The Eye of the Goose
The way you found out that you were challenged directly by Bob Foster was one night when you were making a small pizza in your kitchen. It was a test dinner for future dates with Carrie as while you had more than enough money to take her out to the fanciest and most high class restaurants regularly, you wanted to show her your love through cooking and make her meals born from your work and love. It was part of how your parents fell in love, with your mom always happy to tell stories of how dad would take simple and cheap ingredients from the market and turn them into Irish masterpieces for romantic nights.
While you were in the kitchen you had on the nightly CBS news playing in the nearby living room tv, more white noise to pass the time and loneliness. You had phased out reports of the ongoing Watergate scandal which dominated the American news cycle for weeks, and then had your attention shifted straight to the TV when you heard Walter Cronkite utter your name,
"And in tonight's news for the sports world, Light Heavyweight champion and frequent crossover contender for the Heavyweight class Bob Foster has issued a rare invitation to take his champion's belt. While not unheard of for champion boxers, what is very surprising is the recipient of the challenge, rising actor Bruce O'Brian of MASH and just recently, American Graffiti fame."
Stunned, you dropped the pizza dough you had been spinning and leapt into the living room to turn the volume up to maximum, catching a cutaway to a press conference that Bob and his team were hosting in Albuquerque.
"-Recently I've been met with a severe drought of challenges in the LIght Heavyweight division. Everyone from my generation I've whooped their butts or they threw in the towel. I need some new blood, fresh meat to give me some real competition to keep my game at its best. Bruce O'Brian happens to fit into that category, and to be real, how often is it you get to fight a Hollywood guy who does his own stuntwork?" Bob Foster himself said.
You sat in front of the television completely frozen in shock. The George Foreman offer had been an incredible shock, but at the end of the day your suspicions were correct in that it was mainly a publicity stunt and his team didn't even know your correct weight. But Foster was issuing a direct challenge for his belt, he knew your skills and was being completely serious. Just a couple months before you had been facing off against California's elite, your most exotic opponent being a guy from Florida. Now you were issued a direct challenge by Bob Foster, a man regarded as a living legend and who just a year ago squared off against Muhammad Ali, giving him a few beatings and lasting eight rounds and seven knockdowns. How the hell could you compete with that?
You might have been frozen in paralysis were it not for the ringing of your telephone, with a moving shake of your hand, you picked up the line. "Hello?" You croaked out.
"Bruce O'Brian? My name is Doug Evers, I'm Bob's Manager. I take it that you saw the challenge just now?"
"Yeah." You say a bit dumbly, the events still overwhelming you.
"I understand you got most likely a million questions going on right now, and a phone call won't do either of us justice. I'll be in LA tomorrow, let's meet for a late lunch at Saul's Diner on 9th street at 2 sharp. I'll explain everything there." Without waiting for confirmation, Doug hung up, leaving you to comprehend just how much of a jump you just made in your boxing career.
After an okay night's sleep and praying on the matter, you decided to reciprocate Doug's offer, if nothing else to understand why the hell Bob Foster picked you. Had it been your first major challenge, you might have just flat out refused the man, but after publicly declining a bout with George Foreman, you had to at the very least seriously consider the offer or else you'd be labeled a coward by the boxing world, someone who was only in it for the fun.
The place you met Doug was your typical greasy spoon of a local burger joint. Without any image of Doug, at first you were a bit lost, but when a very well built middle aged Black man waved you over, you had a semblance that he was your guy. After shaking hands firmly, Doug offered you to have your pick of the menu on his tab, but the only thing you were hungry for were answers.
"I'm very honored to have been sought out by Bob Foster himself, but even if he's looking for new fighters, there's got to be a dozen men across the country, and far more across the world who can give him what he wants? Why me, I never even had a match outside LA." You said.
Doug gave you a wry smile as he drank heavily from a milkshake, "Straight to business I see, I like that. Let me answer your question with a question Bruce. Name three professional boxers off the top of your head."
You didn't understand why he gave the request, but seeing no harm you answered. "George Foreman, Joe Frazier, Muhammad Ali." You said, then fought back a blush as you realized your misstep, "Oh and Bob Foster of course."
Doug gave a chuckle and waved your possible insult off, "It's quite alright, it actually proves my point. There are multiple reasons for why we are trying to set up this fight, but from a purely business and career move, you bring a lot of attention to a division that's neglected by the general public."
You were were confused at that, "What do you mean? Bob's an icon."
"Oh he is, within the boxing world to be sure. But within the general public? No one knew his name until he fought Frazier and Ali, not to mention his beatdown of that white trash Pierre. Why did it happen like that for the first two? Bob was trying to make his way into the heavyweight belt. What do the three men you listed have in common? They're Heavyweights. Whenever boxing comes up in the news, people only care about the biggest guys and anyone under 200 are nobodies for the casuals. You however, you're a star on America's Number One show and you got yourself that crazy car film that saved Elvis' soul, big fan by the way, my nieces were crazy for John Milner. You being a Light Heavyweight brings more respect and attention to our humble division. Now you aint gonna get us Lights on the same level as the Heavies overnight, but a fight like this will turn some eyes, and can set up some good foundations for future events to make fortunes and be just as glorious as the Heavy belts." Doug answered.
You frowned sourly at the answer, "So that's it, I'm just some money pot for Bob?"
"Not at all, that's just what got our business friends real excited, though some good cash never hurt nobody. Bob wasn't lying when he said that the division's been all dried up. You got plenty of up and coming talent, but none of them want to touch Bob, they think he's a Foreman killer and are too scared to spend even a single round. All the good fights from the veterans already got their asses beat or aint getting back into the ring. We need to take some risks with promising fighters, even if they aint in the top 10 or 20. My Cali friends describe you as someone hungry and eager to beat down bigger and badder fighters. I figure that someone who waged a crusade against a pillar of TV won't back down twice."
Your frown didn't entirely disappear, but you at least took some comfort that they saw you as a decent challenge for Bob, someone to keep up his skills instead of an easy set up. "Wait, isn't that Pierre guy trying to get a rematch?"
Doug let out a snarl at the mention of the South African, "He is, and while Bob wouldn't mind another go at beating the shit out of a mini Nazi, the cracker's refusing to accept unless we fight on South African soil. If we do that, we betray Nelson Mandela and legitimize Apartheid sports. We're not gonna bow down for some colonial trash, but to tell the truth, Pierre's the only proper contender who can give Bob a challenge. If Bob starts facing some tough dark horses like yourself and a few others, we kill any narrative that Bob's a coward and let the victory stand for itself."
"You say others as if you're sure you're gonna beat me, maybe I'll get a knockout and Bob will be the one wanting a rematch." You somewhat surprisingly boldly declare.
Instead of taking offense, Doug gave a lopsided grin at the boldness, "There's that Irish fire, I was starting to worry I picked the wrong actor. That leads me to the last point, and to Bob the most important, of why we want this fight. It's cause you're a White Ali."
"I'm a white what?" You ask incredulously, unsure if you heard it right.
"A White Ali, an Irish Muhammad. You're not an exact copy of him, but after seeing the tapes I can say you're the damn closest this division has to a young Muhammad Ali. Not exactly the right power, but you got the same speed that makes him a tough son of a bitch to knockdown. Bob and I saw the films, and we agree you're the closest our target list has to getting a rematch without facing Ali himself or going back into the Heavyweights, and we want to build up his record and experience before making a return next year."
Now you were left completely speechless. In your acting career, you had been compared to many stars over the past half century, but outside close family and friends no one put you on the same pedestal as the all time greats of film. Yet here was Bob Foster's manager, calling you a White Ali, a boxer who was once in a century type of material.
"You may not think you have what it takes kid, but George Foreman won Olympic Gold when he was 19, and if you last a couple rounds, that might be enough to get you that ticket punch to Montreal that you're fight dozens of our country's best for. A Belt loss goes just as far as a dozen amateur wins."
"You motivate your opponents often?" You ask, bringing a laugh out of Doug.
"Hey, I gotta book a fight somehow. The one thing you need to know about Bob is that he doesn't do handout matches. If you were just some pretty boy pansy that Bob could beat in one hit, I wouldn't be here right now. I think we have potential for a hell of a fight. You can either take your first true steps to the big leagues, or spend your days throwing pretend punches for a camera."
After some further exchange of the details of the Paris fight with conversation switching to money and media along with some talk about the latest news in the boxing world, you left the Diner having only eaten a regular cheeseburger, Doug giving you his card and requesting that they get an answer within 72 hours or they'd take it as a concession and move on to the next fighter.
Later that night, you and Carrie were in your apartment, having done little for the night besides cuddle, yourself currently lying flat on the couch, your head resting on Carrie's lap as she combed your hair with her beautifully sculpted hands. The Mary Tyler-Moore show was on the tv set, with Carrie watching some reruns to get a feel for what kind of story she'd be working with in her first role.
You wished you could have engaged in fun banter and conversations as you normally did on casual nights, maybe give her a taste of romance and flair that lighted up her life and was the least she deserved, or even be a good boyfriend and help her train for her part. Unfortunately, your mind was rather clouded with anxiety and indecision to give Carrie a good time, and rather selfishly you asked her over so you could count on her radiant presence as support through this tough decision. Carrie had frequently said that you were her lighthouse in a storm of manic-depression, and over the filming of American Graffiti you realized she was the same with your career and personal woes, even if she heavily denied or downplayed such. No matter what you were going through, just standing by her side and basking in the majestic glow of Carrie Fisher was enough to help you see that everything would be alright, with such playing right now.
"I know it's not impossible to beat him, all the great boxers rose high when they were my age and I've grown a hell of a lot since being that stupid kid who took 13 matches in a row on a weekend. My body's fully developed, I'm as strong as I've ever been, Bruce...he placed me on the right paths of mind and spirit for martial arts. He's a great fighter, one of the best, but he's stumbled recently, and he might underestimate me. Unless I'm careless, I definitely won't go down in the first round. I could easily last five, six, seven. If it goes down to it, maybe I can go the distance, even if I lose, if I go the distance they'll know I was never a joke, that I'm a serious fighter and I had my chance." You rambled, speaking a lot of nothings to Carrie with a frequent switch of confidence in victory and fear and acceptance of defeat.
"Carrie, do you think I should take it?" You ask earnestly.
Carrie smiled and shook her head, "I'm not a boxer silly, I don't know a single thing about the sport other than you gotta punch hard. Asking me for advice is like asking Todd whose going to win the Super Bowl."
"I know, but outside my parents, you're the one person who knows me the best. Whatever you say, I know it has to be true, since that's who I would be." Just as you said that fateful night, you trusted Carrie in all things. If she said that you shouldn't take it, then you wouldn't, for if Carrie said no, the reason had to be good.
Carrie sighed, and you felt a moment of fear that you had placed too much pressure before she responded, "To be honest, part of me wishes you didn't box. I hate the idea that thousands of people would pay to watch some guy beat you bloody. But, I know it's something you love and something you're really good at, stopping you would be like if you tried to stop me singing. I can't promise that you'll win, but I know that you're a fighter, and that if you got an invitation, you're worthy enough to compete." She says, then gently kisses your forehead.
"Maybe I'm not giving the right advice, but it seems to me you're worrying too much about winning and losing, or how others see you. You should be asking yourself what you want, and what's going to make you happy and fulfilled. I could have gone on the tour with mom, it would have set up a strong career in Broadway and opened up so many doors in the theater. I could have studied at London, and I'd have one of the best arts pedigrees in the world. But I wanted to star in good movies and shows, and I knew I'd be happy and fulfilled going to LA and being by your side. Whether you fight or you don't, if you do what you want and you're happy, isn't that enough?" Carrie said.
It was as if a light bulb had cartoonishly turned on in your head, as once again Carrie's light had shined brightly, and she gave you the answer you had been searching for all day. Immediately your mind went back to a quick interview you did with a reporter from the times. That the reason you boxed, was because you were doing what you loved. And the thing you loved about boxing, was facing tough opponents in the ring and coming up on top. That's what you wanted, and if you gave you're best fight and faced one of boxing's best, wouldn't that leave you happy and fulfilled, no matter how it turned out.
One deeply passionate kiss in gratitude later and your mind was decided, you were going to fight Bob Foster for the Light Heavyweight Title.
The next morning you began the first day of your training regiment to if not outright beat Foster, then at least close the gap and give one hell of a fight and perhaps go the distance. It started off with a run, one of the longest you had ever performed. Previously, you were only content with about four or five miles to get the blood pumping as well as practice your speed and dashes, now you pushed yourself to your limits with a 10 mile run, and instead of going at top speed throughout, paced yourself along with carrying some weights. This was primarily meant for Stamina, for you knew that unless Bob was far from his best or you were landing miracle shots, that you needed to be prepared to go multiple rounds, or even go the distance.
Following the run was a break and then endurance drills, focusing on building up the core to take some heavy hits with reaction balls, pushups, crunches and ball slams, since with Bob's punches you needed your body the best suit of armor to take damage, and if worst comes to worst in a loss, minimize injuries for the sake of your friends and family as well as your greater career. Finishing the training session was a mix of traditional boxing exercises for endurance and stamina. Jump rope, shadowboxing, bag punches and tire lifts.
Save for weekends and a few weekdays in between to allow for periods of rest and for your new muscles to settle in, this would be your routine for the fight with some trips to the local gyms seeing some sparring mixed in to give you a reminder of what you would be facing. The most different throughout the regiment was the long stamina exercises, changing to exercises such as long bike rides through the city or swimming through the Pacific, anything to push your body and give you the energy to fight a champion.
You could not guarantee a victory, not against a champion who has fought more powerful opponents years your senior and trained and lived their lives solely through boxing. But at the end of the day, you went beyond your limits and rose to new standards to be the best boxer you could be. No matter what happened, Bob Foster would not find himself an easy fight, for no bird was a greater menace than the goose.
