A Piece of Steak Page #3

"A Piece of Steak" is a poignant short story by Jack London that explores themes of pride, desperation, and the harsh realities of life as a struggling boxer. The narrative follows the aging fighter, Tom King, who reflects on his past glories while facing the physical decline that comes with age. As he prepares for a critical match against a younger opponent, King grapples with his fading abilities, the hunger for success, and the symbolic significance of a steak, representing both sustenance and the remnants of his former strength. Through King's struggle, London delves into the broader human condition, making a powerful statement about survival and the relentless passage of time.

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to the Gayety. A crowd of young larrikins hanging outside the door made
respectful way for him, and he heard one say to another: "That's 'im!
That's Tom King!"

Inside, on the way to his dressing-room, he encountered the secretary, a
keen-eyed, shrewd-faced young man, who shook his hand.

"How are you feelin', Tom?" he asked.

"Fit as a fiddle," King answered, though he knew that he lied, and
that if he had a quid, he would give it right there for a good piece of
steak.

When he emerged from the dressing-room, his seconds behind him, and came
down the aisle to the squared ring in the centre of the hall, a burst
of greeting and applause went up from the waiting crowd. He acknowledged
salutations right and left, though few of the faces did he know. Most
of them were the faces of kiddies unborn when he was winning his first
laurels in the squared ring. He leaped lightly to the raised platform
and ducked through the ropes to his corner, where he sat down on a
folding stool. Jack Ball, the referee, came over and shook his hand.
Ball was a broken-down pugilist who for over ten years had not entered
the ring as a principal. King was glad that he had him for referee. They
were both old uns. If he should rough it with Sandel a bit beyond the
rules, he knew Ball could be depended upon to pass it by.

Aspiring young heavyweights, one after another, were climbing into the
ring and being presented to the audience by the referee. Also, he issued
their challenges for them.

"Young Pronto," Bill announced, "from North Sydney, challenges the
winner for fifty pounds side bet."

The audience applauded, and applauded again as Sandel himself sprang
through the ropes and sat down in his corner. Tom King looked across
the ring at him curiously, for in a few minutes they would be locked
together in merciless combat, each trying with all the force of him
to knock the other into unconsciousness. But little could he see, for
Sandel, like himself, had trousers and sweater on over his ring costume.
His face was strongly handsome, crowned with a curly mop of yellow hair,
while his thick, muscular neck hinted at bodily magnificence.

Young Pronto went to one corner and then the other, shaking hands with
the principals and dropping down out of the ring. The challenges
went on. Ever Youth climbed through the ropes--Youth unknown, but
insatiable--crying out to mankind that with strength and skill it would
match issues with the winner. A few years before, in his own heyday
of invincibleness, Tom King would have been amused and bored by these
preliminaries. But now he sat fascinated, unable to shake the vision
of Youth from his eyes. Always were these youngsters rising up in the
boxing game, springing through the ropes and shouting their defiance;
and always were the old uns going down before them. They climbed to
success over the bodies of the old uns. And ever they came, more and
more youngsters--Youth unquenchable and irresistible--and ever they put
the old uns away, themselves becoming old uns and travelling the same
downward path, while behind them, ever pressing on them, was Youth
eternal--the new babies, grown lusty and dragging their elders down,
with behind them more babies to the end of time--Youth that must have
its will and that will never die.

King glanced over to the press box and nodded to Morgan, of the
Sportsman, and Corbett, of the Referee. Then he held out his hands,
while Sid Sullivan and Charley Bates, his seconds, slipped on his gloves
and laced them tight, closely watched by one of Sandel's seconds, who
first examined critically the tapes on King's knuckles. A second of his
own was in Sandel's corner, performing a like office. Sandel's trousers
were pulled off, and, as he stood up, his sweater was skinned off over
his head. And Tom King, looking, saw Youth incarnate, deep-chested,
heavy-thewed, with muscles that slipped and slid like live things under
the white satin skin. The whole body was a-crawl with life, and Tom King
knew that it was a life that had never oozed its freshness out through
the aching pores during the long fights wherein Youth paid its toll and
departed not quite so young as when it entered.

The two men advanced to meet each other, and, as the gong sounded and
the seconds clattered out of the ring with the folding stools, they
shook hands and instantly took their fighting attitudes. And instantly,
like a mechanism of steel and springs balanced on a hair trigger, Sandel
was in and out and in again, landing a left to the eyes, a right to the
ribs, ducking a counter, dancing lightly away and dancing menacingly
back again. He was swift and clever. It was a dazzling exhibition. The
house yelled its approbation. But King was not dazzled. He had fought
too many fights and too many youngsters. He knew the blows for what they
were--too quick and too deft to be dangerous. Evidently Sandel was going
to rush things from the start. It was to be expected. It was the way
of Youth, expending its splendour and excellence in wild insurgence and
furious onslaught, overwhelming opposition with its own unlimited glory
of strength and desire.

Sandel was in and out, here, there, and everywhere, light-footed and
eager-hearted, a living wonder of white flesh and stinging muscle that
wove itself into a dazzling fabric of attack, slipping and leaping like
a flying shuttle from action to action through a thousand actions, all
of them centred upon the destruction of Tom King, who stood between him
and fortune. And Tom King patiently endured. He knew his business, and
he knew Youth now that Youth was no longer his. There was nothing to do
till the other lost some of his steam, was his thought, and he grinned
to himself as he deliberately ducked so as to receive a heavy blow on
the top of his head. It was a wicked thing to do, yet eminently fair
according to the rules of the boxing game. A man was supposed to take
care of his own knuckles, and, if he insisted on hitting an opponent on
the top of the head, he did so at his own peril. King could have ducked
lower and let the blow whiz harmlessly past, but he remembered his own
early fights and how he smashed his first knuckle on the head of the
Welsh Terror. He was but playing the game. That duck had accounted for
one of Sandel's knuckles. Not that Sandel would mind it now. He would go
on, superbly regardless, hitting as hard as ever throughout the fight.
But later on, when the long ring battles had begun to tell, he would
regret that knuckle and look back and remember how he smashed it on Tom
King's head.

The first round was all Sandel's, and he had the house yelling with the
rapidity of his whirlwind rushes. He overwhelmed King with avalanches of
punches, and King did nothing. He never struck once, contenting
himself with covering up, blocking and ducking and clinching to avoid
punishment. He occasionally feinted, shook his head when the weight of
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