[1] Willow: sauce, en inglés {N. del T.)<<
[2] Hang up the battered gloves; Lavigne is dead. / Bold and erect he went into the dark. / The crown is withered and the crowds are fled, / The empty ring stands bare and lone - yet hark: / The ghostly roar of many a phantom throng / Floats down the dusty years, forgotten long. Hot blazed the lights above the crimson ring / Where there he reigned in his full prime, a king. / The throngs' acclaim roared up beneath their sheen / And whispered down the night: «Lavigne! Lavigne!» / Red splashed the blood and fierce the crashing blows. / Men staggered to the mat and reeling rose. / Crowns glittered there in splendour, won or lost, / And bones were shattered as the sledges crossed. Swift as a leopard, strong and fiercely lean, / Champions knew the prowess of Lavigne. / The giant dwarf Joe Walcott saw him loom / And broken, bloody, reeled before his doom. / Handler and Everhardt and rugged Burge / Saw at the last his snarling face emerge / From bloody mists that veiled their dimming sight / Ere they sank down into unlighted night. Strong men and bold, lay vanquished at his feet. / Mighty was he in triumph and defeat. / Far fade the echoes of the ringside's cheers / And all is lost in mists of dust-dead years. / Cold breaks the dawn; the East is ghastly red. / Hand up the broken gloves; Lavigne is dead. <<
[3] And Dempsey climbed into the ring and the crowd sneered. / And Carl Morris climbed into the ring and the crowd yelled, / Sock his damned jaw!» / And Dempsey hit Carl, by Hell! / And Carl hit the floor, by Hell! / And the crowd yelled, «You're the boy Jack!»<<
[4] All the crowd / Meek and proud / Yellin' loud / «Knock him out!» / Queer, / How clear / I hear / Every shout. / Sure, show! / Let 'em know / Every blow / Every clout. / First a left, / All my heft, / His guard's reft, / Great fun. / Then a right, / Full might. / My fight. / I've won.<<
[5] Over the place the lights go out, / Except for the cluster above the ring; / The crowd begins to thunder and shout; / At the tap of the gong I whirl and spring. / And I hear the snarl of my chargin' foe, / The Cobra Kid from Old Mexico. / And the ropes ain't there, and the crowd ain't there; / It's me and him, in the ring lights' glare; / Like cavemen foes in an age of stone, / On the ridge of the silent world, alone. / He ducks my lead as he surges in / And his left hook crashes against my chin, / And he shuts my eye with a roundhouse slam / That feels like the bunt of a batterin'ram. The lights are swimmin' and so is the ring; / Blind I fall in clinch and cling; / The referee grunts as he teasrs us apart, / and I ram a left in under the heart. And he batters me back across the ring - / Jab and uppercut, hook and swing - / A torrent of smashes that never slack - / I feel the ropes against my back. Hard to the head he cannonades / And I hit the mat on my shoulder-blades. / My brain's full of fog, my mouth's full of brine, / But I hear the referee countin', «Nine!» And up I reel, though my legs won't work / And the ring lights swim in a crimson murk, / The Cobra rushes, set for the spill, / Wild and wide open, blind for the kill. And desperate, reeling', I shoot my right, / The last blind blow of a losin'fight. / And my right connects and his head goes back, / Till it looks, begod, like his neck would crack./ New strength surges through every vein / And the panter wakes in my punch drunk brain. / His knees, they buckle, his white lips part / As I blast my right in under the heart. / His jaw falls slack, his eyes, they Blink, / As deep in his belly my left I sink; / Then every ounce of my beef goes in / To the right I heave to his sagging chin. The leather bursts and the hand gives way, / But it's the end of a perfect day. / He hasn't stirred at the count of ten, / The referee lifts my hand and then /1 hear the yells of the crowd again. / <<
[6] How your right thudded on my jaw. / Gad, what a punch you have! / Also that left jab / To the nose was a pippin. / The referee is counting / But I care not at all. / Presently I shall get up and / Knock you for a row of South / African pickaninnies.<<
[7] François Truchaud, encargado de la edición francesa de este relato (en Steve Costigan le champion, número 187 de la colección «Fantastique/Science-Fiction/Aventure», Éditions Néo, París, 1987) dice en una nota al pie lo siguiente: «Pasaje perdido, sin duda dos o tres páginas (¿extraviadas?) que cuentan el final del viaje, la llegada a Blue River y la explicación "combinada" montada por Joey para «torpedear» a un organizador rival de combates de lucha, ¡como el lector comprenderá fácilmente si lee las páginas siguientes». Las dos notas al pie de este cuento las tomamos de la misma obra y del mismo Truchaud (¡maestro!).<<
[8] Truchaud insiste: «Otro pasaje que falta, de un valor de una o dos páginas, sin duda, en el que se describe la continuación del combate... ¡y el K. O. de que es víctima el árbitro!».<<
[9] El original dice «Mistah John», una forma de hablar que simula el habla de los negros del Sur. Algo parecido al «Masa Reynolds» de la ínclita serie Raíces. Este relato y el siguiente, están llenos de estos modismos en su versión original. Para que el lector no se agobie leyendo la transcripción de este lenguaje, lo obviamos en su totalidad.<<