Behind DaVarryl, the healer turns and flicks the bad energy toward a small plastic bowl of saltwater that's sitting on the floor a few feet away. The saltwater traps the polluted energy, prevents it from drifting back to DaVarryl through the air. Satisfied, he takes a small bottle and sprays rubbing alcohol on his hands, cleaning off any bad energy that may be sticking to his fingers.
DaVarryl blinks at the television and leans closer. He thinks he just saw an opening in Byrd's defense, and as boxing is all about openings, this is very important. Byrd pauses after he throws a right fist, a pause that would give DaVarryl a chance to smash a fist into Byrd's stomach, or chest, or better yet his face.
The tape flickers. On to the next Byrd fight.
The healer, finished with his siphoning act, heads off to flush the saltwater down the toilet. He doesn't want the bad energy to escape, and the Aurora sewage system is strong enough to contain it. DaVarryl's focused on the screen and doesn't notice the healer leave. The old fights are more important; even the cleanest energy lines won't help him win against Byrd. And it's a win he needs. The first Denver heavyweight contender since Ron Lyle in the '70s, DaVarryl has 12 rounds to prove to the world that he belongs in the ring with the best. If he wins, he'll thrust the belt in the air, a 37-year-old heavyweight who finally made it. He'll be the champ.