The goofy kid was perfect. Slight frame, sad eyes, a head that would make a pin giggle. Exactly what I wanted in an opening round usually filled with unknowns and unpredictables.
Who knew my opponent had an ace hidden in his rolled-up sleeves?
He dropped his sizable limbs on the table. Forearms like a lumberjack. Hands the size of catcher’s mitts.
As the ref molded our hands into a sweaty knot, I caught the sparkle in my adversary’s eye, the smile on his thin lips.
The kid knew what he was doing.
And suddenly my first-round creampuff was anything but…
The Weekday One Hundred 