by Sarah Deming
As Gravity changed, trying to shield her naked body, she watched Svetlana strip and scrub herself fiercely with baby wipes. She didn’t seem at all uncomfortable changing in front of Gravity in such a tight space.
Svetlana put on a purple lace bra and matching panties. She spread a towel on one of the milk crates, sat down on it, and began inspecting her toenail polish.
“You can keep stuff in my locker if you want,” Svetlana said without looking up from her toes. “I asked Boca to put another one in for you, but he said you’d probably give up soon.”
Gravity didn’t know what to say. It was nice of Svetlana to share her locker, but what Boca had said made her mad. She was never going to give up boxing. And the next time she fought Svetlana, she would win.
“My combination is thirty-six–three–one.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t tell the boys.” Svetlana shot her a look that was fiercer than any she had given her in the ring.
“I won’t.”
“It’s Sugar Ray Leonard’s record. If you forget, just look it up on BoxRec. He’s my favorite fighter.”
“What’s BoxRec?”
Svetlana looked at her like she was crazy. “You don’t know BoxRec?” She produced her cell phone, which was the same light purple as her underwear and had rhinestones on the back, and pulled up the website, which listed the records of every boxer you could think of.
While Svetlana applied makeup in the cracked mirror, Gravity sat on the milk crate looking up Muhammad Ali, Marvin Hagler, and some of the female boxers whose posters were on the wall, like Belinda Laracuente and Lucia Rijker.
Certain entries had special notes by them—like for the night Muhammad Ali first won the heavyweight title in Miami, it said, “Liston retired on his stool citing an injured shoulder. After this fight Cassius Clay changed his name to Cassius X and then Muhammad Ali. 1964 Fight of the Year—Ring Magazine.”
“Sometimes there’s mistakes in the records,” Svetlana said. “Like it says my dad was seven and one, but he was really eight and one, because he had a pro fight in our country before we came here.”
“Wow.” Svetlana sure knew a lot about boxing. “It must be nice to have a dad who’s a boxer. And who works out with you and stuff.” Gravity ignored the pang of envy at the thought of what it must be like for Svetlana and Genya to have a dad like that. To have a dad at all.
But Svetlana made a face. “Sometimes I wish we could leave him at home. He’s always getting on our cases.” She spritzed herself with perfume, and the changing room was so small that Gravity felt some settle on her, too. It smelled like green apples.
Svetlana said, “I hope Boca was wrong.”
“About what?”
“About you giving up. It’s nice to have another girl in the gym.”
Gravity smiled. “Thanks.”
Svetlana took her arm like they were best friends, and they walked together out of the changing room. Out on the gym floor, there was some kind of ruckus. Two of Boca’s little nephews were running around, screaming, wearing lucha libre masks. Monster was chasing them around the heavy bags, arms extended, making zombie sounds. Lefty was doubled over in laughter.
D-Minus yelled from across the gym, “Yo, Gravity! Watch!”
He and Genya were balanced on the ropes of the big ring like professional wrestlers, their arms raised overhead.
“No horseplay!” hollered Coach.
But it was too late. D-Minus did a front flip off the ropes, the fringe on his trunks streaming. He landed directly atop Boo Boo, the gym’s top-ranked light heavyweight, who was doing medicine ball exercises in the center of the ring. D-Minus popped back up, unscathed, but Boo Boo writhed on the canvas making terrible sounds.
“Oops. My bad,” said D-Minus, shrugging.
“That’s boxing,” said Boca, calling the ambulance.
“That’s boxing,” said Coach. He made D-Minus drop and give him fifty push-ups.
“That’s boxing,” whimpered Boo Boo, whose broken clavicle made him miss the Olympic Trials.
But Gravity never missed a single day for the next four years. No matter how tired or stressed or PMS-y she felt, she schlepped there on the subway right after school. If Mom was acting crazy and Melsy couldn’t babysit, she dragged her little brother, Tyler, along. Gravity liked it better at the gym than at home.
By the time she turned sixteen and won her first Golden Gloves, Gravity was undefeated at 19–0 with seven knockouts. And Coach was right: if she ate right and ran every day, she could just make lightweight.
BOXINGFORGIRLS.COM
YOUR ONLINE DESTINATION FOR THE BEST IN BOXING WRITING
Carmen Cruz, Independent Journalist
January 12, 2016
Meet the Fighters of PLASMAFuel Cops ’n Kids
BROOKLYN, N.Y.—As we lead up to the Summer Games, Boxing for Girls has been traveling across the country to scout out America’s top contenders for Rio. Our first stop was this free community gym, founded to combat gang violence in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn by retired NYPD sergeant Giovanni Rizzo in partnership with energy drink giant PLASMAFuel.
“PLASMAFuel is delighted to support these elite warriors,” said brand ambassador Andre Vázquez. “Nothing quenches their ferocious thirst like an ice-cold PLASMAFuel.”
Head coach Jefferson H. Thomas is an imposing octogenarian who claims a 97–12 (80 KOs) record as a professional heavyweight and once sparred the great Joe Louis. Thomas has trained over 200 national champions, most notably 1984 Olympic gold medalist Leon “Too Fine” Hines.
“I’m from the old school,” Coach Thomas said. “None of this dancing around and wrestling bullshit you see nowadays. My fighters come to fight.”
His output has slowed in the last decade, but he has two strong contenders for Rio: male bantamweight Demetrius “D-Minus” Saint-Amand and female lightweight Gravity “Doomsday” Delgado, both making their debut this year in the elite division. By winning the PAL Nationals, Delgado already earned her spot in this year’s Women’s Boxing Olympic Trials. Saint-Amand hopes to earn his at the Men’s Olympic Qualifier. Both tournaments will be held concurrently next month in Spokane.
Also coaching at Cops ’n Kids is Benavides “Boca” Velez, recently featured in the Netflix documentary “Bloody Noses.” Originally from Puebla, Velez represented Mexico in the Pan American Games. His impressive stable includes superheavyweight Kimani “Monster” Browne; middleweight Gennady “The Ukrainian Bear” Mamay; Gennady’s sister, featherweight Svetlana “She-Bear” Mamay; and lightweight Esteban “Lefty” Perez, all of whom begin their road to Rio in Spokane.
Since featherweight is not an Olympic weight for women, Svetlana Mamay has chosen to move up to lightweight, where she qualified for Trials via the Women’s National Golden Gloves. This makes Cops ’n Kids the only club in the nation sending two competitors to the Women’s Olympic Trials, both in the same weight class! So far, Delgado and Mamay have never faced each other in competition, but a meeting in Spokane seems inevitable.
“Gravity and I have been sparring since we were kids, and we know each other’s styles very well,” Mamay said. “It will come down to who wants it more.”
“A fight is different than sparring,” Delgado said. “I like Svetlana a lot, but there’s no friends in the ring. She never should have moved up to lightweight.”
Sweat sloshed in the folds of Gravity’s plastic suit as she jogged past the Cyclone roller coaster. She ran the Coney Island boardwalk six mornings a week at five-thirty. It was the most peaceful part of her day. Nobody was out except a few other joggers, a couple of homeless people, and the seagulls.
She was terribly hungry this morning, and her scalp ached from the tight cornrows Melsy had put in last night. To distract herself, she conjured the faces of the women she would fight at Trials: decorated na
tional champions like Paloma Gonzales, strong women twice her age like Aaliyah Williams.
But first, Svetlana. Gravity would show her old friend what a mistake it was to challenge her. She turned around at the Wonder Wheel and lengthened her stride, her breath making steam in the cold February air.
Her body felt strong and lean. She had weighed 133.6 that morning, naked, after taking a hot shower and pooping. Subtracting the 0.4-pound inaccuracy of Mom’s scale, and the fact that, between the plastic suit and the Albolene she had smeared on to open her pores, she would sweat off at least a pound and a half on the jog, this meant she could have a little water and a PowerBar for breakfast, a salad without dressing for lunch, and a chicken breast for dinner. If all went well, she would make 132 easy in Spokane without having to spit or jump rope.
Rio.
Rio.
Rio Olympian.
She chanted the words in her mind as her sneakers hit the weathered wood and the tips of her braids slapped her shoulders. The sleeping amusement park gave way to rows of shuttered hot dog stands and beach bars. She pulled her boxing glove keychain out of her sports bra and sprinted down the side street that led to their apartment complex, making a 6:30 mile going home. Tyler was in one of his moods, and she didn’t want him to be late for school again.
When she opened the door, he jumped up from the couch, the video game controller still in his hand, and picked up the nagging where he had left off.
“Why did you take so long, Gra Gra? I’m hungry! I was waiting and waiting.”
His eyes reflected the television screen on which he was playing his favorite video game, Hell Slayer 3. He had been up all night playing and had dark circles under his eyes.
Gravity felt her temper rise.
“Ty Ty, I’ve told you a million times. I have to run in order to be an Olympian. You’re a big boy now. You could have made yourself a bowl of cereal.”
“There’s no milk!” he yelled.
“There is! I checked the fridge last night.”
“Is not!”
Gravity stalked into the kitchen. There were three roaches crawling over the counter, and she got one with her left hand and one with her right but missed the third. She washed her hands, threw open the refrigerator door, and pulled out the carton of milk to show her brother, but she could tell from the weight of it that it was completely empty.
Fucking Mom!
Gravity smashed the milk carton down on the counter. One of the juice glasses in the dish drainer toppled over and broke. Tyler began to cry.
Who does that? Who takes a completely empty carton of milk and puts it back in the refrigerator to deceive her children? If Mom had thrown it out or left it on the counter, Gravity could have bought a new one on the run home.
She closed her eyes and began to count backward from one hundred. The heat slowly abated. When she got to eighty, she opened them.
Tyler had followed her into the kitchen and was staring at her. His pudgy face was covered with tears and snot.
“Are you okay, Gra Gra?” he asked.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“You broke a glass.”
“I break everything.”
He stuck out his lower lip. “There’s no milk.”
“I know.”
His nostrils began to tremble, and another tear rolled down his wet cheek and fell on his Spider-Man pajamas. “I hate when you run. You take so long I think you aren’t coming back.”
Gravity’s anger evaporated and guilt flooded her. How could she get mad at Tyler? It wasn’t his fault everything was so fucked up.
“Come here, baby,” she said.
He shuffled over and hugged her around the waist. Her plastic suit rustled and a little river of sweat dripped down her legs. She kissed the top of his head, wrinkling her nose at the smell. She scratched away a fleck of dandruff from his scalp.
“When’s the last time you took a bath?” she asked.
“Don’t ’member.”
She glanced at the clock.
“Well, take one tonight. We’re going to eat cereal with water today, okay? It’s yummy like that. I don’t have time to go to the store.”
Or much money, either. Mr. Rizzo would probably give her some pocket money for Spokane when she saw him at the gym, but it wasn’t like Mom would have thought to leave them cash. And she hoarded that EBT card like it earned interest. Sometimes Gravity wanted to shake her mother and ask if she thought Gravity and Tyler were plants or something that grew off water and sun.
There had been a time when their mother had cooked dinner every night. Steak with broccoli. Brisket with barbecue sauce. Best of all, her homemade challah bread, which was so buttery and moist it tasted like cake. Gravity salivated, remembering its sweet smell. But that was a long time ago.
She watched her little brother think over the cereal-and-water proposition. Stubbornness ran in the family; she had learned through trial and error that she couldn’t make Tyler do anything he didn’t want to do.
“Okay,” he said at last.
She shook some frosted cornflakes into a bowl for him, then poured a little cold tap water into the carton of milk and shook it up before pouring it on. She put the bowl on the table, but Tyler carried it back to the couch, where he un-paused his game and kept playing while he ate.
She let him. Tyler could never sleep when Mom was out all night, and that game was the only thing that kept him from worrying.
She took off her plastic suit in the shower and watched with satisfaction as salty water flowed down the drain. Her abs looked pretty good. She didn’t have the kind of build like D-Minus, where you could see the cuts, but when she got down to fighting weight, her belly got flat and tight. Unfortunately, her butt got flatter too. Her boobs, which were small to begin with, basically went away.
When Mom was being extra mean, she said Gravity would never have a boyfriend, because boys liked girls with curves, and nobody wanted a girlfriend who was taller than him. But Auntie Rosa said she was built like a runway model and that, when it came to having boyfriends, it was good to be a late bloomer.
She got dressed in front of her trophies. They were in a case Coach had given her, which she used, along with a big tapestry, to divide her half of the bedroom from her brother’s. She had the trophies in size order, with the championship belts in the back and her pride and joy, her New York Daily News Golden Gloves necklace, glittering from a hook in the front.
She ran a finger over the little boxer on top of the trophy she had won as the outstanding female boxer at the Police Athletic League Nationals. She liked how you could tell the little golden boxer on top was a girl. Most of the time, they just stuck the same figure on top of the boys’ and girls’ trophies. The PAL Nationals had been the first tournament in which she was eligible to compete as an adult, and she had been shocked at how easy it was. Just like Coach said it would be.
Gravity wanted to be like Vasyl Lomachenko, who won two gold medals and got the Val Barker Trophy for being the outstanding boxer of the Olympic Games. He only lost once in the amateurs, and he kicked Selimov’s ass in the rematch. Gravity would be just like that, only she planned to never lose at all. And after she won her Olympic medals, she would go pro and retire undefeated, like Floyd Mayweather. Then she would have lots of endorsement deals and be on TV and everything.
She took the necklace off its hook and felt the pair of gloves heavy in her hand. Of all the accomplishments in her life, winning the Golden Gloves was the greatest, and just holding the necklace in her hands made her feel like there was nothing she couldn’t do. She only wore it out on very special occasions, because she was scared of losing it.
The little gloves were so beautiful: gold set with a diamond and textured to look like leather, with lettering across the front that said “Daily News Charities Inc.” and an inscription on the bac
k that said “2016 Golden Gloves 132 lb women champion.” She closed her eyes and pressed the gold to her heart, feeling grateful and calm.
As she hung the necklace back up, she met her own eyes in the mirrored back of the trophy case. She and Tyler had the same eyes—Mom said they got them from their dad—small and squinty when they smiled and such a dark brown you couldn’t see the middles. Gravity had learned from experience that she could intimidate a girl in a staredown if she gazed right through her and thought cold thoughts.
She found Tyler asleep on the couch in the living room with the game controller and empty cereal bowl in his lap. A death march was coming out of the television, which flashed with the words “YOU GOT SLAYED.” It was very hard to wake him up and even harder to get him into his school clothes. She made him eat a PLASMAFuel caffeine gel on the way to the bus stop so he wouldn’t fall asleep in school.
Gravity walked from Ty’s bus stop to her school. It was about a mile, which gave her a chance to stretch out her legs and burn a few more calories. Lots of people neglected walking as a part of cross-training. Plus, it was good for anger management.
As she turned onto Neptune Avenue, a text came in from Mr. Rizzo:
Good morning, champ. Make sure you buy the Daily News today.
She fished through the bottom of her backpack until she had scavenged enough change, then stopped at the bodega across from school. The guy who owned the bodega was a big sports buff. When she learned that he was from Yemen, she had asked if he liked “Prince” Naseem Hamed, and ever since then they had been friends. Sometimes he gave her free sandwiches.
She leafed through the Daily News to the sports section in back.