The muffled noise of a crowd vibrated the walls to Billy’s dressing room in the bowels of the Omaha, Nebraska arena. The room was dingy, badly lit, and smelled of soap and sweat. Billy sat on a counter that ran along the wall. A doctor that could use a shave and who Billy thought was a prime candidate for the source of the smell in the room checked him out. Jack watched as he leaned against a wall.

“Except for being a little thin, I’d say you were in fine shape, Mr. Miske,” said the doctor, his breath reeking of gin.

“It’s the training,” said Jack.

“I’m sure it is.”

“Didn’t train one single day. Slept most of the time.”

The doctor snickered and put his stethoscope into his brown leather bag then snapped it shut...

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