The Contender (10 page)

B
ARNES WASN
’
T AS
strong as Rivera or as quick as Griffin, but he was rough and dirty in the clinches. He held Alfred’s arms, stepped on his toes, pounded his kidneys. Donatelli screamed, “Break loose, push away,” but Alfred’s arms were heavy, his legs glued to the canvas.

“What’s wrong with you?” snarled Donatelli. Water gurgled into his mouth as Alfred tried to think of an answer. Six hands moved over his body, the ice bag slapped against the back of his neck.

The crowd was booing, but he didn’t care. If you want to see blood, he thought, go punch each other. He felt tired, his brain felt tired, his eyes were watering. He threw out his jab mechanically, just stiff enough to keep Barnes away. Once, Barnes tried to duck the jab, and stumbled, his unprotected face bobbing up six inches from Alfred’s right fist. “Nail ’im,” screamed Henry, but Griffin’s twitching body
flashed in Alfred’s mind, and he never threw the punch.

Barnes clinched and started pounding on his kidneys again. Alfred looked over Barnes’ shoulder at the clock on the far wall. Another thirty seconds. The referee pulled them apart, and Alfred kept Barnes away with the jab until the final bell rang.

“…decision of the judges…a draw….”

The crowd booed him back to the dressing room. Donatelli and Bud and Henry and Spoon and Dr. Corey shifted from foot to foot as he dressed. He avoided their eyes. The ride back to Manhattan was silent. Spoon stopped at the gym first, to let Donatelli out.

“I want you to come up, Alfred,” said Donatelli.

They walked slowly up the sagging stairs. Donatelli unlocked the gym door, and went into the darkness to find the light string. When Alfred went in, Donatelli was standing under the single naked bulb, his face smooth and hard. Like the first night, Alfred thought. Donatelli put his arm across Alfred’s shoulders. His voice was soft, almost gentle.

“It’s time, Alfred.”

“You want me to quit?”

“To retire,” said Donatelli.

“What about the next fight?”

“I’ll cancel it.”

“Why?”

“You don’t have the killer instinct, Alfred, the coldness to beat a man into the ground when you sense his weakness. I’m not sure I’d want you to have it.”

“Not all boxers have it.”

“Some are so good they don’t need it. You’re not that good.”

“I could try.”

“You did, Alfred.” Donatelli raised one bushy white eyebrow. “You don’t really like to fight, do you?”

Alfred lowered his head.

Donatelli took his arm away and walked over to the plate-glass window. “I’ll never forget how you came up those dark steps. Alone. At night. Scared. You conquered your fear. You worked hard. You almost quit once, and then you came back and worked harder.”

“Mr. Donatelli?”

“Yes?”

“Remember what you said that night…about being a…a contender?”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t just talking about boxing.”

“You understood that.”

“And what you said about quitting before you really tried.”

“You’ve tried. I know you’ve tried.”

“The next fight, I—”

“No. You’ve had three fights now and never lost. They won’t match you with the Riveras and the Griffins and the Barneses anymore. They’ll put you in with someone who could hurt you, really hurt you.”

“Be like not finishing.”

“That’s not true. You’ve learned to work hard, to concentrate. To climb.” He left the window and came back to Alfred’s side. “I’d like you to keep training, keep running, spar with the new boys coming up. Like Spoon does. But no more fights.”

“You got to let me finish.”

“There are other things you want to do now, aren’t there, Alfred?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll do them. I know you will,” said Donatelli.

“Got to finish.”

“But why?”

“So I can know, too.”

“Y
OU ARE NERVOUS
,” said Henry.

“Always nervous before a fight. Means I’m on edge. Ready.”

“Sure. And you always read books upside down.”

Alfred pushed the book into the shelf, and dropped back into one of Spoon’s overstuffed living-room chairs. “What time is it?”

“Five minutes after it was last time you asked.”

“What was that?”

“It’s two–thirty,” said Henry.

“Exactly two–thirty?”

“Two minutes before two-thirty, all right?”

“Why don’t you say so?”

Henry shrugged himself deeper into the couch.

“Man, you are something. Want some tea?”

“No.”

“Play cards?”

“No.”

“Want to see some TV?”

“I don’t care.”

“Maybe we’ll get another French lesson,” said Henry.

“Yeah. Maybe you’ll train a Frenchman someday.”

Henry brushed some invisible lint off his knee. “I’m sorry, Alfred.”

“What are you sorry about?”

“Gonna be your last fight.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe if you—”

“No chance. Mr. Donatelli said even if I win big, it’s all over,” said Alfred.

“You gonna keep coming up the gym?” asked Henry.

“I guess so.”

“Alfred?”

“Yeah?”

“Why you so nervous?”

“Told you. Always nervous before a fight.”

“But it don’t matter.”

“Matters to me.”

“Alfred?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell you something?”

“What’s that?”

“Remember that time you said I wasn’t limping so bad anymore?”

“
Do
I? You looked like I kicked you in the belly.”

“You were right. I don’t limp so bad anymore.”

“Why’s that?”

Henry began brushing both knees at once. “Don’t think about my leg so much. Since I started working for Mr. Donatelli and helping train you, it just don’t bother me so much. Sound weird to you?”

“Don’t sound weird at all. You gonna keep training boxers?”

“Yeah. Mr. Donatelli says he wants me to start working with new kids coming up soon as—” Henry closed his mouth.

“Soon as you don’t have to spend so much time with me. Right?”

Henry nodded.

“That’s okay.” Alfred stretched out his legs, and worked his hands into his pockets. “Only got to use my robe three times. Keep it clean tonight and you can take my name off, use it for
somebody else.”

“That’s your robe.”

“I won’t need—”

“Your robe. I bought it for you.”

Alfred sat up. “You bought it?”

“Yeah.”

“I always thought it was Mr. Donatelli. You bought it?”

Henry smiled, a nice easy smile, nothing like the old plastered-on grin. “You were my first fighter. You got me my start.”

“You had the job.”

“Just to clean up around the gym. You were the first fighter I helped train. The first time I got to work a corner was for you. I’ll never forget you, Alfred.”

They sank back into their seats, and stared at specks of dust climbing and circling in a weak shaft of winter sunlight. Henry was quiet, barely moving. Alfred concentrated on the little cold spot growing in his stomach. He wondered if he would ever feel it again, for anything.

“Are you guys hypnotized?” Spoon burst into the apartment, peeling off his overcoat and throwing down his briefcase in one movement.
“Did I have a day and a half today. Boy pulled a knife on me in the school yard.”

“You knock him out?” asked Henry.

“No. Poor kid had enough beatings in his life. I spent the afternoon trying to explain to him why that knife isn’t going to do him any good. It was like going ten rounds.” Spoon loosened his tie. “He told me he’s scared to walk around without a knife, so I suggested he go down to the gym and look up either of you two guys. His name is Herbert Davis.”

“I’ll watch for him,” said Henry.

“Good.” Spoon opened his briefcase, and pulled out some sheets of mimeographed paper. “I got that night-school reading list for you, Alfred.”

“Thanks.” Alfred stood up, and took it. “Lot of books.”

“You can get a start before the semester begins,” said Spoon. “We have most of the books here. If you come up next week, when Betty and I are off for Christmas, we can go over them together.”

Betty bustled in a few minutes later, and started chattering with Spoon about her day at school. Alfred folded the list carefully and
slipped it into a pocket. He closed his eyes and tuned out the chatter. He concentrated on the cold spot again. Got to remember the feeling, he thought, it’s like an old friend you’re never going to meet again. New friends coming up, new things to do, but never that cold spot growing in your stomach, telling you you’re on edge, ready for something big, streams of chilly water running all over your body, and exploding when you have to get in there and fight.

“Steak’s ready.”

He ate slowly, tasting each bite, a little sorry to swallow because then there was one bite less of the last steak. They took their walk slowly, too. Henry and Spoon said nothing, letting Alfred think his thoughts. The last walk.

Spoon led him into the darkened bedroom, and closed the door behind them. “I talked to that doctor at the narcotics clinic, Alfred. He can find a place for your friend. But he says that you’d have to do most of the work. Even after an addict takes a cure, he needs a great deal of encouragement to stay off drugs.”

Alfred pulled off his shoes, and lay down. “I can’t find him. He cut out of the neighborhood again.”

“Let me know when he turns up.” Spoon left.

Alfred stared up at the ceiling, at the white streaks that flashed overhead when cars passed on the street below. The cold spot became an ice ball, just like the first time he had lain on this bed, staring at this ceiling, listening to the murmur of voices outside, the soft clink of glasses and dishes. Long time ago, that first fight. A million years.

The light snapped on. Henry looked sad. “Let’s go, Alfred.”

At the door, Donatelli’s pale blue eyes searched Alfred’s face, but the thin lips never moved. They filed slowly out of the apartment. Alfred turned at the door and took Betty’s outstretched hand.

“Thanks for all the steaks. They were real fine. Good-bye.”

She patted his hand. “When you come next week I’ll cook something different. And we’ll eat together for a change. Good luck.”

They all found things to stare at in the elevator, and they each looked out a different window as Spoon drove downtown. Even Dr. Corey had nothing to say when he and Bud
climbed into the car in front of the gym.

He tried to remember every little thing so he could store it away for later, the ticket man nodding them into the building as if it was just another fight night, the other boxers looking him up and down in the dressing room as if he’d be an opponent some day, the extra care Henry and Bud took winding the cloth strips around his hands.

“How’s your stomach?” asked Donatelli.

“Cold.”

“Good. I’d be worried if it wasn’t.”

The door opened. “Brooks? You go on in the second bout.”

“Against who?” asked Donatelli.

“Kid named Hubbard, only one in your class.”

“Elston Hubbard?”

The man looked at his clipboard. “That’s the kid.”

“Forget it.” Donatelli stood up. “You can untape Alfred’s hands, Henry.”

The man stepped into the room. “You don’t want the fight?”

“Not against Hubbard.”

“Wait now.” Alfred pulled his hands away
from Henry. “I want the fight.”

“No, you don’t,” said Donatelli. “Hubbard’s twenty-two, twenty-three, at least seven pounds—”

“I want the fight.”

“You’ll get hurt,” said Donatelli.

The man tapped his clipboard. “Well?”

“Just one minute, mister,” said Alfred. “Look, Mr. Donatelli, remember how you said the only way you’d ever know is if I got hurt, really hurt in the ring?”

“But it doesn’t matter now.”

“Does to me.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Alfred.”

“To me I do.”

A red flush crept up Donatelli’s close-shaven cheeks. “You’ll have to get yourself another manager, Alfred, one that doesn’t mind a little blood.”

“You’re my manager, and you’re gonna be in my corner.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“You’re not gonna walk out on me now. You took me this far, you told me all that stuff about being a contender, and you ain’t quitting on me
now, not when I got a chance to find out, my last chance—”

“It’s not your last chance.”

“In boxing it is.”

The man rapped his clipboard against the door. “You can argue all night, but I got a program to—”

“All right,” snarled Donatelli. “Put us on second.”

“Hands,” said Bud.

They slipped on the gloves and laced them tight.

“Jab,” said Donatelli, holding up his palm.

The ice ball was gone, completely gone, and Alfred had trouble finding his voice. It finally came out high and thin. “You understand, Mr. Donatelli, I got to.”

“I understand. Jab.”

He swung his arms, and loosened up his legs. The door opened again. The crowd was booing outside.

“Brooks?”

“We’re ready,” said Donatelli.

They went down the aisle three abreast, Donatelli and Henry moving him along with their shoulders, Bud right behind with the
towels and the bucket, up the ring steps and through the ropes. Elston Hubbard was already in the ring, flexing his forearm muscles so the Marine Corps emblem jumped on the smooth bronze skin. The ring lights glinted off his gold teeth when he grinned at Alfred and then out at the crowd. Hubbard held up his right arm, and the crowd cheered.

Just before the bell, Alfred thought he heard Donatelli whisper, “Be careful, Alfred,” but it was lost in the roar of the crowd and Henry’s scream, “Look out.”

Hubbard’s face was on top of him and something slammed against the side of his head. The canvas floor came up and smashed into his nose.

“…three…four…five…”

A gray shirt and a black bow tie hovered above him, and a forefinger waved in his face. “…six…seven…”

He got up.

The referee grabbed his gloves and wiped them off on his gray shirt. “You okay, boy?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Alfred Brooks.”

“Okay, go on and fight.”

Hubbard rushed out of the corner, swinging his left like a meat hook. Alfred sidestepped and snapped a left jab into the charging forehead, then another, pop-pop, but the head came on and crashed into his mouth, hurling him against the ropes. Concrete gloves hammered into his stomach, his sides. The ropes burned across his back. Hubbard’s hard body forced him backwards, Hubbard’s shoe tips slashed at his ankles, knotty shoulders bumped up into his chin, and the bullet head ground into his eyes. Hubbard was pummeling his ribs now, and Alfred worked his left arm free and began banging at the side of the bullet head, again and again and again, until Hubbard straightened up. Alfred lunged forward on his left foot, and spun away from the ropes. He leaped into the center of the ring.

Far, far away, someone was yelling, “Stick, stick, stick and run…”

Up on the balls of your feet, chin in, here he comes, left, left, pop-pop, circle, left, shift, cross. An iron pipe rammed into the pit of his stomach, turning his legs to rubber.
Whomp.
He never saw the punch, but he heard it thud
against his ear and then the distant plop, like a stone splashing into the pool at the bottom of a sewer hole. He staggered, dizzy, a sudden coolness deep in his ear.

“…four…five…six…”

He got up.

“Where are you, boy?”

“Parkway Gardens. Brooklyn.”

“Okay.”

Left…left…hook…cross, once he thought Hubbard’s head jerked back, but then the iron pipes were ramming into his stomach, one after another. Drop your elbows.
Whomp.
He went backwards on his heels, into the ropes. Here he comes, left…

The bell rang.

His tongue filled his mouth. Henry had to pull out the mouthpiece, and the cold sponge turned hot on his face. Whatever Donatelli was whispering into his ear fell right to the bottom of the sewer hole, plop. Black stick fingers smeared yellow paste on his eyebrows, stinging him awake.

The bell rang.

Up on the balls of your feet, chin in, stick and run, stick it out, jab and move. Why don’t
they turn out those lights, blinding me, here he comes, stick, stick, uh…Hubbard drove him into the corner, the wooden post slammed into the back of his neck. Hubbard was marching in place, like a soldier, marine, pounding, pounding, iron pipes, sledgehammers, belly, chest, throat, chin. Keep doing it, man, keep doing it. If you stop now I’ll just go down, melt down like butter and leak right off the canvas.
Thunk.

“…six…seven…eight…”

He got up.

“Had enough, boy?”

“Fine, I’m fine.”

“Who you fighting?”

“Elston Hubbard.”

“What round is this?”

“Round two.”

“Okay.”

Stick, stick, cross, hook, pop-pop, he never stops, pop-pop. They clinched in the center of the ring. Hubbard raked his laces across Alfred’s rope burns, and stepped on his toes, and rubbed his jaw against Alfred’s, the stubble of his beard like sandpaper on Alfred’s skin. He threw Alfred away, across the ring, and rushed after him, swinging. Iron pipes again,
sledgehammers, meat hooks.

The bell rang.

“You want him to continue?” asked the referee.

Donatelli’s pale blue eyes were narrow.

Henry’s voice, shrill and loud. “Gotta let him, Mr. Donatelli, gotta.”

“Let him fight,” said Donatelli.

The bell rang.

The crowd was roaring deep in its gut, ocean waves that lapped at the ring, that drowned all pain and all feeling, drowned all sound but the drumming of leather against flesh. Everything was wet and sticky. Everything was sweat and blood. There were three Hubbards now, all of them hazy, jab at the middle one, hook the middle one. They stood toe to toe in the center of the ring, whacking, slugging, thumping back and forth, flinging sweat, elbows, fists, knees, jab the middle one, hook the middle one.
Thunk.
Alfred felt his mouthpiece fly out, hook the middle one, pop-pop, iron pipes, sledgehammers, meat hooks, go ahead, throw everything you got, you gonna have to, gonna stand here all day and all night and take what you got and give it right back,
gonna hang in forever, gonna climb, man, gonna keep climbing, you can’t knock me out, nobody ever gonna knock me out, you wanna stop me you better kill me.