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CHAPTER ONE
As
he wrapped his hands with tape, Billy David felt the
presence of a stare from a black fighter across the gym.
It was an intense look, filled with hatred and envy.
Apparently this fighter must’ve thought that a white,
twenty-two-year-old college kid from the “burbs” would
fall prey to his intimidation tactics. Not a chance;
Billy had seen it before. When he walked into this
boxing gym a few hours ago, none of the black fighters
acknowledged him; some even looked the other way. That
was okay. Billy enjoyed this, their contempt. It drove
him, motivated him. He loved this pressure! Billy knew
then what it felt like to be the underdog, the minority.
Part of him understood their actions and he empathized
with them. The other part produced anger, provoking an
emotion of racism within himself. Billy tried not to let
their hypocrisy influence him, but sometimes it was
unavoidable.
Billy
had seen him fight before. His name was James Morgan. He
was a tough inner-city black kid with a chiseled body
and a strong chin. He was a good fighter, a dancer,
really slick and hard to hit, but Billy wasn’t there to
dance. With Morgan having won the New Jersey Golden
Gloves in the weight class above Billy, they were both
there to get the best sparring in preparation for the
upcoming National Golden Gloves tournament; all the
winners of the state tournaments were invited. Many of
the big-time promoters would be there searching for the
cream of the crop, to offer them a lucrative
professional contract. It was a ticket out of this hell
hole for many of these fighters. But not for Billy, he
didn’t need the money, he just loved this game.
It was
a typical inner-city boxing gym in Paterson, New Jersey,
where heavy bags and speed bags were being pounded by
the local fighters. Most of the boxers were black, along
with a few Hispanics, Dominicans, Cubans, and another
white fighter whose body had been covered with jailhouse
tattoos. Old timers milled around chomping on their
cheap cigars. Decorating the walls to cover the
tarnished puke green paint were posters of fight events
of years past. The building itself was close to
condemned, the red brick exterior was crumbling and the
roof had a huge sway in it. Looking at it long enough,
you would’ve sworn it leaned to one side.
James’s friend, Tyrone, a real gym rat, helped him put
on his gloves. A scrawny black kid afraid of his own
shadow, Tyrone had never sparred before, but liked to
play the role. His only toughness was intimidation, and,
when that didn’t work, he had his idol, James, to bail
him out. Noticing the intense look James was giving
Billy, Tyrone antagonized him, saying, “Yo man, send
that cracker back to the farm.”
James
gritted his teeth and his solid jaw pulsated as he
punched his palm to check the feel of his glove.
Rap
music blared through the vibrating speaker as the gruff
voice of Bernie Taylor, the gym’s manager, rang out,
“Billy David! You ready?”
He
nodded yes.
“Well,
get in there! We don’t have all day! What do you think
this is, a nursery school?” the old goat bellowed.
Bernie, seventy-five-years old, walked with one crutch
to assist him with the loss of a leg to diabetes. Crusty
looking, he wore thick black-rimmed glasses, a white
cotton shirt, and black polyester pants, and still had a
few strands of gray hair left on top of his head. He was
a fighter way back in the ‘50s, and they say he used to
spar with Sugar Ray Robinson. He had never made any
money in this game, and mostly developed young amateur
fighters, only to have them scooped up by some big money
promoter, killing another dream of his. He had defiantly
lived a tough life, but he wouldn’t have changed a
thing, even if he could have.
Climbing up the three steps, Billy entered the ring
through the ropes separated by his trainer, Floyd.
Moving around the ring to get his blood flowing, Billy
inhaled a deep breath of air, filling his lungs with the
cigar smoke and pungent body odor that permeated the
gym. A repulsive scent to most, but strangely, to Billy,
it was not. He loved it!
Floyd
called Billy to the corner where he wiped his face with
a towel, before taking a scoop of Vaseline from the jar
in his hand and spreading it over Billy’s face. The
Vaseline helped the punches to sort of glide off the
skin, preventing cuts and abrasion. It definitely
helped, but then again, if you get hit with too many
punches, you’re gonna get busted up.
Floyd
had been Billy’s trainer since he started a few years
ago, He must’ve seen something he liked in him; work
ethic, ability, skin color, who knows? A soft-spoken
Jamaican in his late forties, Floyd had a laid-back
personality; you’d never see him lose his temper. He was
a good trainer and knew his stuff. He was the Jamaican
National Champ and was going to represent them in the
1980 Olympics, until an aneurysm curtailed those plans.
Stepping into the ring, James continued eyeing Billy.
Giving it right back, Billy stared while he confidently
pranced around the ring. Having never spoken a word to
him, Billy sensed more hate than competition. James
definitely disliked him. Maybe it was a way for him to
bring out the best in himself; this whole game is about
the mind. Some of the worse fighters have a physique
like Arnold Swartzenneger; all their strength is in
their bodies. The toughest ones are the little wiry,
unassuming fighters, who fight with pure determination
and guts. That’s why they say you should never judge a
book by its cover.
James
continued his smug expression. Billy imparted it right
back.
“Yo
mon, come heres,” Floyd called.
Going
to the corner, Floyd gave him some last-minute
instructions.
“He’s
a mover, mon, when he moves to the left, you go right,
cut off the ring. You don’t want to keep any distance
between you and him. You hear, mon?”
Billy
nodded yes.
The
bell sounded, and they met in the center of the ring.
For good sportsmanship, Billy stuck out his glove. James
refused to touch it. Anger grew as Billy threw a jab. He
completely missed him with it. James came back with a
punch, left or right, Billy couldn’t tell. The punch was
delivered with such lighting speed he was unable to see
where it came from. Billy knew he was fast, but didn’t
expect this. Refocusing, he began to hunt down James.
James moved gracefully around the ring. Billy, cutting
the ring off, attempted to trap James in the corner.
Doubling up on a jab, he caught James with one. James
came back with a right. Billy countered with a left
hook, skimming the top of James’s head. James threw a
few lightening jabs, but none landed. Throwing a jab
followed by a right, Billy was surprised to land both,
but neither struck with much force. Jumping in, James
hit Billy with a decent body shot.
By the
lack of noise, Billy realized that all the fighters had
suspended their workouts to enjoy this match. Knowing
they were probably waiting for his white butt to hit the
canvas gave Billy all the more reason not to let it
happen!
Realizing he was becoming more tense and aggressive,
Billy convinced himself into staying calm. It wasn’t
that the punches had hurt him. James didn’t seem to have
outstanding power. It was more about pride. He didn’t
want to be humiliated, or let James get the better of
him. It would’ve just made the next time harder.
With
as much speed as he could, he threw three jabs to
James’s head. The last slightly touching his chin.
Coming back, James smashed a right to Billy’s forehead,
jolting his neck. Billy took one step back, and then
forged ahead. The fighters at ringside snickered as
James danced around, virtually, poking fun of Billy...
“I’ll
get him, give me a little time,” Billy convinced
himself. James stepped to the right; Billy moved to the
left. Feinting a jab to the head, Billy followed it with
a crisp right to the body. A gasp of air expelled from
James’s lungs. Billy’s anxiousness began to subside. He
started to think again, concentrating on his fight plan.
Billy knew that throwing punches at James’s chest and
shoulders wouldn’t knock him out, but he would feel his
punching power, and he would think about getting caught
by one of them on the chin. So Billy threw a hard right
to James’s chest, knocking him off balance for a moment.
Recovering, James continued to dance; stepping in, he
threw three or four punches. All of them hit Billy, but
none of them hurt him. Relentlessly, Billy went after
him, taking a few to land one. James stepped to his
left; Billy pursued him. He feinted a left jab to his
head and followed it with a solid right to the chin!
James ate the right hand, and it caused him to stumble
back and into the ropes. Stepping in, Billy pivoted on
his left foot and drove a left hook to his ribs.
Bouncing off the ropes, James began to move away. Billy
spotted the humiliation in his insecure eyes, and he
almost heard the smiles slide off the faces of the
ringside fighters and hit the ground. James took the
punches well, but his pride was damaged. Going after
him, Billy kept the pressure on. James was still moving
well, but was not throwing near as many counterpunches.
The bell sounded, and James dropped his hands. But,
Billy nailed him with a short right, not to hurt him,
but to play his “intimidation” game. Facing each other,
they squared off. The trainers yelled for them to
behave; neither wanted to be the first to back down.
After a brief standoff, Billy relented. Apprehensively,
he dropped his arms and returned to his corner. James
followed suit.
“Mon,
what’s ya doing, mon, we need the sparring,” Floyd said.
Understanding the game and the boxing culture they were
in, Floyd was not upset. He knew what had to be done to
survive, but he had to make it look good. It was almost
like a father whose son gets in trouble at school for
beating up the class bully. He has to lecture him about
self-control, but inside he is filled with joy and pride
and is just dying to hear all the details.
Wiping
Billy’s face and removing his mouthpiece, Floyd applied
extra Vaseline while rambling off instructions to him.
So focused on what he must do when he got back in the
ring, Billy ignored him.
The
buzzer sounded, giving them ten seconds before the start
of the round. Floyd gave Billy’s face one more wipe as
the bell rang. Meeting in the center of the ring, Billy
was surprised to see James stick out his glove to call a
truce. Assuming he must have earned some respect; Billy
stuck out his glove to accommodate him. But before
Billy’s glove reached, James abruptly pulled his back
and hit Billy with a solid jab to the nose! Infuriated
by the cheap shot, Billy rushed in, missing James with a
wild overhand right.
After
a moment he calmed down. Billy felt a little stupid,
knowing that he should’ve expected it. A trickle of
blood flowed from his nose as he went in for more. Billy
threw a jab; James ducked under it and came back with a
right to his stomach. “There’s no quit in this guy”
was Billy’s thought as he prepared for a long night . .
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