Two days before the big match, Manny put an abrupt halt to Rof's training. Not a gradual reduction, but a total cessation. Rof arrived at six, expecting a rigorous session, but instead found Manny at the foot of the stairs, cradling two cups of coffee. The gym lights were dimmed, there was no equipment in sight. Manny gestured towards a stool.
"Sit," he commanded.
Rof obeyed.
"Everything you need to conquer the ring is within you," Manny stated, "trying to cram in more training in the next two days is futile. Your body needs more than forty-eight hours to adapt, all it will do is exhaust you." He took a sip from his cup. "So, we're not training today. Or tomorrow."
Rof was confused, "What do we do then?"
"Rest. Eat. Sleep like a normal person for once." Manny cradled his cup with both hands, "Spend time with your father. Reflect on why you're doing this." He glanced at Rof over his cup, "Fighters who lose touch with their purpose two days before the fight ,they end up fighting for themselves. That motivation doesn't last. It burns out."
Rof took a sip of his coffee. It was good coffee, the kind that required time and effort a far cry from the instant kind he usually gulped down on frosty mornings. As he savored the taste, he was reminded of his father's painstakingly prepared breakfast the morning after Tank. The carefully cooked eggs symbolizing an attempt at normalcy and the love embedded in that simple act.
"Silas is fighting Brecker today," Manny noted.
"Yeah." Rof was aware of the schedule. A midday event at a different venue from the main bracket. Silas had informed him in his usual nonchalant manner, as if he had already envisioned the outcome and found it satisfactory. "He'll win."
"Yes." Manny put his cup down, "Brecker is a formidable opponent. An ex-military man, disciplined, with a strong base. He would pose a threat to anyone in a standard bracket." He paused, "But against Silas, his predictability will be his downfall. Silas will figure him out by the end of the first round." He looked towards the ring, "But, there's something I want you to ponder over."
"What?"
"Victory for Silas means he might encounter Okon before you." He turned back to face Rof, "If Silas does face Okon what do you think will happen?"
Rof contemplated. He thought about Okon's ability to amplify force, about the devastating consequences of even a moderate impact. He thought about the disabled man and Okon's subsequent retirement, not due to guilt, but because he feared his own power.
"Silas is a quick reader," Rof said, slowly musing over his words, "He knows where every punch is headed. He'll dodge Okon's blows, counter early, and try to control the distance." He paused, "But if Okon manages to land even a single hit"
"Even a single hit," Manny echoed, quietly.
Rof looked at the coffee cup in his hands.
"I need to talk to Silas before his fight," Rof said.
"Yes," Manny agreed. "You do."
They drank their coffee in silence. The gym was tranquil and warm. The stationary equipment added to the serenity the motionless bags, the untouched canvas of the ring, the weights neatly stacked in their rack. A gym at rest emanates a unique grace. It's akin to a church in the interval between services.
"Manny," Rof ventured.
Manny looked at him.
"You mentioned two subjects that you monitor," Rof recalled, "Rael had given you a file on two of the twelve. Okon is one of them, isn't he?"
Manny was silent.
"Yes," he finally admitted.
"How long?"
"Four years." Manny looked at the ring, "I discovered him two years before he decided to return to the ring. He was working at a youth center in South Philadelphia, coaching kids, trying to" ,he paused, searching for the right word" restrain himself. He was striving to suppress his power by always operating at low intensity. Never exerting his full strength. Never indulging in full contact." He shook his head slowly, "A man like Okon, living life at half throttle because he doesn't trust himself at maximum power."
Rof digested this information.
"He's a good man," Rof offered. He remembered Manny's previous endorsement and now, he was more convinced of its truth.
"One of the finest I've known," Manny avowed, simply. "Which makes his circumstances all the more regrettable." He looked at Rof, "Regardless of the outcome in the ring treat him with caution. Not the caution borne out of fear, but the kind that stems from understanding and respect."
Rof nodded. He finished his coffee, stood up, and placed the empty cup on the folding table.
"Go home," Manny advised, "Spend time with your father. Come back on the day of the fight. Not before."
Rof put on his jacket, touched his cross instinctively, like an automatic reflex akin to breathing. He paused at the foot of the stairs.
"The second subject," he said, "Who's the other one you're monitoring?"
Manny looked at him. After a pause that felt like an answer in itself, he said, "That's a conversation for another time."
Rof held his gaze for a moment, then nodded and left.
Outside, Philadelphia was embracing a crisp, bright morning. He stood on the sidewalk, taking in the city. He let the city's unique noises, smells, and the peculiar texture of the place that had been his world for so long, wash over him. It felt both comfortably familiar and dauntingly vast.
He took out his phone and called Silas. Silas answered on the second ring, "Leon."
"Before your fight with Brecker today," Rof began, "Don't let thoughts of Okon distract you. Whatever calculations you've been making about the bracket put them aside until after."
"Why?"
"Because if you go into the ring preoccupied with the semi-finals, you're not fully present with Brecker. And Brecker will sense that." He paused, "But that's not the main concern."
"What's the main concern?"
"If you end up facing Okon," Rof said, "don't just rely on your ability to read him. He's not predictable. He's an anomaly. Maintain as much distance as possible, in every round." He gripped his phone, "If he lands a punch even a light one fall. Don't let your pride get in the way. Fall, let the referee count, and regain your strength before you continue."
Silence.
"You're aware of his nature," Silas said.
"I know enough."
There was a pause. Longer this time. "You're cautioning me because if I face him and get severely injured that will complicate things for you."
"I'm cautioning you because there's information you need to know, and I have it," Rof clarified. "That's the sole reason."
This time, the silence was different. Softer. The silence of acceptance.
"Thank you," Silas said. He sounded like a man who had learned the language of gratitude as a second language and was gradually mastering it.
Rof hung up and walked home. His father was on the porch again. Same chair, same feeble sunlight, but this time he was engrossed in the Bible, tracing the lines with his finger as he read.
Rof sat down on the steps.
"Ezekiel," his father said, without looking up. "I always find myself revisiting Ezekiel when things are overwhelming." He continued reading for another moment, then closed the book, keeping his finger on the page. "The valley of dry bones, are you familiar?"
"Yeah."
"God asks the prophet — can these bones live?" His father looked at him, "Not can you bring them back to life. Not will you resurrect them. Just can they? An open-ended question." He held Rof's gaze, "The prophet doesn't answer definitively. He says only you know that, Lord. That's the most honest response when confronted with something that should be dead but isn't."
Rof looked at his father. The old man returned his gaze.
"Two days," Rof said.
"Two days," his father echoed. They remained on the porch until the sun moved.