Dhat must be experience. Mazen Girke has little information about his next job when he arrives at Hamelin train station in the morning. He only knows the name of the hotel on the outskirts of the old town where a room has been reserved for him, and that it is a good 30 kilometers from where the boxing is to take place in the evening. How and when he will get there has not yet been explained.
Nevertheless, the stocky man with the dark peaked cap remains calm himself. “They want something from me,” he says with a Berlin accent, “because they’ll get in touch.” He has everything he needs with him in the sports bag on the rattling roll bar: Boxer shorts and ring boots, mouth guard and groin guard, water bottle, bandages and a pair of 10 ounce gloves, which he trusts more than foreign material.
