‘Joy Rider’

 By Harry Riley

“Believe me, this is the only way to the top. We’ll spend the next six months training flat-out in a hilltop retreat, until you’re rock-hard fit, solid muscle: no diversions, wine, women or hangers-on. You think you’re good now, but this is going to be the toughest test of your life. You’ll be in the ring with a fighting mad killer, a monster, who knows the dirtiest tricks in the trade and many that aren’t.  One of his opponents has died in the ring, and two more are virtually cabbages…you wanna end like them? Well go ahead and do your own thing, but don’t believe all your adoring public tell you. I know this guy; take your eyes off him for a second in the ring and you won’t know anything more ‘till you wake up in hospital…if you’re lucky that is.”

“I laughed out loud, Smoky Joe Plymouth was the best trainer in the world and knew how to bring you down to earth with a bang, but you ignored his advice at your peril.

 I’m Sam Harker, better known as The Joy Rider, because I rampage through my fights, hell for leather and I believe my record speaks for itself, twenty-six wins in a row as a pro; eleven by straight knockouts. I’d just won my biggest fight and there was only one man left to beat for the World Cruiserweight Championship: Rocket Rodregas, the Latin Missile. Joe thought I was pure muscle and no brains but I knew a bit too about the champ.

Manuel Almos Rodregas had come up the hard way, just like me, from street fighter to contender and champion in three short years. The press reckoned he’d invented the Sickle, a variation of the Bolo – knockout punch, where you distract your opponent and then chop him down with your sideways haymaker.

Naturally I followed Smokey’s instructions to the letter and then came the big day at Madison Square Garden. It was a sell out occasion with some big names present, along with my Hall of Fame boxing hero from the fifties: Sugar Ray Robinson.

The big Nicaraguan was good, I’ll grant him that, and fast, but I was faster and my plan to end it in round nine was right on course. No matter how he tried; he couldn’t down me. Then I landed my own big punch and had him washed-up on the ropes. The light went out of his eyes and we both knew I’d won, I was the best. My fans were screaming with delight:

“Finish him, Joy Ride!” The ref moved in to break us up and I pulled away to let him fall to the canvas. That’s when he sprang back, just as I thought I had him beat, he’d suckered me good and proper. Then the crowd yelled: “Give him The Sickle, champ!”

I never knew what hit me and then it was all over. I was out for the count and rushed to hospital with Joe by my side.

In the operating theatre I couldn’t move or speak. The surgeon studied my chart and shook his head wearily, as he spoke to his team:

“Nothing much we can do for this one! Broken neck and facial injuries consistent with a car crash.”

A nurse asked my name and the surgeon replied:

“It says here, Sam Harker! Dunno much about him. I believe the friend who came with him said he’s a well-known Joy Rider. This’ll be the third one this week. They’ll never learn will they?”