Smoke’s right eye starts to swell in the fourth, and I know he’s in trouble. This is a pretty big fight at the Taj Mahal, against Dreaded Eddie Jefferson, a California kid with machine-gun hands, and a black kid too. Smoke’s a plugger, a real old-fashioned Philly fighter, a white guy with a thick neck and thicker head. He keeps trying to get inside, but Eddie keeps stinging him with that hard left jab - plus some right leads and a few nasty left hooks. The ref calls up the doc in the fifth.

The doc’s a little Asian guy in a cheap gray suit, and he climbs up on the apron and lifts Smoke’s chin. I jam a white rag in my back pocket, just so I have it ready if the fight goes on, because that’s what a good manager does at times like this.

“Yo, I’m fine,” Smoke mutters through his mouthpiece. “Listen to me, doc. I’m fucking fine.”

The doc doesn’t say a word. He peruses the eye and then turns away from the ropes, and just before he steps down he nods yes at the ref: he can fight.

“Fucking right,” Smoke says, and pounds his gloves.

“Keep your right hand up,” I say. “Or he’ll turn that eye into puppy chow.”

The light around the ring is crisp, intense. It has that big-fight feel for us, because this might be Smoke’s last shot at an HBO card, but he needs one more good win. I know Smoke’s focused, doesn’t notice the smell of beer coming up from the front rows, or the city councilman from Philly with his new redheaded girlfriend at ringside. He might have spotted the HBO guy, and spotted his buddies from the neighborhood in Grays Ferry up in the cheap seats, and of course his old man in the fourth row, but I know he has his head in the fight.

I look over at Little Tony, our trainer, who’s actually as big as a pasta factory, to be sure he knows I have the rag ready, and he nods yes at me. Then I squeeze a blob of anti-bacterial on my hands and rub them together like a son of a bitch. It keeps away the gym fungus, but sometimes I get nervous and rub it in for the hell of it. Like now. Besides, I’m feeling extra edgy after giving up smoking for Lent again.

The sixth is sloppy, both fighters missing and hanging on each other, and probably the first round of the fight Smoke wins. In the seventh Dreaded Eddie catches a second wind and is landing his jab again. Halfway through the round, Eddie backpedals toward the corner, shifts to his right and lands a left-right combination to Smoke’s head followed by a nasty left hook. Smoke’s head bobbles, and the hook catches him smack in the eye. Now the welt under his eye looks like a plum. I’ve never seen anything like it. Just as I reach for the white rag, the ref steps in and waves his arms.

When Dreaded Eddie’s hand goes up in the middle of the ring, the sound system starts pumping some hip-hop crap, and a brawl breaks out in general admission. White guys against black guys. Security guards in yellow jackets swarm in and haul out two of Smoke’s pals from Grays Ferry, plus one of the black guys they were fighting. The black guy leaves peacefully, but it takes two security guards to wrestle each of the white guys outside.

Smoke is 31, a former middleweight contender who will soon be on the downside, and now he’s just been pummeled for the second straight fight. His real name is Joey Nix, but he hates it. He was tagged with Smokin’ Joe Frazier’s nickname because they were both Philly fighters with the same style and same first name, and that’s how nicknames get handed out in this racket. Now this is Smoke’s fourth loss overall, all by TKO, and all at the hands of black fighters, which must make it even worse for him. His contender status is probably gone for good now - but first, the eye.