What It's Like To Be a Pastor:
An Analogy
Pastor Jones had been slugging it out in the ring (the church) with the devil and the congregation for several years. He had been beaten badly in this current pastorate. His body and face bore the evidence that comes with stress and a river of endless criticism, verbal assaults, and threats.
But this was Sunday. Adrenaline and supernatural strength was coursing through every muscle of Rev. Jones’ body like heroin. Every seven days, a new Rev. Jones stood before his fans and his opponents. Jones’ muscles this day were rippling like blood boiling within his veins, and his strength and mass only increased with every powerful blow he delivered in his sermon. The devil had run to the center of the ring and got his feet bolted in to the floor at 11 am. The seemingly invincible oppressor who had stepped to the center of the ring with a a bulbous chest, arms of steel, and fists like sledgehammers, expecting to knock Jones comatose as he had been trying to do all week, was flagging fast and hardly able to offer any resistance to the relentless tower of strength now unleashing a wall of fists and power into him from the pulpit like a battering ram.
However, on the seventh day in the weekly cycle, things changed. The devil’s indomitable might suddenly paled before the pastor he had bullied mercilessly Monday through Saturday. The devil’s limp right hook was brushed aside and the preacher came up from the south with a right-handed upper cut that nearly knocked the face off of the devil and drove him backwards like he had been hit by a train. His head snapped back and when he hit the canvas, it sounded like someone had dropped a safe. As he fell and passed into darkness, a burst of stars exploded on the inside of his shut eyelids. The once scrawny pastor, only moments before, stood over the massive body of the Prince of Darkness and in one final spurt rained down a hail of blows like a thousand pistons, leaving the devil lifeless and without the slightest hint of movement or consciousness. For 45 minutes, Jones had been a spectacular pugilist.
The congregation sat silently without a whisper as they beheld a goliath of vigor, stamina, and righteous resolution. Not a mark was on him. In fact, the Devil never once laid a glove on him. All visible bruises, cuts, and scrapes that covered him before the bout had healed and disappeared during the one-sided assault. With the enemy completely vanquished and knocked out before them all, the stadium audience quietly stood on its feet without a word being breathed as if God had audibly thundered, "SILENCE!" It was almost a holy moment. The warrior-preacher pulled back, bounced on his feet with his hands over his head and twirled around the ring like a conqueror on the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. Sweat trickled off of his taut, youthful, chiseled, Herculean physique, a massive frame that had only formed in the last three quarters of an hour.
Yet, it was 11:59 am. The temporary benediction over the devil’s hulk had just been solemnly pronounced. The preacher was climbing between the ropes and stepping out of the ring to accept words of encouragement from his fans for the outstanding display of raw dominion. He was heading for the locker room (his office) and would then leave the stadium (the church) when he would return the following Sunday like an imperial Caesar. As he walked up the aisle past his inspired and devoted fan base, he could already feel the inexorable metamorphosis he was so accustomed to already at work within him. It just greeted him now. But it would own him by the time he closed the door to the locker room. Everything he was before 11 am was being put back in place as if the clock struck the midnight hour at Cinderella’s ball. His incredible Superman strength was ebbing from him like a minus low tide with every step he took. The bruises and cuts from the six previous encounters were reappearing on his face and arms. Timidity, doubts, fears, and uncertainty were quickly invading his mind again. As he retreated into cowering regrets, he waited for that familiar indictment that upbraided him after every bout on Sundays. His mind would prosecute him, “What have you just done and said? Where did all that come from? You are going to take heat for this.”
He felt light touches on his shoulder and listened for encouraging words from those who adored him. From the corner of his eye he mistook a hand reaching out for him as a true supporter, putting out his glove to accept his encouragement, only to hear him snarl and scream over the din of the crowd, “That was the worst fight I have ever seen in my life, you coward!” When he turned for a peek to see who it was, he swore he saw the face of the enemy he had just floored glare back. He took another quick glimpse back at the ring. No, the Devil was still down and not coming around yet.
Relief welcomed him when the locker room door slammed behind him. He stepped into the shower and knew from past experience that he only had a few moments left before he would slink back into a funk like Cinderella in her empty room at her step-mother’s prison. The invincible strength and superiority he had commanded just moments ago would disappear just like the magnificent pumpkin coach, the brawny steeds, the coach doorman, the dress and tiara. Everything would be as it had been before, just as if the clock had struck midnight. All his boldness, courage, invincibility, the amazing body, the fearlessness, the power of mind and will would all evaporate as quickly as it had come. Like the secretions of an adrenaline gland, it would all withdraw to where it had come from. That incredible religious Hyde that stalked the ring hurling the Devil into the ropes like a rag doll and sinking his fists into his putty body during the last hour would change back into just another common, ordinary Jekyll of a pastor liable to all kinds of bullying, torture, and insecurities for the next six days at the hands of the fiend he left lying on the floor inside the ring.
That was because the Devil was not dead. He was dazed. He was rendered ineffectual for a brief time by a force that was beyond the capability of a mortal man. But the Devil would soon recover and spring off the arena floor – as he always did – just like a Michael Myers resurrection and inflate again into a terrible, relentless striker-machine during the next week, taking revenge on the preacher for the trouncing he had just withstood.
In fact, Jones turned quickly in the privacy of his office when he heard the door knob turn. Standing there without a word and just a half smile, the Devil walked in.
A little later today and tomorrow morning for sure, the man who had stepped out of the ring on Sunday as the most powerful being in the building without any opposition, would meekly take his place once again in the center of the ring and lock horns with Hell's Raging Bull. In spite of Sunday, the Devil would be back in true form. He would look like he had been lifting weights and exercising for a thousand years. He would bound out of his corner welcoming the pleasure of standing face to face with Jones again. Both of them would submit to the daily rhythm of having their feet screwed into the floor of the boxing ring just inches from each other for six more private rounds without all the crowds this time. For six days, they would wage war by slugging away at each other, taking turns trying to knock each other's brains out. No one would be there as they beat the living hell out of each other.
This time, however, the mighty spiritual power house on Sunday morning would morph into the ninety pound weakling with narrow shoulders, a caved in chest, and over-sized trunks cinched tightly around his bony hips. His pencil-thin legs would drop like threads from a pair of drawers. Huge gloves that looked like anvils tied to his wrists would hang like weights off of his hands and give the impression he could hardly lift them. As they both loosened up waiting for the bell, the devil would hover over the frail frame of the preacher and glare down at him with hate in his yellow eyes as cloud of demons surrounding him cackled with anticipation and coaxed to him to work Jones over in the body and wait till he was at his most vulnerable before unmercifully trying to tear his head off and make his face almost unrecognizable, dropping him to his bloody knees nearly senseless and completely helpless. The preacher looked down at the floor and sighed. He knew what was coming. It always did.
When the bell rang, regardless of what day or hour it was, excluding that one time period on Sundays when Jones owned the Coliseum floor, the Devil emptied a barrage of hate and loathing on the little man who weakly lifted his gloves to shelter himself from the overwhelming onslaught. The crushing blows poured in non-stop. The Devil's combinations were nearly lethal at times. His right glove felt like he had packed it with a fly wheel from a tractor. Through that right hand, he delivered angry phone calls from church members who had a bone to pick or who were offended during the last fight on Sunday. Sometimes it felt like Satan was swinging construction lumber across his face with second hand comments and letters from critical fans in the arena. Hooks were served up fresh and direct like baseball bats at the end of Session, Consistory, Board, Council, and Elder meetings. Boxing kicks to the head were delivered with open vehemence at congregational meetings where anger and frustration spewed against the preacher’s measly performance on all levels. Every act and motive of his life was openly and disparagingly evaluated. Punches to his midsection cracked his ribs and bruised his kidneys, folding him over as the Devil's messengers criticized his sermons with suggestions that he needed counseling.
Stumbling forward, the Devil's rock-hard knees came up like hammers, bashing his face. It took his breath away as people reminded him of others who left the stadium in the middle of a bout because of his poor performance. Bitter insults charging that he was overpaid and should look for a new boxing arena to fight in were rapid kicks to the temple. A volley of upper cuts that opened his lip, bloodied his nose , and made him lose consciousness of where he was followed one after the other. Depression covered him like a sail. Like a boy at the end of a junior high school day, he was constantly terrorized and beaten up by the bullies in the congregation who were the Devil’s collaborators. Sanctions came left and right from the Devil's fists. There was no let up. The corner team that was supposed to cool him down, coach him, relieve his thirst, close his open cuts, keep his swollen eyes from closing, and pump him up between rounds were the Devil's corner men feigning consolation for Jones between rounds.
After weeks, months, and years of steady bouts and then miraculous recoveries, one day a mirage and pretense of relief finally appeared on the front row of the sportsplex. A boxing delegation from another city in another state with a larger stadium and more sophisticated and wealthier boxing patrons was looking for a new proven champion to come to their major city on the West Coast. Their objective was to build up the attendance in their newly constructed veritable Madison Square Gardens temple. They wanted a new star. A Golden Gloves standout when he started. A world and national contender. The best they could get. They were used to boxing professionals who were formidable prize fighters that brought the crowds to their feet and filled the stadiums. He had to have a proven, solid record of many wins - mostly by knockout - and few, if any, losses. They were searching for a man who could take a punch - yea, many punches - and knew how to stay in the ring till the end of the melee - even if it took 30 years - no matter who abused and thrashed him. He had to be able to handle his own in the ring with the greatest of them all, the one who held the title and had worn the belt for eons as the Heavy Weight Champion of the World.
Their last hope, the previous pastor-warrior was a well-known gladiator who had appeared on TV and been followed on radio for his outstanding fights. He managed to stay completely out of the Devil’s way by dancing around all over the place and continually backing up and bouncing off the ropes like they were trampolines. The crowd was spellbound by his athletic agility and how he could swing like a windmill in giant arcs and never hit anything. Those who didn't like violence and avoided what was offensive loved him. They had no idea that they had never seen a real boxing match. Neither he nor the Devil laid a hand on one another. It was more of an exhibition. He had also written popular books on boxing that no real boxer had or would ever read, but they were still best sellers nevertheless.
He was in the ring one Sunday in a real knock-down and drag out slugfest when a shapely model in a string bikini stood up and sashayed around the ring holding a sign over her head that announced Round 1. The pastor was distracted and turned his head to take a look, but not to see what round he was in. The Devil winked at the girl and then came around with a left hook that felt like he had slung a car battery. It caught the preacher right on the button, broke his teeth and jarred the mass in his brain like jelly. He was out cold before his head bounced off the deck like a bowling ball on concrete. As the count whittled down, he struggled to come around and get back on his feet, but the crowd was so angry that he had let his guard down that with savage vitriol they booed him to stay down and not get back up. Those near the ring cursed and threatened him. Many left the stadium and vowed to never come back again for another fight in that place, or any other.
It was his last fight. He retired from boxing for good shortly afterwards in spite of all his extensive special training and obvious talent. While trying to recover from his last match, he tried the car business for a while to keep up the cash flow. He tried to drop down into a lower boxing association in a smaller city into a venue where the lights weren’t so bright on him, but the boxing officials and leadership in the stadium where he lost his last fight would not renew his license. Besides, that last punch had turned his brain to mush. He had had one too many fake brawls with the Raging Bull, who tired of his false pride, and finally got close enough to deck him for good and put him away. He now sat in a private skybox with a few of his faithful admirers overlooking the arena, occasionally selling a car to one of his former fans.
In hopes that he would only have to fight the devil and not the congregation, Jones hoped against hope and accepted their call to come and fight like Mohammed Ali, Joe Frazier, and Joe Lewis combined. The fans and scouts were assured that he would book sell-outs with bigger matches in a consistently packed house. They were hoping he would appeal especially to those who were potential prospects, but not yet boxing converts. Paying for their Taj Mahal with endless wings, athletic training rooms, a mall-like atmosphere and food courts was a given unless something went wrong again. Jones had great hopes that things would be better too, maybe even easier, under the brilliant lights in the new sports center. He entered the building on the first Sunday. The crowd rose to its feet, standing in ovation. The lights were out all over the building except for where he stood. As he parted the ropes and stepped into the ring, the fanfare sounded like the days when Michael Jordan and the Bulls were introduced at their home games in the United Center in Chicago. Instead of walking out into the ring half naked in just his boxing trunks like he always did at that last arena, he was now clad in a new, black satin robe with three red stripes on each sleeve. A gold chain suspending a diamond studded cross surrounded his neck. It twinkled in the galaxy of lights over his head. Cameras flashed like stars in the Milky Way from the blackness encasing him.
As part of his new celebrity status in this premier arena of the boxing world, the promoters decided Jones needed a new title to enhance his image and attract more fans to give their cash and frequent the services available to them. Across the back of his glistening robe in gold sequins was the name “Bone-Crusher Jones.” Jones felt like the most important man on earth. He pulled the ropes. He bobbed around the ring. He punched the air with combinations, ducking and dodging. He looked in the corner diagonal to his. He was not surprised. When he moved to the new arena, so did the Devil. The same fight week after week would continue on. But it would be better here. This arena was made for boxing and boxers. There were lesser-light boxers who had been invited and hired to join the weekly lineup. They kept the rabid enthusiasts who couldn't get enough boxing actively involved in the sport. They feebly slugged away in small gyms scattered around the majestic complex in minor bouts that were scarcely attended compared to Sundays. Nor did their purse compare with his. His elevated position as the headliner in the main event in the big arena where thousands attended on boxing Sunday energized him. It inspired him to box. Boxing was a holy hour here.
He nodded and acknowledged the Devil who leered at him hatefully and contemptuously. His team restrained him from charging out of his corner across the ring before the gong sounded to finish Jones where he had left off. The Devil’s muscles flexed and undulated up and down his prodigious body like rolling pins. Though it was all familiar to Jones, something about the Devil's face made him do a double take. Like an x-ray machine, the face of every man, woman, boy, and girl that surrounded that ring morphed on the devil’s countenance momentarily and then faded one by one into someone else’s face sitting there in the building. Just like before, Jones was fighting the whole place.
Same opponent. Same crowd. Different clothes and different faces. Jones and the devil were called to the center of the ring. Men with heavy screws and ratchets scurried out into the middle of the ring like kids retrieving tennis balls at Wimbledon and bent over, bolting them to the floor within easy striking distance of each other and measured exactly for maximum impact to the gut and head. Jones felt the heat emanating from the Devil's body and could smell his fetid breath. Jones could feel himself getting stronger. His arms and legs were swelling. Jones extended his gloves. The Devil slammed down his fists on top of Jones’ hands with antipathy and revulsion.
The bell rang…
But this was Sunday. Adrenaline and supernatural strength was coursing through every muscle of Rev. Jones’ body like heroin. Every seven days, a new Rev. Jones stood before his fans and his opponents. Jones’ muscles this day were rippling like blood boiling within his veins, and his strength and mass only increased with every powerful blow he delivered in his sermon. The devil had run to the center of the ring and got his feet bolted in to the floor at 11 am. The seemingly invincible oppressor who had stepped to the center of the ring with a a bulbous chest, arms of steel, and fists like sledgehammers, expecting to knock Jones comatose as he had been trying to do all week, was flagging fast and hardly able to offer any resistance to the relentless tower of strength now unleashing a wall of fists and power into him from the pulpit like a battering ram.
However, on the seventh day in the weekly cycle, things changed. The devil’s indomitable might suddenly paled before the pastor he had bullied mercilessly Monday through Saturday. The devil’s limp right hook was brushed aside and the preacher came up from the south with a right-handed upper cut that nearly knocked the face off of the devil and drove him backwards like he had been hit by a train. His head snapped back and when he hit the canvas, it sounded like someone had dropped a safe. As he fell and passed into darkness, a burst of stars exploded on the inside of his shut eyelids. The once scrawny pastor, only moments before, stood over the massive body of the Prince of Darkness and in one final spurt rained down a hail of blows like a thousand pistons, leaving the devil lifeless and without the slightest hint of movement or consciousness. For 45 minutes, Jones had been a spectacular pugilist.
The congregation sat silently without a whisper as they beheld a goliath of vigor, stamina, and righteous resolution. Not a mark was on him. In fact, the Devil never once laid a glove on him. All visible bruises, cuts, and scrapes that covered him before the bout had healed and disappeared during the one-sided assault. With the enemy completely vanquished and knocked out before them all, the stadium audience quietly stood on its feet without a word being breathed as if God had audibly thundered, "SILENCE!" It was almost a holy moment. The warrior-preacher pulled back, bounced on his feet with his hands over his head and twirled around the ring like a conqueror on the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. Sweat trickled off of his taut, youthful, chiseled, Herculean physique, a massive frame that had only formed in the last three quarters of an hour.
Yet, it was 11:59 am. The temporary benediction over the devil’s hulk had just been solemnly pronounced. The preacher was climbing between the ropes and stepping out of the ring to accept words of encouragement from his fans for the outstanding display of raw dominion. He was heading for the locker room (his office) and would then leave the stadium (the church) when he would return the following Sunday like an imperial Caesar. As he walked up the aisle past his inspired and devoted fan base, he could already feel the inexorable metamorphosis he was so accustomed to already at work within him. It just greeted him now. But it would own him by the time he closed the door to the locker room. Everything he was before 11 am was being put back in place as if the clock struck the midnight hour at Cinderella’s ball. His incredible Superman strength was ebbing from him like a minus low tide with every step he took. The bruises and cuts from the six previous encounters were reappearing on his face and arms. Timidity, doubts, fears, and uncertainty were quickly invading his mind again. As he retreated into cowering regrets, he waited for that familiar indictment that upbraided him after every bout on Sundays. His mind would prosecute him, “What have you just done and said? Where did all that come from? You are going to take heat for this.”
He felt light touches on his shoulder and listened for encouraging words from those who adored him. From the corner of his eye he mistook a hand reaching out for him as a true supporter, putting out his glove to accept his encouragement, only to hear him snarl and scream over the din of the crowd, “That was the worst fight I have ever seen in my life, you coward!” When he turned for a peek to see who it was, he swore he saw the face of the enemy he had just floored glare back. He took another quick glimpse back at the ring. No, the Devil was still down and not coming around yet.
Relief welcomed him when the locker room door slammed behind him. He stepped into the shower and knew from past experience that he only had a few moments left before he would slink back into a funk like Cinderella in her empty room at her step-mother’s prison. The invincible strength and superiority he had commanded just moments ago would disappear just like the magnificent pumpkin coach, the brawny steeds, the coach doorman, the dress and tiara. Everything would be as it had been before, just as if the clock had struck midnight. All his boldness, courage, invincibility, the amazing body, the fearlessness, the power of mind and will would all evaporate as quickly as it had come. Like the secretions of an adrenaline gland, it would all withdraw to where it had come from. That incredible religious Hyde that stalked the ring hurling the Devil into the ropes like a rag doll and sinking his fists into his putty body during the last hour would change back into just another common, ordinary Jekyll of a pastor liable to all kinds of bullying, torture, and insecurities for the next six days at the hands of the fiend he left lying on the floor inside the ring.
That was because the Devil was not dead. He was dazed. He was rendered ineffectual for a brief time by a force that was beyond the capability of a mortal man. But the Devil would soon recover and spring off the arena floor – as he always did – just like a Michael Myers resurrection and inflate again into a terrible, relentless striker-machine during the next week, taking revenge on the preacher for the trouncing he had just withstood.
In fact, Jones turned quickly in the privacy of his office when he heard the door knob turn. Standing there without a word and just a half smile, the Devil walked in.
A little later today and tomorrow morning for sure, the man who had stepped out of the ring on Sunday as the most powerful being in the building without any opposition, would meekly take his place once again in the center of the ring and lock horns with Hell's Raging Bull. In spite of Sunday, the Devil would be back in true form. He would look like he had been lifting weights and exercising for a thousand years. He would bound out of his corner welcoming the pleasure of standing face to face with Jones again. Both of them would submit to the daily rhythm of having their feet screwed into the floor of the boxing ring just inches from each other for six more private rounds without all the crowds this time. For six days, they would wage war by slugging away at each other, taking turns trying to knock each other's brains out. No one would be there as they beat the living hell out of each other.
This time, however, the mighty spiritual power house on Sunday morning would morph into the ninety pound weakling with narrow shoulders, a caved in chest, and over-sized trunks cinched tightly around his bony hips. His pencil-thin legs would drop like threads from a pair of drawers. Huge gloves that looked like anvils tied to his wrists would hang like weights off of his hands and give the impression he could hardly lift them. As they both loosened up waiting for the bell, the devil would hover over the frail frame of the preacher and glare down at him with hate in his yellow eyes as cloud of demons surrounding him cackled with anticipation and coaxed to him to work Jones over in the body and wait till he was at his most vulnerable before unmercifully trying to tear his head off and make his face almost unrecognizable, dropping him to his bloody knees nearly senseless and completely helpless. The preacher looked down at the floor and sighed. He knew what was coming. It always did.
When the bell rang, regardless of what day or hour it was, excluding that one time period on Sundays when Jones owned the Coliseum floor, the Devil emptied a barrage of hate and loathing on the little man who weakly lifted his gloves to shelter himself from the overwhelming onslaught. The crushing blows poured in non-stop. The Devil's combinations were nearly lethal at times. His right glove felt like he had packed it with a fly wheel from a tractor. Through that right hand, he delivered angry phone calls from church members who had a bone to pick or who were offended during the last fight on Sunday. Sometimes it felt like Satan was swinging construction lumber across his face with second hand comments and letters from critical fans in the arena. Hooks were served up fresh and direct like baseball bats at the end of Session, Consistory, Board, Council, and Elder meetings. Boxing kicks to the head were delivered with open vehemence at congregational meetings where anger and frustration spewed against the preacher’s measly performance on all levels. Every act and motive of his life was openly and disparagingly evaluated. Punches to his midsection cracked his ribs and bruised his kidneys, folding him over as the Devil's messengers criticized his sermons with suggestions that he needed counseling.
Stumbling forward, the Devil's rock-hard knees came up like hammers, bashing his face. It took his breath away as people reminded him of others who left the stadium in the middle of a bout because of his poor performance. Bitter insults charging that he was overpaid and should look for a new boxing arena to fight in were rapid kicks to the temple. A volley of upper cuts that opened his lip, bloodied his nose , and made him lose consciousness of where he was followed one after the other. Depression covered him like a sail. Like a boy at the end of a junior high school day, he was constantly terrorized and beaten up by the bullies in the congregation who were the Devil’s collaborators. Sanctions came left and right from the Devil's fists. There was no let up. The corner team that was supposed to cool him down, coach him, relieve his thirst, close his open cuts, keep his swollen eyes from closing, and pump him up between rounds were the Devil's corner men feigning consolation for Jones between rounds.
After weeks, months, and years of steady bouts and then miraculous recoveries, one day a mirage and pretense of relief finally appeared on the front row of the sportsplex. A boxing delegation from another city in another state with a larger stadium and more sophisticated and wealthier boxing patrons was looking for a new proven champion to come to their major city on the West Coast. Their objective was to build up the attendance in their newly constructed veritable Madison Square Gardens temple. They wanted a new star. A Golden Gloves standout when he started. A world and national contender. The best they could get. They were used to boxing professionals who were formidable prize fighters that brought the crowds to their feet and filled the stadiums. He had to have a proven, solid record of many wins - mostly by knockout - and few, if any, losses. They were searching for a man who could take a punch - yea, many punches - and knew how to stay in the ring till the end of the melee - even if it took 30 years - no matter who abused and thrashed him. He had to be able to handle his own in the ring with the greatest of them all, the one who held the title and had worn the belt for eons as the Heavy Weight Champion of the World.
Their last hope, the previous pastor-warrior was a well-known gladiator who had appeared on TV and been followed on radio for his outstanding fights. He managed to stay completely out of the Devil’s way by dancing around all over the place and continually backing up and bouncing off the ropes like they were trampolines. The crowd was spellbound by his athletic agility and how he could swing like a windmill in giant arcs and never hit anything. Those who didn't like violence and avoided what was offensive loved him. They had no idea that they had never seen a real boxing match. Neither he nor the Devil laid a hand on one another. It was more of an exhibition. He had also written popular books on boxing that no real boxer had or would ever read, but they were still best sellers nevertheless.
He was in the ring one Sunday in a real knock-down and drag out slugfest when a shapely model in a string bikini stood up and sashayed around the ring holding a sign over her head that announced Round 1. The pastor was distracted and turned his head to take a look, but not to see what round he was in. The Devil winked at the girl and then came around with a left hook that felt like he had slung a car battery. It caught the preacher right on the button, broke his teeth and jarred the mass in his brain like jelly. He was out cold before his head bounced off the deck like a bowling ball on concrete. As the count whittled down, he struggled to come around and get back on his feet, but the crowd was so angry that he had let his guard down that with savage vitriol they booed him to stay down and not get back up. Those near the ring cursed and threatened him. Many left the stadium and vowed to never come back again for another fight in that place, or any other.
It was his last fight. He retired from boxing for good shortly afterwards in spite of all his extensive special training and obvious talent. While trying to recover from his last match, he tried the car business for a while to keep up the cash flow. He tried to drop down into a lower boxing association in a smaller city into a venue where the lights weren’t so bright on him, but the boxing officials and leadership in the stadium where he lost his last fight would not renew his license. Besides, that last punch had turned his brain to mush. He had had one too many fake brawls with the Raging Bull, who tired of his false pride, and finally got close enough to deck him for good and put him away. He now sat in a private skybox with a few of his faithful admirers overlooking the arena, occasionally selling a car to one of his former fans.
In hopes that he would only have to fight the devil and not the congregation, Jones hoped against hope and accepted their call to come and fight like Mohammed Ali, Joe Frazier, and Joe Lewis combined. The fans and scouts were assured that he would book sell-outs with bigger matches in a consistently packed house. They were hoping he would appeal especially to those who were potential prospects, but not yet boxing converts. Paying for their Taj Mahal with endless wings, athletic training rooms, a mall-like atmosphere and food courts was a given unless something went wrong again. Jones had great hopes that things would be better too, maybe even easier, under the brilliant lights in the new sports center. He entered the building on the first Sunday. The crowd rose to its feet, standing in ovation. The lights were out all over the building except for where he stood. As he parted the ropes and stepped into the ring, the fanfare sounded like the days when Michael Jordan and the Bulls were introduced at their home games in the United Center in Chicago. Instead of walking out into the ring half naked in just his boxing trunks like he always did at that last arena, he was now clad in a new, black satin robe with three red stripes on each sleeve. A gold chain suspending a diamond studded cross surrounded his neck. It twinkled in the galaxy of lights over his head. Cameras flashed like stars in the Milky Way from the blackness encasing him.
As part of his new celebrity status in this premier arena of the boxing world, the promoters decided Jones needed a new title to enhance his image and attract more fans to give their cash and frequent the services available to them. Across the back of his glistening robe in gold sequins was the name “Bone-Crusher Jones.” Jones felt like the most important man on earth. He pulled the ropes. He bobbed around the ring. He punched the air with combinations, ducking and dodging. He looked in the corner diagonal to his. He was not surprised. When he moved to the new arena, so did the Devil. The same fight week after week would continue on. But it would be better here. This arena was made for boxing and boxers. There were lesser-light boxers who had been invited and hired to join the weekly lineup. They kept the rabid enthusiasts who couldn't get enough boxing actively involved in the sport. They feebly slugged away in small gyms scattered around the majestic complex in minor bouts that were scarcely attended compared to Sundays. Nor did their purse compare with his. His elevated position as the headliner in the main event in the big arena where thousands attended on boxing Sunday energized him. It inspired him to box. Boxing was a holy hour here.
He nodded and acknowledged the Devil who leered at him hatefully and contemptuously. His team restrained him from charging out of his corner across the ring before the gong sounded to finish Jones where he had left off. The Devil’s muscles flexed and undulated up and down his prodigious body like rolling pins. Though it was all familiar to Jones, something about the Devil's face made him do a double take. Like an x-ray machine, the face of every man, woman, boy, and girl that surrounded that ring morphed on the devil’s countenance momentarily and then faded one by one into someone else’s face sitting there in the building. Just like before, Jones was fighting the whole place.
Same opponent. Same crowd. Different clothes and different faces. Jones and the devil were called to the center of the ring. Men with heavy screws and ratchets scurried out into the middle of the ring like kids retrieving tennis balls at Wimbledon and bent over, bolting them to the floor within easy striking distance of each other and measured exactly for maximum impact to the gut and head. Jones felt the heat emanating from the Devil's body and could smell his fetid breath. Jones could feel himself getting stronger. His arms and legs were swelling. Jones extended his gloves. The Devil slammed down his fists on top of Jones’ hands with antipathy and revulsion.
The bell rang…