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announcing the fifth round.
Harris got underway, resumed his erratic up-and-down, right-and-left motion, and headed toward the Smile again.
It took only a few moments. Walters switched tactics, went on the offensive, drove Harris into a corner. Harris blocked the blows coming in at his ribs, saw an opening, and automatically threw his backfist again. He felt Walters draw away from him.
Walters, still in retreat, caught the backfist on his left glove, then kicked high. His foot slammed into Harris’ temple, a blast of pain as sharp and distinct as a cymbal crash from a symphony, and Harris watched through gray fog as the canvas rose up to slap him.
Cheers rolled over him. The crowd loved it. Damn them.
He got up. It took a while. The referee talked to him, and Harris didn’t understand his words. Maybe it wasn’t English. Maybe he was just concentrating too hard on staying upright to make sense of his speech.