The Contender (8 page)

“You have any white friends?” asked Alfred.

“A few. Some teachers, some college friends, and a boxer with whom I used to train.” Spoon laughed. “Once I found out that white boys bled the same color I did I figured I’d let them move into my neighborhood any time.”

By the time they returned, Betty had drawn the bedroom drapes and turned down the spread of the double bed.

“Take off your shoes and loosen your belt,” Spoon said. “Try to sleep. If you can.”

The room was dark, and the murmur of
voices outside the door was too low to make out words. The cold spot returned and grew, an ice ball resting in his stomach. He tried not to think about the fight. He took the cab ride again, and thought about Henry, nervous all day and watching over him like a…a trainer.

Dishes clattered, and someone said, “Shhh.” It sounded like Donatelli. Everybody’s been so nice, he thought. I wonder what they’ll say if I lose?

The lights snapped on. Henry was beside the bed. “Okay, Alfred, let’s go.”

Betty shook his hand at the door and wished him luck, and then they were moving quickly, down the elevator, into the darkening street. Donatelli had firm fingers on his arm. They slid into the back of Spoon’s car.

“Do you know who I’m going to fight?”

“No. In these one-night amateur shows, the club in charge matches up the fighters at the last minute.”

“What if there aren’t any other lightweights?”

“That’s always a possibility,” said Donatelli.

Dr. Corey and Bud were waiting outside the gym. They climbed into the front, Bud carrying
his black satchel, an overnight bag, and a large cardboard box.

“What’s that?” asked Alfred.

“A third mouthpiece,” said Dr. Corey, “in case you swallow the other two.”

“Arthur!”

“What’s the matter with you, Vito? Laughter is the best medicine.”

“Nobody’s sick,” snapped Donatelli.

Alfred felt the tenseness in Donatelli’s arm, pressed against his own, and the ice ball grew larger and colder. There was little traffic on the streets and over the bridge. The ride ended too quickly, in front of a large, shabby building.

“I’ll park the car and meet you afterwards,” said Spoon. “Good luck, Alfred.”

Donatelli showed tickets to a sleepy old man at the door, and led them through a dark corridor into a large, bare room filled with older men, half-naked boys, and cigar smoke. A gray-haired man came over.

“Good to see you, Vito. This your boy?”

“Right. Alfred Brooks.”

“Brooks, Alfred.” He made a mark on a clipboard. “Strip down to socks and shorts, Alfred.”

The boys in the room eyed each other. The older men called to Bud and Dr. Corey, who waved or shouted back, but Donatelli kept his fingers digging into Alfred’s arm.

A doctor came over. He thumped Alfred’s chest and back, and placed the cool round end of a stethoscope over his heart.

“Your boy’s alive, Vito.”

“Yeah, yeah,” snapped Donatelli, his voice edgy.

The doctor winked and shone a flashlight into Alfred’s eyes, ears, and down his throat. “Have you had any recent injuries, illnesses, dizzy spells, diarrhea—”

“Would I bring him here?” said Donatelli.

“Take it easy, Vito,” whispered Bud.

“On the scales,” said the doctor. “Brooks. Thirty-four and three-quarters.”

The gray-haired man marked his clipboard. “Brooks, black trunks.”

Alfred turned to Donatelli.

“Don’t worry, Alfred, we brought both black and white.” He handed a ticket to Dr. Corey. “You’re sitting next to Billy.”

“You don’t want me in the corner?”

“Henry’s working the corner tonight.”

Dr. Corey grabbed Alfred’s hand. “There’s an old saying in—”

“Later, Arthur.”

Dr. Corey shrugged, and grabbed Henry’s hand. “Good luck.”

They hurried outside, past a door marked
WHITE TRUNKS AND SECONDS ONLY
. Bud led them into a room marked
BLACK TRUNKS AND SECONDS ONLY
. Half a dozen boys sat and stretched out on wooden benches, surrounded by whispering men. More came in as Alfred pulled on the athletic supporter, protective cup, and black trunks Bud handed to him out of the overnight bag. Henry knelt and laced his white boxing shoes.

“Hands,” said Bud, opening his black satchel. He took out two long strips of white
cloth and a roll of adhesive tape. Bud and Donatelli each wrapped and taped a hand. Alfred studied a printed poster on the wall.

“Close your eyes,” said Henry, opening the large cardboard box.

Something soft and nubby slid over his shoulders.

“Open.”

It was a snow-white terry-cloth robe.

“Show him the back,” said Bud.

Smiling, Henry pulled the robe off and turned it around. Written across the back, in red block letters, was
ALFRED BROOKS
,
NEW YORK
.

“Hey, man, you look like you just got hit in the face,” said Henry.

“Well…I…I don’t…I—”

“You got a lot of sweat in your eyes,” said Bud, all gums. He took a sponge from his satchel and patted Alfred’s eyes.

“Thanks, I mean…I hope—”

“You will,” said Donatelli gruffly. “Bud, Henry, let’s get the blood circulating, it’s chilly in here.”

They were massaging his legs and arms when the gray-haired man came in waving his clipboard.

“You go on third, Vito.”

“Against who?”

“Kid named Rivera.”

“How old is he, what’s he weigh, how many—”

“You want to fight or not?”

“Now look, I don’t want some—”

“After all these years, Vito, you think I’m going to pull a ringer on you?”

“Easy, man,” said Bud. “You know it’s nothing personal. We’ll take it.”

“Sorry,” said Donatelli.

“Sure,” said the gray-haired man. “I understand.” He looked around the room. “Hubbard. Elston Hubbard?”

A powerfully built welterweight with a Marine Corps emblem tattooed in blue on one massive bronze forearm jumped lightly to his feet. “Right here.”

“You’re on, boy. Jackson, Sam Jackson? You’re next.” The gray-haired man turned and left.

Hubbard swaggered across the room, two older men trailing him. He turned at the door. “See you cats in a minute,” he said, flashing a mouthful of gold teeth.

“That’s confidence,” said Bud out loud. The
fighters and handlers in the room laughed nervously. A tall heavyweight, a little soft around the middle, stood up and began to shadowbox.

“Hands,” said Donatelli. He slipped on the gloves, one at a time. Alfred’s knees began to quiver.

“How you feel?” whispered Henry.

“Just fine.”

The door opened, and the roar of the crowd flooded the room. “Jackson?”

The heavyweight shuffled out with his seconds.

“Stand up,” said Donatelli. “Knee bends, that’s it, go on down, bounce up, that’s the way.”

The door opened again, and Hubbard swaggered back in. “Took me one minute, twenty seconds. I’m out of shape.”

“Jab,” said Donatelli, holding up a hand, palm out. “That’s it. Good snap. Let’s go.”

The ice ball began to melt, trickling freezing water into his legs, stiffening the joints. Donatelli’s fingers dug into one arm and Bud’s into the other. The crowd noises grew louder as they walked down the corridor and into the back of a square, low-ceilinged meeting hall.

“Ain’t Madison Square Garden,” said Bud.

“Tonight it is,” said Donatelli.

Jackson and another heavyweight were flailing each other in a lumpy, crooked ring in the middle of the hall. Naked bulbs washed the canvas with harsh yellow light. The rest of the hall was in darkness. Alfred couldn’t tell how many people sat in the uneven rows of metal folding chairs.

“C’mon, ya bums,” someone shouted. The heavyweights pushed and butted each other clumsily. The referee pulled them apart, and ducked as a long right arm looped over his head. Jackson fell down, and stayed down. He just didn’t want to get back up, Alfred thought.

“We’re on,” said Bud. They started down the aisle, Donatelli and Bud pushing him along with their shoulders. He could hear Henry breathing hard behind them, hurrying to keep up. They waited at the ring steps as Jackson stumbled down, his eyes half-closed, and then they went up, into the pool of hot and blinding light. Bud spread the ropes and Donatelli shoved him through. Rivera was already there, his face blotted out by the lights. He was shorter than Alfred, but very wide and muscu
lar. His legs looked like telephone poles.

“Stick and run, stick and run,” whispered Donatelli in his ear, but Alfred was listening to the ring announcer, “In white trunks, from the Bronx, weighing one hundred thirty-six pounds, Joe Rivera. In black trunks, from Harlem, New York, weighing one hundred thirty-four and three-quarters pounds, Alfred Brooks.”

The soft, warm terry cloth slipped off his shoulders and Bud’s dry stick-fingers were stabbing into his back muscles. “Stick and run, don’t slug with him, stick and run, jab and move.” Henry shoved the mouthpiece in.

Hands pushed him into the center of the ring and the referee was saying, “…three rounds of two minutes each…you know the amateur rules…break clean…shake, boys, and come out fighting.”

The ice ball exploded, spraying his entire body with freezing, paralyzing streams of water, weighing down his arms, deadening his legs, squeezing his heart.

“Stick and run, don’t…”

The bell rang. He moved numbly forward on stiff legs. Rivera’s beady black eyes stared at
him over a bent nose.

“Move, Alfred, for…”

He walked right into it, a ton of concrete that slammed into his mouth. His arms flew up, and he staggered backwards on his heels. The ropes burned into his back.

The ice ball was gone.

His legs felt like steel springs and his arms were whips. He bounced off the ropes, flicking the jab ahead of him, pop-pop, into Rivera’s face, pop-pop, reddening the bent nose. He moved in with a short right, and Rivera walloped him on the side of the head.

“Stick and run, stick and run,” screamed Donatelli.

Alfred danced back, sucking in quick, sharp breaths. Rivera was standing in the middle of the ring, his feet flat on the lumpy canvas, planted like a tree. Alfred circled around him, and Rivera turned, slowly and awkwardly, to keep facing him. Rivera wasn’t going to move, he was just going to stand there. I’m going to have to go in and get him, thought Alfred.

“Stick, stick, stick and run,” screamed Donatelli, but his voice was lost in a rising chorus of boos.

“Get in there and fight, Brooks,” someone
yelled, high-pitched and nasty, “Off ya bicycle, go and fight.”

His body was slick with sweat as he circled Rivera, watching the telephone-pole legs shuffle and turn the squat body. He darted in, pop-pop, and jumped back. Rivera’s clumsy left hook missed his head by a foot.

“That’s it, Alfred,” screamed Donatelli, “just like that, in and out, in and out.”

“Fight, ya coward, go in and fight.”

“Stick, stick and run.”

“Yellow belly, stand and fight.”

He darted in again, pop-pop, stand and fight, yellow belly, pop-pop, off your bicycle.

“Move out, Alfred, move…”

Pop-pop and he slipped Rivera’s slow jab, pop-pop, and he drove in a right cross, stand and fight, and he never saw the punch that slammed into his mouth, snapping back his head. The lights dazzled his eyes, and then a truck crashed into his belly, and a baseball bat blasted the side of his head. He looked up, and the referee was standing over him, wagging a finger, “…two…three…”

The bell rang.

He got up and turned around twice before he saw Bud frantically waving him to their
corner. He dropped like a sack on the stool. It seemed like hours before his tongue pushed out the mouthpiece, and then six hands were moving over him, thick, square hands pulling on the elastic waistband of his trunks, “Deep breath, Alfred, deep breath,” stick hands stabbing into the muscles of his neck and back, and slim hands tilting the water bottle to his mouth. He gagged on the water and tried to spit it into the bucket in one long stream, but it just gushed out of his mouth over Henry’s shoes.

Dimly, he heard the ten-second warning buzzer.

“Stick and run, Alfred,” Donatelli whispered into his ear, “don’t listen to that crowd, no one’s hitting them.”

The bell rang.

Rivera was already out there, planted and ready, stick and run, Alfred, stick and run. He darted in, pop-pop, danced back, in and out, in and out, jab and duck, hit and move, circle left, pop-pop, circle right, pop-pop, and he could feel Rivera’s blow-torch breaths, hot and heavy against his chest.

“Stand and fight, yellow belly.”

Don’t listen to the crowd, no one’s hitting
them, pop-pop, in and out, jab and run away, circle left, and Rivera’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen, his thick arms were sagging. Jab and run, dodge, forget the combinations, one punch at a time, two jabs, hit and run, stick and move, don’t get too close too long.

“Ahhhhh, go join the track team, Brooks.”

The bell rang.

“Smart boxing, Alfred,” said Donatelli in his ear, “keep it up, just like that.”

“But the—”

“Don’t talk, just listen.”

The water arched neatly into the bucket. Henry shoved in the mouthpiece. “You won this round, Alfred, it’s one each now. Stick and run, stick and run.”

The bell rang.

The crowd started whistling, piercing whistles that upset his concentration. Rivera was plodding after him now on slow and heavy feet, pop-pop, stay one step ahead of him, jab and jump away, jab and hook and duck under the swinging arm.

“Run home, ya bum.”

In and out, one punch at a time, two jabs, and Rivera was grunting, uh…uh, as he tried
to find Alfred in the dazzling light and the flying sweat. Pop-pop, hit and run.

“Back to the jungle, ya coward.”

The boos flooded the ring and the catcalls burned his ears and the whistles sliced into his brain. Pop-pop, into Rivera’s gasping face. A crumpled paper soda cup landed at his foot, and then another.