The Manager (5 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he Halifax Forum was a huge old place and smelled damp and musty as we made our way down the narrow halls. It was shabbier than I'd expected, with wooden planks over the ice and a ring that had seen better days.

Tina didn't care. As long as there was a ring in there someplace, it was heaven to her.

Paul complained that the marquee didn't make enough of Jesse Mankiller and seemed to favour his opponent, because the letters that spelled out MASON PITTS were much bigger.

Jesse said he didn't give a damn, but Paul said if they didn't bother to stick to what was in the contract regarding something like the sign, they were sure to try to screw him somewhere else.

“They're just out to unnerve him,” Tina said. “Want him to panic a bit so their local boy has a better chance. That's what it is.”

Jesse listened to what she said but didn't reply.

We were almost to the dressing room when Paul stopped us, gave us our ticket stubs so we could find our seats, and said he'd meet us at the front entrance once the fight was over.

“Don't you want me to tape his hands?” asked Tina. “Help him warm up?”

Jesse glared at Paul.

“Who's your cut man?” Tina barked. When they didn't answer instantly she realized they were taking one appointed by the promoter. “Oh, no!” she said. “That's ridiculous. How do you know they'll play fair?”

“Our budget doesn't allow for a cut man,” said Paul. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Well you won't know if the cut man is any good or not. You have to pace Mankiller. You have to keep an eye on Pitts, watch for mistakes. How can you be sure the cut man is on the level?” She shook her head in disgust. “I can do this for you. I can get my salve approved by the ringside physician in two seconds.” She pulled it out of her purse. “Come on.”

Jesse glared again.

“If you think bismuth and thromboplastin is enough, you're crazy,” she gasped.

“Thanks, but I've got everything covered,” said Paul.

“Okay, whatever,” snapped Tina. Venom dripped out the side of her mouth.

I looked at my ticket. “Ringside!”

“Only place to be,” said Paul.

A group of young men spotted Jesse and made stupid Indian war calls. He was about to confront them and probably would have beat the hell out of them, but Paul stopped him.

“Not worth it,” he said. “Save it for the ring.”

Jesse swore at them under his breath, and he used some pretty strong adjectives.

Tina swore at them too, not under her breath, and her choice of words was even worse. That was the first time I'd seen Jesse smile.

Then the dressing room door swung shut.

—

Tina was perched on the edge of her seat. She hated being on the outside as an observer; what she really wanted was to be in the corner with her salve and ice packs, shouting commands into Mankiller's ear. Still, a fight's a fight, and even if she couldn't control the outcome, it was the best place my sister could be.

“Pop?” I asked, offering to get refreshments for us.

She grunted something. I think it was “no thanks,” but her eyes never left the door from which the fighters were about to emerge.

“Imagine us in ringside seats,” I said.

Still no comment.

I looked around. There wasn't a huge crowd, but more than what I thought there'd be for a newcomer like Jesse Mankiller. Pitts was the one they were there to watch, though. He was the one they'd be rooting for.

Suddenly there was a burst of applause, and everyone started shouting and cheering.

“Here we go,” said Tina, as wide-eyed as a kid just about to take a ride on a roller coaster.

Mason Pitts, his trainer and cut man came barrelling down the aisle, and there was no mistaking who was the crowd favourite, since every time he lifted his glove in the air, the cheering nearly destroyed my ear drums for life. Tina said something to me, but I couldn't hear her.

Pitts wore a long black robe with his name on the back, and his corner men also had his name on their shirts. Tina kept pointing to them; I think she was mad about Pitts's big budget.

We tried to cheer when Paul and Jesse came out, but it was like trying to light a match in a windstorm; we were squelched by the loud booing that filled the forum. A cut man followed them to the ring, carrying ice packs and bandages and gauze pads.

Jesse didn't give a damn about the jeers. He looked great in his white robe that had “Mankiller” written across the back in bright red, like his gloves. Very simple. Very sharp. Tina nodded her approval. I approved, too, but I think it might have been his long ponytail and washboard abdomen that steered my vote.

He slipped gracefully between the ropes, sat down on his stool and listened as Paul whispered instructions into his ear. Pitts looked foolish, jumping up and down and throwing out punches into space.

The ring announcer spoke into a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he started. When the noise level remained several decibels above deafening, he tried again, this time harder. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted, “a ten round bout.”

Tina's eyes caught Jesse's as he stood up, and she started screaming advice at him. He ignored her, choosing instead to flirt with a young woman who stuck her hand through the ropes and slipped him her phone number. Paul got rid of her quickly.

The announcer continued, making sweeping motions with his free hand. “In this corner, wearing black trunks and weighing in at one hundred seventy-three pounds, from Halifax, Nova Scotia … MASON PITTS.” The crowd went crazy.

“And in this corner, in white trunks” – the booing was loud and steady, with a smidgen of polite applause from older members of the audience and whistles from every woman with seeing eyes – “weighing one hundred seventy-two pounds, originally from Oklahoma, now living in Truro, Nova Scotia … Jesse Mankiller.”

Tina and I cheered and cheered, but it felt like being in one of those dreams where you want to run from something, but your feet won't move.

The referee signalled the two fighters into the centre of the ring and repeated the rules and instructions; neither one heard a word of it. Then they tapped gloves, went back to their corners and waited for the bell.

By the time it sounded, Tina was standing on top of her chair and several men behind her were hollering at her to get out of the way. She didn't. Soon they were squeezed between our chairs, breathing down my neck.

Jesse strolled out at the bell and was more relaxed than any fighter I'd ever seen. He was in no rush, and let Pitts throw the first punch. He ducked it deftly, like he was equipped with the radar of a bat, and when Pitts was wide open, Jesse sent him a left hook to welcome him aboard. That smartened up the Halifax fighter, and from that point, his arm started pumping. Jesse let him do it.

“That's right!” hollered Tina. “Wear him out, Mankiller. Give him the rope. He'll hang himself!”

Nobody sits higher on the stump than my sister when it comes to knowing how to win a boxing match, but even I could see that Jesse was the better fighter.

“He's good, isn't he?”

“He's good,” said Tina. And she expected a lot from a boxer. So if she said he was good, it meant he could win a title. “He'll take it by the fourth round,” she added.

I thought so too.

But after the first round, Jesse hollered something to Paul about his opponent being greased – an illegal act in boxing, where the cut man has applied Vaseline to an area other than the forehead.

Tina got wind of it and started screaming at Pitts's manager and the referee, but nobody took notice. That was until she headed over to their side, threw both hands in the air and told them to keep their (she swore here) finger out of the (another one) Vaseline jar.

When the bell rang, Pitts came out with a long, loopy right that Jesse moved around effortlessly. Then they met in the middle, and for one crazy minute it was nothing but a sea of jabs and hooks until Jesse danced out, leaving Pitts twisting in pain.

He came at Jesse again, and this time Pitts connected. There was a stream of blood running down Jesse's face and it was interfering with his sight.

Paul and the cut man tried to stop the blood from gushing, but the best they could do was slow it down to a lighter but steady flow.

“See.” Tina's eyes flashed with anger. “Paul has no time to instruct Mankiller if he's too busy cleaning him up. Nobody can handle that, Ellie.”

She was right. Paul looked tired already. Sick, even.

Tina took over from the sidelines.

“Take him out, Mankiller,” she hollered. “Jab with the right to push him back,” she told him. “Then cross to the head.”

He couldn't hear her.

The bell rang and in no time he had Pitts against the ropes. He moved in close for a short hook.

Two good punches and the fight was his. Or at least it would have been.

Just as Jesse was going in for what would have been the knockout punch, there was a blood-curdling scream from the crowd. Then another. Then dozens more.

Paul Holley had collapsed.

CHAPTER NINE

W
hen I woke up, I was slumped in a chair in a waiting room on the main floor of the Halifax Infirmary. It took several minutes for me to get my bearings, then I remembered.

“Is Paul – is he going to live?” I asked Bonita.

She and Tina and I had spent all night waiting for news. Louise Holley was next door, in a special area close to the intensive care unit, for relatives only.

“I don't know, Ellie.” Bonita had chewed her nails right down to the quick.

Tina said nothing. She kept closing her eyes and squeezing her knees together; I could tell she was in pain from having sat there too long. Every once in a while she gazed up at the sterile blue and white walls, and I figured she was imagining her own future, having to spend the better part of a year in a similar prison.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Not long,” answered Bonita, but it must have been hours because I saw daylight streaming in through the windows.

“Where's Jesse?” I asked.

“He had to go home,” said Tina. “Tend to his mother.”

I looked at Bonita. She was exhausted.

“If you'd like to go home and take a nap, I can call you if there's any developments,” I offered. But as it turned out, my suggestion wasn't necessary because Louise came through the door.

“Louise!” Bonita jumped up.

“He's going to be okay – eventually.” Paul's wife threw herself into the nearest chair and let her head fall back. The three of us let out sighs of relief.

“Oh, thank God,” said Bonita, grabbing her friend's arm.

Louise put a hand on Tina's shoulder.

“The cardiologist told me that your decision to cover him with ice packs may have saved him from suffering brain damage. It may even have saved his life.” She leaned over and hugged my sister with the bit of strength she had left.

Tina shrugged it off, but I knew she was pleased with herself. When Paul collapsed, she had raced up onto the ring and grabbed the ice from both corners; somehow she knew that cooling his body could protect his brain, while the ringside physician revived him and got blood flowing again.

“It's not a well-known technique,” mumbled Tina. “I read about it somewhere.”

Ring magazine, no doubt.

“What did you mean – he'll be okay ‘eventually'?” Bonita asked Louise.

“Paul is going to have to stay here for at least two weeks. Maybe longer. They'll have to monitor his heart until they get his medication right.” She drew a long breath. “He can deal with that, I know he can. But he won't be managing any boxers. Never again.”

“Too much stress?” I guessed.

“Way too much,” answered Louise. “I'm not saying he can't watch from the sidelines, but he can't be responsible for anybody's career, that's for sure.” She sighed heavily. “I don't know how he's going to deal with it.”

“What about Jesse?” asked Tina.

Louise shook her head slowly back and forth. “I don't know how to tell him.”

“He was robbed last night,” said Tina. “They should have awarded him a technical decision based on points. Any fool could see he was going to win.”

“Why didn't they?” asked Bonita.

“Rules say you can't have a winner based on points unless it goes four rounds.” Tina pounded her fist against her knee. “Mankiller had that fight.”

“Who's going to tell him that Paul can't manage him anymore?” I asked.

No one had an answer. Then Tina spoke up.

“I am,” she said.

—

When Jesse appeared at the hospital the next day, Tina gave him the bad news.

He let it glance off him like an uppercut to the jaw.

“Okay,” he said, walking away like she'd casually mentioned that it looked like rain.

Tina followed him to the vending machine. He kicked it and a can of orange soda flew out.

“I can do it,” she said.

“You can do what?” He pulled open the can and it fizzed out the top. He threw his lips over it and I felt those weird butterflies in my stomach again.

“I can be your manager.”

He laughed.

“I can. Paul's set up the Amherst fight with the promoter and the one in Portland after that. Win those and you're on your way to Boston.”

“Give me a break, will you?” He tossed back more soda. “Look, you're a nice girl and everything and I'm sure you know a lot about boxing, but I really don't want a manager right now. I can handle it myself.”

“You're going to fight without a manager?”

“I don't know. I haven't made up my mind.”

Louise Holley came out of Paul's room and said that he insisted on seeing us but that we could only talk to him for a minute. Tina, Jesse and I went in; Bonita stayed with Louise outside the room.

“Hey, man,” said Jesse, grabbing Paul's hand with both of his and leaning over him for a hug. He couldn't get past all the tubes and cords, but the feeling was definitely there.

“I'm sorry, Jesse.” Paul struggled with the words. “You had that … fight.”

“Forget it, okay? Just get better. That's what I want, you hear me?”

“And you,” said Paul, pointing at Tina. “I owe you so much.”

Tina blushed. I think I blushed too.

“Why?” asked Jesse, and when I explained what the cardiologist had said, the boxer raised his eyebrows and, in his own aloof way, was somewhat impressed.

“Will you take over for me, Tina?” Paul asked, his speech slurred. “Can you do that for me?” He took a few shallow breaths. “Everything is set up – the motel rooms, the contracts, everything.”

Tina was stumped. She didn't want to upset Paul by admitting that she'd already asked and Jesse didn't want her help. And she couldn't agree to his request knowing that Jesse didn't want her.

“Look, Paul,” said Jesse. “There's no saying that I'm going to be asked to fight in Amherst.”

“They'll want you, Jesse.” Paul fought to get out the words. “That bout was yours. The promoter knows that you're the draw now.” He looked at Tina again. “You'll get him there?”

“I'll do whatever I can,” she said, giving Jesse a look that, if it was audible, would have been something akin to “if this stupid ass of a boxer will get off his throne and stop acting like the world owed him something.”

A nurse made us leave the room, and I think it was a good thing she did because neither Tina nor Jesse wanted to lie to Paul.

Outside the room, Jesse took Tina aside and gave her the brush off.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not even sure I'm going to be boxing anymore, okay?”

“You'd be a damn fool to let talent like yours go to waste,” declared my sister. “I've trained a lot of boxers—”

“Oh, come on,” said Mankiller.

“She has,” I argued. “Our father has a gym in Sydney and Tina's been working with the paperweights, and— ”

“Featherweights, Ellie.”

“Right.”

“As I was saying,” Tina continued valiantly, “I've worked with many boxers and I know exactly what it takes to get you to the top. You've got it. You've got what it takes, and you'd be stupid not to use it.”

“I don't care anymore,” said Jesse. He took his pop can, crushed it in his hand and tossed it into a garbage can ten feet away. “Too many strikes against me, okay? Too many problems to deal with right now.”

“You mean your mother? And Meryl?” I asked.

There was fire in Jesse's eyes when he replied.

“My mother needs more care than I can give her. My sister is an alcoholic. I think she's trying to kill herself with it and honestly, some days I don't blame her. Okay?” He turned his back on us and walked away.

Tina shook her head and wheeled around to face me.

“And now you know why he's such a fantastic boxer.”