A Piece of Steak Page #6

"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.

• Novel

								

man. He had it in him. Only out of such rugged fibre were successful
fighters fashioned.

Sandel was reeling and staggering, but Tom King's legs were cramping
and his knuckles going back on him. Yet he steeled himself to strike the
fierce blows, every one of which brought anguish to his tortured hands.
Though now he was receiving practically no punishment, he was weakening
as rapidly as the other. His blows went home, but there was no longer
the weight behind them, and each blow was the result of a severe effort
of will. His legs were like lead, and they dragged visibly under
him; while Sandel's backers, cheered by this symptom, began calling
encouragement to their man.

King was spurred to a burst of effort. He delivered two blows in
succession--a left, a trifle too high, to the solar plexus, and a right
cross to the jaw. They were not heavy blows, yet so weak and dazed was
Sandel that he went down and lay quivering. The referee stood over him,
shouting the count of the fatal seconds in his ear. If before the tenth
second was called, he did not rise, the fight was lost. The house stood
in hushed silence. King rested on trembling legs. A mortal dizziness was
upon him, and before his eyes the sea of faces sagged and swayed, while
to his ears, as from a remote distance, came the count of the referee.
Yet he looked upon the fight as his. It was impossible that a man so
punished could rise.

Only Youth could rise, and Sandel rose. At the fourth second he rolled
over on his face and groped blindly for the ropes. By the seventh second
he had dragged himself to his knee, where he rested, his head rolling
groggily on his shoulders. As the referee cried "Nine!" Sandel stood
upright, in proper stalling position, his left arm wrapped about his
face, his right wrapped about his stomach. Thus were his vital points
guarded, while he lurched forward toward King in the hope of effecting a
clinch and gaining more time.

At the instant Sandel arose, King was at him, but the two blows he
delivered were muffled on the stalled arms. The next moment Sandel was
in the clinch and holding on desperately while the referee strove to
drag the two men apart. King helped to force himself free. He knew the
rapidity with which Youth recovered, and he knew that Sandel was his if
he could prevent that recovery. One stiff punch would do it. Sandel
was his, indubitably his. He had out-generalled him, out-fought him,
out-pointed him. Sandel reeled out of the clinch, balanced on the hair
line between defeat or survival. One good blow would topple him over
and down and out. And Tom King, in a flash of bitterness, remembered
the piece of steak and wished that he had it then behind that necessary
punch he must deliver. He nerved himself for the blow, but it was
not heavy enough nor swift enough. Sandel swayed, but did not fall,
staggering back to the ropes and holding on. King staggered after him,
and, with a pang like that of dissolution, delivered another blow.
But his body had deserted him. All that was left of him was a fighting
intelligence that was dimmed and clouded from exhaustion. The blow that
was aimed for the jaw struck no higher than the shoulder. He had willed
the blow higher, but the tired muscles had not been able to obey. And,
from the impact of the blow, Tom King himself reeled back and nearly
fell. Once again he strove. This time his punch missed altogether, and,
from absolute weakness, he fell against Sandel and clinched, holding on
to him to save himself from sinking to the floor.

King did not attempt to free himself. He had shot his bolt. He was
gone. And Youth had been served. Even in the clinch he could feel Sandel
growing stronger against him. When the referee thrust them apart, there,
before his eyes, he saw Youth recuperate. From instant to instant Sandel
grew stronger. His punches, weak and futile at first, became stiff and
accurate. Tom King's bleared eyes saw the gloved fist driving at his
jaw, and he willed to guard it by interposing his arm. He saw the
danger, willed the act; but the arm was too heavy. It seemed burdened
with a hundredweight of lead. It would not lift itself, and he strove to
lift it with his soul. Then the gloved fist landed home. He experienced
a sharp snap that was like an electric spark, and, simultaneously, the
veil of blackness enveloped him.

When he opened his eyes again he was in his corner, and he heard the
yelling of the audience like the roar of the surf at Bondi Beach. A wet
sponge was being pressed against the base of his brain, and Sid Sullivan
was blowing cold water in a refreshing spray over his face and chest.
His gloves had already been removed, and Sandel, bending over him, was
shaking his hand. He bore no ill-will toward the man who had put him
out and he returned the grip with a heartiness that made his battered
knuckles protest. Then Sandel stepped to the centre of the ring and
the audience hushed its pandemonium to hear him accept young Pronto's
challenge and offer to increase the side bet to one hundred pounds. King
looked on apathetically while his seconds mopped the streaming water
from him, dried his face, and prepared him to leave the ring. He felt
hungry. It was not the ordinary, gnawing kind, but a great faintness,
a palpitation at the pit of the stomach that communicated itself to all
his body. He remembered back into the fight to the moment when he had
Sandel swaying and tottering on the hair-line balance of defeat. Ah,
that piece of steak would have done it! He had lacked just that for
the decisive blow, and he had lost. It was all because of the piece of
steak.

His seconds were half-supporting him as they helped him through the
ropes. He tore free from them, ducked through the ropes unaided, and
leaped heavily to the floor, following on their heels as they forced a
passage for him down the crowded centre aisle. Leaving the dressing-room
for the street, in the entrance to the hall, some young fellow spoke to
him.

"W'y didn't yuh go in an' get 'im when yuh 'ad 'im?" the young fellow
asked.

"Aw, go to hell!" said Tom King, and passed down the steps to the
sidewalk.

The doors of the public-house at the corner were swinging wide, and
he saw the lights and the smiling barmaids, heard the many voices
discussing the fight and the prosperous chink of money on the bar.
Somebody called to him to have a drink. He hesitated perceptibly, then
refused and went on his way.

He had not a copper in his pocket, and the two-mile walk home seemed
very long. He was certainly getting old. Crossing the Domain, he sat
down suddenly on a bench, unnerved by the thought of the missus sitting
up for him, waiting to learn the outcome of the fight. That was harder
than any knockout, and it seemed almost impossible to face.

He felt weak and sore, and the pain of his smashed knuckles warned him
that, even if he could find a job at navvy work, it would be a week
before he could grip a pick handle or a shovel. The hunger palpitation
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