Читать книгу Bubblegum and Kipling - Tom Mayer - Страница 12

MY LITTLE BROTHER Johnny went into training on a Wednesday in April, two and a half weeks before the fight. That afternoon I got a note in my two-o’clock study hall telling me to report to the office of Mr. Emory D. H. Bascomb, the principal, after school. Mr. Bascomb was the principal of both Barrington Junior High, where I was in the seventh grade at the time, and of Goodey-Gormley grade school across the street, where my brother was in fourth grade.

When I got the note I thought maybe they had found out about the brass knuckles I had made in shop class, but that was unlikely because I had sneaked them out and now they were at home, and then I figured they must have found out who cut the brake band on Miss Miller’s bicycle. Miss Miller was a Spanish teacher, and she always called me Gutierrez instead of Gordon because I was dark and spoke Spanish well. My friend Hank McGaffney and I cut the brake band on her bicycle one day in the fall during football practice while we were supposed to be doing laps, and she ran into the back end of a semi at the College-Manhattan intersection on her way home. She broke her left arm and I felt quite bad about the whole thing.

When I got to Mr. Bascomb’s office I was in something of a sweat. He couldn’t see me right away, and I had to sit in the outer office with his secretary. His secretary’s name was Mrs. McBain, and she had pock marks on her face and weighed about two hundred pounds. Whenever Mr. Bascomb grilled you in order to make you admit something, Mrs. McBain always sat in on it. I had a couple of pachuco friends who told me they’d much rather tangle with Evaristo Orozco, the well-known truant officer.

Mrs. McBain smiled at me, and told me to sit down. She was in an amazingly good mood for her, and asked me how the track team was going to do. I told her I didn’t know because I was playing Babe Ruth ball for Apodaca’s General Store, but I heard it was pretty good. She said she had heard that I was a pretty good ballplayer, and that made me feel fine. She said she knew that I’d won the MVP trophy in the American Little League the year before, and she heard about the three-hitter I pitched against Los Alamos in the first All Star game. I told her I didn’t know she was a ball fan, and she said she certainly was one. She never missed the game of the week on TV and she went to see the Falstaffers every Sunday. She said she was crazy about Buddy Blattner, thought he was wonderful, but she couldn’t see why they didn’t fire that big loudmouth Dizzy Dean. The Falstaffers were the local semi-pro team, and if I hadn’t got bone chips in my throwing elbow I probably would have played for them myself sooner or later. I asked her what she thought about Solomon Sena, who was the Falstaffers’ best starting pitcher, and she said he was plenty fast but had control trouble, especially in the late innings, which was hardly news to anybody. I said yes, that was because he developed a hitch in his wind-up when he got tired.

Just then Mr. Bascomb buzzed her on the intercom and said he was ready to see me. Mrs. McBain smiled at me and said, through that door.

Mr. Bascomb was a very dignified-looking man; he could have passed as a bank president or the chairman of the board in the movies, and he was always very nice to me. This was because he was a strong Republican, and my mother is something of a wheel in state Republican politics, a big wheel in fact, and Mr. Bascomb wanted a nice tenure job with the state system. The pay was better than in the city system. He had to act like a nonpartisan, of course, so that he wouldn’t get the city school board on his tail, but he wanted my mother to know what his principles were, and that was pretty lucky for me more than a couple of times. I didn’t know any of that then, only that he seemed to like me.

“Sit down, Jerry,” he said to me, and pointed at a chair. “I’ve got grave problems to discuss with you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said and sat down and started thinking about Miss Miller and her cast.

“It’s about your brother Johnny,” he said, and I relaxed.

“He’s done something wrong, sir?” I asked.

“Not exactly wrong. In fact the whole situation is very unusual, and I’d like to have your help in trying to solve it peaceably.”

“Sure, sir,” I said.

“Well, it seems your brother’s been threatening people. He’s terrified one boy so thoroughly that the boy’s mother has called and asked that I intervene.”

“No bull?” I asked. “Johnny got sore at somebody for real?”

Johnny was by about two inches and ten pounds the puniest kid in the fourth grade, and the only argument he ever had with anybody before that I knew about was when he made me beat up Larry O’Leary, the undertaker’s son. That was when Johnny was in the second grade and O’Leary took all his marbles, including a good steelie and some clearies I had given him, so I had to beat O’Leary up, which wasn’t exactly easy.

“Watch your language, Jerry,” Mr. Bascomb said.

I said that I was sorry, but that I was surprised to hear that Johnny had had an argument, much less threatened anybody.

“So was I,” Mr. Bascomb said. “But the boy’s parents have called on me and I have to do something.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Melvin Oglethorpe,” Mr. Bascomb said, and I couldn’t help laughing. Melvin Oglethorpe was not tough or anything, but he was one of the biggest kids in the fourth grade and he must have been at least a foot taller than Johnny.

“It must be some kind of joke,” I said.

“No,” Mr. Bascomb said. “It’s no joke. In fact, it’s very serious because the boy’s future well-being is involved. Mrs. Oglethorpe called me up and told me Johnny has been threatening young Mel on his way home from school, and Mel is so upset that he isn’t hungry any more. Mrs. Oglethorpe took him to Dr. Barnaby, who said the boy is growing very fast. He’s five ten already, and malnutrition could be disastrous to his future health.”

I said, “Well, what can I do?”

“We have to find out what’s at the bottom of this,” Mr. Bascomb said. “Of course I’d like to settle it peaceably—it’s not good to let grade-school children indulge in violence—but if we can’t patch it up we’ll have to put the gloves on them. I want you to explain this entire situation to your mother, and between the two of you perhaps you can discover what’s troubling Johnny and help me solve this. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell that to your mother.”

“I will, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s fine,” Mr. Bascomb said. “Let me know when you find something.”

“I’ll probably know by tomorrow,” I said. “I imagine Johnny’ll tell me about it.”

“I hope so, but one thing’s for sure, this threatening has got to stop. It’s a terrible thing when a boy can’t walk home from school without being molested.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If Johnny is intractable you can tell him I said that, and you can also tell the young man that I’ll have to call him in here if he doesn’t shape up.”

“I will.”

“Remember,” Mr. Bascomb said, “we’ll settle this with gloves if we have to. I don’t like violence, but we’ll do it that way if necessary.”

I told Mr. Bascomb that I understood, and he said that was fine, and then we talked awhile about what a fine woman my mother is. He said to tell her he was hoping to have a long chat with her at the next PTA meeting. My mother couldn’t stand PTA meetings as a rule, said they were unbelievably boring and only went to them in election years, but I told Mr. Bascomb I’d tell her what he had said. Then I told him I knew she looked forward to the meetings because he ran them so well. I said she said he was an accomplished parliamentarian. Mr. Bascomb puffed up and said he was terribly flattered, which he obviously was, and he said he certainly hoped we could solve this thing between Johnny and Melvin Oglethorpe. I said I was sure we could, and then I said I had to be going because I had to get to ball practice.

When I got outside it was four-thirty, and I saw I would be way late to practice so I decided to skip it. I wasn’t overconfident, but I knew I was the only good right-handed pitcher Apodaca’s General Store had, which was why the manager, Mr. Martin Lopez, picked me first choice in the Little League player draft. Also because I could catch, and you can never carry enough good catchers. Apodaca’s had Reuben Montoya and Sammy Oliver, both good pitchers, though Sammy was mostly a junk man, but both lefties, and I knew I wouldn’t have any trouble making the team. I had a fastball that dropped, so I could be used in relief, and that was working for me, too. I figured I could tell Mr. Martin Lopez I got kept after school and he would believe me. He wasn’t overly bright about anything except baseball.

I ran home and found my brother in the TV room watching TV. He was waiting for Crusader Rabbit, a five-minute cartoon serial, and I knew I couldn’t talk to him about anything until after that. Personally I always found Crusader Rabbit very frustrating, because they spent three minutes out of the five telling you what happened the last time, and you had to watch almost every show anyhow or you lost the thread. Each story went on for about a year, and Johnny watched every one while my mother kept waiting for him to outgrow it.

When Crusader Rabbit was over Johnny turned off the TV set and got up on a straight-back chair and began punching the bag. The TV room was also the playroom, and my father kept a light punching bag there. My father was the two-time middleweight champion of the Australian Army, and he once knocked out “Bopo” Quintana, the light-heavyweight champion of the Southwest and a nationally ranked contender at the time, with one punch in a street fight on the Plaza. I have a newspaper clipping to prove it. “Bopo” said something vile about my mother, and my father knocked him through the plate-glass window at Woolworth’s.

My father didn’t fight in the gym any more, but he punched the bag for a half hour two or three times a week to keep his eye sharp, and did some roadwork on Sundays when he got the chance. He could hit very hard, they said, had shoulders like a heavyweight, and never let himself get above one seventy. His only weakness as a fighter, something not his fault, was that he had a long straight brittle nose that got broken the first time anybody even jabbed it hard.

Johnny banged away at the bag for a while, not saying anything, and doing an awful job of it. Even when he was standing on the chair the bag was way too high for him, and he didn’t know how to hit it. My father showed me a little about boxing when I was a kid, and I used to spar and fool around a lot with him, but Johnny was never interested and my father didn’t make him learn.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

“Practicing,” Johnny said, and almost fell off the chair.

“Don’t hook it so much,” I said. “Don’t try to hit it so often. Let it bounce.”

“Like this?” Johnny hooked it again so that it bounced back at him on a diagonal.

“No. Jab it,” I said.

“How?”

I got up and shadow-boxed a few jabs for him. “Straight. Like this. Left, left. Cross with the right when you got him set up.”

“I’ll try it.” He jabbed on the bag a few times, and it went back and forth on a straight line so that he could keep hitting it.

“That’s better,” I said.

He jabbed it again.

“Whatcha doing this for?” I asked him.

“Nothing,” he said.

“What for? Come on and tell.”

“Feel like it.”

“Come on, Ukey,” I said. “Don’t try to con me.” I used to call him the Ukulele Baby, because he was always making sounds like a ukulele, and it got shortened to Ukey. I had lots of other nicknames for him too.

“I feel like doing it,” he said.

“That’s bull,” I said.

“All right. I don’t feel like doing it.” He jabbed the bag twice, the second time nicely, and then he hooked with his right. The chair slid when he swung, and he had to grab the back of it.

“Hit it straight,” I said. “Jab it straight, but throw the right straight too. Straight line is the shortest distance between two points. A straight punch gets there first and hurts the most. Hookers are nothin’ but brawlers. Boxer with a punch can lick a hooker any day.”

“Is this it?” He threw a straight right, but it hit the side of the bag instead of the center.

“That’s the idea. Now why are you doing this?”

“I want to.”

“Ha, ha,” I said. “I know better.”

He stopped punching and looked over at me. Then he started punching again.

“I hear you’re out to get Melvin Oglethorpe,” I said.

That stopped him completely. “Who says?”

“Mr. Bascomb,” I said and smiled at him.

“No kidding, Jerry?”

I nodded. “Mr. Bascomb says you’re having a blood feud with him. His mother called up and complained about you being so big and tough.”

“He’s chicken,” my brother said.

“How come you’re sore at him?” I asked. “Mr. Bascomb told me to find out, but I won’t tell him if you don’t want me to. What happened?”

“He didn’t do anything to me,” Johnny said.

“Aw, come on,” I said.

“Nothin’, really.”

“Ukey, you’re lying,” I said.

Johnny looked at the bag, and hit it once. He didn’t hit it again, just stood there on the chair looking at it until it stopped swinging, and then he turned to me and said, “I can’t tell you.”

“I won’t say anything,” I said. “Honest.”

“Yes you will.”

“No I won’t. You can count on me.”

“I’d like to tell you,” he said. “But I can’t tell anybody.”

“Well, give me some idea.”

“He insulticated me,” Johnny said.

“How?”

“He just did.”

“Did he hit you,” I asked, “or what? I could’ve beat him up, like Larry O’Leary.”

“He just insulticated me.”

“And what did you do to him?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what I heard. I heard you got him so scared he can’t eat.”

“I follow him home,” Johnny said. “That’s all.”

“You haven’t hit him?”

“No.”

“Well, what’s going to happen? You can’t keep following him home all the time.”

“I don’t know,” Johnny said. “I gotta learn to fight.”

“It’s about time,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” Johnny was afraid of me but he always tried very hard not to show it.

“Yeah,” I said. “Mr. Bascomb says he’s gonna put gloves on you if you don’t make it up with Melvin.”

“Jeepers,” Johnny said.

“Well, what you going to do?”

“Learn to fight,” Johnny said, and hooked at the bag.

“Dad can show you a lot,” I said. “He’s good himself.

“I know, but I don’t want him to find out about it.”

“Why not? He won’t care.”

“I just don’t.”

“He’s going to anyway,” I said.

“How come?”

“I gotta tell Mother.”

“Why?”

“’Cause,” I said.

“Why?”

“’Cause Mr. Bascomb told me to. He will himself if I don’t. You know how he is.”

“You have to tell her?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then I guess it’s okay to tell Dad too,” Johnny said.

“Okay?” I said. “It’s better to tell Dad. He can be a big help.”

“I guess so,” Johnny said.

We talked about it a while longer, and decided to tell my father after dinner that night. The more Johnny thought about it the more he agreed with me that Dad should show him how to fight, and, what’s more, would probably jump at the chance to do it.

After dinner we told Dad that we had some big business we wanted to talk to him about alone, without my mother and grandmother. He said okay, but not too long, he had some work to do, and we took him into the TV room and explained the whole thing to him. He thought about it a minute, and said we had to get Johnny into training right away. Then he asked Johnny what Melvin had done to him to get him riled up, and Johnny said Melvin had insulticated him. Dad said he understood.

We talked it over, because Dad said good managers always make up their preparation plans long before the match, so they can play all the angles, and we decided I should go to see Mr. Bascomb the next day and explain that Johnny wanted to fight. Dad said I should get the date of the bout set as far in the future as possible to give Johnny training time.

Dad said Johnny had better get started right away. He put Johnny up on the chair and watched him punch the bag awhile. Then he said the bag was too high for Johnny, but I told him that didn’t matter, because Melvin was too high for Johnny too. My father took me aside and said we had to build up Johnny’s confidence, so I shouldn’t say things like that any more.

My father showed Johnny how to jab that evening, and how to keep his hands up. He told Johnny to keep his hands in front of his face, elbows down in order to block punches with his forearms, and his chin behind his shoulder. Then if he jabbed a lot, my father said, he could keep the other guy off balance until he opened him up. Dad said legs were very important, and he got an old jump rope from the closet in his office and showed Johnny how to jump with it. Dad had good timing and could do all sorts of fancy stuff himself, crossovers and the like, but Johnny just got tangled up. The rope got wound around his legs and hit him in the face, and once it got around his throat and I was afraid he’d strangle himself. Dad said that was happening because the rope was too long, so he took out a pocket knife and cut the rope down to where Johnny could use it. That helped, and Johnny began to get the idea.

Dad said diet was very important. He said we would have to get Mother to feed Johnny the right things, and both Johnny and I said that might be pretty tricky. Mother didn’t approve of boxing.

Just about then Mother came in anyway, and wanted to know what we were up to. Both Dad and Johnny were sweating considerable amounts, and Mother wanted to know if they were trying to shake the house down. She said she had just had the ceiling in the hall plastered, and it was flaking down all over the place.

My father explained that we were training Johnny for a fight.

“Little Johnny?” my mother asked.

My father said yes. He said Johnny was already learning a jab, and they were going to do some running together the next morning. Johnny liked to sleep late, he never got up until just before breakfast, and even then you had to shake him, and he didn’t look too happy about the running bit.

Mother said we weren’t going to turn her baby into a fighter, and that was that. Then my father and I explained about Melvin and Mr. Bascomb, and Mother said Mr. Bascomb was a blathering idiot. She kissed Johnny sweetly on the forehead and said it was mean of my father and me to make him fight. Johnny said he wanted to fight, and Mother said she didn’t believe him. Johnny said he had been insulticated and had to fight. Got no choice, he said. Mother asked what Melvin had done to him, and Johnny wouldn’t tell her any more than he had me.

Mother saw it was no use, Johnny being the stubbornest one in the family when he made up his mind about something, and my father told her she would have to start fixing training meals. He said Johnny should have steak twice a day, preferably three times, and lots of milk and orange juice. That made Mother mad, and she said Johnny and all the rest of us ate very well as it was. My father was embarrassed and said that was true, she and Ramona were the best cooks in the business, but a fighter in training was different and he’d settle for steak once a day. Mother said she’d think about it. Then my father said that Johnny ought to cut out between-meal snacks, and no candy, and of course no cigarettes or liquor. My mother looked at my father as if he were crazy, and my father said he knew Johnny didn’t drink or smoke, but he wanted to emphasize the importance of condition. He asked Mother if she’d like to see Johnny’s jab, and Mother said not particularly, but she stayed while Johnny shadow-boxed. “Snap it hard,” my father kept saying, “stick it in his face, make it sting. That’s a boy.”

My father said it was time for bed, because Johnny would have to get up early for roadwork, and he asked Johnny if he wanted a rub-down. Johnny said okay, and my father detailed me to give Johnny a massage. Johnny took a bath and went to bed, and I rubbed down his arms and legs and back. He said it felt good, and I told him he had been looking sharp, trying to build up his confidence. He said he didn’t think roadwork sounded like much fun, and went to sleep.

The next morning my father got him up at six, and they ran around the block three or four times before breakfast. My father ate four eggs when they came in, said he hadn’t felt so well in years, and Johnny looked tired. My father made him drink three glasses of orange juice and told Mother to get some wheat germ and vitamin pills.

At school I went to see Mr. Bascomb and told him that Johnny wanted satisfaction. I told him Johnny had been mortally insulted and wanted to fight Melvin.

“But what did Melvin do?” Mr. Bascomb asked.

“Terrible things,” I said. Then I asked Mr. Bascomb when he wanted the fight. He said something about the sooner the better, and would next Saturday be suitable. I lied and said we were all going to the ranch the next Saturday for spring roundup, how about a week after that? Mr. Bascomb said that was fine with him, but he didn’t look forward with any relish to telling Mrs. Oglethorpe about it.

When I told my father about the fight date he said he wished I’d gotten more time. I said I’d done the best I could, and he said that was okay, he thought he could have Johnny ready, but he wished he had more time to strengthen up those legs.

He ran Johnny a lot the next week and a half, and taught him how to punch straight. I sparred with Johnny, not hitting hard, and it was amazing how he picked up moves. He was very coordinated, which was something we had never suspected before because he hated sports so, and in no time at all he could do a fine bob and weave. Dad made him carry a small rubber ball around in each pocket, and told him to squeeze them all the time. After about a week Johnny began to have some sting to his punches. Dad kept working with him mainly on the simple stuff, keep the right up, the chin tucked in, the left jabbing; cross to the jaw when you get a clean shot, bob and weave when you get in trouble. Dad bought a medicine ball and tossed it to Johnny to toughen up his middle, but the ball was too big and it knocked Johnny’s wind out. That happened a couple of times, but Johnny got right back up and asked for more, and I was astonished at how tough he was getting.

The last week Dad had him running around the block ten times before breakfast, eating wheat germ, steak, and orange juice, taking four kinds of vitamin pills, and sparring six rounds after school in addition to rope skipping and bag work. The Wednesday before the fight Dad bought Johnny a new pair of red silk fighting trunks, a jock, and a steel cup. The trunks fit fine and the jock was okay, but the cup was too big, and Johnny had to walk around bow-legged with it on. Dad said he had to have a cup, can’t fight without protection, and the next day he spent most of the morning buying up boys’-size protectors. He brought about twenty of them home, and at least ten fit.

On Friday Johnny just skipped rope and sparred a round with me. Dad wanted to keep him home from school to make sure he took it easy, but Mother said she wouldn’t hear of it. My father said, but it was the day before the fight, and Mother said no, absolutely no. That night Dad fed Johnny a huge charcoal-broiled steak that he cooked himself, and put him to bed at eight-thirty after giving him a sleeping pill to make sure he relaxed well.

The fight was scheduled for ten o’clock, and we got to school at nine-thirty. Johnny changed at home, and wore a blue bathrobe in the car. Dad asked him three or four times how he felt and if he had the right size cup in place. Mother wouldn’t come with us. She said she hated fights, any fights, they were brutal, and she wasn’t about to watch one with her last baby in it.

The fight was in the Goodey-Gormley gym, and the ring was a joke. They had put down a wrestling mat in the middle of the floor, with a steel folding chair at each corner. No ropes at all. The referee was Mr. Nestor Gonzalez, one of the sixth-grade teachers. He was hunchbacked, wore glasses, and talked in a high thin voice. I had had him the year before and he was very nice, and very intelligent.

Melvin and his parents showed up at a quarter till. Mrs. Oglethorpe had a red scaly face that looked as if she had just been yelling at someone. Lots of blood in her cheeks. Mr. Oglethorpe was huge, around six four, with hairy hands. Melvin was at least a foot taller than Johnny. He had black hair he was always brushing back out of his eyes, and he was very pale, scared stiff, I figured, and he was dressed in a regular shirt and khakis. When he took the shirt off he was skinny underneath.

Mr. Bascomb was there too, and the first thing he did was run up to my father and ask how my mother was. Then he asked if there wasn’t some way we could solve this peaceably, and my father told him to ask Johnny. Mr. Bascomb asked Johnny, and Johnny said, “I wanna fight.”

Mr. Bascomb said he guessed fight it was, and Melvin looked very unhappy.

I was going to be Johnny’s second, of course, and I had a bucket filled with ice water, four towels, a big box of Band-aids, and some iodine. I picked a corner and told Johnny to sit down in the chair. Mr. Gonzalez gave us some school gloves, twelve-ouncers, and I tied them on Johnny, being careful to tuck the laces in. This was according to plan. My father had been working Johnny out with sixteen-ounce gloves, figuring the school would have twelve-ouncers, so Johnny’s hands would feel light and fast.

Mr. Gonzalez asked if everybody was ready. I said Johnny was, and Melvin sort of nodded. Mr. Gonzalez told the boys to come to the center of the ring. “We’ll fight three rounds,” he said, “of two minutes each, and after that everyone should be happy. I don’t know much about boxing, but no hitting below the belt, no biting, and no kicking. The edges of the mat are the out-of-bounds lines. You both sure we can’t talk this thing out?”

“Yes,” Johnny said.

“All right, if that’s the way you feel about it. Back to your corners. Mr. Bascomb is going to be the timekeeper and he’ll ring the bell. Don’t hit each other after the bell.”

Johnny came back to his corner and I said, “Go get him.” Johnny nodded. I took off the blue bathrobe, having trouble getting it over the gloves. My father had gotten Johnny a mouthpiece, and I put it in. It made his face look swollen. Johnny did a couple of deep knee bends, which Dad said would loosen up his ligaments. Then he jabbed the air a couple of times, and I had to admit it looked impressive. Straight with lots of snap.

Mr. Bascomb said, “Everybody ready?” and rang the bell. Johnny came out fast, hands up high, and had to wait for Melvin at the center of the ring. Melvin was moving cautiously. When he got within range Johnny feinted a jab and circled around him twice, doing a little bobbing and weaving as he went. Dad told him to be careful in the first round and feel his opponent out. Dad said only rank amateurs and club fighters went rushing in. Melvin swung softly, a long roundhouse right, and Johnny ducked it easily. Johnny countered with a hard jab that landed square on Melvin’s shoulder. Melvin said ouch, but you could tell Johnny’s short reach was going to be a problem. Melvin swung again and missed and Mrs. Oglethorpe yelled loudly, “Murder him.”

Melvin looked a little embarrassed. Johnny faked a one-two to the jaw, and when Melvin pulled his hands up Johnny hit him in the gut. Dad had told him to give the guy’s midsection a going over early in the fight. That would slow him down. I looked around and Dad was smiling.

Melvin back-pedaled a bit and then swung with his right again. Johnny ducked it with his head and hit Melvin with a right of his own, square on the chin. Considering Johnny weighed all of about sixty pounds at the time, it was quite a punch. Melvin’s knees buckled, and he went staggering back off the mat. His shoes squeaked loudly as he caught his balance on the hardwood floor, and Mr. Gonzalez said, “Wait a minute, are you okay?” Melvin nodded and rubbed his chin. Melvin got back on the mat, though he took his time about doing it, and they circled around some more, with Melvin heaving wild haymakers from time to time, until Mr. Bascomb rang the bell.

Johnny came back to the corner and bobbed up and down to show how strong he felt. I took his mouthpiece out. “Take it easy,” I said. “You got two more rounds.”

“It works,” he said.

“What works?”

“The things Dad says,” he said.

“I told you they would. Now sit down. I gotta sponge the sweat off you.”

Johnny sat down and I dipped one of my towels in the ice water and rubbed over his face. The towel must have gotten in his mouth, because he spat two or three times after I took it away. “You’re not supposed to stuff it down my throat,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “You got any cuts you want bandaged?” I had stripped the wrappers off several Band-aids and stuck them to the back of the chair in case I had to use them fast, and the iodine was in my pocket. I also had a roll of cotton.

“He didn’t hit me,” Johnny said. “How could I have cuts?”

“I can’t see everything from here,” I said. “Sometimes your back is turned to me. I thought he might of got you.”

“Didn’t touch me.”

“Don’t get overconfident,” I said. “You can take him but don’t get cocky.”

Just then Mr. Bascomb rang the bell, and I said, “Hey, you can’t do that.”

Mr. Bascomb said, “Why not?”

“You’re supposed to give me a ten-second warning,” I said. “I haven’t got his mouthpiece back in.”

“Oh,” Mr. Bascomb said.

“Well, get it in,” Mr. Gonzales said, and I stuffed it back in Johnny’s mouth.

“Get him,” I said. “But don’t be cocky.”

“Kill the little snot,” Mrs. Oglethorpe yelled.

Dad had said that if the first round went well it would be okay to open fast in the second, which is what Johnny did. Melvin had his hands up to protect his face, and Johnny got him with a four- or five-punch combination in the belly before he knew what hit him. Melvin grunted and dropped his hands, and Johnny got him on the chin again. Not as hard as the time the round before, because Johnny was off balance when he threw the punch, but Melvin was stung. Not hurt, but stung.

“Clobber him,” Mrs. Oglethorpe yelled.

Melvin rushed at Johnny and swing a terrific roundhouse left. Johnny had his hands up, the way he had been taught, and he caught the punch on his forearm, picked it off clean, but Melvin had all his weight behind it and knocked Johnny halfway across the ring. Johnny landed on the seat of his pants with a thump, and sat there.

“Get up,” I yelled.

“Take your time, Johnny,” my father yelled. “You’re not hurt.”

“Kick him,” yelled Mrs. Oglethorpe.

Mr. Gonzales began to count. “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .” At six Johnny got up. He was about to cry, so I knew he was mad, and there was a red spot on his forearm from the punch.

“Keep cool,” my father yelled loudly, and I could tell Johnny had heard because you could see him relax. “Bob and weave.”

Melvin started in on Johnny again, and Johnny began to bob and weave. Melvin missed him three or four times, and then hit him on the top of the head. That knocked Johnny back again, but he didn’t go down. Melvin came after him, displaying vast amounts of the old killer instinct, and missed with a big right. Johnny was fighting smart. When Melvin missed with the right and left himself wide open off balance Johnny hit him with a perfect one-two in the solar plexus. You could hear the air rush out of Melvin. He doubled over and my father yelled, “Take him.”

“You got him,” I yelled as Melvin staggered. “Bomb him.”

Melvin was bent over now so that he was closer to Johnny’s height, and Johnny went to work. He hit him with two good straight lefts on the chin, and then he caught him with a beautiful right cross to the nose. That was what did it. Melvin was set up, his hands over his gut, hair flopping in his eyes, and Johnny pasted the right square into his nose, from good balance, with all his power behind it.

Melvin stood up straight. Then he sat down hard, arms hanging at his sides. Then he began to cry. Then his nose began to bleed. The blood ran down over his upper lip, and dropped off his chin in two streams starting from the corners of his mouth.

Mr. Gonzalez began to count with Johnny standing there looking down at Melvin, and my father yelled, “For Chrissake get to a neutral corner. Quick. Remember Dempsey and Tunney.” Johnny didn’t hear him, though, and stayed there standing over Melvin. When Mr. Gonzalez saw the blood he stopped counting and said, “The fight is over.”

Mr. Gonzalez and Johnny helped Melvin up and began to walk him around. “Keep your head back,” Mr. Gonzalez said. I brought over one of my unused towels and said, “Here. Take this.”

Johnny was walking with Melvin and finally he said, “Are you okay, Melvin?”

Melvin nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Johnny said. “I’m not sore at you any more.”

Then Mr. Oglethorpe and my father came over, and we all stood around Melvin, who was standing in the middle of the mat with his head back and a towel over his face. Except for Mrs. Oglethorpe. She stayed in her seat and she looked very mad.

Melvin nodded again. He was still crying.

My father said to Mr. Oglethorpe, “You got a game boy there,” and Mr. Oglethorpe said, “Yours is okay too.

“You fought hard,” my father said to Melvin. “You got pretty fair power.” Melvin looked as if he might be trying to smile underneath the towel.

“That boy a yours,” Mr. Oglethorpe said. “If I was his size I wouldn’t a climbed in the ring with nobody, much less a kid the size a mine.”

“My boy’s been training,” my father said.

“I could tell.”

Then Mr. Bascomb, who had been standing there listening, said, “Are the young men reconciled?”

“I think so,” Mr. Gonzalez said.

“I’m not sore any more,” Johnny said.

Melvin shook his head to show that he wasn’t sore either.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mrs. Oglethorpe said loudly from her chair.

Mr. Oglethorpe turned around and looked at her and said, “As soon as I get ready.”

My father told Mr. Gonzalez he did a fine job refereeing, and Mr. Gonzalez said if the truth be known he didn’t like anything about boxing. My father didn’t know what to say to that. He knew that I had liked Mr. Gonzalez from the year before when he was my teacher, but Dad thought only women didn’t like fights. I got Dad away before he’d have time to think about it any and ask Mr. Gonzalez questions about why he felt the way he did. Dad probably wouldn’t have said anything more though anyway, because he never did well in school himself and is still afraid of teachers and only talks to them when he has to. He thinks teachers are different from other people.

In the car on the way home my father didn’t say anything, and neither did Johnny, but you could tell they were happy. Johnny would jerk his head to the side every so often, without moving any of the rest of him, and I knew he was practicing a head feint Dad had showed him that he hadn’t had a chance to use.

When we got home we told my mother all about it, and she made Johnny sit on her lap, which he plainly didn’t want to do. She felt his forearm where he had been hit, and said perhaps it was broken and ought to be X-rayed. It was getting black and blue. My father said he knew it wasn’t broken. Then my mother asked Johnny again why he had been mad at Melvin.

“He insulticated me,” Johnny said.

“But what did he do?” Mother asked. “You must have had something happen to you to bring all of this on.”

Johnny said, “It’s all over now.”

“You’re not the slightest bit angry any more?”

“No.”

“Well at least we can quit this ridiculous training program,” my mother said.

“For a while,” my father said.

“Training was kind of fun,” Johnny said.

“I can’t imagine how it could be,” my mother said.

“You fought a good fight,” my father said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Showed you can take it too,” my father said. “Fighter’s got to be able to do that.”

“I wish Mr. Bascomb had kept time right,” I said. “I didn’t know when to put his mouthpiece back in.”

“Johnny is not going to fight any more,” my mother said. “Not ever.”

“I might have to,” Johnny said.

“No,” Mother said.

“You can’t tell about things,” Johnny said.

“He can hit too,” my father said, more to himself than to the rest of us. “I was keeping time myself.” My father had a wristwatch that was a stopwatch too, if you needed it to be. It was a flyer’s watch from World War II that he picked up surplus. “That was a good right in the first and he TKO’d him in a minute forty-seven of the second. That’s not bad at all, for the first time out.”