The Real Thing (28 page)

Chapter 31

A
t the Garden, I wait in line like so many others who only show up for the main event. I am, after all, a New Yorker. The line moves a millimeter at a time, so I call Red again to pass the time.

I am such a pest.

“Christiana, it's getting close to go time,” Red says.

“I know,” I say. “I'm stuck in line, and I'm bored. What'd you feed him today?”

“What's that got to do with anything now?”

“Just humor me, Red, okay?” I say. “My granddaddy said that on the day of a fight a boxer needs to eat steak, but never well done.”

I hear him sigh. “He ate a salad with Italian dressing, a nine-ounce T-bone steak, which I grilled
medium,
buttered toast, and a fresh fruit cup. Wanna know what he drank, too?” Red sounds stressed.

“I know you're taking good care of him, Red, I just worry, you know? What's he doing now?”

“He's praying in the mop closet.”

A closet is as good a place to pray as anywhere else, I guess. I flash back to his closet of a room. I was praying there, too. Praying he wouldn't stop.

“Is the door closed?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“So he can't hear you, right?”

“I don't think so.”

“I love him, Red.” I fight off a tear. “I really love him.”

“I know you do,” Red says softly. “Does he know?”

“I told him once months ago, but I'm not sure he remembers. Don't let him get hurt, okay?”

“I won't.”

The second I close my phone, I hear an old woman's voice in my ear. “I couldn't help overhearing,” she says.

I turn and see an ancient black woman in a flashy silver dress. “Yes?”

“You know something I should know, honey?” she asks.

I hope to God that this isn't Tank Washington's mama. “Dante Lattanza is going to win tonight.”

She wrinkles up her wrinkles. “You've been drinking, huh?”

I shake my head and smile. “Tank Washington is going down hard tonight.” I notice others listening. “Twelfth round,” I say louder. “Knockout.”

Mrs. Wrinkled Wrinkles cocks her head. “And just how do you know this?”

I put my hand on my heart. “My heart tells me.”

Mrs. WW rolls her eyes and several others in the crowd laugh. “Child, I ain't bettin' on
your
heart.”

“Bet on Dante Lattanza's heart then,” I say brightly. “His heart is
huge
.”

Once I'm inside the Garden, I follow the crowd down to the ring while an undercard bout between two boxers I don't recognize goes on to occasional noise. There are so many celebrities in the crowd. I see Sugar Ray Leonard schmoozing with Sylvester Stallone, the mayor chatting with Robert De Niro, the Raging Bull himself. Is that Martin Scorsese? It has to be. No one has an eyebrow like that. That can't be Chris Tucker shooting the shit with Mr. T. When will Mr. T change his chains? Oh sure, Donald Trump is here, conferring with the Golden Boy Oscar De La Hoya and Rosie O'Donnell.

Oh yeah. Don King is here. Whoop-de-do.

I push down my own hair, just in case.

I notice Evelyn seated near the red corner wearing a flashy golden dress, her hair and makeup absolutely
perfetto.
I'm glad I'm subdued. As much as I want Dante all to myself, I do not want anyone to recognize me tonight.

Except for Dante, of course.

As I check my ticket, I feel a hand grabbing my arm.

I turn and see Lelani wearing a slinky, exquisitely clingy black satin dress and high heels only skinny-footed people can wear.

I hug her hard. “It is so good to see you again!”

She pulls me to an empty seat a few rows behind Evelyn. “You're sitting with me. Red always gets an extra ticket in case Dante's father shows up.”

She has no idea how soon that might be.

Lelani looks at my ticket. “Girl, you would have been sitting on Washington's side.”

This is very cool. “Lelani, I'm so nervous. I mean, I've watched a bunch of fights, but I never . . .” I sigh. “I never loved the guy fighting before, you know?”

“I knew you were in love with him,” Lelani says.

“When?”

She wrinkles up her little nose. “Oh, I suppose it was the second you stole his fish.”

“I didn't steal his fish. I asked for it.”

“That's when I knew,” she says. “You two were playing eye-tag the whole time, too.”

She noticed. Was I that obvious?

“Hey,” she says, “don't be nervous yet. It's going to be a while. Dante will come out to some Italian song, the crowd will go crazy, and once the fight starts, you won't have any time to be nervous.”

“I don't know. My stomach is tumbling.”

She takes my hand. “Let me walk you through this. On the way in, Dante will smile at and hug every person he can, whether they want him to hug them or not. He'll pose for pictures. He'll hold babies. He'll kiss grandmas with more facial hair than he has.”

“As if he's running for office?”

She nods. “Yeah. Like that.”

Dante for president? I'd vote for him. Dante for mayor . . . Sure. Maybe Dante can fix the MTA.

“Ten minutes will pass before he gets into the ring.” She smiles, her eyes looking shady. “It may last longer than the fight.”

“Don't say that.”

She squeezes my hand. “I meant it in a good way.”

“Oh.” Dante knocking out Tank early? That would be a miracle.

The crowd roars. We look up in time to see one of the unknown fighters biting the canvas and the ref counting him out.

Oh, geez. Now my stomach is in my left ear and my eyes are blurry. I hope my vision clears by the time they clear the ring.

“Lelani, I haven't been to a fight in a long time,” I say. “Does Dante have anything special planned for his entrance? Other than the hugging, kissing, and posing?”

“Dante is so boring, Christiana,” Lelani says. “Once in the ring, he'll do his four-corners routine, go to the center, bow four times, smile at the world . . .”

I tune her out because I am feeling something incredible inside me, something even more magical than walking through the snowy rainbows out on Broadway. Something mythical.

Yes.

Something mythical is going to happen tonight. Something more mythical than that day on the outcropping when I held hands in the sunset with Dante. It's almost primal. Boxing is primal. All of this—the ring, the crowd, the lights—is primal, deep, heroic. Dante is like an ancient hero about to slay the monster. He's Beowulf about to slaughter Grendel. He's Gawain about to fight the Green Knight. All the signs dancing behind and around me proclaim it:
DANTE WILL WIN IT ALL
!!!
DANTE FIGHTS FOR LOVE
!
LATTANZA FOR PRESIDENT.
Italian flags wave nonstop, Dante's fans really putting their hearts, their very souls into their shouts, those signs, those waving flags. They love him. They're not fair-weather fans. They truly love him.

And so do I.

My hands can't stop shaking I love him so much.

Few people love Tank Washington. They respect him, yes, but only for what he can
do
. Thousands here tonight love and respect Dante for who he
is
.

Dante is a hero.

Dante is
my
hero.

“Christiana,” Lelani says, “you're crying.”

I wipe tears I hadn't noticed from my cheeks. “Just losing myself in the moment.”

Another roar. A song begins. Goose bumps. It's Smokey Robinson's “Being with You.”

More tears.

The entire Garden stands and begins singing.

Whoo. Now my legs won't stop shaking.

“Since when did Dante like Smokey Robinson?” Lelani asks.

Did he play this for
me
? Man, I need some tissues. “I, um, I told him I liked Smokey on our way to town that day. I never thought he'd play one of his songs.” What does this mean?

While Lelani sings the chorus, I stand on tiptoe to see Dante, but there's no way I can see over all these people.

“He usually plays some extremely loud opera music on his entrance,” Lelani says, swaying. “This is nice. What's he trying to do, get Washington's fans to cheer for him instead?”

I am cheering so loudly inside right now!

Smokey's voice fades, and a full band kicks in with Dean Martin crooning, “Ain't That a Kick in the Head.”

Oh, this is too much! Everyone is smiling! Everyone is singing! My head is spinning! This song is so be-
you
-tiful! There he is.

Oh, my heart.

He is one huge smile. He's a moonbeam. He's a . . . he's a slice of eaten watermelon. He squints and dances with DJ at his side in front of Red and the cut man, who's bald and wears a paper halo for a hat. The cut man and Red wear black Everlast jackets, and Dante—

Daa-em.

My naughty bits flutter.

Dante looks so hot in green, red, and white trunks with a matching satin warm-up, its hood flopping side to side as he bounces.

“This is really different!” Lelani shouts as the song ends.

“How so?”

“He usually does some Sinatra.”

A man behind us with booze on his breath sticks his head between us. “Yeah, ‘My Way' would have been more appropriate. ‘And now, Lattanza's end is near, and soon his face will be bloody for certain . . .' ”

Lelani stares him down. “Kiss off, ya bum.”

The man jerks back. “You two ain't Washington fans?”

I wave my hands in his face.
“Mi scusi? Hai un febbre? Non importa, non importa. Idiota.”

The jerk sits.

“You've been busy,” Lelani says.

I bite my lower lip. “Dante rubbed off on me.”

“I'll say.”

I look up at the ring as Dante rolls over the top rope, the crowd roaring even louder.
“Andiamo!”
I shout.

“Um, Christiana,” Lelani whispers. “You just asked that drunk if he had a fever.”

“I did?”

She nods.

“Oh. I thought I was asking if he was high.”

She waves a hand in front of her nose. “But he is.”

I watch Dante do his four corners, his arms raised. I watch him stand in the center of the ring and bow in four directions. I watch him commanding that ring, commanding the attention of the Garden, commanding the attention of the entire world, BROOKLYN stitched proudly into his belt.

I also see him wink in my direction.

Damn. My hands and legs had just calmed down, Dante. Give a girl a chance!

He winks at me
again.

A few heads in front of me turn and look at me.

“That was new, too,” Lelani says.

“What was?” I say coyly, fighting to keep my hands from flying off my body.

“The wink. Must be the lights.”

I smile. “You
are
jaded, Lelani.”

“Yep,” she says. “I sure am.”

“Andiamo!”
I yell, and the heads in front of me turn away.

They're just jealous that a real man didn't wink at them.

Chapter 32

T
ank makes Dante wait for five minutes, but Dante doesn't seem to mind. He looks so
good
. He's had a nice haircut and a shave. His body says, “Warrior.”

My body says, “Warrior princess needs warrior prince.”

I should have had a soda. I must be sugar deficient.

A driving bass beat fills the Garden. Here we go. I hope Tank doesn't—

He's rapping.

I can't even watch.

The beat is hot, but the words he's spouting are completely unintelligible. I hear whispers of “Hell Razah” floating around me. Hell Razah, who used to be Heaven Razah (real name Chron Smith), is from Red Hook, and he's rapping along with Tank. Traitor.

“Dante's entrance had more class,” Lelani says.

I agree. Everyone warms up in his own way, I guess, and Tank is sweating profusely by the time he enters the ring, points at Dante, and slides his right glove under his neck.

Dante only smiles.

Tattoos cover Tank's arms, back, and—ew—the back of his bald head. That blond goatee does nothing for him. He wears a black T-shirt, black and white shorts past his knees, white gloves, and black shoes. His entourage holds up his belt, flashing bling and generally being annoying.

And after Tank loses, those fools will have to go get
real
jobs. Ha! Welcome to Burger Barn. Can I take your order, yo?

The lights dim. A spot hits Michael Buffer in his signature tuxedo. My stomach settles down, but my heart thumps loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Let's get ready to rumble!” Buffer roars.

Let's do this.

“First in the red corner, weighing in at a rough-and-ready one hundred and fifty-eight and one-half pounds, wearing the tricolors of Italy . . .”

The crowd roars. I am deaf.

“With a spectacular record of fifty wins against only two losses, all fifty wins by way of knockout, fighting out of Aylen Lake, Ontario, Canada, originally from Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, New York . . .”

Another roar. I am dizzy.

“The challenger and former WBA middleweight champion of the world, Dante ‘Blood and Guts' Lattanza!”

I cannot hear.

I cannot see.

I am crying.

I feel the love for this man, and I feel love for Red, for DJ, for Lelani, for those around me, even the boozy jerk behind me.

Something mythical just
has
to happen tonight.

When Buffer introduces Tank, the Garden is
much
quieter. Boo-birds in the cheap seats shout all sorts of interesting curse phrases. I'll have to translate them into Italian later.

Meanwhile, Dante and DJ are in his corner, just . . . talking. They're just shooting the breeze moments before Tank starts pounding Dante's gentle face. Red removes the warm-up. That's what I'm talking about. Dante's rippled abs have sprouted more ripples. Red removes the cross, and Dante kisses it.

I pull mine out and kiss it, too.

“Superstitious?” Lelani asks.

“A little,” I say. I kiss the cross again for good measure.

They receive their instructions from the referee in the center of the ring, I hear “Touch 'em up!” from the referee, and Dante bounces back toward me.

Another wink.

Mythical.

Yeah.

This is going to be mythical.

Brooklyn is in the house.

Tank charges from his corner, so much stronger, so much quicker, so much more talented than Dante, but Dante slips to the side and throws out
five
consecutive jabs.

He's using his jab.

Lelani says what I'm thinking: “He's using his jab!”

Dante listened to me.

“He's actually boxing!” Lelani shouts.

He's dancing. He's dancing as he danced with me, as if he's just out there shadowboxing up in Canada, kicking up dust and mirroring me.

“He's actually not getting hit for a change,” Lelani says.

Dante isn't putting a dent in Tank, but at least Dante's cut man isn't going to get arthritis tonight.

Lelani grabs me. “This is so exciting!”

I can't speak. I'm watching an Italian matador at work. He's bobbing. He's weaving. He's circling. He's jabbing, sliding, pivoting, and turning. I want to shout,
“Olé!”

“He won that round,” I whisper to Lelani.

“You don't win rounds by dancing and throwing a few jabs,” she says.

I don't reply. Dante's waiting. He's watching. Those eyes . . .

He listened to me. He is actually following my advice. What does that mean? Whatever it means, it is working so far. I look up toward the ceiling. Thanks, Granddaddy. I was always listening to you, especially when you didn't think I was.

The rounds roll by with much of the same, Dante the matador versus Tank the bull. Dante's jab pops Tank's face with increasing regularity. It snaps out like a hammer, and Dante follows it with crisp rights to the body. Dante's chopping wood. Tank can't get inside and resorts to throwing haymakers over the top. I cringe at every bomb Tank throws, but Dante blocks them without backing up, snapping that hammer jab in Tank's confused and frustrated face. Tank resorts to some “rough stuff”—low blows, hitting on the break, holding and hitting, leading with his forehead—and the referee has to warn him constantly to “knock it off, champ.”

I hear people all around me complaining. “This isn't the fight I came to see!” they shout. “Where's the left hook?” the drunk behind us mutters. “I came to see the left hook!”

After round ten, I am as sweaty as Dante is. I've been throwing little jabs and right crosses, doing a boxing “chair dance” for ten rounds. At least my hands have something to do. My legs and feet have yet to stop running in place.

Lelani turns to me. “Why isn't he throwing the hook, Christiana? What's he waiting for?”

I want to tell her what I told him, but she might not believe me. Her man, Red, is Dante's trainer, not me. “Maybe he's waiting for the right moment. The right time.”

“But he's running out of time,” Lelani says, obviously as flustered as Tank has become. “Tank's throwing the heavier punches.”

I smile at her. “And here I thought you'd become jaded by boxing.”

She grabs my hand. “Not tonight. Dante
has
to win. He just
has
to.”

“I know that.”

She shakes her head. “For another big reason.”

Another reason? “What?”

“I'll tell you later.”

From the opening bell of the eleventh round, the fight really begins, and the noise is deafening. Tank and Dante stand toe to toe in the center of the ring, the proverbial “phone booth,” punching the living hell out of each other. It's almost a repeat of their first fight, and the folks around me stand and shout. They are so fickle. Both boxers are taking punishment now, sweat and blood flying.

But I can't look away.

Dante's face puffs up, his eyes becoming slits, and it's magnificent, utterly, truly
magnificent
. Blood streams from both of their faces, cuts open and ooze, the white parts of their trunks turning pink. Tank Washington bleeds. He's human after all. Their arms fly faster than even a computer can count, and I swear I can feel the sweaty breezes from their punches. And when the Garden's famous bell rings at the end of the eleventh round, a primal, joyous roar shakes the building.

I can't just sit here.

Without a second thought, I move down our row saying
“Scusi!”
to all the toes I'm stepping on, bumping into Johnny Sears, Dante's old trainer.

“I never woulda believed it,” he says.

“You're late for your reservation,” I say, but I don't have time to chat, old man.

I rush to Dante's corner where Dante sits on the stool, smiling, his high cheekbones bruised, his nose bloodied, the cut man working on his nose and eyebrows simultaneously.

Red merely gives Dante some water while DJ rinses Dante's mouthpiece.

Why is no one saying anything? This could be Dante's final round for the rest of his life!

I guess it's up to me.

I have to put my mouth into Dante's life one more time.