A Piece of Steak Page #4

"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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a punch landed, and moved stolidly about, never leaping or springing or
wasting an ounce of strength. Sandel must foam the froth of Youth away
before discreet Age could dare to retaliate. All King's movements were
slow and methodical, and his heavy-lidded, slow-moving eyes gave him the
appearance of being half asleep or dazed. Yet they were eyes that saw
everything, that had been trained to see everything through all his
twenty years and odd in the ring. They were eyes that did not blink
or waver before an impending blow, but that coolly saw and measured
distance.

Seated in his corner for the minute's rest at the end of the round, he
lay back with outstretched legs, his arms resting on the right angle of
the ropes, his chest and abdomen heaving frankly and deeply as he gulped
down the air driven by the towels of his seconds. He listened with
closed eyes to the voices of the house, "Why don't yeh fight, Tom?" many
were crying. "Yeh ain't afraid of 'im, are yeh?"

"Muscle-bound," he heard a man on a front seat comment. "He can't move
quicker. Two to one on Sandel, in quids."

The gong struck and the two men advanced from their corners. Sandel came
forward fully three-quarters of the distance, eager to begin again; but
King was content to advance the shorter distance. It was in line with
his policy of economy. He had not been well trained, and he had not had
enough to eat, and every step counted. Besides, he had already walked
two miles to the ringside. It was a repetition of the first round, with
Sandel attacking like a whirlwind and with the audience indignantly
demanding why King did not fight. Beyond feinting and several slowly
delivered and ineffectual blows he did nothing save block and stall
and clinch. Sandel wanted to make the pace fast, while King, out of his
wisdom, refused to accommodate him. He grinned with a certain wistful
pathos in his ring-battered countenance, and went on cherishing his
strength with the jealousy of which only Age is capable. Sandel was
Youth, and he threw his strength away with the munificent abandon of
Youth. To King belonged the ring generalship, the wisdom bred of long,
aching fights. He watched with cool eyes and head, moving slowly
and waiting for Sandel's froth to foam away. To the majority of the
onlookers it seemed as though King was hopelessly outclassed, and they
voiced their opinion in offers of three to one on Sandel. But there were
wise ones, a few, who knew King of old time, and who covered what they
considered easy money.

The third round began as usual, one-sided, with Sandel doing all the
leading, and delivering all the punishment. A half-minute had passed
when Sandel, over-confident, left an opening. King's eyes and right arm
flashed in the same instant. It was his first real blow--a hook, with
the twisted arch of the arm to make it rigid, and with all the weight
of the half-pivoted body behind it. It was like a sleepy-seeming lion
suddenly thrusting out a lightning paw. Sandel, caught on the side of
the jaw, was felled like a bullock. The audience gasped and murmured
awe-stricken applause. The man was not muscle-bound, after all, and he
could drive a blow like a trip-hammer.

Sandel was shaken. He rolled over and attempted to rise, but the sharp
yells from his seconds to take the count restrained him. He knelt on
one knee, ready to rise, and waited, while the referee stood over him,
counting the seconds loudly in his ear. At the ninth he rose in fighting
attitude, and Tom King, facing him, knew regret that the blow had
not been an inch nearer the point of the jaw. That would have been a
knock-out, and he could have carried the thirty quid home to the missus
and the kiddies.

The round continued to the end of its three minutes, Sandel for the
first time respectful of his opponent and King slow of movement and
sleepy-eyed as ever. As the round neared its close, King, warned of the
fact by sight of the seconds crouching outside ready for the spring in
through the ropes, worked the fight around to his own corner. And when
the gong struck, he sat down immediately on the waiting stool, while
Sandel had to walk all the way across the diagonal of the square to his
own corner. It was a little thing, but it was the sum of little things
that counted. Sandel was compelled to walk that many more steps, to give
up that much energy, and to lose a part of the precious minute of rest.
At the beginning of every round King loafed slowly out from his corner,
forcing his opponent to advance the greater distance. The end of every
round found the fight manoeuvred by King into his own corner so that he
could immediately sit down.

Two more rounds went by, in which King was parsimonious of effort and
Sandel prodigal. The latter's attempt to force a fast pace made King
uncomfortable, for a fair percentage of the multitudinous blows showered
upon him went home. Yet King persisted in his dogged slowness, despite
the crying of the young hot-heads for him to go in and fight. Again,
in the sixth round, Sandel was careless, again Tom King's fearful right
flashed out to the jaw, and again Sandel took the nine seconds count.

By the seventh round Sandel's pink of condition was gone, and he settled
down to what he knew was to be the hardest fight in his experience. Tom
King was an old un, but a better old un than he had ever encountered--an
old un who never lost his head, who was remarkably able at defence,
whose blows had the impact of a knotted club, and who had a knockout in
either hand. Nevertheless, Tom King dared not hit often. He never
forgot his battered knuckles, and knew that every hit must count if the
knuckles were to last out the fight. As he sat in his corner, glancing
across at his opponent, the thought came to him that the sum of
his wisdom and Sandel's youth would constitute a world's champion
heavyweight. But that was the trouble. Sandel would never become a world
champion. He lacked the wisdom, and the only way for him to get it was
to buy it with Youth; and when wisdom was his, Youth would have been
spent in buying it.

King took every advantage he knew. He never missed an opportunity to
clinch, and in effecting most of the clinches his shoulder drove stiffly
into the other's ribs. In the philosophy of the ring a shoulder was as
good as a punch so far as damage was concerned, and a great deal better
so far as concerned expenditure of effort. Also, in the clinches
King rested his weight on his opponent, and was loath to let go. This
compelled the interference of the referee, who tore them apart, always
assisted by Sandel, who had not yet learned to rest. He could not
refrain from using those glorious flying arms and writhing muscles of
his, and when the other rushed into a clinch, striking shoulder against
ribs, and with head resting under Sandel's left arm, Sandel almost
invariably swung his right behind his own back and into the projecting
face. It was a clever stroke, much admired by the audience, but it was
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