The Chief (7 page)

A
T SIX O'CLOCK IN
the evening it was still so hot in the parking lot outside the Oasis that it hurt to breathe. In the ring, under the TV lights and the canvas top, it must have been more than a hundred degrees. Richie knew what he was doing, making Sonny run in the heat. I hoped it would cool off before John L. fought.

There wasn't much of a crowd yet in the ringside seats where the stars and the high rollers would sit for free, but the portable stands that climbed into the sun were packed with real fight fans who wanted to get their money's worth and check out the Tomahawk Kid. He could be the future.

There was a burst of New York rap as Dave the Fave came barreling down the aisle, waving, blowing kisses as if he'd already won, then Alfred clearing the way for Jake and Richie, who had Sonny between them. I stood
up and caught Sonny's eye with a double-pump fist. He winked, which made me feel good. Or maybe he winked at Robin, who was standing on her chair next to mine. Or maybe he'd just caught John L.'s tic.

“He looks good,” said Robin. The fighters were climbing into the ring.

“He hasn't done anything yet,” I said.

“Just being up there is something.”

“You must feel pretty proud of yourself,” I said. It came out sort of twisted, and she lifted an eyebrow.

“It was all my idea, Marty, that's true, but ideas are nothing until someone makes them happen.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. It burned. “You did it.”

I was embarrassed. “I just made noise. He did it.” I changed the subject. “How come you're not shooting?”

“It costs thousands to get the rights to a fight. I'm grateful to get a free ticket.”

The ring announcer was a young guy who seemed to be auditioning for the big time. He made it sound like a title fight.

“An important bout for two young fighters, and for those who want to see the stars of
tomorrow TONIGHT! In the black trunks, weighing two hundred and twenty-five pounds, from Harlem, New York, the crowd-pleasing rapper, Dave (The Fave) Reynolds.”

Sonny stood still as The Fave wiggled and pranced around. Sonny didn't move as he was introduced.

“You've been reading about him lately, the Native-American slugger who came down from the hills of the Moscondaga Reservation in New York to win a place in John L. Solomon's training camp and in our hearts. In white trunks, weighing two hundred and ten pounds, the Tomahawk Kid, Sonny Bear.”

The referee signaled them into the center of the ring to listen to him repeat the instructions he already had given them in the dressing room.

The Fave held out his gloves. Sonny reached out to tap them, and then The Fave pulled his gloves back and stuck out his tongue at Sonny. An in-your-face schoolyard put-down. He danced back to his corner, waving his arms over his head. Sometimes the brothers can be so stupid.

“Mistake,” I said to Robin. “It's over.”

If you blinked you missed the fight. Sonny
strolled out at the bell, loose and easy, no rush, and let Dave throw the first punch, a hard jab that glanced off Sonny's forehead and left The Fave wide open for the left hook that crushed his right cheekbone. He never saw it coming. Dave was moving forward behind his jab, just the way he was supposed to, his right hand cocked, and Sonny's punch stopped him cold and straightened him up.

Dave froze. His left arm was high and straight out, his right hand shoulder height, the statue of a boxer about to go down. Sonny took his time, a straight right that nailed The Fave shut, a second, unnecessary left hook that just glanced off Dave's head because he was already on his way out. The referee could have counted to one hundred.

Robin and I jumped up and down and hugged, which made my body hot and cold. I pulled away, but she didn't seem to react one way or another.

The dressing room swarmed with reporters and Vegas types trying to get close to Sonny. The TV crews circled him, the gray worms at the ends of their sound booms hovering over his head.

“Moscondaga—how do you spell that?” one reporter was asking Sonny.

“That last punch, was that a hook?”

“Isn't that the tribe having all those gambling problems?”

“I'm on a deadline, pal. You covering boxing or politics?”

After a while the mob broke into little discussion groups, Alfred describing how he first met Sonny in a drug bust in the Port Authority in New York, Jake talking about the Nation, Richie explaining how he and John L. had taught Sonny everything he knew. Sonny was going over the fight, nanosecond by nanosecond.

Suddenly, bodyguards started pushing people aside to make a path for Elston Hubbard, Senior.

“Eee-ficient work, young man, that was eee-ficient work.” Senior swam like a big black shark through the crowd. “We need to have a talk.”

“Talk to my manager,” said Sonny, pointing to Alfred, wheeling up.

“Uh-huh,” said Senior. “But does he have the a-bility to take you to the top of the mountain,
the men-tality, not to mention the mo-bility?”

Alfred caught that last word, and his jaw clenched. I tried to think of something to say, but before I could, someone yelled, “It's John L.,” and all the cameras swung around.

John L. Solomon, in the famous black robe he wore when he was starting out, the Star of David over his heart, MACCABEE KID on his back, was moving toward Sonny, his arms open. His hands were already taped.

“Never seen this before,” one of the reporters whispered. “Right before his own fight.”

“Beautiful, Sonny Boy. You made me proud as a papa. Make me want to go out and do the same thing.”

They hugged. Could those be tears in Sonny's eyes? That would be an upset.

“You can do it, John L.,” said Sonny. “Beat Hubbard and beat the champ, and then…”

“Then Sonny Boy gonna come after his papa,” roared John L.

Everybody in the room laughed, but I looked at Sonny's face and I suddenly knew what Sonny was thinking about: our first night in Vegas, he was thinking about Junior and
Senior, his own dead father and John L., and then I thought, Now wouldn't that be something—John L. and Sonny fighting for the heavyweight championship of the world.

What more could a writer want?

W
E WATCHED THE MAIN
event in John L.'s section with his family and friends. They pinched Sonny's cheeks and pulled his ponytail. He just laughed along with them. A different Sonny. He seemed relaxed, easy in his skin. The sun setting behind the Oasis cast a sweet pink light over his face. I'd forgotten how good-looking he was. Strangers stopped to introduce themselves, give him business cards, notes. One woman tried to give him her hotel room key.

“Gonna get worse,” said Jake.

“Hope so,” said Alfred. They laughed.

The ringside seats were swarming with women who would have worn more clothes in the pool and guys who were either actors playing gangsters or the real thing. Packed with jumpy, murmuring people, the parking lot was a theater-in-the-round now. The ring was the stage. It was still hot.

Elston Hubbard, wearing a blue silk jacket that had SENIOR in white letters on the back, led his son down the aisle. The kid had JUNIOR on his back, and all the handlers had HUBBARD.

“You think Hubbard'll try to muscle in on Sonny?” I asked Alfred.

“Count on it.”

“You worried?” asked Robin.

“If he can help Sonny more than I can…” Alfred shrugged.

There were endless introductions, athletes, actors, singers, comedians, and then the ring announcer, who looked like the father of the guy who'd announced Sonny's fight, said, “And now, someone you'll be seeing lots more of in the future—the sweat hasn't dried on his one-round kayo of Dave Reynolds—let me introduce to you the Fighting Chief from Moscaloosa, Sonny Bear.”

“Moscaloosa.” Robin made a face at Jake. “Chief.”

“Don't matter,” said Jake. “White men don't know and we don't care.”

“White men,” said Robin. “That lets Marty and me off the hook.”

We laughed and shoved Sonny out into the aisle. He got a big hand. Standing under the lights, his hair still wet from the shower, in a fringed white shirt with pale-blue and orange beads, he already looked different. Bigger. Famous.

The heavyweight champion, Floyd (The Wall) Hall, was introduced. The booing died as he stomped around the ring shaking hands. He was taller and wider than anyone. He loomed over John L. and Sonny.

Muhammad Ali was introduced to a storm of applause. People stood. Ali was wearing a dark suit and red tie. He had trouble getting through the ring ropes. His face was a brown moon. He shook hands with Floyd and Junior and John L., and he whispered in Sonny's ear. We all looked at each other, feeling proud, as if the great Ali was whispering in all our ears.

“God, I wish I could shoot this,” said Robin.

“Make a deal with Hubbard.”

She wrinkled her nose.

Sonny came back, grinning. He'd lost some cool, he seemed a little dazed.

Robin asked, “What did Ali say?”

“Trust in God and don't get hit.'”

“Sounds good to me,” said Alfred.

“Great warrior,” said Jake. “Stood for what he believed.”

We settled down for the fight. John L. was sweating before the opening bell. His forehead was red. There were red streaks on his chest.

“Too hot for an old man,” said Jake.

John L. stuck to his plan. He moved right out at the bell and tried to crowd Junior so he couldn't box and dance, he tried to bull him toward a corner, and he kept flicking out left jabs to keep him off balance. But Junior was a disciplined fighter, you could see right away that he also had a plan: Watch out for John L.'s right hand and keep moving back to the middle of the ring where there was plenty of room to dance the old man into exhaustion.

The first round was slow; they were feeling each other out, a few rights and hooks that didn't quite land. I scored it even. When it was over John L. plopped down on his stool as if he was tired already.

“He's melting,” Robin said.

Junior picked up the pace in the second round, throwing a jab, moving his head, skipping out of range of John L.'s counterpunch.
Twice, John L. threw roundhouse rights that got the crowd roaring, but Junior caught them both high on his arms. They must have hurt—you could hear the damp smack—but they didn't land anywhere they would do damage. Toward the end of the round, John L. bulled in and tried to throw some inside punches, but Junior locked his elbows to his sides and pushed him off.

I hated to admit it, but Junior was a strong fighter with all the right moves. He wasn't exciting to watch, but he made no mistakes. He was so well trained that he had an answer for everything. He knew how to avoid the right hand, slide off the ropes, clutch and run.

“He's a robot,” I said. “RoboPug. No fire, no passion.”

“But he's good,” said Sonny.

“And he's going to win,” said Robin.

She was right. First John L.'s legs slowed down, then his arms sagged. Junior became less cautious, skipping forward and landing combinations. It was like hitting soft clay. John L.'s flesh didn't spring right back. His face started to lump up. His chest and arms were splotchy.

John L. didn't sit down between rounds.

“Trying to psyche Junior,” I said. “Show he doesn't need to sit down.”

“Can't sit down,” said Robin. “Knows he won't get up again.”

Alfred said, “He's gone.”

John L. was too tired to get out of the way; he could only absorb the punishment and try to punch back. But he had to take three punches to land one, and after a while he was staggering after Junior like a drunk.

“He's out on his feet,” said Alfred.

“Oughta stop it,” said Sonny.

People in our section were moaning and looking away, but the rest of the arena was chanting for the kill, “JUN-ior, JUN-ior.” John L.'s skin was bright red, his mouth and nose were torn and bloody, his eyes were swelling shut, but he wouldn't quit, wouldn't go down.

“Why doesn't the ref stop it?” said Sonny. His face was covered with beads of perspiration; his fists were pale.

Between rounds, Richie was screaming and John L. was shaking his head. He wouldn't let Richie stop it.

I heard heavy breathing next to me. Sonny
was sucking air through his mouth, wincing at every blow.

In the seventh round, Junior backed John L. into a corner and began chopping at his head, a lumberjack killing a tree with his axe, and the crowd screamed for Junior to pour it on. Only the ropes were keeping John L. up.

“Stop it,” shouted Sonny.

He hurtled down the aisle, snatching the white towel off Richie's shoulder on the run, throwing it ahead of him into the ring. Security guards tried to pull him back, but all they could do was tear the shirt off his back. Sonny leaped over the ropes and brushed the referee aside and threw himself between the fighters. He wrapped his arms around John L. and pushed him into his corner.

The arena exploded, people yelling, surging forward. Robin and I started for the ring, got caught in the swirl and were knocked back, but when Sonny came tumbling out of the ring with five security guys on top of him, we jumped on the pile and tried to pull them off.

Suddenly a familiar voice roared, “LET THE BOY UP!”

It was Elston Hubbard, Senior, himself,
peeling the guards off Sonny and throwing them away like banana skins. He pulled Sonny to his feet.

“You crazy, boy.”

Sonny swung at him, but Senior ducked and wrapped up Sonny's arms. Sonny relaxed, and Senior hugged him. “You did the right thing,” he said, and shoved Sonny into my arms. “Writer-Boy, take him before he gets hurt.”

Sonny let me drag him away. Robin and Jake and I linked arms around Sonny, and Alfred cleared a path for us back to the dressing room. We were there when John L. was carried in and laid out on the rubbing table.

“Heat exhaustion,” said the ring doctor. “Happened to Sugar Ray Robinson, happens to the best of them.”

John L. struggled up. “Who stopped the goddamn fight? I woulda won, woulda knocked…” He collapsed.

Richie began to cry.