. It had been a while since he had eaten anyway, and well… **** it. OK. He decided that would at least see what this place was all about before he bolted. Besides, he figured, maybe there will be something inside worth taking with him or something useful he could grab for his trip to… well… wherever he ended up going, anyway.]
[The scene fades out with John making his way up to Hank who is signing papers for the woman, and handing her the clipboard.]
Johnathan Cable:
“I still remember the way the air felt inside the gym when I first walked in that day. There is something about it… damp, musty… something primal and raw… something very few places I have ever been exuded, but this gym did. You could feel something about the place just in the air as soon as you made it through the hallway. This was a place that Greatness had been forged. This was a place that great men aspired to be immortalized in legend. This was a place steeped in a history of violent tradition that few other places on the planet could match. It crept into your bones, and you could feel the eyes… all of them… staring at you… weighing your character… judging your soul worthy to enter their hallowed home.”
[The scene fades back in to the familiar front hallway of the Cable home, but lighted brightly with long florescent tube lights running the length of the ceiling here. The camera pans down the freshly painted white hallway and through the double doors at the end into a sprawling gym. The floor is covered in a thin multicolored carpet of various reds and greys and black with a splash of occasional blue. The machines are set in neat little rows just as we remember them, but every single part of them shines of high polished metal. No blemishes of rust mar the surface of any piece, and the machines are free of aging pits. The plates are painted black, and the numbers are a fine lined white, sharp in contrast to the void of the inky plates stacked one on top of another. The red leather covering of each and every seat shines in the rays of light that filter through crystal clear panes of narrow windows high above the gym floor. No scratches, or tears, or holes worn over time are present, every hand grip is freshly wrapped leather of a matching shade to the seats, and each machine is immaculate.]
[John twirls around in wonder and awe taking in all of the things held inside the dull white brick of this run down warehouse in a dingy part of downtown. As the world went on around this place, time stood still within these walls, covered in their relics of days gone by, and antiquities of an age far better than the hell we struggle through today. As people move along outside, hurrying in their daily grind, an oasis of a culture few knew anything about lay just on the other side of a brick wall away from them, and it was right under their noses… and no one even knew. The ants went marching right along, and none of them had any idea that a Legend who never built a legacy lived among them.]
[The camera pans across the gym as John makes his way around the machines to where the old beat up ring that John will one day learn his trade in sits, but pristine and new. The ropes of wrapped red leather are soft to the touch, and tightly drawn into all four corners. The black steel ring posts stand tall under the single hanging bulb shining down on the crisp taunt canvas tied down with fresh clean white ropes crisscrossing back and forth under the ring. The hardware all around the ring, from the corner bolts holding the ropes tightly three to a pole, to the pulleys stretched to their breaking point holding gleaming chains under the ring, was brand new and shined in the lighting of the bright gym. The wooden boards of bright white oak that made op the sixteen foot frame of the ring were trimmed and showed no signs of wear and tear, very nearly brand new additions to the most important thing inside John’s young life.]
Hank Winthrop:
“You will not be permitted to use these facilities until you have learned to care for the equipment… and you have shown me that you have learned how to respect yourself and others. Is that clear?”
[John looks around the gym slowly and then back to Hank.]
John:
“Yeah… I got it. What’s up there?”
[John points to the long staircase leading up the far wall of the gym to a small balcony and a single door.]
Hank Winthrop:
“That is my home, and will be your home too, as long as you can behave yourself, that is.”
[John looks up at him and really looks at him for the first time. He seemed nice enough, even though he could hit like a mule kicks, and really didn’t seem to take any **** from smart mouthed little kids.]
Johnathan Cable:
“He didn’t care that I had watched a man murder my dad. He didn’t care that I found my mom lying on the living room floor gutted like a fish. He didn’t care that not that long before that very moment; I had killed a man for the first time. He did care about how I channeled that anger. He understood why I was angry in the first place. But, as I came to find out rather quickly, he believed that things in life could not be controlled by us… for they always happened. Too many people making decisions affected other people around the world, and some more of that a ‘butterfly flaps its wings’ garbage… but the gist was simple really: We controlled what we did with ourselves, and the choices that we made every moment of our lives. Only I could choose what I would do with my life, and through that decision we empowered ourselves. We could become anything we ever dreamed of, if only we were strong enough to make our own decisions and take responsibilities for our own actions. All of my anger… all of my rage… he expected me to use it as fuel to become the great man that I was destined to be.”
[The scene fades from the past back into the present as the gleaming white walls shift to crumbling ash covered ruins of their former selves. The equipment transforms from gleaming immaculate pieces of machinery to broken heat-stained mangled lumps of twisted metal. Johnathan grows swiftly from a little boy back into the masked man we know today. He stands near the ring posts jutting straight out of the rubble, refusing to give way and fall before the might of the blaze that changed John’s life around.]
Johnathan Cable
“I’ll never forget watching those guys train that first year there. Hank wasn’t joking about not letting me use the machines, or get into the ring, or use anything, until I had learned every maintenance procedure for each piece of equipment in the entire gym. That first year was rough, and there were a couple of times that I almost got myself tossed out on my ass… but Hank forgave me, and I got better. The anger was still there over what had happened to my parents and how the State had treated me prior to landing at the gym, but it wasn’t the same after a while. I guess I kind of forgot it for the most part.”
“My life had made a serious turn for the better, and I liked it at the gym. The guys there treated me well, and I knew they respected Hank. You could see it in their faces all the time. They loved him for who he was, and not just what he had helped them do for themselves. I could see why. These men were on the edge of breaking out into the professional world of boxing, and they were more than ready with Hank Winthrop as their mentor. The boxing world had gotten wind a short while ago that Hank had taken on some students, and they all wanted to know who would be the next big thing. There were a few that were ready for the big stage, and when Hank decided to let them loose in the ring, they took the whole world by storm. It was amazing. I saw those fights from ringside… some of them at the biggest arenas in the nation… and I wanted to do it so bad I couldn’t take no for an answer.”
[The scene shimmers again, and once more we are in the familiar gym, ages ago, with things all brand new and gleaming. Hank was telling a couple of students staying late goodnight, and locking up for the evening. A teenage Johnathan stood among the machines waiting patiently for Hank to come back in. Hank came through the double doors into the gym from the hallway and stopped dead in his tracks, staring at John.]
Hank Winthrop:
“John… I told you already. I don’t think you are ready to learn to hurt anyone, because you haven’t yet learned how to help them selflessly. I will not tell you again.”
[John’s face tells the tale of dejection felt in the young boy’s heart. Hank walks to the stairs and makes his way up to the balcony, where he looks down at John still standing in the middle of the machines, his head bowed in defeat. He feels bad for the boy, but will not hand him a lethal weapon with his anger still intact, albeit muted, but there, just simmering below the surface, waiting for a chance to break free and run rampant once more. In the years he had been there by now, John had not yet shown him that he had let it all go, and could grow once more as a person willing to uplift his fellow man.]
Hank Winthrop:
“Make sure you turn off all of the lights before you come up? And don’t take too long… I have something I want to show you.”
[Hank disappears through the door to the house, and leaves John alone in the gym. He looks around longingly at all of the machines, and the ring. He walks over to the ring and runs his fingers over the red leather of the rope, a little more worn now after years of use. The white tie-down ropes are dingy now, a decade of dirt and sweat soaking into the fibers of the ropes. The canvas is no longer pristine, but it is well cared for, and no worse for the wearing. John walks slowly along the side of the ring, and lets the leather wrapped ropes slide beneath his fingers until he gets to the corner, and he wraps his hand firmly around the cold steel of the rope beneath the leather. John leans his head against the cold metal of the ring post, and closes his eyes, thinking to himself as the scene fades to black once more.]
Johnathan Cable:
“Hank caught me three times that month trying to teach myself to throw a punch as well as the guys Hank trained. I was so far off… I thought that I could learn on my own and show him one day that I could handle myself… and THAT would make it all better. He was miffed the first two times. Hank was downright pissed the last time. He came at me like a fury of myth… raining down punches… yelling at me for disobeying his rule. He told me that I could have learned everything that he knew, if only I would have just let go of the anger in my heart, and then… he stopped hitting me. He looked down at me with tears in his eyes, and he told me to get out of his gym.”
[The scene fades back in to a bleeding Johnathan lying on the floor beneath a fuming, sobbing Hank Winthrop.]
Hank Winthrop:
“Get out.”
[John looks up at him confused at first, and then terrified as the realization of what Hank was saying began to set in. John had no idea what he would do without the gym, and without Hank. He had come to love this place, and him, and considered this place the first home he had since his parents were murdered.]
John:
“No… Hank… I don…”
Hank Winthrop:
“I didn’t ask what you wanted John. You don’t seem to care what I want, so I am done caring what you want. Get your things right now and get out. You are no longer welcome here.”
[The scene fades to a montage of Johnathan leaving the gym for the last time, and wandering the streets of Jacksonville with a backpack, a duffel bag, and the clothes on his back, and nothing more that night. The montage continues to play through showing John floating from one shelter to another, in between sleeping on empty benches and under trees in neighborhood parks. We see him begging for food, and digging for it in dumpsters and trash cans in back alleys.]
Johnathan Cable:
“That was one of the hardest years of my life. Being away from the gym and away from Hank was horrible. That part was far harder for me than sleeping outside on a bench or finding food. That part was what made me cry myself to sleep at night. I understand now why he did it, but for a long time I felt like I hated him for it. What I really hated was myself. I hated that I had done that to myself, and I honestly was pissed at myself for not listening to what Hank told me to do. He had so much to offer me if I had just listened, and I thought I was never going to see him again.”
[The montage continues to play through and we see John taking less and less care of himself. He stops trying to bath, or shave, and starts to look like a dirty bum. Grime and grease coat his clothing and his hair becomes matted, and slick with dirt and oils. John reaches the bottom of the barrel, and his depression about his situation finally gets the better of him. He lays down in an alley, and just stays there. The montage fast forwards through days and nights, and still John just lays on the side of an alleyway, waiting to die. Then, one night… four days into his miserable hopes to die and be spared his anguish, three men make their way into the alleyway, and find John delirious, lying next to the building towering over them. The men approach him, murderous intentions buried deep inside their hearts. They make their way slowly towards them, and then, from the end of the alley, comes a voice out of the darkness.]
Hank Winthrop:
“You should pick on someone who can at least defend themselves.”
[The three men turn, and seeing Hank’s age, they chuckle to themselves. One of them men breaks off and turns to approach Hank. The other two continue to make their way towards the sickly Johnathan.]
Hank Winthrop:
“Your best bet tonight son is to take your two friends there and leave my boy alone. I won’t tell you again.”
[The man laughed at him, and so did the other two as they approached John lying on the ground.]
Man#1:
“And what would you say if we gut you both and take whatever you got on you , huh pops? What if that is what I got in my mind to do tonight?”
[Hank slides one foot forward, slowly, deliberately, every motion of the move calculated and precise.]
Hank Winthrop:
“I would tell you to reconsider or your agenda will get a lot shorter. You want to go home and take your friends there with you. It is safer that way for all of you.”
[The other two men heard the change in his voice from a warm warning from a father to protect his young, into something more. In a moment, from a subtle shift, Hank had become more than just some old man in an alleyway. Hank had been waiting years for something like this to test him fully, and he was ready. The years as a semi-professional boxer, and the decades after that life training new up and comers had kept Hank in the best condition around. He was older than most fighters he knew ever got, but he was spry, and strong for his age, and while he was not as fast as he had been when John first met him all those years ago, he was faster than these bums. His voice carried a joy in it… a gladness… as if he had come looking for men just like these cut throat street rats… and he was going to like what happened next. The truth was… he did. He loved every moment of the next seventeen seconds like he hadn’t reveled in a moment for the last twenty six years. He couldn’t have been more elated to be doing anything else in his life than the brutal blur of what happened to those three men that night.]
[Hank started walking calmly towards Johnathan. The first man took a step towards him as the other two turned away from John. Hank leaps into the air nearly flying at the first bum, drilling him square in the face with an open palm strike. The man’s face explodes in a misting spray of red. Hank lands softly on the ground as the man grabs his face, and Hank spins one time, launching his leg forward and cracking the guy in the back of the head, sending him sprawling in the alley muck. The other two men sprint towards Hank, determined to take down the old man who just beat the **** out of their buddy there in two strikes. Hank takes two long strides towards them, and jumps again, launching himself into the air. The men run at him, and he thrusts both of his legs forward, one to the left and one to the right, connecting both solidly into the faces of the men as the two fly under Hank. Their momentum sends them sprawling behind the old man, groaning in pain. Hank walks over to John and checks his pulse gently. He opens John’s eyelids with his fingers, then hoists him up off the ground, and drapes his arm over Hanks neck. The scene fades to black once more.]
Johnathan Cable:
“Hank saved my life that night. I didn’t know it at the time, but Hank had guys watch me all the time. There were plenty of neighborhood kids willing to do far worse to earn a couple bucks than keep an eye on some punk on the streets. He figured paying them to watch me kept them safer than dealing drugs or stabbing rival gang members. Apparently, he had to take on a few more students than normal that year, and even signed on to be a trainer for a guy headed pro real fast. He came to see me whenever he could, and one of his spotters told him I hadn’t moved in a couple of days. He had come that night to take me home, and ended up being my salvation yet again.”
[The scene fades back into the gym in the months that followed. Hank had taken John on as a student, and John took to the work load impressively. The scene shifts through Hank teach John basic striking, working a heavy bag until he hurled, jumping rope until he hurled; training to do bumps and run the ropes of the ring until he hurled, and then hurled some more.]
Johnathan Cable:
“The two years that followed that night were, by far, the most grueling of my entire life. Hank pushed me harder than he had ever pushed anyone, ever. Guys in the industry that heard about it would come by late at night just to watch me train, and comment on my progress. A few times, fight promoters came by, but Hank always threw them out on their asses. He wasn’t training a fighter. He was training his son, because that was what I wanted more than anything. I wanted to make him proud of me, and I wanted to follow in his footsteps one day, and take over the gym. I wanted to train the fighters of tomorrow, and I had the greatest teacher in the world.”
[The scene shifts again through the second year of John’s training. We see John sparring with guys, one after another. Early on, his form and technique were sloppy. He left himself wide open for strikes and submission moves all the time and it often cost him easy wins against fighter that couldn’t go to the later rounds like Johnathan could. His stamina was always his strength. By the eighth and ninth rounds in fights, John was just getting into his second wind, and the other guys, more often than not, were already gassed. Hank harped constantly on stamina winning more fights than strength and heart combined, so John did endurance training ceaselessly. His pain tolerance was mind numbing, and he could definitely go the distance. John never had a professional fight though. Not in that whole two years. As was his way it seemed, john decided his next course of action, regardless of what anyone, including Hank, thought about it. One morning over breakfast…]
John:
“Hank… I think I am ready to start booking professionally… or at least semi-pro. What do you think about getting a hold of one of those promoters that is always coming by to book me in a fight?”
[John eagerly waited for Hank’s reply, hoping that he would be excited for him, and support his decision. What actually happened next still baffles John to this day.]
Hank Winthrop:
“I don’t.
[John looks at him quizzically.]
John:
“What? What does that mean?”
[Hank turns his head slightly to talk over his shoulder to John across the kitchen from the sink.]
Hank Winthrop:
“I said… I don’t. I don’t think anything of it. I don’t think about it at all. Does that answer your question?”
[John sits stunned at the table, mouth hanging agape, shocked at the response that was nothing like the one he expected to hear.]