First place, Prose: 'A Puncher's Chance'

Seated at a small Formica table in a sparse dining room, Ronny Felton stared at the phone resting before him. He licked his lips and reached for the phone, but his hand retreated. He clapped loudly a few times, exhorting himself to light the dark screen. "You're Ronny 'Sweet Feet' Felton! Thirty-six wins. You're the man!" The words echoed briefly off the walls, and then the room fell silent again, except for the stinging January wind outside.

Clad in red running shorts and a blue tank top, Ronny grasped the chair, slid it backwards, and stood, slowly gaining his balance to a standing posture. He ambled around the table toward the gray wall littered with pictures and plaques. He ran his fingers over a fading photograph in a cracked frame. Arms stretched skyward, face streaked with sweat, Ronny towered over his unconscious opponent. "Memphis, 2011. I dominated."

He shifted his gaze right to another photo. "San Francisco," he muttered. "I beat Jarred Moeller." Still on the scarred canvas, a body lay sprawled before a triumphant Ronny pointing downward with his red and white gloves. He closed his eyes. "London. Man, I thought I had it after Moeller. Then came Garcia." He remembered again the crashing right and taste of blood.

Ronny turned, walking a few more steps, pausing at a tired pine hutch bursting with highlights. He reached for a photo album. Some nights he narrated the clippings to his audience of none. He stroked his stubbly chin. Not tonight. He flicked his finger on a bronzed boxing glove resting against an athletic boot. The hollow twang faded quickly, and Ronny pushed the trophy backwards.

On the top shelf Ronny's eyes settled on a fading photo of a father cradling a swaddled newborn. Faces inches apart, the new parent gazed at his sleeping miracle. The surrounding frame announced, "Best Dad Ever." Ronny shook his head.

Standing again at the head of the table, his fingernail scratched the darkened phone screen. He closed his eyes trying to recall the face. There were shards of images in his brain, but no clear picture. A birthday party with a football-shaped cake. Ten burning candles. And the voice, so weak and girlish then would have no resemblance to the real thing now.

Instinctively, Ronny bobbed up and down shaking his arms and shuffling his feet and gyrated his head in a full circle, the neck muscles cracking and aching.

He stared down at the phone. The number was listed in his contacts under "Champ," although he knew it by heart. His thumb hovered over the ten numbers, and he gritted his teeth. "Ronny, you ain't never run from a fight," and he pushed the call button.

Somewhere in Indiana a phone was ringing or buzzing, and Ronny tried to imagine Jimmy in his dorm room, or maybe eating with friends. Jimmy, maybe Jim, was right now staring at the screen. Ronny stared at the phone lying prone before him. His left hand clenched in a fist and relaxed, clenched and relaxed.

After three rings, a voice answered, "Hello." It was clear, factual.

"Hi, uh, this is um, this is ..." and Ronny tapped the floor with his foot.

"I know who this is. It's Ronny. Mom told me you might call." The power surprised Ronny. "That was two weeks ago. What took you so long? You afraid?"

Ronny threw his head back, took a deep breath, and leaned his body against the chair. "Yeah, I'm a little afraid, I guess. But not so much that I couldn't dial your number." Ronny ran his fingers over his short-cropped hair.

There was a small chuckle on the other end. "That's a good one." For a moment neither spoke, each waiting for the other. "What do you want?" the voice said.

Ronny began, not knowing how far he would get into his script. "So, do you go by Jim or Jimmy?" Start small with a question.

"Neither. It's James. Mom calls me 'Jimmy,' but everyone else calls me 'James.'"

"That's good. I like that," and Ronny smiled. Maybe there was a slight warmth in the answer? In the past few weeks, Ronny had wondered if he would recognize the voice at all. He didn't. The childhood voice didn't at all resemble the man confronting him today.

"So, Ronny, what do you want? I don't hear from you for ten years, and all of a sudden you want to talk? What, now you want to be my dad? What about your precious career?"

Whatever warmth Ronny perceived was gone. The voice was jabbing, sarcastic. Ronny grasped the phone and walked to the corner of the room, resting against the firm walls. He held the phone close to his lips and spoke evenly. "James, I've made mistakes, mistakes that really hurt you. I'm sorry."

Ronny paused and glanced at the timer; the call was still alive. He heard breathing, but James said nothing. "Actually, James, I do have a request." Ronny felt the strength gathering in his legs. He stood apart from the wall and took one step, then another.

James replied, "Well? What do you want?" The words came quickly, in staccato fashion.

Ronny crossed to the center of the room. "Forgiveness." He paused. "James, you owe me nothing. I traded your childhood for my dreams. I left you and your mom and pursued my glory. It was a foolish, terrible choice." He switched the phone from his right hand to his left and rubbed his forehead. "Not only did I fall short of London, I lost what really mattered."

Ronny sat on the couch and then slowly arched backwards, lying flat now and staring at the light in the ceiling. He checked the timer again. "Forgiveness, James. I don't deserve it, and you don't have to grant it."

Ronny put his hands over his face and waited. James' voice crackled back. "You got some nerve, man. You want forgiveness from me? Really?"

"Yeah, I ..." but James cut him short.

"You know what I want?" James said. "I want a dad to help me survive my freshman year of algebra. I want to see you and mom in the bleachers watching me play football. I want you next to my hospital bed when I wake up after surgery on my wrecked left knee when I was sixteen."

Ronny squeezed his eyes shut. "James ..."

"Am I done?" James continued, his voice rising. "I want a dad to take pictures of me with my prom date, visit colleges with me and help move me into my dorm room at Purdue. I want a dad to pat me on the back and kick me in the backside. I needed you."

Ronny wanted to speak, but could only evoke a whimper.

"Good, you're still there," James railed. "I've been waiting ten years for this call, and you are not gonna deny my moment."

Ronny cleared his throat. "No, sir. Go ahead, James."

Sweating now, Ronny rose to a sitting position on the edge of the couch, his head propped on his empty palm. James continued the flurry. "Ronny, you know the worst part? You left my mom, your wife, the woman you promised to stand by. You left her to chase your stupid dream. And then you lost in San Francisco."

James laughed loudly. "Your big moment, so close to the Olympics. And you got knocked out! That was one of the happiest days of my life. Jose Garcia. I love that man!" James paused. "So, what happened since then, 'Sweet Feet'? Lost your punching power. You got old and slow, I bet. Couldn't dodge the body blows. You're working in some dive gym now? You really are a lightweight, Ronny."

On the other end of the phone, Ronny heard exhausted breathing. He tentatively stood, ran his tongue over his front teeth, and staggered back to his seat at the table. He pulled the chair across the hardwood and slumped down. "James, I'm going to go. I won't call again."

There was no response, but Ronny read the words "Call Ended," and the phone returned to his screen saver picture of young James clad in a white jersey, cradling a football. He dropped the phone on the table.

Ronny wiped his eyes and pursed his lips, then slid his hands down his cheeks, massaging the tension in his jaws. "No shame in losing, Ronny," he said aloud. "Shame woulda been if you never called." For a full minute, eyes closed, he mentally replayed the conversation, leaning forward with his fists on the table.

He first heard the buzz, then saw the light; the screen simply read "Champ." Ronny stood and tapped the green button. "James?"

"I forgive you," James said slowly in a tired voice. "For now, that's all you get."

The screen went dark before he could reply. Ronny collapsed into the chair and extended his arms skyward. He clapped his hands, pointed at the hospital picture, and whispered, "Thank you, James."