The cocky youngster glided toward him behind that razor-sharp left hand; darting in and out and circling to his left; jarring, his left, and effortlessly backed by a smooth fighting machine. Mike Travis was plenty good. Lean, a hard young battler, a fancypants with an unmarked face. A tanned, glistening body bouncing another step toward the championship.
Perry Walsh trailed him closely, patiently, rationing his strength, until the kid committed a technical mistake, delayed a fraction of a step in sliding out of a corner. Perry looped a whistling left hook into his body that should have dulled some of his spark, but didn't. The youngster drove needle-point lefts into his face, stinging, sneered as he spun to the left out of range, away from the ropes, back to the middle of the ring.