Fight Town: Inspiration Read online

After a while, when he finally took a leak, it was pink with blood.

  He shook his head.

  What had he gotten himself into here?

  Boxing was no joke.

  But even after one session where he’d made a fool of himself, he was hooked. He knew that, throwing another combination despite the pain it caused.

  It had nothing to do with the Vicarus people wanting him to box. It had, initially. But now, it was personal. He’d tried it, failing yet also landing that heavy shot and rocking Jobbo.

  He’d seen the worst and the best and wanted to see everything in between.

  It was a worthwhile pursuit, something you put your whole life into and still come up short. That appealed to him. Powerfully, in fact.

  He had a lot to learn. Because he didn’t just want to box. He wanted to win.

  At least he’d managed to land Marvella as a trainer.

  Of course, she said he’d quit.

  But she didn’t know Johnny, didn’t know him at all.

  Chapter 11

  At work, the waitresses fussed over Johnny, telling him it broke their hearts, seeing his face so badly bruised and trying to get him to promise he would never go back in the boxing gym again.

  Johnny just grinned at them. He was heading back to the gym after work.

  Except this time, he’d stop in at The Oasis first and change into the shorts and sneakers he’d bought at the five and dime. And needless to say, he wouldn’t climb through the ropes again, not banged up like he was.

  The cooks and busboys asked him a million questions. They were all, every last one of them, boxing fans. A few had even tried the sport.

  Orlando, a trim busboy with an easy smile, otter blood, and a pronounced scar over one eye, fought actively out of the 8th Street Gym. He grinned as Johnny answered questions honestly, then asked, “Who’d you spar?”

  When Johnny told him, everything changed.

  “You went toe to toe with Jobbo?” Orlando asked, clearly impressed.

  Johnny nodded, not bothering to add, And I almost put him on his ass.

  “He didn’t stop you?”

  “Nope.”

  “He drop you?”

  Johnny shook his head.

  After that, everybody started treating Johnny differently. They had been friendly from the get-go, but now there was something else, too; an excitement approaching deference infused into their friendliness, and, in the case of Orlando, a grounded, collegial bond of sorts.

  The waitresses kept smiling at Johnny and stealing glances, tails twitching, and their fawning shifted into overdrive. A few girls even popped onto tiptoes to kiss his bruised cheeks, pouting sweetly over their poor Johnny.

  Yeah, it was ridiculous, but it was kind of nice, too. Suddenly, he felt like he belonged. Beyond that, he felt like more than a dishwasher. He felt like a fighter, and here in Fight Town, as in his heart, that meant something.

  Halfway through Johnny’s shift, Lou stopped in to talk to him.

  “What were you, in a train wreck?” the old man teased, and now Johnny was pointedly aware of the old man’s scarred eyes, crooked nose, and cauliflower ears. “I have to hear from the kitchen grapevine that you’re going to the gym?”

  Johnny shrugged, spraying off a plate pink with blood. It was prime rib night. Despite his pain, he was feeling pretty good. “Didn’t know anybody would care.”

  “Didn’t know anybody would care, he says,” Lou chuckled. “This is Fight Town, my boy. Work and family, life and death… these are mere distractions. What we love here, what we love with all our crooked hearts, is boxing. So tell me, Johnny, are you any good?”

  Johnny shrugged again. “I aim to find out.”

  “He aims to find out!” Lou laughed. He turned and caught a passing waitress, Ginny, by the arm. “This boy, huh? Did you see his face before he got it ruined in the ring? A face like an angel, right?”

  Ginny blushed, smiling at Johnny, her spotted doe ears quivering. “Johnny’s handsome. All the girls say so.”

  Lou rolled his eyes. “Handsome, she says. You look in the mirror today, Johnny? Did you see a handsome face looking back at you? No, you did not. You saw what I see, a mess! But this girl, this beautiful young girl with her whole life in front of her, she looks at you, calls you handsome. That, my boy, is the power of boxing in Fight Town. May God bless you and protect you in the ring. Who’s your trainer?”

  When Johnny explained he was training with Marvella, Lou clapped his hands. “The best. That’s what Marvella is, the absolute best. A tigress in her day, let me tell you, but now? The best. That’s all. Okay? It’s a shame what happened to her in the ring. But that’s neither here nor there now, is it? No. Marvella is the best. Does she stop fights sometimes maybe a bit early? Sure, but who can blame her after what happened? You hit the jackpot with Marvella, Johnny. She’s the only trainer in Fight Town who actually loves her fighters.”

  “I’m lucky to have her.”

  “Lucky, he says. This guy. You’re all right, Johnny. You know that? And you must have something special for Marvella to pick you up, that’s what I say. What do you weigh? 190? 200? You’ll fight at middleweight, maybe super middle. I don’t think Marvella will let you go as high as light heavy. Only maybe in the novice division, who knows? Forget it. Right now, you need your strength. Tell you what. Prime rib, that’s what you’ll have. Ginny? Ginny, bring this boy some prime rib. He’s earned it.”

  Johnny shook his head at Ginny. “Thanks, Lou. I really appreciate the offer, but I gotta be honest, my jaw’s all banged up. I could never chew it.”

  “Never chew it? Ginny, get the plate. Softer than pudding, that’s how soft my prime rib is.”

  Johnny shrugged. “All right. Thanks.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re welcome. But this guy you sparred, Jobbo, I know him. I’ve seen him fight is what I mean. Not a bad fighter. Terrible, but not bad. Heavy hands but no brains. What is he, an ape?”

  “A bear, I think.”

  Lou nodded. “A bear. Heavy hands. So you’re all busted up. You don’t have to tell me. I know. No money for the healer, huh?”

  Johnny shook his head. “Not till payday.”

  Lou clapped him on the shoulder. “An advance I’ll give you. Orlando, go across the street and get him a five-dollar zip. That ought to patch up most of the worst, my boy. What do you say?”

  Johnny considered the proposition. Five dollars was a lot here, but he was hurting, and he didn’t want his injuries holding him back at work or in the gym. “Thanks, Lou. That would be great.”

  Chapter 12

  “All right, kid,” Marvella said, leaning on her cane and staring at him dubiously. “Let’s see your stance.”

  Johnny put his left foot forward and raised his fists.

  Marvella frowned. “Didn’t you learn anything sparring Jobbo?”

  Johnny shrugged.

  “Freddie, show this kid the ropes before he gives me a fucking migraine.” Shaking her head with disgust, Marvella limped off, struck a heavy bag with her cane, and told the guy hitting it to quit showboating and work his combinations. “Punches, not poses.”

  Despite the heat, Freddie jumped rope in gray sweatpants and a baggy gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. At Marvella’s command, the purple-haired fighter threw down her rope and came over, sweat pouring down her pretty face. She slapped Johnny’s shoulder. “You, my friend, look like shit.”

  “Thanks,” Johnny laughed. “And you look… warm.”

  “The word you’re looking for is hot.” Freddie cocked a hip and grinned at him, catching the tip of her pink tongue between her bright white teeth. “But yeah, I gotta sweat. I’m a couple of pounds overweight and have a fight coming up.”

  Johnny quirked a brow, thinking if there was one thing Freddie didn’t look, it was overweight. She looked like a skinny tomboy swimming in her dad’s big clothes. But Johnny kept his mouth shut, sticking to one of the few immutable, irrefutable laws of the universe:
no intelligent man shall speaketh on a woman’s weight.

  Freddie taught him how to stand: feet a shoulder width apart, body bladed away from his opponent, elbows in, knees bent, weight distributed evenly and mostly toward the balls of the feet.

  As he moved, he was thankful Lou had spotted him five bucks. His face still looked bad, but he didn’t care about that. More importantly, as soon as he’d drunk the zip, most of his pain and stiffness disappeared.

  “Then you have your three main rules of boxing,” Freddie said. “Hands up, chin down, and ass off the floor.”

  Johnny grinned. “Thanks for the pointers. You said you got a fight coming up. You ever fight before?”

  She nodded, reached up, and touched his face gently, tucking his chin closer to his left shoulder. “I’m 4-0.”

  “That’s pretty good.”

  “I know, right?” she said. “This will be my last fight at novice.”

  “You’re turning pro?”

  “No, silly. Not yet. I’ll still be in the amateurs, but I’ll be in the open class. In the novice division, you fight other beginners. After your fifth fight, they throw you to the sharks. Your first fight in the opens, you could face someone with six fights or six hundred.”

  She circled him and touched different parts of his body, making small adjustments to his fists and hips and feet. “Try turning that lead foot in a little. That’s it. See how your body naturally follows? The shoulder, the gut? All right. Now rock back and forth. No—don’t bounce. Just rock. Like this.”

  Freddie came back around front and got into her stance, turning sideways so he could see the motion of her smooth rocking. She started moving her head, bobbing and weaving as if evading invisible punches.

  “You gotta move your head. Never be a stationary target.”

  He tried, feeling ridiculous.

  “Slow it down a little,” Freddie said. “You look like a chicken trying to walk sideways.”

  Johnny slowed it down, still feeling ridiculous.

  “That’s better, slow it down. And don’t just go back and forth. You fall into a pattern, your opponent will time you, you got me?”

  Johnny nodded, varying his head movement, trying to mirror the things she was doing.

  “Better. Fighters develop habits. Look for them. Use their tics against them.”

  “Sounds like poker. My friend Cebelius, you so much as scratch your chin at the table, he knows every card in your hand.”

  “Fighting’s the same way. You read somebody, make them fold. Like this one girl I fought, you hit her, she’d come after you, right? Which is okay. I mean, you take one, you gotta get yours back. But this girl, every time she came looking for some get-back, she’d get all hyped up and start tapping her gloves like this.”

  Johnny watched her demonstration, noticing the way the gesture lifted her elbows and momentarily exposed Freddie’s ribs. “You hit her in the body?”

  Freddie smiled. “That’s right. Not bad, um…”

  “Johnny.”

  “Not bad, then, Johnny. I’m Freddie.”

  “Yeah, I kind of figured that out when Marvella called you Freddie last night.”

  “A wise ass, huh? Good. I like that.”

  “Nice to meet you, Freddie. Thanks for the help.” He held out his hand.

  Freddie shook her head. “Here, we pound it. Make a fist.”

  He did.

  She brought her fist down on his, then held it out so he could reciprocate.

  Freddie took him through the basics, teaching him to move forward and backward with little baby steps. “Don’t shuffle. Step. That’s it. Don’t hop. Step. That’s it.”

  “Feels awkward as hell.”

  “Yeah, it does at first. Quit taking those big steps or Marvella will tie your shoelaces together.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. You lift your chin, she’ll make you keep a tennis ball tucked under it while you shadowbox. Every time you drop the ball, that’s ten more sets of steps. Now, move to your left.”

  He started to obey, but Freddie stopped him.

  “Other foot first, Johnny. You want to move to the left, step with your left foot first. Otherwise, your legs will cross.”

  She demonstrated, bringing her right foot behind her left. “You get hit with your legs crossed, even by a light shot, it’ll wobble you, maybe even put you down. It’ll count as a knockdown, even if the punch only clips your shoulder. Then you’re down 10-8 for the round. And in the amateurs, we only fight three rounds. You lose one of them 10-8, you’re up against it.”

  He did as she instructed. As soon as he got one thing right, she moved on to something else he was doing wrong.

  It was frustrating, but only because he was impatient with himself. He didn’t mind her riding him. After all, he was there to learn how to fight, not to have someone pat him on the back.

  Nothing motivates like taking a beating.

  And after knocking it with Jobbo, he was highly motivated to learn.

  But he wasn’t just here to avoid another beating. He wanted to train hard, learn everything he could, and be the best. And yeah, along the way, eventually, he wanted to throw Jobbo such a beating the guy would wake up feeling like he’d been in a car wreck.

  After Johnny was doing better with his stance and movement, Freddie showed him the basic punches. Every move she made—every step, every punch, every dip of her head—was silky smooth. Despite Freddie’s friendly demeanor, he could see she was a legit fighter.

  Unless Marvella told him otherwise, Freddie explained, he would always keep his left foot in front. That lead hand would be the basis of his offense. He could hook with it or throw an uppercut, but the fundamental punch, the most important punch in the whole sport, was the jab.

  “There’s a lot of different jabs,” Freddie said, peppering an invisible opponent with lefts as she said, “your basic flicking jab, your stiff jab, your double, your triple, your full-on power jab. You put your shoulder into it like that, it’s a real weapon.”

  She had him start with a basic jab, telling him to bring it straight out and straight back. “Twist at the end. That’s it.” She caught his wrist when his hand was at full extension and tapped his two main knuckles. “Hit here, okay? Keep your wrist straight. Make it an extension of your forearm.”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t chicken wing it, Johnny. Keep the elbow in until you twist the punch. Otherwise, they’ll time your jab and drop a right hook to your body. Trust me. You don’t want to take a hook to the ribs when you’re all stretched out with a jab.”

  He tried to comply but felt stiff and awkward.

  “Loosen up,” Freddie said. “That’s it. That’s better. Pump it out. You’re dropping it a little. Don’t drop it. The punch comes out nice, but bring it back straight, or they’ll throw a counter right and catch you clean.” She demonstrated, throwing a sneaky right hand over his jab and rapping his cheek lightly.

  He grinned. “Got it. Thanks.”

  “You gotta stay hungry. Every time you jab, you’re stealing food out of your opponent’s mouth, okay? A hungry man grabs that food fast and brings it straight back to his mouth just as fast. If he’s hungry, truly hungry, he doesn’t let it drop on it’s way back. Heads up now, Johnny. Here comes Marvella.”

  He twisted enough to see the scowling trainer limping in their direction.

  “Get ready,” Freddie said. “She’ll drop some hard truth on you. But don’t let her get you down, okay? She’s the best, really. Just… be patient.” She smiled at him and gave his arm a squeeze. “I hope you stick around.”

  Chapter 13

  Marvella led him over to a folding metal chair at ringside and told him to sit backwards.

  Behind them, two small girls, maybe eight or nine years old, sparred in the ring. They clashed, wailing on each other, leapt away, and came fiercely together again, their trainers leaning on the ropes and jabbering like bettors at a cockfight.

  “Hands,” Marve
lla said, taking a seat opposite him.

  He stuck his hands over the back of the chair, and Marvella wrapped them, weaving the wraps expertly around his wrist, over his knuckles, and between his fingers.

  When the bell rang and the kids came out of the ring, Marvella slung a gear bag over her shoulder and led Johnny up the steps and through the ropes.

  She dropped her bag onto the bloodstained canvas, dug out a pair of gloves, handed them to Johnny, and told him to put them on.

  They were well-worn, but he still had to tug at them to get them over his hands.

  “Got big hands for your size,” Marvella said. “Let’s see if you can punch.”

  She leaned her cane against a turnbuckle and bent and pulled a pair of circular punch mitts from her gear bag. Slipping on the mitts, she limped to the center of the ring and beckoned Johnny forward.

  “Let me see what you got, kid.” She held up one mitt just as the timer signaled the start of a new round. “Give me a jab.”

  He threw a light punch, mindful of her limp and cane. The jab rapped lightly off her mitt.

  Marvella scowled at him. “I said give me a jab, not a love tap.” She lifted the mitt again. “Jab.”

  He snapped out another punch, putting a little more on it.

  Marvella frowned and shook her head and held up the other hand.

  “Give me a right hand.”

  He threw the punch but pulled it at the last second, not wanting to bowl the poor woman over.

  Marvella shook her head, looking disgusted. “Forget it. Get out of the ring.”

  “Huh? Why?”

  “I don’t train cupcakes.”

  “Cupcakes?”

  “You can’t punch.”

  “I can punch.”

  “Why don’t you, then?” Her good eye blazed. “Why you holding back, kid? You think I’m made of glass?”

  “No, I—” He glanced at the corner.

  “Don’t you worry about my cane,” Marvella said and clapped the mitts together loudly. “Either throw the fucking punches or get the fuck out. You feel me? Now give me a jab.”