Lay the Favorite (20 page)

“Hello, I’m a wholesaler,” Bernard said to the store owners. “The products you sell, I have, so if you need anything, here’s my card.”

Squishing himself back into his Pontiac, he’d continue his commute.

With time, Bernard took the candy business from $185,000 a year to $18 million in volume. Eventually he remarried. After Natasha, his new even-tempered, dedicated wife was a blessing. They had a child and bought a home in suburban Long Island. Bernard enjoyed being a father; he liked coaching his son’s sports teams. His parents, racked with worry when he was gambling, finally looked happy for him, and that made him feel good about himself. Everything was turning up wholesome; a strange twist to a life already marked by so many soaring highs and suicidal lows. At times, when he yearned for his gambling life, so charged with limitless possibility, he watched the movie
Trading Places
.

“Nothing you have ever experienced will prepare you for the absolute carnage you are about to witness,” says Dan Aykroyd, during Bernard’s favorite scene. “One minute you’re up half a million in soybeans and the next, boom, your kids don’t go to college and they’ve repossessed your Bentley. Are you with me?”

Watching the film gave Bernard hope and encouragement. He became a strong believer that people had the power to change. Human beings needn’t worry, they will adapt to whatever situation they find themselves in. No matter how big the swing, the sensations will pass and the mind will adjust.

It was by accident, really, the night his wife brought home a computer and he stumbled across an Internet sports book. Oddly, the casino was based somewhere in Antigua and you could click on it. Bernard sent in three thousand dollars. For the first time in fifteen years, the harmless maniac made a bet.

“We’re not cautious,” I said to Bernard as I regained my composure.

I had overreacted to a loud crash in our neighbor’s office. It was Maintenance doing construction. I thought it was a battering ram.

Working in the business, I sometimes imagined what it would be like if I were caught in an FBI raid. In my daydreams, I always had the luxury of seeing the police cars in the parking lot and having time to prepare myself. But BLT had no windows. I didn’t like that at all. It made me jumpy.

“We’re semi-cautious,” Bernard said.

“Nuh-uh, Bernard. I saw you had Sarah making copies of our who-owes-who-what sheets. That’s not cautious.”

“You’re making me nervous,” Bernard said. “Let’s change subjects.”

He continued humming along with the Cher tape crackling from the boom box and I prepared our take-out Chinese lunch. After spooning fried rice onto his plate, I topped it with Hot Lover’s Chicken and crispy noodles. A feast for a general, just the way he liked it.

“So,” I said, sitting back at my desk, legs crossed. “Did you have any dreams last night?”

The more you sweat in battle, the less you bleed in war. That’s an idiom often heard in boxing gyms and one my teammates and I had in mind as we warmed up each evening by greasing our bodies with Albolene makeup remover, Saran-wrapping our waists, and shadowboxing in the ring. With each punch our breath quickened and by the end of the first round, our clothes were soaked.

Over the past three months my Golden Gloves journey had taken me to Coney Island rec centers and the blue-lit basements of Staten Island churches. Along with twenty other women, I would wait in bleakness for two, three hours while officials flipped through our boxing books, trying to arrange bouts according to weight and experience. Finally, a trainer, fellow boxer, or volunteer would explain that because our opponent had suffered an injury or a nervous breakdown or didn’t make weight, or because there was no opponent to begin with, we had won! Hollow victories were embarrassing, but with limited competition what could one do? Such was the state of women’s amateur boxing in 2003.

But at the semifinals, things changed for the better. Inside a rundown high school gymnasium, in front of a sparse crowd, I defeated
my opponent so badly that her nose busted open, leaving her blond hair streaked with blood. Two weeks later I would be competing inside Madison Square Garden’s legendary Felt Forum in the finals of the Golden Gloves.

I was ecstatic. This was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time and it felt good to have something big to look forward to. A teammate of mine was a Golden Gloves champ and he wore his gold (plated) Golden Gloves pendant around his neck everywhere he went. Once, he let me try it on. The miniature gloves felt cold and heavy against my chest. If I won a pair, I thought to myself, I would never take them off.

Ray, my trainer, eyed each of us and barked out instructions. “Yo, Felson, no good. Let your hands
go
. Anna, no good. Turn your waist. Yo, Raymer …”

Wanting to impress him, I picked up the pace, letting my hands go and turning my waist. His studious expression morphed into a look of concern. With the fat of his palm, he eased out the wrinkles in his forehead. “Outta the ring,” he said.

Ray stepped on the two bottom ropes, pulled the top two up and I ducked through the opening and hopped onto the gym floor. “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he said. Cupping his hand around the back of my neck, he steered me toward the mirrors on the back wall. He looked at me hard. “The woman you’re going to fight.
Do-ming-a.”

On paper, my opponent, Dominga “La Tormenta,” was twenty-six. In reality, she was thirty-one and was rumored to have fought professionally in the Dominican Republic before immigrating to New York. She’d been fighting on the amateur circuit for as long as Ray could remember, knocking girls out in all five boroughs, kissing her biceps while her vanquished opponents squirmed on all fours.

“This gorilla lands punches and believe me, the entire room feels ’em,” Ray said. “I’ve only seen a few women make it past round two with her. That’s not to say you couldn’t do it. But what do you think about what I’m telling you?”

In his own subtle way, Ray was letting me know that I could forfeit
the match and he would understand. Mismatches were one thing. A mismatch with a ringer in front of five thousand people and television cameras was something else.

I expressed to Ray the embarrassment I felt for making it to the finals after winning only one fight. If I won the gloves by beating the two-time defending champ, I would feel as though I’d actually earned something. Plus, I said, winning is a lot more fun when you beat someone good.

“You got it,” Ray said. “Just wanted to give you a heads-up.” He tightened the laces to my boxing gloves.

Looking for just a little more insight, I asked Ray to describe Dominga’s fighting style.

“Thunderous,” he said.

Over the next two weeks, fear sank its claws into the pit of my stomach and never let go. The feeling stayed with me during my lunch break when I ran laps in BLT’s vast parking lot, and lingered throughout my nightly workouts, making me feel as restless and jumpy as the double-end bag after a good whopping. Lying in bed, I imagined myself in the ring with Dominga. Pivoting, ducking, slipping around her, landing body shots to her rib cage. Exhilarated by my imagined finesse, I’d hop out of bed and run to the bathroom so I could watch myself shadowbox in the reflection of the medicine cabinet mirror. Jab cross hook. Jab cross hook. And finish with the jab.

Dominga stood on the scale, naked. Around her, girls with buzz cuts ate energy bars. I usually found comfort in seeing my opponent’s naked body at the weigh-ins. I could evaluate their muscle tone, and draw conclusions from their tattoos or stretch marks or C-section scars. Dominga’s skin was flawless and she was built like a Mack truck. A vein the width of an earthworm started at the tip of her widow’s peak and ran down the center of her scowling brown eyebrows, along the side of her neck, descending into her armpit and jutting out again, ending, finally, on the highest point
of her biceps, which was as hard and round as a navel orange. Dropping my skirt, I reminded myself that boxing is the science of controlling fear.

“Remember, keep your right
up,”
Ray said. He sat across from me and wrapped my hands. “Bang and bring it back.
Move
. Bangbang. Not bang … bang. Bang-bang.”

My cut man rubbed my shoulders. “Feelin’ strong, kiddo?”

I wanted to say something, but I feared that if I opened my mouth I would vomit. My knee bounced up and down. I cursed myself for not calling immigration and having Dominga deported. She’d be on JetBlue by now, leg-cuffed and
la tormenting
someone else.

“We’re losin’ her,” Ray said.

“You’re not losing me!” I said. “I’m here! I’m thinking positive thoughts!”

An official peeked his head into the room and told us to start making our way to the ring.

In the hallway, waiting for the summons, I scanned the near-sold-out crowd of five thousand screaming, bloodthirsty fans squished into stadium seating. An amplified voice buzzed incoherently and for one fleeting moment, I felt the sudden excitement of having arrived at the place I’d dreamed of. I was smack in the middle of Manhattan, about to fight in one of the most famous boxing venues in the world. It was staggering. And I started to think just how awesome it would be if I actually won. Sure, Dominga had more experience than me, but I doubted she’d be in better shape. I was running seven miles a day and training six days a week. Pumped with sudden hope, I did a quick little bob and weave. Middle section, center right, I spotted my dad, Dink, Bernard, and Mikey, sitting side by side. They came all the way from Florida, Vegas, and Ronkonkoma, respectively. It was a big deal and I couldn’t bear the thought of letting them down or embarrassing myself in front of them. Just the thought of it turned the swells and rolls of my nervous system into tsunami-sized waves and, once again, fear overshadowed all else. Now I understood why most boxers didn’t invite anyone to their fights. The official motioned us
toward the ring. “Here we go,” Ray said. He continued shouting in my ear, but his words were lost in the raucous crowd.

In the gold corner, in vivid, living color, Dominga threw uppercuts into the air and talked smack in rudimentary English. My breathing ceased.

The referee called us into the middle of the ring and spoke the ritual phrases. I rolled my head from shoulder to shoulder, a nervous tic more than anything else.

Back in my blue corner, head lowered, I stared at the canvas until I heard the ref shout, “Box!”

The first round served its purpose, allowing me to gain control of my nerves and even throw a few punches. Unreal, considering my gloves felt as heavy as anchors. It was round two that Dominga’s haymakers began to come down on me. Another one, another one. Flush now. They connected with a dull thud, roughly the sound of a Mack truck hitting a cow.

When I returned to my stool in the corner, there didn’t seem to be enough air. My top lip was so fat it was plugging one of my nostrils. I tasted blood. A lot can happen in two minutes.

“Open your eyes,” Ray said, removing my mouthpiece. His voice was gentle. “Don’t close your eyes in between rounds.”

My eyes wouldn’t open on their own. I raised my eyebrows to help them out. Still, only one of them opened all the way.

The heat from the TV camera light felt as hot as Vegas summer sunshine on my face. My cut man cold-pressed the eye that was swollen shut. “You’re not throwin’ enough punches,” Ray said. “Stay in close and bang her up. Forget the head. Go to her body.”

In the final round, Dominga’s switch to southpaw came as an unwelcome shock. Solid smacks were followed by
ooohs
from the crowd. My hands began to droop. I felt heartbeats behind my eyes and all over my head. Out on my feet, but too in shape to actually go down, I heard the hollow, rushing sound that comes when you place your ear to a seashell. It’s not the sound of the ocean, after all, but the sound of a boxer’s brain swelling in a ring far, far away.

The early morning was gray and cloudy. At least it was to me. Walking up Flatbush Avenue to catch the 7:39 to Ronkonkoma, I was grateful to have a coffee in my hand and the fight behind me. Pain had hindered my sleep and I was just now beginning to feel the fight’s fatigue. Parts of my face shined eggplant purple. With one eye swollen shut, my vision was too impaired for me to sprint across the intersection in front of approaching traffic as I normally did. Amid the hyperactive schoolchildren and the angry cabbies shouting from car to car, I waited for the signal, patiently.