Requiem For A Heavywieght

Issue #2 (of 3),

"Knock Out"

By Chuck Burke

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The skies over New York are clear as a small, private jet takes off from John F. Kennedy Airport at dawn. It climbs into the sky with its pilot and two passengers aboard.

"No breakfast on this flight, Ted. Just drinks and crackers, if you're looking for anything." The younger of the passengers rummages in a small refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of orange juice. "The corporate types who usually use this plane stock this as mixer. Even in the morning, most of them would need vodka to drink this down." Rick Tyler twists the top off, and drinks half the bottle in one gulp.

"You don't spend a lot of time working with your company, do you, Rick?" The older man, Ted Grant, pulls a bottle out of a knapsack and drinks from that. "I'll stick with my mineral water while we're flying. I never developed a stomach for it."

"I'm taking a more active role in the company now. I uncovered some illicit drug dealings going on just before the invasion, so I've decided that the only way to be sure I've gotten all of it is to run the place myself. That's why I'm going to Memphis, to check the TylerCo Pharmaceuticals plant there." The younger man sits down.

"Sure, but you could do that any time you like. I really appreciate you doing it now, so I can get to U.T. Templeton's funeral. He and Tilly have been friends since I first started boxing as a pro. He was a part of Socker Smith's stable of boxers, too. Fought bantam-weight, and even brought home a silver medal from the '36 Olympics. U.T. was one of the few who supported me when I was charged with Socker's murder."

"You were telling me about that last night. This was all before you became Wildcat, wasn't it?"

Ted takes another swig from his water bottle. "It's why I first put on a mask. I was a fugitive from justice."

"You? This story keeps getting better and better! Ted Grant, the Champ, a fugitive? But I thought you said they arrested you right after the match."

"They did. Handcuffed me, and took me down to the local precinct house. I gave my statement, then they arraigned me. Judge said I was too big, and strong, and dangerous to be allowed out, and told them to put me in the county jail until trial. But I never made it, thanks to my wonderful managers."

"They're the ones you said rigged your glove with the drugged needle, aren't they? Where were they through all this?"

"Flint and Skinner were making all kinds of claims, about how I had vowed that Socker was not going to stand in my way, and a bunch of hooey like that. Thing is, they knew that I would figure out what happened, so they tried to take me out of the picture. On the way to the county jail, they ran the police car off the road. It exploded going down the hill, and the two officers and myself were thrown out of the car. I tried to help them, but one was killed when he hit the rocks. The other one, he was in pretty rough shape. I took one look at him, and knew he wasn't gonna make it. He must have known it too. He looked up at me, and told me that he'd seen me fight before, and he figured I wouldn't have tried something like that with Smith. I tried to stop the bleeding, but he passed away before I could really do anything. Last thing he did, he dug out his keys, and told me to take it on the lam."

"And did you?"

"I unlocked the cuffs, and left them there. Then I started walking back to Gotham in the woods. Took me all night, and I spent the morning sleeping in an old garage. I woke up, and I heard a kid outside crying to his mother about a stolen comic book."

"A comic book? What's that got to do with anything?" Rick reached for another orange juice.

Ted smiles. "Everything. I heard him say that some bigger kid had taken it, and it was his only Green Lantern comic. It was funny, they had comic books about him and the Flash, and some of the other JSA members. We used to laugh about it, but it wasn't so funny that morning. It gave me the idea to put on a mask while I cleared my name."

"But how did you come up with Wildcat?"

"That came after the costume. I snuck out of the kid's yard, and found myself near a fighter's gym, like the one Smith had for our training. I slipped in there, and found some old training equipment. I got an old set of black sweat pants and a sweat shirt, a pair of black running shoes, and black bag gloves. They were light enough to wear around normally, with a bit of padding, and a weighted bar that my fingers would wrap around. I also found some sparring headgear. I never cared for those things myself, but I found some black material to drape over it to hide my face without blocking my vision."

"Sounds a lot like what you wear now."

"Well, it's all spandex with a Kevlar weave in it now, and the headpiece is a lot more refined, but yeah, it's pretty much the same. I waited there until nightfall, then made my way to Flint's house. He was packing his bags, getting ready to leave town. I slipped in, and followed him upstairs to an attic. When he turned to leave, I was standing there in the door. Let me tell you, Rick, I never saw a guy looking so scared before. I don't know what he thought I was, but he dropped to his knees and started babbling away. I hauled him up off the floor, and told him that he was going to tell his whole story to the cops, or I would come back for him. I left him tied up in his kitchen, after calling the police."

"What about the other guy?"

"I told the police to check on him, too. I knew he only lived a couple blocks away, and I got there before they did. He put up a real fight, though. I broke in through the living room window, and he pulled a gun on me. Slapped it out of his hands, and he starts ducking and weaving. He'd done some boxing himself. Didn't do him much good though. I snatched up an end table, and he punched through that. Gave him a kick to the knee, and that's about when the cops came in. He punched at my face, and I ducked back, spun around backwards, and planted an elbow in his ribs. That's when he went down. I didn't waste any time getting out after that, though. Those two officers were too confused to stop me."

"Did they confess?"

"You bet they did. Skinner told them all about it before they even got him to the station. When he saw Flint there, he figured I'd met him too. Complained about the big guy that broke in, busted up his place, and fought like a wildcat." Ted takes a long drink from his water bottle, grinning.

"So that's where the name came from?"

"That's it. Ted Grant showed up, wandering around, slightly amnesiac, the next day. The police took me in, got me fed and cleaned up, and told me that the charges were dropped. That's when I found out that U.T., Tilly, and a couple of the other boxers had gone to the district attorney demanding that I be released.

"This U.T., you stayed friends with him?"

"Oh, yeah. We toured together, and he's the one who introduced me to Hiram Skinner, who was my manager until I went down to Mexico in the 60's."

"Skinner? Any relation to..."

"No, Stretch was a southern boy, from south Georgia. Honest as the day is long, as his momma used to say. Once I got back in the ring, he and I toured all over the world together. He wasn't all too bright as a manager, but we did all right. He had ideas of being a great detective, and started his own agency. Did pretty good with that, though he had some help in the background."

"In other words, he fronted for Wildcat."

"I didn't let him know that for a long time. We worked together that way up through the early 50's, until me and the other JSA members hung up our masks. That's when I started using some of the money I'd made in the ring to set up a chain of gyms, and that's when Stretch found his true calling. Let me tell you, that boy may not have been a great fight manager, but when it came to running those gyms, I couldn't have done it without him. I wish he'd still been around when Al Pratt and I opened those fitness clubs. Al was the best friend a guy could ask for, but he didn't have a head for business any more than I did."

The pilot calls back on the intercom that there's a call for Rick. He heads to the front of the plane, and Ted settles back in his seat. His mind drifts back to the 40's, when he was in his prime both as a boxer and as Wildcat. Soon, lost in memories of working alongside the Atom and other members of the JSA, battling the likes of the Huntress and the Icicle, he drifts off to sleep.


"Ted. Wake up, guy, we're landing in Memphis."

From that time, through the end of the day, Ted Grant and Rick Tyler are in constant motion. A limo is waiting when the plane comes to a stop, and whisks them first to the Peabody Hotel to clean up and change, then to the southeast suburbs of Memphis and the home of Tilly Templeton. The house is crowded with family and well-wishers, those who knew U.T. in his boxing days, those who knew him through his work with the University of Memphis athletic program, and several Vietnamese families who he had helped settle when they emigrated to the Memphis area after the end of the Vietnam War. Ted finds himself at the center of attention, a familiar spot for him. Rick Tyler, a stranger to all present, takes over in the kitchen. He spends the day washing dishes as they are brought in, warming up dishes brought by the visitors and neighbors, and keeping a flow of beverages moving to the dining room. Twice during the day he turns to find the widow behind him, trying to figure out who he is. Each time, he leads her back out to the living room, to find Ted telling tales of his boxing days to a rapt audience.

In the evening, Ted and Rick escort Tilly to the viewing, followed by a ride at her request down along the shore of the Mississippi River. They drop her off at home, where her daughter's family is waiting for her.


The funeral goes smoothly, and U.T. Templeton is laid to rest under cloudy skies. Ted's afternoon is spent once more at the Templeton home as Rick goes to his business's drug plant. He returns in the evening, and Rick marvels that the much older Grant is the pillar on which the Templeton family leans for support through the night. It is well past midnight before they return to their hotel.

"So, what's the plan, kiddo? Flying back to New York in the morning?"

"That's what I figured, Ted. Why? Aren't you planning to go back yet?"

"I've been meaning to stop down at my place in Georgia for a while. I have to get some last things out of there before the sale is finished."

"Georgia? You have a house down there?"

"Well, the only time I ever lived there was when I was recovering from a gunshot wound in '45. It was Stretch's family's home, and when I got shot in Atlanta while on a case, he took me down to his Mom instead of to a hospital. That's when he found out about my double life."

"So how did you end up with the house?"

"When Stretch died about 10 years ago, that sealed the fate of the Skinner family. He had no kids, and neither did his sisters. His Dad had died in an accident on the farm a few years earlier, and his Mom was getting up in years. So, I bought the place, and set her and her sister up with a place at a nice retirement village in Valdosta. Always thought I might retire there."

"Nice place, heh?"

"You betcha, kid. Open farmland at the foot of some hills, a spring-fed pond on the property. That spring feeds the well, too, and that is the best water you'll ever taste. I've carried bottles of that water with me since the first time I went there, it's what I train on. Not anymore, though."

"How come you're selling?"

"Well, I ain't exactly rolling in dough anymore. After Al died, the clubs folded. I've got a comfortable spot up there at Warrior's as the resident character, but it means I have to live up there. I can use the money, and Knight Tech is building a new aircraft plant there. There's an Air Force base nearby that they can use for testing. So, I had a gross of bottles shipped there last month, and I'm going to fill them up, and ship them up to New York."

"Well, I can fly you over if you want."

Ted reaches over and puts his hand over Rick's. "Son, you've already done more than enough. I called the airline and booked a flight for tomorrow morning this afternoon." That's when Rick sees the wetness in Ted's eyes.

"Ted? What's the matter, bud?"

"What? Oh, nothing. Just thinking how lucky Rex was to have you."


The following afternoon finds Ted getting out of a rented car outside a run-down farmhouse in southern Georgia. Little had changed in the fifty-plus years since he had first stayed here. The Skinner family had been dirt poor, and it had showed. The house was sturdy, if not pretty, and Ted suspected that it could well stand for another fifty years with a little work. It wasn't to be, however.

The cases of empty bottles sit on the porch, as he had requested. From the trunk of the car, he takes a rented handcart and starts moving cases into the kitchen of the house. An hour later, with water flowing from the tap, he doesn't hear the footsteps behind him until it is almost too late.

"I knew you would come here before long! Now, be the first of the JSA to die!"

Ted spins, and throws up his arms to ward off a swung lacrosse stick. The netting of the pocket on the stick tangles in his fingers, so he pulls back with that arm while punching with the other. The figure holding the stick is drawn into the punch, which lands on the hard shell of a cycling helmet.

"Who the heck are you, bub?" Grant untangles his hand from the leather webbing, and grabs the stick in both hands. He twists, bringing his assailant's hands up in the air. His ribs, now unprotected, become the target of a roundhouse kick that knocks the air from his lungs. Ted now pulls down on the stick, and the attacker lets go. His now unoccupied hands go to his belt, and come up with what appears to be a pair of fishing lures.

"You think you're going to trap me with some fake bait? What are you, a nut case?"

"No, I'm the Sports Master, and I'm bringing you down!" The lures are flung to the floor, and a cloud of thick, choking smoke forms when they shatter.

Wildcat grabs a damp towel that he had used earlier to wipe up spilled water, and wraps it around his face. Through the smoke, he sees the masked face of the Sports Master, and he lashes out at it. He feels plastic shatter under the force of the blow, and his hand connects with the face underneath. Instead of pulling back, he swings his extended arm down, pulling the helmet, and the head within it, downward as well. His knee comes up, and connects with the descending face. The figure crumples to the floor.

"Sports Master, eh? Last I heard, Crusher Crock was in pretty poor health. Not that you fight any better than he ever did." Ted pulls the helmet off of the prone figure, revealing a handsome young face with jet black hair. "Don't look like Crock, or his old lady, the Huntress. Wonder how he's connected?"

Ted reaches into his pocket and pulls out an ordinary appearing cell phone. He types in a sequence of numbers, and puts it to his ear.

"Delphi Consulting. How can I help you?" The voice is mechanical, part of an automated response system.

"Group code: JSA. Operative code: Wildcat. Secure to the Oracle." Wildcat speaks the words slowly and clearly.

There is a short delay, then a live female voice comes on the line. "Good afternoon, Wildcat. Enjoying a little southern hospitality?"

"Right, Oracle. I'm at my old place in Georgia, and some kook who thinks he's the Sports Master just attacked me out of the blue. Got anything on anybody new using that name?"

Over the line, Ted hears the sound of hands typing at a keyboard. "Nothing here, Wildcat. Can you drop him off with the cops, or do you need a pickup?"

"Better see who you can send. I'm about 20 miles away from the nearest police station, and they aren't likely to be equipped for someone like this."

"Okay, I'll see what I can do. Got him tied up?"

"Not yet, I have to get some rope from the car. I'll take care of it - YOW!"

"Wildcat?!?"

The fireball that sizzles across Ted Grant's back comes from a paintball gun in the hands of a now-conscious Sports Master. The cell phone falls to the floor. "Old fool! Did you think you could keep me down long?" Ted falls toward his attacker, onto his hands and knees as the gun comes up once more. "Mother was right, this is going to be fun!" His finger tightens on the trigger as he takes aim. "Say good-bye, Wildcat!"

"I'd love to, ya brat!" Ted springs up, one hand arched to grab the barrel of the gun, the other swinging in an uppercut that catches the younger man just under the ribcage. The force of his lunge carries them both through the door and into the yard. They tumble together down the short hill to the shore of the pond.

Inside the house, unheard by anyone, Oracle tries to tell Wildcat that help is on the way.

The Sports Master swings up with the gun, catching Ted under the chin and breaking his grip, as well as snapping the barrel of the gun. The Sports Master reaches into a pocket of his warmup jacket, and pulls out a pair of golf balls.

"Think you're tricky, eh? Well, these energy grenades should slow you down." Ted jumps at the Sports Master, who dives to the side as he throws one of the white orbs. The pitch goes wide, and the ball strikes a tree near the pond. It explodes in a flash of light, and bolts of electricity shoot forth from the point of impact. He throws again, missing Grant once more. This ball arcs out over the pond, toward a shallow, rocky spot on the far side. Grant tackles the now frantic villain, who lands with a thud on the soft ground. As they hit, so does the second grenade, which detonates under the surface of the pond.

Unlike the first blast, this one resounds for miles. White hot water shoots out of the pond as it is vaporized in an instant. Ted Grant screams in agony as he feels his body bathed in liquid fire, the superheated water driving right through him. Just before hitting the ground, the last thing Ted sees is a red and blue blur coming at him, screaming his name.