Behind Every Great Man is an Even Greater Sparring Partner
Chapter One
Delilah was hot. Everybody knows that. Had she been a dog, she would have been a gorgeous mix of Pom and Chihuahua. A Pomehuahua, with long brown hair and blonde highlights. Samson would do anything for her, even take on the mighty world champion, Sonny Liston. His track record was impressive, so far. "I am the greatest," he said, and it wasn't a brag. Not everyone could tear a lion apart like he could.
When he boarded the tour bus that day, Delilah demurred. "I've got a headache," she said, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Miss me." And she blew him a kiss.
"C'mon, let's go!" yelled Cassius, his sparring partner. Everyone was already on the bus, restless and excited, laughing at what was yet to come. They were headed to Vegas, to Liston's house, to taunt him with a megaphone and convince him to fight the newcomer, Samson. "Any fighter worth his weight can shred a lion," according to Liston. He wasn't about to waste his time on an unknown showboat.
Samson's plan was simple. Show up at Liston's house with the megaphone and belittle the guy, mercilessly. Follow him around the country, show up everywhere he was pegged to fight, and wear him down till he agreed to meet in the ring. He waved at Delilah through the open window of the bus, then he closed his eyes to visualize what it must be like to knock out a reigning world heavyweight champion.
He must’ve fallen asleep, because when he woke up, startled, the scenery was completely different and unsettling, as if to match the dream he had, in which Delilah stood over him, laughing. He was in chains, all his strength gone, and unseen voices mocking him. “What will you do now, great champion?” Samson shrugged. “Just a stupid dream.”
Several food and bathroom stops later, Samson and crew arrived in Vegas. Now, to find Sonny’s house. That part was easy, it was on one of those maps to the stars’ homes that you can buy at the gas station. But some of the boys on the bus wanted to go gamble first, and see a show, so that’s what they did, at the Tropicana, because they liked the name, and you could also park a bus there without too much trouble. “Cassius, go on ahead and see if they’ve got enough rooms for all of us tonight.”
Samson sat on the idling bus for a while before going in, savoring a moment’s solitude. “Enough of that,” he finally said, tempted by the thought of a ribeye steak you could get for a bargain just by joining The Players Club. As he entered the hotel, Cassius waved him over. Not only was Cassius his sparring partner, he was a wise friend who always had Samson’s back. “You can have two drinks max,” said Cassius. “And we spar at midnight.” Samson laughed and slapped him on the back, which you could do pretty hard with Cassius.
“Look at this place,” Samson said. Flashing lights and ringing bells, cigarette smoke, showgirls in feathers and wild costumes. Nothing like anything you’d see back home. “Maybe just one drink.”
They sat in the bar and had a drink. The waiter said “we’ll take care of you this evening, sirs.” A man walked up to Samson and said, “hey big fella, mind if I squeeze that arm?” He was a little man, with a big grin, and Samson could tell he meant no harm. People were always coming up and asking if they could squeeze his arm, just to make sure it was real. You don’t see muscles like that very often, so it’s natural to assume it must be some sort of trick. “You go right ahead,” he said, and the man reached out, stretching his hand as big as he could, and of course he couldn’t wrap his little hand around that massive arm.
“Holy Toledo!” the man exclaimed. “How is that even possible?” He sat down in the booth next to Cassius, not waiting for an invitation. “You look like you could tear this place apart. I’m surprised they let you in.” The three men swapped stories for a while, then the little man said, “come be my guests at the Copa, I’ll be playing later tonight.”
“Playing what?” asked Cassius, but the man was gone. “I swear I’ve seen that face somewhere.”
Samson nodded, but he didn’t know where. “Just one of those familiar faces. You hungry?”
“Heck yes,” said Cassius, and he called over the waiter. The waiter insisted “we’ll take care of you this evening, sirs” and refused to say why. “This town’s funny,” Cassius said, more of a thought than anything else. Samson agreed, without saying so. He was so used to everything being a setup for something else.
“Let’s go grab ourselves a ribeye.”
They left the bar and made their way through the cigarette haze to the Beau Rivage Room, suggested by the concierge who’d signed them up for The Players Club. “Best steaks in all of Vegas,” he said, whether he meant it or not. The maitre d’ seated them at one of the red booths, where the men ordered glasses of ice water to start.
“Ribeyes all around,” Samson said to the waiter. “Spinach and creamed corn on the side for me.”
“Same,” said Cassius. He was a calorie counter. He didn’t care how he got to his daily total, as long as he got there.
The men spent dinner talking strategy as it pertained to both drawing Liston into a fight and to the fight itself. When it was time to go, the waiter said, “we’ll take care of you this evening, sirs.” Samson raised his eyebrows and looked at Cassius. Cassius shrugged and said, “Players Club, I suppose.”
As they walked out of the restaurant, Samson said, “I forgot to ask about the rooms.”
“Yeah, plenty of rooms for everyone. ‘We’ll take care of you this evening, sir.’” He laughed. “Somebody wants us here.”
“Spar at midnight?” Samson asked. “You’ve got a gym arranged?”
“All set.”
“Cool. I’m going to go up to the room for a bit.”
Cassius tossed him the key to room 306. “11:45 in the lobby.”
Samson flashed him a thumbs up and made his way up to room 306.