Wrapping his hands up, ready for the showdown, Charlie Rourke, one of South Philly’s favorite son’s was a former title weight boxer whose step became a second slower than his jab.

His gnarled hands kept turning a gypsy medallion. The boss had given it to him after his first big win out in Atlantic City. Charlie wasn’t a superstitious man by nature, but there was something about the faded bronze circle that spoke to him. The raised edges of a women’s profile were worn down, but you could still make out a Mediterranean look. He wondered who she was supposed to be, besides his good luck charm.

With only two losses to his name and both coming at the hands of retired champion, Sergio Marquez, Charlie knew he had an open path to reclaiming his belt. Unless Tommy Shanahan decided to finally call his favor in. The whole community of South Philly knew Charlie Rourke only broke into the boxing scene after a generous encouragement from Tommy. As the boss of the local union, he had acquired certain political acumen, if you will.

The crowd began to grow restless in the distance. Charlie gave the medallion a kiss and tucked it in his socks. Give me some love, darling he thought as he started towards the door. One more fight and the title would be his.