The Boys from Biloxi: A Legal Thriller by John Grisham

crowd every year, and when the Gulf Coast Register ran a story that featured two of the local favorites, it also listed the first-round bouts. In the 145-pound welterweight division, Hugh Malco would fight Jimmy Patterson in the opening card’s tenth bout. As always, Keith read the sports page over breakfast, and when he saw Hugh’s name, he was proud of his friend and decided to take action. At school, he organized a cheering squad and Hugh became the man of the hour, receiving far more attention than he wanted. The knot in his stomach grew tighter and he had little interest in lunch. By mid-afternoon, he was having second thoughts, which he shared with Nevin Noll.
    “It’s only natural,” Nevin said, trying to reassure him. “I vomited twice before my first fight.”
    “Gee, that makes me feel better.”
    “The butterflies will vanish the first time you get hit.”
    “What if it’s a knockout punch?”
    “Hit him first. You’ll be fine, Hugh. Just pace yourself. It’s only three rounds but it’ll seem like an hour.”
    Hugh lit a cigarette and Nevin said, “I thought I told you to quit smoking.”
    “It’s my nerves.”
    The tournament began on a Tuesday afternoon, with the finals set for Saturday night. The first bouts were novices in the lighter divisions and were uneventful. Most of the boys seemed reluctant to mix it up. By seven o’clock, the gymnasium was packed and the crowd was ready for some action. A thick layer of cigar and cigarette smoke hung not far above the ring. Vendors sold hot dogs and popcorn, and in one corner a bar offered cold beer.
    Alcohol was still illegal everywhere in the state, but it was, after all, Biloxi.
    Keith and his gang of rowdies arrived and waited excitedly for the big match. When Hugh stepped into the ring, his pals cheered wildly, making a nerve-racking experience even worse. The PA announcer introduced the fighters and the crowd roared for Hugh Malco, the obvious favorite. His opponent, Jimmy Patterson, was a skinny kid from Gulfport with only a few fans.
    Just before the bell, Hugh glanced down at the front row and smiled at his father, who was sitting next to Nevin Noll. His mother was at home, in prayer. There were no women in the crowd. Buster rubbed Vaseline on his cheeks and forehead and said, for the umpteenth time, “Go slow. Pace yourself. You’ll get him in the third round.”
    Buster knew exactly what would happen. Both novices would dance for the first minute, then one would land a punch that would start an old-fashioned street fight. It took at least five fights before the kids learned to pace themselves.
    Keith, the cheerleader, stood and started a chant: “Let’s go Hugh! Let’s go Hugh!”
    Hugh jumped to his feet, pounded his gloves together, and flashed a big, confident smile at his friends. The bell rang, the fight was on. They met in the center of the ring and bobbed a few times, sizing each other up. Jimmy Patterson was three inchestaller, with longer arms, and danced away from Hugh, keeping his distance. The long arms became a problem as he popped Hugh with some harmless left jabs. Nevin was right. Getting hit settled his nerves. Hugh kept his hands high and backed Patterson into a corner where they flailed away at each other while doing little damage. The flurry excited the crowd. The chants of “Let’s go Hugh!” drowned out all other noise. Patterson spun away and danced to the center where Hugh stalked him. Halfway through the first round, Hugh was surprised at how hard he was breathing. Damned cigarettes. Pace, pace, pace. Patterson found his rhythm and peppered him with left jabs. He was scoring points but doing little damage. Hugh was crouching and leaning in, and from the corner Buster kept yelling, “Head up! Head up!”
    Lance found it impossible to sit idly by and watch his kid in the ring. He kept yelling, “Hit him, Hugh! Hit him, Hugh!” Nevin Noll was also on the edge of his seat and yelling.
    Hugh heard nothing but