This is the memory palace.

I'm Nate Demet.

The rings were rectangular and smaller than.

In John L. Sullivan, he could remember how the ropes felt against his bear back.

How his hands felt and glows for the first time.

He could remember how his knuckles felt when they'd slam into a man's jaw, getting

under his ribs, cracked the bridge of his nose like ice underfoot.

And he could remember getting hit and remember not caring.

Not during that night, Nate can 78.

It wasn't his first fight for sure.

He didn't make it to 21 as an Irish kid in South Boston back then, if he didn't know

how to throw a punch.

But that night was the first time he got paid for it, in a tiny ring on a tiny stage,

between the comedians and the chorus girls and the magicians at a music hall in Roxbury.

He could remember the man he fought, vaguely, mic something, could remember hitting him,

could remember how it felt, how it felt good, remember connecting with the big right of

the jaw that knocked the big man out and sent him through the ropes and over the edge

of the stage, and into the orchestra pit, and onto the cowering cellists and violinists

blow.

He could remember turning to face the crowd, sweating, surely bleeding, and hearing it roar.

At least he thought he could remember.

It was a long time ago, and there had been so many fights, and so much life between

...