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...Ray had pushed himself to become a kind man,
so he agreed to a few quick questions,
but the reported treated the sit-down
almost as if it were an intervention,
said,”People know you feel your guilt is earned,
but the world is asking, when will you return?”

“I’m not ‘Steel Hands’ anymore,”Ray informed,
“I’m more concerned about helping lost souls.”
But the reported didn’t seem to care,
said,”But what do you think when you are told
that ‘Stinger’ James has declared you a wimp,
you were the champ, what do you say to him?”

Ray shook his head, straightened up in his chair,
said,”I don’t care about that anymore.”
The reporter said,”Does that really matter?
To the world you’re still the fighter who floored
any opponent with a single, hard blow,
that’s all that most people ever will know.”

Ray sent the man away after those words,
his temper had him too angry to speak,
he paced the church aisle for an hour,
nearly wore holes in the floor with his feet.
In his mind he heard some dark, haunting words,
was ‘Steel Hands’ all people would remember?

When he sat with John Lott as the man died,
would that mean nothing to the teaming throng?
Did it mean nothing when he helped Jan Smith
understand why infidelity was wrong?
Was his drive to do better just wasted time?
Then a calming breath pushed through his mind.

His prayers had meant more the John’s family
then the drunk cheers of a stadium crowd,
and seeing Jan marry meant more to him
then a whole entourage braying out loud.
What matter was it if the just saw ‘Steel Hands,’
God would know he chose to be a good man.

The thought made the doubts slowly clear away,
once again he felt certain of his path,
besides, his Moira was cooking up steaks,
and only a fool would dare to miss that.
Let those chumps worry of wars in the ring,
the work he’d chosen was a far greater thing.
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