THE FIGHT
The day before the fight I went with the dancer to her gym. Revolution itself did not have a scale. “We do not want our clients running to the scale every five minutes,” huffed the Fitness Diva. “Weight is not an accurate measure of fitness.” True enough, but it was a measure I needed. On my cheap home scale, my weight bounced between 126 some mornings and 131 some nights. The equally cheap Supreme Team scale gave me a lower number, but we all agreed it was reading light. I very much wanted to be certain, so the dancer offered help. At her gym, in a carpeted room filled with grunting bodybuilders, I stepped my gaunt form onto a medical scale. After I adjusted the balance, it read 132 pounds.
Quick, come here, I gasped.
What’s the matter? the dancer asked.
I pointed at the number.
That can’t be right, I said, already thinking about what I would have to suffer to lose five pounds in a day.
I don’t know. Have you been eating a lot this week?
I haven’t been eating anything, I wailed. I wanted to cry.
As I agonized over the numbers, one of the house trainers passed us and called, Oh, don’t bother. That thing hasn’t worked in years.
The dancer and I hauled two forty-pound dumbbells onto the scale base and saw that this was true. The scale read heavy. I felt relieved but I was back to where I’d started. In a city of eight million plus, there had to be a way to get an accurate read on a scale. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what it was.
In the first round of the Golden Gloves, fighters are given a weight allowance of two or three pounds. I had heard different numbers from different people. Two pounds, no, three, no, two, no, three, two, three … That pound now seemed very important. Busdriver had told me, “You know if you come in a little bit over at the weigh-in, Milton will have you running around trying to sweat it off.” I had an unpleasant vision of myself dashing back and forth in front of St. Catherine’s Church as the spectators arrived, and decided to limit my liquid intake for the next twenty-four hours. Milton had suggested running no more than a mile that night, but I ran the usual four and went to bed on a mouthful of water.
Then it was February 29, leap year day. My last fight had been seven months before the previous leap year—fifty—six months, a boxing lifetime. At thirty-four I was the oldest person in my division. The U.S. Boxing people called me the old man. “Hey, Milton,” they asked at events, “is that old man with you?” I had put in six months of hard training for six minutes of fighting. I thought about what losing would mean. It wouldn’t be all bad. If I lost, I could rest. No more beatings. Cocktails. No more sitting at home, gnawing my fingers. If I won, it would mean up to two months more of pain, with the bonus of an exuberant Milton dragging me around for beatings from every lightweight in the metropolitan area. Still, I wanted to win. I saw myself fighting in the final at Madison Square Garden. I imagined the souvenir Golden Gloves in my hand, tacky and splendid.
I arrived at the gym near five. Julian, Milton and Hanson were already there.
You ready to go, Bob? Milton asked.
I said that I was, except for one thing. How about these shorts? I said. Can I wear them?
I pulled a pair of blue and gold satin Everlast shorts from my bag. I had bought them for my first New York fight, almost six years earlier.
Blue and gold, Milton said, that’s the Gloves colors. If you wear those, you have to make the finals.
Try ’em on, Julian said.
I shucked my jeans and quickly pulled the shorts up, looking for Julian’s approval. He shook his head. Where did you get those, Bob? Out of a museum?
What’s wrong with them?
They short, he said, too short.
Panic seized me. What if I stepped through the ropes and people started laughing?
Maybe you can wear Vic’s shorts, Milton said. Over there, on the wall.
I reached into the mesh bag and extracted the shorts. Satin, black and enormous, encrusted with various Supreme Team patches. They looked like the flag of a pirate ship. I dragged them up my legs. My calves poking from the bottom were pallid splinters, little white lambs. Julian nodded.
They all right, he said. They all right.
They’re not too long? I said, watching how they billowed over my knees.
Naw, Bob, they’re supposed to be long. Remember, if they ain’t long, they wrong.
We headed uptown in traffic, Milton bullying and lunging with the van, our bodies snapped back with his accelerator push and then whipped forward with an urgent brake. “I’ve never had an accident,” he boasted, but I didn’t believe him.
At the Midtown Tunnel mouth, Milton stared into an eggplantcolored sports car moored beside us. The car was filled with Japanese hipsters wearing ghetto fashions, cornrows, baggies, even dark foundation to Afro-sheen their skin.
Bob, Milton said, how come everybody wants to be black?
I told him that I didn’t know.
I bet they don’t want to get their ass kicked and go to jail.
Milton’s energy was high. I took this for a good omen.
You should have your own cable access show, Milt, I said, Brother Milton speaks.
I’d be worse than Farrakhan, he said, laughing. I’d tell the truth. They want to be black, but not too black. Not black enough for the cops to think you’re black. The no … good … bastards!
Milton was referring to Amadou Diallo and the forty-one shots. That week a jury in Albany, to which an accommodating judge had transferred the trial, had given the four cops a get-out-of-jail-free card.
This whole system in the city sucks, Milton said, shaking his head. Everything in the city sucks. The no … good … bastards! What’s my man’s name who said that?
Khalid Muhammad? I said.
Yeah. At that Million Youth March he was saying, “Don’t let those motherfuckers get away with nothing! If they attack you, you grab their nightsticks and you attack them back! The no … good … bastards! He said, “You pick up anything in sight! Pick up the railings, and smash them across their motherfucking heads!”
With his talent for mimicry, Milton sounded exactly like Muhammad.
He didn’t say that shit, Julian said, laughing.
Oh, yes, he did! said Milton. Yo! I was watching him one night; he was saying, “They shut the trains down!” And normally, if they have a white rally, there’d be no problem. As soon as a bunch of niggers get together, it’s a goddamn problem. They shut the trains. They even tried to cut the air. Motherfuckers couldn’t breathe. They had to go home early.
Everyone in the van laughed at Milton’s rap, and the laughter kept me loose. Milton was in perfect form.
Those cops lied, he said, they didn’t see crap. They probably ran there and stuck his wallet in his hand.
Julian didn’t doubt it at all.
They tried to say it looked like a starter pistol, he said, some shit like that.
They … Milton sputtered. It looked like so many goddamn things, and yet, the reason why they started shooting was … My man … My man who was shooting first tripped, and they thought he got shot. So they started going crazy. “Oh, we got a free one.”
Our glacial drift through the tunnel finally brought us to the tollbooths.
Yo, Milton said, pointing at one of the attendants, look at that fat fuck over there. Lucky that motherfucking booth is big or he wouldn’t be able to get in or out.
Julian offered me advice.
Try to come to the head at first, Bob, he said. If you hurt his head, go real hard to his body. At least, that’s what I’d do.
We paid and rose on a ramp above Long Island City. Queens stretched out before us, an expanse of rectangles in muted white, brown, gray, rectangles to the horizon, eerie in the twilight, the winter sun a red button on a dingy gray panel, the buildings stretching as far as we could see.
Forty minutes later we were there at last. At last! Against the doubt and fear, “at last!” It was strange to have that vanload of friends, that journey, for me alone.
The single preliminary round for featherweight novice fighters would take place at St. Catherine’s Church in Franklin Square, Long Island, a few miles outside Queens and one town away from Busdriver’s home of Lynbrook. The church lay in a small business district surrounded by suburban sprawl, like a fat man’s skeleton. Inside, Catherine offered a benediction from an aisle alcove. Across the aisle, a bearded male saint carried what appeared to be a framing square. The narthex walls bore holy water ewers surmounted by intaglios of stylized doves and a statue of the Virgin. An enormous crucifix with a straining Christ filled the wall above the chancel.
That night’s card also included further preliminary rounds for 147-and 165-pound open fighters (who went through more rounds because there were more fighters in those divisions). In the church basement, the fighters waited to be processed. We were told to strip down to our Skivvies and then lined up for the scale. I looked at the undraped bodies around me, most darker, although I was far from the only white. Some of the boxers looked like boys: narrow shoulders, shadow muscles, smooth faces (I saw the angel-faced Puerto Rican kid I’d almost fought in Yonkers). Others looked like men: mustaches, cabled arms, prison ink. There would be terrible mismatches tonight.
Certain of the open boxers had competed in area tournaments and shows for years; these old hands greeted one another and narrated their recent battles. In general, however, the boxers stood silent, apart from the boxing people: the judges, referees, officials and trainers. The majority of these had been around New York boxing for decades, in some cases for their entire lives. They chatted under the fluorescent lights, the event a social outing with a competitive edge, a Kennel Club meet or flower show.
I waited in line and watched the scale, an electronic contraption, with a red digital display. The boxers stepped on and off, toes creasing on the tile. The vision returned of me jogging up and down on the pavement, wearing three pairs of sweats and two borrowed sweaters. My
warm feet met the cold metal plate, and my number came up: 126.3, reported by the official as 126 and transcribed in my book as the same. I had made it. Time for a water transfusion and the energy bar. Then it was off to the doctor, with his blood pressure cuff and penlight. A few questions, the cursory exam and then “Good luck.” I wondered if they ever disqualified anyone. Doubted it.
Artificial limbs? Right this way.
Multiple personality disorder? Go get ’em, champ.
A commotion erupted behind me. I turned to see a swarthy man step quietly from the scale as his trainer argued with the official.
He’s not one twenty-five, said the official. He’s one twenty-seven and a half. And I want you to keep quiet.
The trainer looked sulky but said nothing. He had shouted, “One twenty-five!” as his fighter stepped on the scale, fooling no one. The number was recorded as 1271/2, and they admitted the fighter. The weight allowance was three pounds, not two, after all.
Jeans and T-shirt restored, I sat and munched my energy bar. I went to the bathroom. I peered into the auditorium. Doubt surged and ebbed in me, as it had before my other fights. I told myself I could draw some teenage killer who had been boxing since the age of five. A junior De La Hoya with a hundred stripes on his record. Yet, unlike in past fights, I could quell the fear by telling myself that I had been in with pros, with amateur champions, and that my opponent would be young and feeling the same doubt, but without my years to balance him. I knew I had a solid chin (I hadn’t been off my feet once with Milton) and six months of serious training behind me.
I sidled over to the U.S. Boxing table and made out the list of fighters in my class, my name printed there at the top. Only twelve novice featherweights had registered and passed their physicals, twelve for the entire tournament, meaning that two wins would put me in the Garden. Fifteen years earlier there would have been twice that, and forty years earlier, twice that again. Bill Butterworth, the videographer of New York City amateur boxing, has told me that when he started shooting the Gloves in the mid-eighties, an average prelim had thirty bouts. Now a good night would bring half as many; every year the tournament took up fewer column inches in the Daily News, where once the call “Support Your Battling Paperboy!” bannered the back page.
I sipped a diet cola to elevate my caffeine level into its normal range, and an unfamiliar trainer glared at me.
Are you fighting tonight? he demanded.
Yes, I answered.
Well, you shouldn’t be drinking soda.
But it’s diet, I said in my defense.
I don’t care.
I shrugged my shoulders. Another bad omen? I wondered about the taboo on cola and hoped it wouldn’t make a difference in the fight.
Stella and Laura had arrived together and stood before me. I was glad they had come.
There’s only twelve guys in my class, I said, so somebody’s going to get a bye.
But you want to fight, said Stella, who always did. I wasn’t so sure. I did and I didn’t. The tournament was already two months old. I’d been waiting a long time. It would not do to sit there in hope of a bye. It would weaken me. I had to convince myself that I had traveled those many miles to shatter the bones of my enemies.
Oh, yeah, sure, I said.
I looked up to see Milton bearing toward me.
They got a match for you, he said. He pointed across the room at the swarthy man from the scale incident.
I took a breath; I had crossed over.
His book says three fights, but … Something’s not right about this, Milton said enigmatically, and stalked away.
I shifted my gaze toward the opponent. A rugged fellow who could have been thirty. Stubble darker than Milton’s, chest fur up to his Adam’s apple. Face scarred, bridge of the nose crushed flat. He wore the gaudiest pair of boxing sandals I had ever seen, a neon yellow and green, coming almost to his knees. Across the room, I noticed Milton leaning over the officials’ table, speaking forcefully to the pleasant-faced blond woman who arranged the matches. She seemed the person least likely to have that job. Milton had claimed he held her in his pocket, and every show he played her with his contentious charm. I sat chewing my lip. There would be no escape tonight.
I went to the bathroom. At the sink, I waited as an older black man, wearing the U.S. Boxing laundryman white, shoveled water at his mouth,
then spewed it across the sink and floor with shuddering hacks. As I watched him hawk and spit, he stood back, gesturing for me to use the sink.
I can wait, thanks, I said.
No, I’m gonna be a while, he said. I just had surgery for cancer, and they took out my saliva glands, so I got to do this every couple of hours. I’m still learning how to swallow.
Scar tissue seamed and charred his throat, loose flesh dangling. I looked at the water dripping from the sink ledge and puddled on the floor.
That’s okay, I said. I’ll wait.
I left the bathroom and stared into the church. People filed into the nave and filled the seats, shrinking the room. As I watched, a red manifold curtain slid over the enormous crucifix to shield the Son of Man from the brutal proceedings to follow.
Back in the annex, Milton’s agitation continued. He muttered urgently into his cell phone and strode about the room. There was a sense that he was always about to perform some sleight of hand that would cost you your wallet.
Now he bore toward me, still discoursing into his cell.
This guy is a ringer, Milton said. He’s got a hundred and fifty fights.
One hundred fifty fights? I said. That was a championship number, an Olympic number, the number of amateur fights a Hearns or Ali would have before turning pro. Maybe three other amateurs in New York State had that many amateur fights.
So am I going to fight him? I said, and wondered if I sounded shrill. I fingered the Golden Gloves shirt I’d been issued, blue with gold lettering.
That’s what I’m trying to take care of right now, Milton said.
Milton left to join a conference that included the officials, the other fighter’s trainer and the other fighter, whose face was no longer calm.
What’s the matter? Laura asked.
I don’t know, I said. Milton told me that this guy had a hundred and fifty fights.
Laura didn’t appear surprised.
I knew something was up with him when he came in. I noticed him right away. He was just too calm. And then those sandals. The sandals definitely gave it away. They’re tournament shoes.
I looked again at his Day-Glo dogs. A man who wore those would have to be supremely confident.
As Milton returned, Laura departed, the Arctic between them. The cell phone still clutched Milton’s ear.
What the hell is she doing here? he said. So I found out all about this guy. He’s Turkish. Had a hundred and fifty fights. Took a bronze in the Euro Cup.
How do you know?
I been around this game for a long time, Milton said. When he strolled in, I knew he didn’t have no three fights. Just by how he walked across the room. I could see he was comfortable. He was too relaxed. I said, “This guy has to have more … This guy has to have had more than three fights.” Three fights? I’m like, “Nah, no way.” Still, even after I found out about his record, I was going to let him fight us, but …
I considered the aplomb with which Milton regarded “us” fighting Mr. 150 but let it pass. Milton had learned the fighter’s nation of origin from his trainer (“Oh, where is your guy from?”). When the trainer denied previous boxing experience (“three fights”), Milton had taken another approach.
So after I found out where he was from, I called the Turkish embassy. I figured, he came over here, right? So they must have some record of him somewhere.
You called the Turkish embassy?
Yeah.
And they told you about his career?
Well, they told me some, and then he started talking.
Why?
Well, when I started pushing with the questions, he got nervous and spilled his guts. He would have said anything not to get thrown out of the tournament. I’m telling you. This is going to be the talk of the Gloves this year, just you watch.
So, am I going to fight? I ask.
They’re trying to make a match for you now.
So they were out to get us. Will’s loss, Julian’s disqualification … We didn’t stand a chance. I didn’t need any more proof and prayed for a bye. It would be fine to relax and watch the competition, live to fight another day. Yet the absurdity also relaxed me. I couldn’t do worse than 150 fights.
Milton’s return put an end to my hopes.
They got someone for you. He pointed. Mexican kid.
My eyes followed his finger to a solid-bodied man with a perfectly spherical head, the roundest head I had ever seen. A Mexican was a misfortune. Mexicans were inevitably tough, practically indestructible. Their national boxing style had developed in response to the small stature of the typical Mexican man. Almost any non-Mexican boxer would be taller, so Mexicans did not jab, just slipped and launched titanic hooks. The Mexicans followed you, taking three punches to give one, boring forward. A Mexican would not give way. After handing me my Gloves shirt, Milton vanished, and I was left to consider my fate.
So they finally made a match for you, Laura said, smiling. You’re going to be great.
I took a breath and sighed it away. Laura pressed a bottle of cold water to my forehead.
It’s going to be all right, she said. You know, Mike Tyson used to cry before his fights? I couldn’t believe it when I heard. I mean, Mike Tyson.
In my case I thought tears unlikely, putting me one up on Tyson.
This feels good, she said, placing the water bottle against my neck. Relax.
Milton returned.
Laura, why don’t you go somewhere else? he said, snatching the water bottle from her hand. Why don’t you go upstairs?
Can I have my water bottle? she said. Milton presented it.
Don’t tell me what to do, Laura said.
I rolled my eyes at them and leaned against a pillar in the middle of the room. They stood there, glaring at each other.
Hey, guys, I said, I’m the one who’s supposed to be fighting.
Laura walked away.
Dumb broad, Milton groused. What was she doing holding the bottle on your neck? She’s going to make you cold before your fight.
Having banished Laura, Milton disappeared again. I changed into my shorts and was left alone in the almost empty room, the weight of the fight stacked upon my chest sixteen stories high. The matches made, everyone had departed to watch the action, and Milton was somewhere among them. Absenteeism was Milton’s usual MO at bouts.
If you wanted to find him, the one place not to look was anywhere near his fighters. There were too many people for him to talk to, too many angles to work. Over the years the team had become resigned to his behavior. “That shit can get on my nerves sometimes,” Julian said once, “but let Milton go do whatever. The one thing I ask is, just wrap my hands before you take off, you know? Do whatever, but just wrap my hands first. Sometimes he don’t even do that.” My own hands remained unwrapped.
My opponent sat with his trainer and seconds (I recognized the trainer as the owner of the Yonkers gym where I’d almost fought Angel Face). They sat close, talking and staring over at me. The trainer was skinny and shifty-looking, with drooping mustaches and a narrow goatee, a type you see sauntering out of a pawnshop or strip club at four A.M.
To cast off the weight, I decided to loosen up. In the shadow of the big pillar, I swung my arms and circled my waist, then took a stance and started throwing punches. As I moved, I noticed that Goatee had risen from his chair and sidled around the pillar to compass an angle on my movements. I stopped. As I looked at him, he stared nonchalantly in the other direction, the portrait of a pimp on a thoughtless Sunday stroll. I moved farther behind the pillar. A few minutes later I noticed that he had drifted in the same direction. I stopped again. He stared into the distance.
Julian saved me.
Come here, Bob, he said. He held up his hands for me.
Jab, jab. That’s good. One-two-three; one-two-three. All right. It’s show time, baby. Let me see the four. Good. I know you’re ready. You about to take this kid out. Come to the body, right away. Boom, boom. He won’t be expecting it. Body shots. At least, that’s what I’d do.
Julian was always so modest with advice, never commanding, merely saying that in a similar circumstance, he would choose a particular action. We didn’t have much time to get warm, though.
Milton ran in. We’re up next, he said.
One match away, and my hands still weren’t wrapped. Milton wore his usual black warm-up suit and black jacket, looking sardonic, sinister and a little dissipated. As he wrapped, then taped my hands, he couldn’t get over the Turkish incident.
That was some funny shit, he said, looping gauze around my hands. Everyone’s going to be talking about that. You watch.
Yo, he said to Julian, a hundred and fifty fights.
One hundred fifty fights? Julian answered. He stood behind me, his thick fingers kneading my neck.
That’s what the little motherfucker had.
So did he get thrown out?
No, they pushed him up to open. Let him beat Peña’s ass.
Who we fighting? Julian asked.
Milton pointed out the Mexican with an elbow.
I’m telling you, that’s gonna be the talk of the Gloves. That’s one for the books.
In street clothes Julian loomed bigger than he did in the gym. He wore a pinstriped dress shirt untucked, which made him seem even wider.
Then the gloves were on my hands, and a Daily News robe was tugged over them. I didn’t need the robe, but I appreciated it. Another election and anointing. Then the official was there with his clipboard, calling my name. He was a tall brown-skinned man with bony wrists and a natty salt-and-pepper beard. He squeezed the gloves and looked me over.
No earrings, nothing?
Nothing, I said (an earring could catch on headgear or glove and tear through an earlobe).
Your trainer is wearing an earring.
My trainer wears a lot of things, I said, which meant nothing at all.
On my way to the ring I heard the pleasant-faced official complaining to the Turk’s trainer. I just can’t understand how you can do that and feel good about yourself.
I understood. It was boxing. Anything you could do to gain an advantage. I barely recalled the incident, having moved to a different plane. The Turk was a very long time ago.
The Mexican stood just in front of me on the stairs at the annex entrance to the hall, wearing his gold shirt with blue lettering. His trainer, Goatee, pointed at him and shouted to a woman holding a video camera. “The next Golden Gloves champ. Just you watch.” Another of the officials, an older, demitoothed Puerto Rican I saw at every show,
exhorted the Mexican in Spanish. Then he smiled and tousled Mexico’s cropped hair. What were they, related? None of the U.S. Boxing people was patting me on the head.
At the equipment table in the corner near the stairway, Milton made a request.
Suede, he said to the equipment manager, meaning suede headgear.
Sweat? the man answered in a heavy accent.
Suede, Milton said.
Sweat? the man responded again.
No, Milton said. Suede, suede, suede.
He lifted a helmet by a dangling chin strap and waved it in the air. The man gestured toward the ring and shrugged. Suede was in use. I would wear vinyl.
Drawn forward, down the aisle, conspicuous, a fleeced lamb. I wondered if I looked tough. I had to look tough. I didn’t feel tough. I started to hate whoever had put me in this situation. I started to hate … the Mexican. Drawn forward, down the aisle with my little entourage. “Go back,” the officials said. Confusion. The Mexican’s group, just ahead, snaring with mine. Signaled to proceed again. Up the stairs to the ring apron, sucked through the ropes. Don’t go through the canvas, Bob. I would not be shamed before hundreds of people.
Across the ring, my opponent limbered up, making a half bend, followed by an oscillation of the shoulders.
Bernabe Guerrero: from Mexico by way of a Yonkers boxing club.
Twenty-four years old.
A construction worker who “burned with a passion for boxing.”
He had real boxing polish, there in the shoulder shake, in the way he kissed his gloves and raised them high when his name was announced. Very pro. Guerrero was distorted with muscle, his arms layered and curved, skin with a metallic density. His wide jaw gave him a shark smile. He stood about three inches shorter than I did (and, I would soon discover, had a shorter reach). All my protein powder and skim milk had paid off.
In my corner, Julian instructed me in boxing etiquette. “Bob, walk out to the referee,” he said, at the appropriate moment. “Bob, lift up your gloves now,” when my name was called. I was glad to have Julian there, a tower at my back.
Blue, hey, Blue. Blue! wafted to my ears from the judges’ table.
Bob, they want you, Julian said, and I looked down at them. I was blue.
Blue, how do you pronounce your last name? they asked. I told them. “Ann-uh-see. Ann-uh-see.” The announcer still got it wrong.
At the bell I came out fast. I had resolved to start fast. In my other fights I had started slowly and gotten clobbered. Bernabe extended his glove for a courtesy touch. Suspicious, I tapped his glove and immediately threw a left, which missed. I followed with a few light jabs and some long hooks, avoiding any sort of commitment. Bernabe rushed at me behind a wild hook, which also missed. I sidestepped and hit him with a counterhook. The momentum of my hook, added to his rush, sent him stumbling into the ropes. The referee stepped between us and rubbed Guerrero’s gloves against his chest, an action taken whenever a fighter’s gloves touch the canvas to cleanse them of foreign matter that might have adhered to them, matter that could abrade the face of the other boxer. Guerrero wasn’t hurt, but it was definitely my punch that had made him stumble. An argument could have been made for giving him a standing eight, but I didn’t make it.
As the round progressed, Guerrero pushed forward and I backed away. Most of his punches fell short, but I felt the wind from his great rainbow hooks. I had two inches of reach on him, at least, and the advantage of fighting someone with shorter arms became obvious. Those of his straight punches that did connect were exhausted at the end of their trajectory and had little force. On my side, I countered well, especially as he tried to get out of range after punching (the boxer with shorter arms must constantly put himself at risk in order to attack). Twos and threes, I remembered Julian’s advice, twos and threes.
As Guerrero and I faced each other, he reminded me of a solid, ferocious Puerto Rican kid I had sparred at Revolution, the same build and standing in the same posture, stance a little open, exposing torso and head. I remembered hitting the kid with an uppercut at that range and decided to try the same with Guerrero. The punch dropped spang on the point of his chin. Delighted, I did it again, with the same gratifying result. Then I released the uppercut as he bore straight in, and it thumped against his chest. I kept pushing the button and whacking Guerrero, like a child with a new toy. It was one of the most thoughtful things I had ever done in the ring.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t believe that I wasn’t getting hit more and, when I did get hit, that it didn’t hurt. I’d passed more grueling tests a dozen times at the gym. Whenever Guerrero forced me toward the ropes, I sensed them at my back and shifted away. It was a subtle movement that I didn’t even realize I was making, the unconscious conditioning of hundreds of rounds of sparring. Guerrero allowed me the space to escape into the open; our boxing remained polite and technical, something that I didn’t expect and that suited my style.
The bell came as a surprise also. I couldn’t believe the round had gone so swiftly. Guerrero had cooperated with me by staying on the outside and trying to box. I sat on a stool in my corner with Julian and Milton over me.
Well, you won that round, Milton said, but there’s a few things you got to work on. Try to wait on him a little more, slip and then come back with a hook. You’re killing him with those fives, but you got to follow it with a three.
Julian sprayed water over my scalp and told me to relax.
You’re doing good, Bob, he said. Keep the pressure on.
At the bell I jumped up and ran out into the ring.
In the second round, Guerrero tried to press, weaving forward in a crouch with his gloves close to the sides of his head. I missed him once or twice as he weaved, and his sweeping hooks rebounded from my shoulders and arms. I made him pay, though, scoring with counters and forcing him back. The round settled into a pattern of back-and-forth exchanges. I pitched fives whenever I could, and he still didn’t adjust for them, every five landing solid. As he rushed in, I bowled another, but my arm somehow tangled with his. His forward motion snapped my arm back at the elbow, and I suffered a jolt of intense pain. I forgot about it immediately—thank God for adrenaline—but I didn’t throw another uppercut for the rest of the fight.
In our most grueling exchange, we parked directly in front of each other and slugged. Guerrero landed the better blows at first, but I kept hitting. He finally sagged back, and as he did, I jolted him with a left to the jaw. His knees buckled and he staggered three steps sideways. I didn’t see the weakness, and the referee didn’t step in with a standing eight. It was probably my best chance for a knockdown, but I didn’t follow. An experienced fighter would have tested him to see if he was really hurt, but I didn’t have the eyes for it (I noticed his stumble only
later, watching the videotape). Winded from the exchange, I stood facing him for a few moments. Then he recovered and attacked, standing in front of me until I scored with two good body shots. The bell surprised me again and it was back to my corner.
Well, I thought you won that round too, Milton said, but you got to remember the combinations. Don’t throw just one punch. Use the dunh, dunh-duhs. Keep sticking out the jab; the jab can score points. You’re doing great. You’re hitting him hard without even trying.
On the stool, I rent the air with gasps that didn’t bring my body enough oxygen. I felt enfeebled, on life support. Julian sensed my exhaustion and gave instruction.
Bob, lift up your hands. Lift them up. Now take a deep breath. You’re doing all right. Breathe. You got this kid. One more round.
I remembered the exhaustion I’d felt the last time I sparred Joey. His pressure had drained me. In my regular sparring, I hadn’t maintained this intensity; the competition hadn’t pushed me to it. By the end of the rest minute, my breathing had slowed, and I felt ready to continue. The referee walked over to order Milton from the ring.
Seconds out! he barked. (Through the early days of British pugilism, the seconds actually stood near the boxers as they fought.)
As I stepped forward, a chill slashed across my back. Milton had emptied the water bottle on me, and water drenched the canvas. The referee grimaced and shook his head. Milton pushing the boundaries, once again.
Round three went slowly and ill for me. Guerrero’s pressure was rewarded. Now when I was backed into the ropes, I could not shift away. Guerrero slipped more smoothly, and my twos missed over his head. He still wasn’t scoring clean, but I was no longer able to drive him off. Milton’s pullback worked for me, drawing my head out of danger, the big hooks brushing my nose. Whereas, in the first two rounds, I had moved faster than clock time, in the third I dragged through a syrupy nightmare. I clinched for the first and only time in the fight, leaning on Guerrero’s shoulders until the referee separated us. I’m really tired, I thought, then: He must be tired too. That reassured me (he didn’t try to wrestle out of the clinch). Still, he kept throwing, and a hook finally landed flush on the side of my head. I rolled with it and heard the crowd’s exclamation (feeling the crowd noise as a physical presence, the cheers and shouts jostling my body). After the blow, I slid
along the ropes, and what seemed like an instant later (it was full seconds on the videotape) another hook burst on my chin. It was the hardest punch I had taken, and I bounced back against the ropes. The punch angered me and stirred me from a defensive inertia.
I’d better start throwing, I thought, or I could get a standing eight.
Later I was glad that the referee had the temperament not to interfere, that he “let us fight,” because if he could have given Guerrero an eight-count in round two, he could have given one to me after the second hook.
I started punching again and we remained in front of each other, banging until the round ended. The ovation was enormous, a swelling embrace as we trudged back to our corners.
Well, you lost that round, Milton said as he cut the tape from my gloves and pulled them off my hands, but if they gave you the first two, you got it.
I walked out jaunty and a little confused. The referee lifted our arms to the same grand applause. The boxing people approved of us.
When the announcement came, “ … for the gold corner,” my knees sagged. It was only a physical reaction. I was too stimulated to feel the pain of the loss then.
Bernabe and I shared the boxers’ embrace, and I left the ring. The next blue fighter passed me on the way to his match.
Hey, we thought you won that fight, a young boxer said as I went down the stairs into the annex.
I sat on a chair in the annex and listened to my friends’ consolations. “You fought a great fight … I thought you had it … ,” etc. Giuseppe entered with two of his sons, the boys playing fighter and crashing into our legs as they dashed about the room.
That was not a good decision, he said. I was sitting with Pat Sullivan, who is a referee for U.S. Boxing, right up at ringside, and you know what he said? He said, “That’s strange, I thought your friend won the fight.”
I removed my Daily News T-shirt and dropped it on the floor. Fighting for a T-shirt, indeed (someone swiped it and I never saw it again).
My arms were covered with abrasions from Guerrero’s gloves. My face was unmarked. I don’t cut easily for a white man. In my months with the Supreme Team, I had not suffered a single scratch, swelling or visible bruise on my face. Perhaps the Mediterranean blood made my skin a little thick.
Milton entered with an announcement.
They had it five-zero for him. This shit is fucked up. I looked at the cards, and not one judge gave you the first round. He didn’t even lay a fucking glove on you in the first round.
My paranoia spun out of control. The officials were out to get us.
Guerrero and his crew sat behind us, loose with victory. He tapped me on the shoulder, then gave me another hug. We shook hands.
How many fights have you had?
Guerrero stared at me and smiled blankly.
¿Cuanto peleas tienes? Giuseppe asked.
Guerrero looked at Goatee.
Three, Goatee says. This makes three for us.
At the officials’ table, Milton gripped Michael Rosario, the local president of U.S. Boxing, by the arm.
So even if we had a big third round, Milton said, there was no way we were going to get that fight. And there is no way that the first two rounds weren’t even at least. In the first round, he didn’t even lay a glove on our guy.
Goatee put his arm on Milton’s shoulder in an attempt to moderate. Sometimes the judges like it when a guy is aggressive, even if he isn’t scoring with every punch.
Milton ignored him.
Michael had not seen the fight but agreed to look into the scoring and to look at the scoring on all the cards for all of Milton’s Gloves fights that year. Michael was a small, calm man, the son of a legendary trainer and a three-time Gloves champion himself. He had been through all this before.
I changed into my civvies and drifted into the church to watch the action.
That was a good fight, Goatee said, there at my side, excitement and relief on his face.
Yeah,thanks.
We were worried after that first round.
I wanted to say he shouldn’t have been because he won it on every card, but I didn’t.
We were worried, because the one thing that all of Milton’s guys can do is box.
Thanks, it’s too bad that Milton’s guys have a harder time with the judges.
I sounded bitter, and I wanted to give him his props. No matter what happened, he didn’t have anything to do with it, and his fighter had fought well. So I said, Still, your guy kept coming after me.
Well, that’s what we shouted at him to do between rounds. We were trying to get him to time your uppercut and come over it with a right hand. Anyway, it was a great fight. Whenever you want to come up to Boxing Connection and spar with us, we’d love to have you.
I thanked him again.
Six months, six minutes and out. The drama I had experienced seemed tiny, one fight on a night of many fights. I had seen so many fights take place, to be followed by others, the figures almost anonymous in their headgear and sleeveless shirts.
A bearded white man stopped me as we walked from the building. Don’t worry about it, Blue. You fought a hell of a fight.
The ride home was somber. The Supreme Team had lost again.