Pound for Pound (5 page)

Earl went back to the jab. “Let’s go. Jab. Jab. Double up on him. Do it again. Jab, jab to the body. Jab to the head. Double up. Double up. One-
two-hook
!”

Tim Pat fired the one-two,
bing-bang!,
rocked back for balance and leverage, and
BOOM!

Earl plopped to the floor as if knocked out, as so many had been, by the Brown Bomber himself, Joe Louis. Tim Pat threw both arms in the air.

“Yeow!” Earl whooped. “My baby boy!”

I
t was six-fifteen on Saturday morning. Tim Pat had won his first fight the night before, in Carson.

Dan and Tim Pat were headed back to Carson. They made it in five minutes from home to the on-ramp at Melrose and Normandie, where they picked up the Hollywood Freeway heading downtown, then onto the 110 Freeway, and headed south. Dan was still sleepy, and had been so excited by Tim Pat’s win that he’d been unable to sleep until three
a.m.
Tim Pat had already been out when Dan kissed him good night, but now the kid was wide awake. Every few minutes he proudly touched the slight abrasion at the side of his neck.

The 110 Freeway was nearly empty. Grandfather and grandson quickly moved past the coliseum, built as the Olympic Auditorium for the 1932 Olympics. Soon they went through South Central, and were heading to the
110-405
Interchange south of Gardena. Dan would swing the pickup east on the 405, and head for the industrial town of Carson. A three-day Silver Gloves Tournament for kids eight through fifteen was being held at the Carson American Legion Hall. The weigh-in was at seven
a.m.,
and Tim Pat was scheduled to fight his second fight of the tournament at
eleven. Like all boxers, Tim Pat had to make weight or he wouldn’t be allowed to fight. Neither had eaten breakfast.

Dan and Earl had both worked Tim Pat’s corner the night before, had been as serious as if the kid was fighting for a professional title. Because the shop was open a half day on Saturdays, Dan would work Tim Pat’s second fight alone. Dan and Earl alternated, and it was Earl’s Saturday to work. Dan had thought about closing the shop down so Earl could be there for Tim Pat’s second fight, but Earl reminded him that they had customers coming in to pick up their cars.

Earl said, “The way the White Fox won last night, we’ll all be there for trophy time on Sunday.”

Tim Pat had gained nine pounds since he fought Tiger, and had grown two inches.

“We just might have us a classy white-boy heavyweight,” Earl said, smiling.

Dan said, “His daddy sure was big and fast.”

“Tim could be the one, Dan.” He slipped into a black-folks accent. “White folks so hongry for a white heavyweight they like a welfare nigga wit a tapeworm.”

Dan laughed, but the idea tasted good. “Wouldn’t that be somethin after all these years?”

The night before, Dan and Earl had dressed Tim Pat in shiny gold trunks, a Kelly green top, calf-high white boxing shoes, and headgear that Earl had spray-painted a brilliant gold. Tim Pat fought novice. Kids in that division fought one-minute rounds, and most flapped and raged around like banty roosters. Dan touched his eye often, was so nervous he had to ask Earl to wrap Tim Pat’s hands and to lace his gloves and tape the laces on his boxing shoes.

Dan got Earl off to the side. “You talk to him, my mouth’s too dry.”

Once Tim Pat was warmed up, Earl spoke quietly to him. “He’s gonna
come in like a windmill, okay? All little guys are like that when they first start.”

Tim Pat said, “Not me, right, Earl?”

“That’s right, Tim,” Earl said, “not you, you’re too smart. So instead of you backing up when he comes, you step to him, okay? Move inside his wide stuff, jab to his chest and neck, double up when you stick, forget about his head at first.”

Tim Pat said, “Now he’s tired.”

Earl nodded. “Now he’s tired because you made him tire himself out, right?”

“Right.”

Earl said, “This is when you set him up with the jab and begin to fire your one-two at his head. You can even shoot the one-two and drop your hook on him if you think you got the shot.” Earl made the move. “One-two-hook!
Bing!,
and then move outta there behind your jab.”

Tim Pat made the same move so pretty that Dan had to turn away, had to rub his wet eyes with the backs of his wrists.

Earl said, “You won’t forget, now?”

“I won’t forget,” said Tim Pat.

“You sure?” Dan asked.

“No way, Grampa.”

Dan hugged the kid. This was the same little guy who, at bedtime, would hustle Dan to read
Winnie-the-Pooh.
Dan was an expert on grumpy donkeys and little bears who love honey. But now Tim Pat was eleven—and he was a fighter.

Tim Pat won by a unanimous decision in three rounds. He flurried like the other little guy, but he also got in some good shots. He missed with his hook, but Dan knew that hooks were a question of time and opportunity, and that Tim Pat had plenty of time ahead of him. Resting while Tim Pat changed into gray sweats afterward, Dan felt like he’d just gone fifteen rounds with Roberto Duran.

Dan could see their off-ramp up ahead. Carson was just off the San Diego Freeway, near oil refineries, and not far from L.A. Harbor and San Pedro, where Dan had grown up. Carson was a working-class town made up of whites, blacks, Asians, and Latinos, but there was a large Samoan community there as well. Many of the Samoans playing college football or in the NFL came from Carson. Tim Pat had been the only white boy in the tournament the night before. The other trainers with boys in Tim Pat’s weight class thought he would be a
palomita blanca,
a little white dove. They didn’t know how he’d handled Tiger, didn’t know about all the months he’d worked hard with Dan and Earl, didn’t know that Tim Pat was the White Fox.

The Friday-night crowd, mostly Latinos, with a scattering of blacks, was stunned by the little white boy’s showing, the
gabachito.
It meant he’d fight the next day in the semi. If he won that, he’d fight Sunday for the first-place trophy. Men with beer guts and creased, brown faces smiled at the little
gabacho
as he and his trainers headed back to the dressing room. Balls counted, but so did skill. One of them called him
raza.

Another said,
“Este chico sabe nadar y no mojar su ropa.”
This little guy could go swimming and not get his clothes wet.

On Saturday morning, Tim Pat made weight, then Dan drove to a waterfront café in San Pedro that had served fishermen and lobster poachers since the thirties. Dan carbed up the kid, fed him S.O.S. on wheat toast, sliced tomatoes for potassium, a big glass of milk, and a piece of freshly baked berry pie with vanilla ice cream melting on top. Tim Pat cleaned his plate, sat back like a satisfied cat.

The waitress was a trooper, had a tobacco-and-coffee smile. “That’s one heck of a little man you got there.”

Tim Pat said, “I’m a fighter.”

The waitress, Marleen, said, “You keep eatin like that, you’ll be a world champ.”

Tim Pat said, “This is my grampa. Him and me and Earl are goin to the top.”

To pass time until nine-thirty, when they had to check in and get ready, Dan drove through his old neighborhood, though not much of it was left. He told Tim Pat about the hard times of his great-grandparents in Ireland. Tim Pat asked about his own mother and father, and Dan talked on, said that Mary Cat had been the prettiest and the smartest girl in school, told how Tim Pat’s father, Eamon, had been a great defensive back in college.

Tim Pat said, “I fought last night’s fight for you and Earl, Grampa. Today I’m fightin it for my mom and dad.”

“You do that, laddie.”

Dan wrapped and taped Tim Pat’s hands and gloved him, buckled the strap of his headgear under his chin. Earlier, he’d also had the kid shadowbox and hit the punch mitts, made sure the little guy was warmed up. The kid had begun to sweat and appeared primed to fight. Tim Pat saw his shadowy opponent standing in the doorway of the opposite dressing room and suddenly his mouth went dry. He began to shiver despite the sweat. Gone was the confident little battler on the freeway, the one who sat forward on the seat and bounced with anticipation.

Dan had seen it before. You never knew when the cotton mouth or the empty ass would hit you. Fighters with twenty-five fights would sometimes have to take a scare pee after they’d been gloved and were already making their way to the ring. When it happened, Dan would pull a quick U-turn at ringside and run the boy back to the dressing room. He’d have to pull the boy’s shorts and cup down, then aim his shriveled dick so he wouldn’t piss on his shoes.

Tim Pat’s opponent was a handsome little Mexican kid. He weighed the same seventy-five pounds as Tim Pat with his recent weight gain. The other kid was shorter and wider in the shoulders, and he stomped and banged his gloves in the far corner.
Cholos,
Mexican-Americans at ringside, made it two to one for the Mexican over the
palomita.
Old-timers who’d seen the
palomita
fight the night before took the wager. Fifty-dollar bets were not uncommon. Women with children were
chosen to hold the bets, and they would collect a quick five dollars from the winners for guarding the loot.

Dan saw Tim Pat’s eyes scurry. He cautioned, “When the ref calls you to the center of the ring for instructions, your guy’ll try to stare you down.”

“Why?”

“It’s like Tiger. To give you the loose ass, to make you blink.”

“Will I blink?”

“Hell, no,” Dan said. “When he locks eyes, you lock right back. But while he’s starin straight into your eyes, you’re gonna look at the strip of skin just below his eyebrows and above his eyeballs. Keep starin at that eyelid skin. He won’t be able to tell where you’re starin. He’ll be the one with the dry eye. When he blinks first, he’ll start thinkin he’s the pussy, not you. Got it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

The ref waved Tim Pat and his opponent to the center of the ring. The stare-down began. Tim Pat followed Dan’s instructions. The Mexican kid blinked.

Tim Pat said, “Pussy.”

The Mexican kid flushed.
“Tu madre.”

The ref said, “No talking or I take points.”

The Mexican kid, now pissed, which was just what Dan wanted, came out winging shots, tried to drive Tim Pat back. Tim Pat surprised him. He shoved off on that right toe and drove left jabs into his chest and neck. The other boy stumbled back. In the second round, Tim Pat stepped in with more lefts and a few straight rights, most of which connected. The other kid could not get set, was always on his heels. In the third, Tim Pat repeatedly landed with the one-two combination. Near the end of the round, he followed the one-two with his hook,
Boom!,
landed it flush on the other kid’s chin, the hook as pure and tart and sweet as lemon pie.

The other little boy stumbled back again, hurt this time, but wouldn’t
go down. Tim Pat stalked him. The boy, still dazed, was unable to defend himself, but still wouldn’t quit. The ref stepped in, pointed Tim Pat to the farthest corner. The ref turned to look at the hurt kid’s eyes, then waved his hands to signal that he was stopping the fight. Tim Pat whooped and strutted and Dan had to calm him down, whispered to him to go congratulate the other kid for a good fight. By now, the fight over, the kids touched gloves and smiled. The outside corner of Tim Pat’s left eye was pink and would swell slightly.

Dan quickly removed Tim Pat’s gloves and took his mouthpiece. The ref motioned both boys to the center of the ring. The announcer from ringside called Tim Pat’s name as the winner, and the ref raised the
palomita’s
wrapped hand in victory. The crowd, winners and losers, stood to cheer him. Flashbulbs went off. One of the tournament officials, an old friend of Dan, congratulated him ringside.

The official said, “I got a good shot of him with his hand raised. I’ll send you an eight-by-ten.”

“Yeah, and here I was hopin for only a little one!” Dan said. He reached for his pocket. “Let me cover it.”

“Naw, don’t worry about it.”

Dan said, “Thanks. Will you be here for the finals tomorrow?”

The official said, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

It was close to one o’clock by the time Dan got back on the Harbor Freeway and headed home. Earl would hoot when he heard about Tim Pat’s hook. The little boy squirmed in his sweat suit, Dan’s precaution against catching a cold. It was Tim Pat’s first time to warm down. It felt good.

Dan touched his grandson’s hair. “You hungry?”

“No, but I’m still thirsty.”

Dan pulled off the freeway at Rosecrans, where he drove to a mini-mart. “What do you want?”

Tim Pat said, “How about one of those lemon-lime frozen juice bars like I get from the ice-cream truck that comes by the gym?”

Lupe Ayala had parked the clinic’s van at the rear of the horse corrals of the Santa Cruz Sports Arena. Lupe was on a field trip with five of her students, six-and eight-year-old deaf kids from the Boyle Heights Clinic for the Deaf, the CFD on Whittier Boulevard, near Euclid. Though not yet seventeen, she’d already been teaching part-time at the clinic for two years. This visit to the corrals was one she’d wanted to share with the children from the beginning, and finally getting her driver’s license made it possible. The arena was a little over twenty miles east of Boyle Heights, located near the marshy Whittier Narrows in Pico Rivera, and close to the intersection of the 60 and the 605, the Pomona and the San Gabriel Freeways. Her driver’s license permitted her to transport young passengers, and she usually dropped kids off at home after giving signing lessons, or following other events closer to the clinic. This was the farthest from the clinic Lupe had been allowed to drive the kids, and she felt honored by the trust placed in her.

The arena was a privately owned horse facility, but concerts and boxing matches were often held there as well. It was built like a
rancho del charro,
a scaled-down version of a bullring, but with one section open that led to the corrals, and it served mostly for
charreadas,
or Mexican-style rodeos. Horses were roped and bulls were ridden, and during breaks in the action, decked-out mariachi musicians outfitted in
trajes de gala
played trumpets and violins. Behind the brightly painted red and yellow structure, a long line of steel pylons ran south along the
605.
Crackling high-voltage lines were strung between them. Puddles and pools of the shallow San Gabriel River stagnated beneath the pops and sizzles. Reeds and weeds and squat trees grew along the river’s cement banks. Minnows and pollywogs flourished.