The Brave (9 page)

F
ROM THE WAIST
up Delgado looked like a bodybuilder, smooth muscles popping and rippling under his suntanned skin. His stomach was laid with cobblestones. The crowd whistled when he took off his blue silk robe. Sonny studied Delgado. His legs didn't match the rest of his body. Too thin. Not enough muscle. Not enough roadwork, thought Sonny. I can wear him down.

At the bell, Delgado flexed for the crowd and danced out, smirking. When Sonny backed away, he beckoned and shouted, “C'mon, Sonny boy, my car's double-parked.”

The monster chipped in, You don't need to hear that, you can let him land a punch or two, you can take it.

Let Mr. America run his mouth, said Sonny, I'm here to win this fight.

Delgado threw a lazy jab. Sonny slapped it away.

“Keep moving,” shouted Brooks, “stick and move.”

Sonny snapped out a jab, reddening Delgado's nose, but he danced away before Delgado could shoot one back. No percentage in tangling with him yet, not until he was tired.

Real man gets in there and bangs, said the monster.

Gets his butt kicked for no reason, said Sonny.

People think you're scared, said the monster, of a walking jar of steroids.

Someone shouted, “Sonny the Dancin' Bear.” Laughter.

No one's hitting them. The bell was drowned in boos.

In the corner, Brooks said, “Pick up the pace, make him run after you.”

Delgado's dark eyes bored into him, daring him to stand and slug it out, but the smile was gone, his mouth too busy sucking air.

Jab…seven and hop back. Jab…three and sidestep, keep moving, changing direction, make him move. All those miles running on the Res and in the park were paying off now. I can dance forever and Delgado's legs are losing
their spring, his gladiator chest is heaving, all those fancy muscles are screaming for air, jab…five…five, he's winding down like a toy with a dying battery. The crowd was beginning to catch on now—they could see the plan, figure out the ending. Delgado knew it, too, and he couldn't do anything about it.

By the fourth round, Delgado was lurching after him on stiff legs, his entire body heaving for air, his dark eyes pleading with Sonny to stand still, make a target.

“Take him,” yelled Brooks.

Delgado's head and neck were stone, from the waist up he barely moved under the hammering hooks, the right cross, the straight left, but his legs seemed to fold into themselves, like telescopes, and he went down like a man sinking into quicksand. His arms were ready to keep fighting, but he couldn't get up.

“Smart fight,” said Brooks, as Martin hoisted Sonny's arm in victory. “You controlled it all the way.”

They all drove back to the Witherspoons' apartment. Betty and Denise were waiting at a table loaded with cake and soda and a six-foot hero sandwich. They had expected him to win. Brooks stayed just long enough to make a toast.

“To the future heavyweight champion of the world.”

Nobody laughed. In the sudden silence, they all turned to Sonny.

“If he wants it badly enough,” said Spoon.

“Amen to that,” said Johnson.

Sonny shivered. He felt a movement in his chest. Like wings rustling.

On his way out, Brooks pulled Sonny to one side. “Remember what you been doing right. It works outside the ring, too. Just be cool. Whatever happens.”

“What does that mean?”

“You'll figure it out when you got to.” Brooks pulled his pistol out of his jacket pocket and slipped it into the holster at the small of his back. “Gotta go to work. You call Jake?”

“Now?”

“Right now. He's waiting.” Brooks was out the door.

Martin shambled over, his cheeks bulging with sandwich. “Thawasomefie.”

Sonny had an urge to hug him, but he said, “Can I use your phone?”

Martin swallowed. “If she's got a girlfriend for me.”

“I want to call Jake. Be okay with your folks?”

“Of course.” Martin looked surprised. “Jake's got a telephone.”

“Why not?”

“Well, um, I thought, he's a, you know…”

“He's got a VCR and a microwave. And a CB in his truck. You thought we used smoke signals?”

Martin stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.

Jake picked up on the first ring. “How'd you do?”

“Fourth-round kayo.”

“What took so long?” Jake chuckled.

“Guy didn't want to get hit.”

“Can't blame him. What'd Al say?”

“Said I fought a smart fight. Controlled it.”

“Real good, Sonny.” The old man's voice was relaxed and warm. “When you fight next?”

“Friday night.”

“Save me a good seat.”

When he got back to the party, they were all at the dining-room table listening to Johnson. He sat at the head of the table, tugging his beard and speaking in a deep, measured voice, as if he was addressing a class. “The amateur road is the road for Sonny—give him the grad
ual progress, the ring experience and the media exposure he needs as he matures physically and emotionally. Win the Gotham Gloves, then the citywide Golden Gloves, national Golden Gloves, come back from the Olympics a twenty-year-old man with a gold medal, ready to turn pro.”

“What if he wants to turn pro now?” asked Martin.

“Forget it,” snapped Johnson.

“It's his life,” said Denise. She looked embarrassed when everyone turned to stare at her.

“It's economics, young lady,” said Johnson. “Be too long and hard a road as a pro now. Have to fight in small clubs, tank towns for bad pay in worse conditions. Have to fight whoever you can get, wild kids who can hurt you, old bums make you look bad without teaching you anything. Ain't worth it. And who's going to pay your way? Some gangster?”

“What if he was bankrolled by people who really believed in him?” asked Spoon.

“Who'd gamble on a kid?” asked Johnson, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “A fortune on somebody who could lose interest, fall in love,
go junkie on you. The amateur road is the only way—develop slow but sure. Alfred wasn't blowing smoke, Sonny could be heavyweight champ if nothing gets in the way. Mr. Donatelli should of seen this boy. Whoa.” He wiped his eyes.

Spoon's eyes were wet, too.

 

“Sonny Bear-Kwame Hicks.”

“Yo.” A big kid with cannonball shoulders flashed a gold-toothed smile. “Who's this Yogi Bear? From Jellystone Park?” The men around him cackled and slapped their legs.

“I seen this before,” said Johnson. “Ignore him.”

“How you ignore Kwame Hicks, the next Gotham Gloves champ?” asked Kwame Hicks.

“Retard champ,” said Martin. “Soup for brains.”

“Shut yo' mouth, blubber,” said one of Kwame's handlers.

“Shut Kwame's mouth,” said Martin. “All that yellow in there matches his spine.”

Kwame cursed and started toward Martin. Sonny felt the heat rise up his legs into his gut. Old pal, the monster, the evil spirit, wel
come. Sonny stepped in front of Martin and smiled at Kwame. “You want to do this here and now?”

Men were suddenly pushing Sonny and Kwame to opposite ends of the room, and Spoon was pushing Martin out the door. Johnson laughed as he kneaded Sonny's shoulders. “I seen this before. You got yourself a real assistant trainer there, reminds me of me and Alfred.”

“Hey, Tonto, I'm on the warpath.” Hicks did a clumsy imitation of an Indian in an old-time cowboy movie. The men around him whooped and slapped fives.

“Just look at me, Sonny,” said Johnson. “Hands!” He taped Sonny's hands. “If Kwame got to try to upset you in here, he can't be too confident for out there. How you feel?”

“Okay.”

“Hey, Injun, any squaws back home looking for a real man?”

Johnson turned to one of the older men around Kwame. “Can't you keep that silly boy quiet? Ain't you got no pride?”

“Pride? Why ain't you training a brother, 'stead of some half-breed honky Redskin?”

A new voice said, “Because this young gentleman's going to be heavyweight champion of the world.”

Brooks looked tired, his eyes were ringed with black circles and his clothes were wrinkled, but his voice had a cutting edge.

“Maybe if you brothers”—he drew out the word sarcastically—“concentrated on training Kwame to be a boxer instead of a motor-mouth fool, he wouldn't have to try to win his fight in the locker room.” Brooks dropped a hand on Sonny's shoulder. “How you feeling?”

“Good.” It was true. Brooks made him feel stronger, surer. And the monster bubbling up was part of it. Control the monster, use the monster, the fire was his partner.

The door banged open and a bloody-nosed fighter swaggered in, surrounded by grinning men. “U-nan-ee-muss,” one of them said.

The man with the clipboard barked, “Bear-Hicks on deck.”

“Just decide what you want to do and do it,” said Brooks. “Take control. Of yourself. Of the fight.”

Take control. Of yourself. Of the fight. He felt the monster, wings beating in his chest.
Let's do it. Together.

At the bell, Sonny hurled himself across the ring before Kwame could get his hands up and nailed him with a hook to the chin. He pivoted to throw a right but never got the chance. Kwame fell over like a tree.

Johnson screaming, “Corner, corner,” reminded him to get to a neutral corner while the ref counted to ten. Might as well have counted to twenty. Kwame managed to get to his knees, but was stuck there.

Martin was in the ring, hugging him. “Hook…one.” And Johnson was saying, “This is a record, must be some kind of a record.”

Sonny looked for Brooks.

“Had to get back to the stake-out,” said Johnson.

 

Strobe lights popped during the fight with Traynor, a tall kid with wraparound arms. Every time Sonny moved inside to hammer his body, Traynor tied him up. His ropy arms were hard as cables, and they squeezed the energy out of Sonny's arms.

“On your horse,” said Johnson. “Hit and run, don't let him tie you up.”

He tried. But Traynor was an octopus, and there was no way he could get close enough to hit him without being trapped in his tentacles. Sonny felt his power ooze away. He was pushing his fists, not firing them. The velocity was gone.

“Don't give up,” said Brooks between rounds. “You can win this one if you just keep going.”

It was a slow, grinding fight, the crowd booing all the way. He won the decision because he landed more effective punches than Traynor did, but there was no pleasure in the victory.

“Stunk,” he said on the way to the dressing room.

“Got you to the semis,” said Martin.

“Experience,” said Johnson. “A hundred different styles, you got to see them all. Next time you fight a octopus, you know what to do.”

“That was control, too,” said Brooks. “You just hung in there, didn't quit, didn't go crazy.”

Jake was waiting in the dressing room with a thick envelope. “She sent a plane ticket. Wants you in Phoenix this weekend.”

“Got a fight.”

Jake shrugged, stuffed the envelope into his trunks and pushed him out to arms' length. “You lookin' good, Sonny. Startin' to look like a Brave.”

B
ROOKS AND
J
OHNSON
plowed a path for Sonny through the fans and reporters packed in the corridor leading to the dressing room. “Son-nee, puh-leese.” A hand shoved an autograph book in his face. Brooks brushed it away. Martin and Jake struggled to stay close behind.

“Sonny Bear.” A young man wearing a press badge around his neck tugged Sonny's sleeve. “How do you feel about Indian rights?”

Brooks pushed in between them. “Ask him about Indian lefts. He's here to fight, not talk politics.”

“Who are you?” asked the reporter, but Brooks had already pulled Sonny away.

The guard at the dressing room barred Martin and Jake. “Only two handlers per fighter for the semifinals. Commission rules.”

Martin shook his hand and said, “Jab…seven…five.”

Jake raised the Running Brave fist.

In the dressing room, TV cameras poked glass snouts at Sonny undressing, and fuzzy gray microphones on six-foot poles wormed their way between him and Brooks.

“Get used to this, Sonny,” said Brooks. “Gonna get worse.”

“We hope.” Johnson laughed and slapped Brooks' palms.

Johnson took his time taping Sonny's hands and kneading the muscles of his back and arms. Brooks stood in front of Sonny to block his view of the door. It swung open every few minutes with a blast of crowd noise to let a fighter in or out. They all bounded out into the arena, psyched for battle, but only half of them bounded back in, high on the adrenalin of victory. Some were helped back to the dressing room, weeping and bloody. One was carried in.

“Don't look,” said Brooks. “Talk to him, Henry.”

“Keep your mind on Velez, he's a banger, but you can take him.” Johnson's voice was steady, low. “Big, not as strong as he looks, but he can absorb punishment.”

“A catcher,” said Brooks.

“He's willing to take three to hit you once,”
said Johnson. “He'll keep coming, boring in, trying to get you to stand and slug, toe to toe. Macho man. I seen this before.”

“Don't fight his fight,” said Brooks. “Fight your fight.”

“Fight smart,” said Johnson. “Stick and move. Wear him down. If he gets inside, you tie him up.”

“Like the octopus did you,” said Brooks.

He knew they were talking to keep him focused on the fight, but loose, and he felt strong and confident. If Brooks and Johnson thought he could take Velez, he could think so, too.

“Sometimes you can learn more from a lousy fighter like Traynor,” Johnson was saying, “than a real good fighter.”

“I must of been a helluva teacher,” said Brooks.

“Your problem, Alfred, you had a lousy assistant trainer.” They slapped palms again.

“Bear-Velez, on deck.”

“How do you feel?” asked Brooks.

His mouth was dry and his stomach was queasy. “Ready.” He jogged in place and shook his arms.

Johnson said, “Let's rumble.”

The door banged open to a blast of crowd noise, boos laced with jeering whistles.

“They'll want blood,” said Brooks. “Don't listen.”

“Bear. Go.”

They went down the aisle three abreast, Brooks and Johnson moving him along with their shoulders, through a tunnel of sound into the glare of the ring lights. Velez was waiting for him, tall and massive, grinning down. “Indian boy, where's your tomahawk?”

Sonny raised his left glove. “Here.”

They glared at each other during the referee's instructions. Velez' eyes were small and deeply set in his flat face. His nose had been mashed to a twisted button, his eyebrows were white braids of scar tissue. He must have fought a lot for an amateur, thought Sonny. Got hit a lot, whispered the monster. Imagine him with numbered squares. A punching bag for us. We'll give him some punishment to absorb.

Velez marched out at the bell and presented his flat face as a target too tempting to resist.

Jab…five…seven rocked Valez back on his heels. This is going to be a short night, dish
face. Right…eight turned his head into the flight plan of hook…one, on the chin, a short sweet tomahawk that would have rattled his teeth and crossed his eyes and knocked him flat if it ever landed, but it was still in the air when a concrete block slammed into Sonny's face and a battering ram smashed into his gut.

Sonny fell backward against the ring ropes. They held him up. He would have fallen without the three velvet-covered cables that sagged against his weight, then burned across his calves and back and shoulders as Velez pumped sledgehammers at his chest and arms, looming over him, silhouetted in the blazing ring lights, a grotesque shadow thrown up on the gym ceiling, drawn on a page in the sketchbook, a strange nightmare beast pounding him against the ropes that held him in place for the dark shape to punish.

His feet began to slide forward as his body was forced almost horizontal on the ropes. Hot sweat sprayed off Velez and burned his chest.

“Sonny. Sonny.”

He wondered if he was already unconscious, having hospital dreams of a smiling blond girl. He felt sad for himself. So helpless.
Let everybody down. Brooks and Johnson and the Witherspoons thought he'd be heavyweight champion and Jake thought he'd be a Running Brave.

He was nothing. He felt small and alone, a little boy in buckskin selling jewelry outside Sweet Bear's Kiva.

“Sonneeee.” It sounded like Doll. He must be unconscious.

The referee was peering down at him, ready to stop the fight if Sonny looked helpless. He was shaking his head. Right thing. Am helpless.

“Sonneee.” A piercing whistle, a needle of sound through the dizzying roar in his ears. Two pinkies in her mouth.

Doll's whistle.

“Fight back, Sonneee. You can do it.”

It was Doll.

Somewhere out beyond the lights. Got to get up. See Doll.

Help me, monster.

Help you?

You owe me one, all the trouble you put me through.

You dumb Redskin, who do you think I am?
A Hawk, an evil spirit, a passive-aggressive personality? I am you.

I'm the monster, thought Sonny. It's me. Control it. Fear and fury. Make it work for me.

It started at his toes scraping for leverage on the canvas, a tingling strength that built speed as it rushed up his legs and into his stomach and chest, out his arms.

He threw his arms around Velez, clamping the pumping arms to Velez' sides. Like the octopus did to him.

Velez struggled in his arms, then stepped back. Sonny held tight. Velez took two more backward steps, lifting Sonny off the ropes, up onto his feet.

“Sonneee, way to go, Sonneee.”

He was closer to Velez than he had ever been to her, chest to chest, jaw against jaw, in a fierce clinch, holding on until his eyes focused and the swirl in his brain slowed into thought.

“Wanna fight or kiss?” snarled Velez.

The referee thrust his arms between them and pried their bodies apart. Thousands of voices screamed for action. He tried to isolate hers. Could he have imagined it? The bell rang. He lurched to his corner.

“Smart,” said Johnson, massaging his chest. “You got out of a real tight spot.”

“Now you got to fight your fight,” said Brooks, dribbling water into his mouth.

“Stick and move.”

“Control, take control.”

“He'll be cocky now,” said Johnson. “Use that.”

Velez came out grinning for the second round. He did a mocking little Latin dance step into the center of the ring and acknowledged his friends' cheers with a wave. At the bell Sonny lunged forward, fired a stiff jab at the twisted button nose and jumped away. Velez shook his head and waited for the next punch, but Sonny was already circling behind him. Velez whirled and Sonny popped him again. Velez stopped and set himself for a barrage, but Sonny had reversed direction.

“Go, Son-nee, go.”

He had to force himself not to search for her. Chop wood. Concentrate. Take control. Fight your fight. Stick and move.

Concentrate. Tune out everything else. Kick the stick and hold the tea in your mouth and breathe through your nose.

One more time, a stinging jab that made Velez grunt, the first acknowledgment of pain. I'm getting to him. But don't wait to be trapped again. Move. Leave him flat-footed. Make him turn to find me. Jab…three, dance away. He's looking stupid. Jab…seven, sidestep. He can't stand this. Jab…five…five. The crowd laughed at Velez.

“Wake up, Chico.”

He wanted to rush Velez, end the fight now with a whirlwind of combinations, pop-pop-right-pop-pop-BANG, that would drive him through the ropes, piercing whistle, where are you, Doll?

NO. Control. Stick and move, jab and dance away. Velez' nose was a bloody button and his lips were twisted with frustration and his eyes had disappeared into fleshy caves. He wasn't hurt, but he was angry because he was looking bad.

“Good job.” Brooks and Johnson swarmed over Sonny in the corner. “This is it. He'll go nuts on you.”

“Just stay cool. Wait for your time.”

“Then give him the tomahawk.”

Velez roared out for the third round on a
thunder roll of crowd noise, and he threw up a windmill of punches. Sonny backed and circled, knocking the punches away, letting his arms and shoulders absorb the blows he couldn't avoid. Velez was desperate to regain the crowd, to squash him. Sonny almost felt sorry for Velez, so out of control.

One minute into the round, Velez dropped his hands for an instant to rest and grab air, and Sonny nailed him with a right that jerked his head back. Jab…five turned his face back into another right that left him open for the hook.

Indian boy, where's your tomahawk?

Here.

Everyone in the arena saw it coming, including Velez. No one moved. Including Velez.

He was out before he hit the canvas.

Sonny looked for Doll as the referee raised his arms in victory, but Martin was hugging him and Brooks was saying, “You did it, Sonny,” and then two new fighters were in the ring and Johnson was steering him back through a thicket of hands reaching out to him, “Attaboy, Sonny…. Way to go, champ…” and
the guard at the door winked and let Jake and Martin into the dressing room packed with reporters and cameras. TV lights made the room as bright as the ring.