In the dark waiting room of a rundown boxing theater, a prizefighter dances on his toes, punching the air. Another sits under the dim bulb hanging overhead, taping his hands. He is worn–tired by time and punches. He is the Palooka. Beside him is a kid–he waits for his first pro bout. He is fighting Blackie Shaw. They can hear the roar of the crowd barking for blood, the ringing of the bell, the sound of bodies hitting the canvas behind the door. The door swings out. Like the lid of Hell lifting open, the sound outside shrieks and moans. The light pours in. A heavy-set, greasy-haired promoter steps in with a cigar between his teeth. "You're up, JoJo." The dancing fighter steps into the light. The door closes. "Have you ever heard of Galveston Joe?" the Palooka says to the kid, alone in the dark now. The Palooka tells the kid about the legend of Galveston Joe, the former lightweight champion. And they wait…