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Show Last Chance By ROY V. PRICE McClure Newspaper Syndicate. WNU Features. DAVE CLARK, of the News, tore his eyes from the gym ring long enough to ask the fat man beside him, "Well, Moe, how does the next card stack up?" Moe Nicholas, matchmaker-promoter of Nicholas Arena, stopped watching the two boxers long enough to say around his cigar, "Not so good. The boy I had lined up for Tony Amano in the semifinal broke his hand and I can't find nobody to replace him!" "Even stumblebums are hard to find nowadays," Dave was saying when he was elbowed aside by Slats Moran. "Hello, Moe," said Slats, his grin showing two gaps. "Outa liquor again?" Moe asked j derisively. "Aw, that's past. I been training three weeks. Ever since I got that wire from my boy. He's back from Saipan, wounded and sick. I gotta go to Atlanta to see 'im, Moe." "Well?" Moe grunted. "That's what I want to see you about. I can't go down there looking look-ing like a bum. I gotta have a fight." During Dave's twenty-four years of covering sports, he had heard a lot about fighters being no-goods, but he knew plenty of good men are in the game. He remembered the time, six years before, when Slats was at his peak never more than a second-rate second-rate heavy. He recalled how hard Slats had hit the bottle when the Army classified him 4-F because of a ruptured eardrum. "Why don't you try some of the smaller clubs?" Moe asked. "Look, Moe, I could get a job in a war factory but that wouldn't be enough," Slats said. "I gotta get to my boy and start 'im in the business busi-ness he's always had his heart set on. I know fighting's good for money mon-ey now and there ain't too many classy boys around; and cards ain't too easy to find. And I'm still somebody some-body to whip. I'm in shape, too." "The fans want a fight when they pay their money, and I can't draw flies with feeble old men, even in wartime," Moe said. He peeled off a ten-dollar bill and shoved it toward Slats. "This is the best I can do." "I'm no darned buml" Slats exploded, ex-ploded, shoving the money back. "All I'm asking is a chance to fight!" Dave couldn't resist; "I believe he could give Amano a run for his money." Slats' face lighted up. "Sure I can," he said, going into his famous fighting stance. "I'll flatten 'im inside in-side three rounds with the right I floored Louis with!" Moe said, "This time the semifinal semi-final winner takes all the semiwind-up semiwind-up purse and gets a chance to fight the main event on my next card. That's the only way I could get Amano. It's your last chance, Slats." Dave was looking over the crowd of nine thousand packed into Nicholas Nicho-las Arena, when the bell sounded for round one. He knew they wanted want-ed to see Amano, the new knockout sensation, stiffen somebody. Discharged Dis-charged from the Army for some minor disability, Amano had swept through the South and the Middle West by virtue of a deadly left hook. He was headed for Madison Square Garden and the big dough. Dave was not astonished to see Slats take as sound a drubbing in that first round as he'd ever seen anybody take and remain standing. Slats was jabbed dizzy. And round two was no different. Amano was muscled like a bull. He moved forward with a dark sneer on his face as he tried to herd Slats into a corner where he could club his brains out. But Slats seemed to absorb the punishment and fight back. His great experience helped. He was tall, and his face and ears carried the marks of his trade. But he could box. His long arms and round shoulders had packed an awful aw-ful wallop in his day. The swarthy Amano leaped after Slats to finish him off, but the bell ended the round. Dave watched Slats slump on the stool in his corner and he knew the fight was over. Then he saw Moe, who never seconded anybody, lean down with his head through the space between the top and second strand, and talk out of the side of his mouth into Slats' ear. Slats came out slowly. Abruptly his stance changed. His right darted dart-ed out from behind his ear. The crowd roared to its feet. Amano turned ashen and retreated. Slats pressed forward, anchored to the canvas floor like a gnarled old tree. Sharp, murderous punches whipped to Amano's jaw. Then Slals' right darted across again. As the referee's arm rose and fell for the last time over Amano, Slats made his way to his corner by holding hold-ing on to the ropes. "Moe," Dave yelled, "how'd he do it? What happened?" "I just told 'im to go out there and hit Amano with the same right he floored Louis with." "Louis! Why, he's never even fought Louis!" Dave shouted. . "Yeah, I know. The punch never existed except in his old punch-drunk punch-drunk head." |