Gravity

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Gravity Page 31

by Sarah Deming


  A dozen boys produced switchblades. Mr. Rizzo rolled his eyes.

  Boca turned the mariachi music back on, and Nigel and Tyler went back to their water balloon war, swinging from the heavy bags like Tarzan. Gravity watched them for a moment, feeling wistful. Coach would have hollered that the heavy bags were not a toy and to take those goddamn balloons outside. Boca just eyed them, the scar on his cheek twitching in a grin, and said, “When they fall on their asses, they’ll learn.” Then he picked up a water balloon and joined in.

  She passed the first slice of cake to Mr. Rizzo, who passed it along to Fatso, who said he wanted a bigger piece and passed it along to Svetlana, who said she wanted a smaller one and passed it along to D-Minus, who said, “Nah, gimme one with more chocolate laces.” He came and stood behind Gravity, taking her wrist to guide her hand.

  She gave him a look like, “Don’t push your luck.”

  He gave her a look like, “Who, me?”

  She cut him a big piece and then stepped away. She was afraid she would slip if she kept her hands near all that sweetness.

  Melsy had been right about D only getting more interested when Gravity practiced patience. Not that one piece of cake would make a difference, but it was a slippery slope. You always craved another bite. The next thing you knew, you were naked in bed eating chicharrones and you had lost all the strength in your legs.

  She went outside onto the street, where all four of Sugar’s relatives had emerged and were chowing down on their canned lamb. When the gym door closed behind her, they froze.

  “Meow meow,” she said.

  They stared at her distrustfully, licking their chops. When she remained perfectly still, they bent back down and kept eating. Sugar was such an affectionate, playful kitten. It was funny how one cat could come out so different from the rest of the family.

  She looked down the street and off into the distance, as far as she could see. Deep inside her, an old wound throbbed. She stayed there, watching and waiting, until the cats finished eating and slunk off. Still she waited, her eyes fixed on the place where her vision began to blur and the buildings blended into the sky.

  Gravity felt distant from herself, as though part of her was standing there on the concrete and part of her was hiding under the dumpster with the cats, watching the world through wild eyes.

  The gym door burst open and Tyler and Nigel spilled out, covered with cake.

  “What are you doing out here?” Tyler demanded.

  Gravity kept her eyes on the horizon for a few more heartbeats. She had thought maybe this would be the year. Because of all the press and all the things she had won.

  He had shown up without warning that day she turned eight, his arms full of gifts. Every birthday since, it was what she wished for when she blew out the candles.

  “Nothing,” she said, turning back toward the gym.

  The door opened again and Mr. Rizzo came out, dragging a garbage bag filled with mismatched gloves. He pointed at Nigel and Tyler, who were now taking turns punching each other in the stomach. “I gotta get back to the precinct. Don’t let those two maniacs eat any more cake. I don’t want to see them on the eleven o’clock news.”

  He slipped her an envelope. “That’s for Rio.”

  Gravity started to argue that she had her stipend now, but he said, “Don’t argue! And here. A little something else.” He pulled a tiny box out of his pocket and gave it to her.

  Inside was a Golden Gloves necklace set with a diamond. Gravity turned the pendant over. The inscription on the back said “2016 Golden Gloves 132 lb women champion.”

  “Your little brother told me what happened,” he said gruffly.

  She turned to glare at Tyler, but Mr. Rizzo said, “Don’t get mad at him! I pulled some strings and had a new one made. Put it on.”

  For some reason, her hands were shaking, so he helped her take it out and fastened it around her neck.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rizzo,” she said.

  He headed off to his car, dragging the bag of gloves. She thought she saw movement on the street behind him, but it was just someone opening their apartment window and tossing out a Styrofoam clamshell. It fell on the ground in a puff of rice, tumbled down the incline, and came to rest by the gym door. Gravity went to get the broom and cleaned it up.

  BOXINGFORGIRLS.COM

  POUND-FOR-POUND PROSE

  Carmen Cruz, Independent Journalist

  August 5, 2016

  Rio Roundup: Auspicious Draw for Delgado and Jones; Reckoning for Ross and Vázquez; Postcards from Brooklyn

  RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL—All 36 women boxers competing in the Summer Olympics made weight yesterday, and the brackets are in.

  Our middleweight muse, Sacred Jones, entering as top seed, enjoys an opening-round bye, after which she faces the winner of Finland versus Morocco in the quarterfinals. She will celebrate her 22nd birthday the day she fights in the semifinals, and Detroit already has a parade scheduled to welcome her home as the first US boxer to ever defend an Olympic championship.

  When we asked Jones how things have changed for her since the London Games, she pointed to her teammate Gravity Delgado: “I look at Gravity and I think how young I was back then. I thought everything would change after I won gold. But change takes time.

  “I didn’t get big sponsors. Some people said it was ’cause I’m too rough. They said I shouldn’t say the things I say, like that I love punching girls in the face.”

  She laughed. “This is boxing! I’m not gonna change who I am just to get sponsors and press. People love who I am, and they love the way I fight. But I think they love who I am even more.”

  Brooklyn’s Gravity Delgado enters the lightweight bracket unseeded and drew New Zealand in the preliminaries for what should be an easy win. This sets up a quarterfinal clash with London gold medalist “Irish” Jean Sullivan.

  Some would say this is an unlucky break for Delgado, but we are not so sure. Sullivan looked beatable in China, narrowly winning controversial split decisions over both Russia and China. At 30 and with hundreds of amateur bouts under her belt, the defending champion may be past her prime, and Delgado has the size and high-volume punching style to beat her.

  US head coach Ruben “Shorty” Feliciano agrees: “We can beat that girl. I like the draw. Better to get her early, while we’re fresh.”

  Delgado says, “Jean Sullivan has never seen anybody like me.”

  The lower half of the lightweight bracket should be owned by Russia’s fine southpaw Sofya Bulgakov, although Brazil’s Ariana Leite, fighting on her home turf, is one to watch, as is China’s Du Li, who was almost disqualified after a positive test result for a banned diuretic. Li has since been cleared to compete, but only after the Chinese federation dismissed controversial conditioning guru Rick Ross. Ross declined to comment.

  Speaking of the shady side of boxing, head over to La Opinión for our exposé on boxing manager Andre Vázquez, who recently resigned from his position at PLASMAFuel amid a storm of sexual harassment allegations. Vázquez and PLASMAFuel declined to comment.

  Boxing for Girls wishes all of our readers a happy Summer Games. Please join us in sipping a caipirinha as we enjoy this photo essay from our newest contributor, Kimani Browne, on the formative years of US Olympian Gravity Delgado, Haitian Olympian Demetrius “D-Minus” Saint-Amand, and the team behind them at Cops ’n Kids in Brooklyn.

  Gravity clutched her new Golden Gloves necklace in her hand as she watched the strange landscape roll by outside the bus window. Rio made New York look small. It rambled on and on, with beaches and cliffs and skyscrapers and the densely packed communities that twinkled with light up in the hills. People told scary stories about the favelas, but people always talked trash about places they didn’t understand. If the favelas were anything like Brownsville, that was where all the best fighters were.

>   The bus let them out in a big parking lot near Maracanã Stadium. She and Sacred got off, followed by Bonnie and Coach Shorty and the six boys on the US team, and they joined all the other American athletes snaking through the buses into a dark tunnel that led inside the stadium.

  Gravity loved their uniform: crisp white jeans with a striped sweater and crested navy blazer. There were even red,white, and blue loafers. She had spent her whole life feeling like she didn’t quite fit, but here, in this river of athletes, she felt part of something bigger.

  The closer they got to the stadium floor, the louder the cheers grew, until it seemed like the walls of the tunnel themselves were trembling. Sacred and the boys had their cell phones out, so Gravity pulled hers out too. It was still open to Carmen’s blog, and she could not help scrolling one more time through Monster’s seven snapshots. It was like a movie of their life.

  Gravity and D-Minus sitting on the concrete ledge outside the gym after their first sparring, arms around each other, looking like little kids.

  Fatso in the corner in Mobile, Alabama, yelling at a fifteen-year-old D-Minus, who looked exhausted but was about to rally and win the Junior Olympics.

  Gravity hitting the heavy bag at Cops ’n Kids while Coach pointed at her stance, his face wrinkled with displeasure. She could almost hear him: “Fix your goddamn feet!”

  Gravity winning the Golden Gloves, her eyes lifted toward the ceiling of the Barclays Center, thanking God for the victory, the referee smiling at her, the opponent looking away.

  The shot of her outside the gym wearing her Continental gold, with Sugar peeking out from under the dumpster, waiting to be saved.

  Later on the same day, the photo of her and D that had made the Daily News, right after he had whispered that dirty thing in her ear that made her realize he saw her as a woman.

  Her face and D-Minus’s lit up by candlelight as she blew on the glove-shaped cake. So what if she never got her birthday wish? All her other wishes came true.

  The tunnel ended, and she came out into the open air, holding her phone up to record the scene as the announcer’s voice proclaimed: “Les États-Unis! The United States of America!”

  The crowd roared and the rows of bleachers sparkled with the flashes of thousands of cameras. Way up ahead, she could see Michael Phelps waving his huge American flag. Gravity put her phone away to pay more attention. The stadium lights made the Brazilian night hotter, and the strangeness of it all made her feel very alive.

  Sacred grinned and waved her American flag, her London gold gleaming against her chest. The tiny flag looked even tinier in her big, strong hand, which made Gravity think of the famous photo of George Foreman, handwraps still on, waving his little flag after winning heavyweight gold in 1968.

  Fatso and Coach had liked to argue about that. Fatso called Foreman a sellout and said he should have given the black power salute. Coach said if you won the gold medal, you got to do whatever you wanted.

  She looked upward into the night and saw a blimp high up, crossing the darkness. She wondered if Coach was somewhere up there watching, maybe alongside Muhammad Ali. They had died within a few days, so they must have found each other in heaven. Boxing people always found each other, and Gravity did not believe there were separate heavens for Muslims, Christians, and Jews.

  “Look!” Sacred said. “The NBA!”

  They had reached the far end of the stadium, and suddenly all the athletes were together. The tall, dashing figures of Kevin Durant, Carmelo Anthony, and the other basketball stars sent a ripple through the crowd as athletes from all nations crowded in for autographs. Sacred went to talk to Melo, who was a big boxing fan, and Gravity wandered alone, lost in admiration for the uniforms of the various nations.

  If only Melsy could see! Gravity could not decide which was her favorite, so she photographed them all: the bright robes of the Liberians and Ghanaians, the buttery silk jackets of the Thai, the chic German pullovers, the cute Bermuda shorts. She was trying to get a good picture of the embroidered Tajikistani suits when a figure popped up, ruining her shot.

  “Wassup?”

  “D!”

  D-Minus gave her the kind of hug that would have become a problem if it went on too long. He was simply adorable in the Haitian uniform, like a character in an old-time movie who might, at any moment, burst into song. The embroidered blue cotton of the peasant blouse hung tantalizingly on his lean frame, and he wore a big straw hat that said “Haiti,” tilted at a rakish angle.

  “I never even knew your folks were Haitian,” she said.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said, offering his arm to lead her back to the buses.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I always get what I want in the end.”

  Gravity laughed. “Then I hope you want that gold medal. First you get the money…”

  They said in unison, “Then you get the honey.”

  They sat side by side on the ride back to the Olympic Village, their legs touching whenever the bus bounced, and watched online footage of their opponents.

  After the first round of Jean’s gold medal bout in London, D pushed the phone away, saying, “That girl sucks.”

  Gravity smiled. “She’s the face of women’s boxing, D. She hasn’t lost in a couple of years.”

  He scoffed. “She about to be the black eye of women’s boxing. You just run right out there, hit her with that big right hand. You hit harder than any girl I know.”

  “Thanks, D.”

  D-Minus had drawn Uzbekistan in the prelims. The kid looked strong: a straight-ahead puncher without any glaring weaknesses. Judging could be shady in the men’s game, and Uzbekistan was on the rise. D would need to take the lead early so his dominance was indisputable. She watched him gaze out the window, his straw hat low over his eyes.

  “Don’t wait on that kid,” she urged. “You’re in shape to fight the whole nine minutes. Leave it all in the ring.”

  He winked at her. “You handle your bum, I’ll handle mine.”

  Bright lights twinkled down on D-Minus from the lofty ceiling of the Riocentro Pavilion. He looked happy, a cocky lurch in his step, and his arms shone with the sweat of a good warm-up. A volunteer marched before him, holding a sign that said “Haiti,” and his coaches followed, carrying a bucket and towel.

  When D had qualified for the Games, there had been a scramble to find someone to work his corner. Haiti didn’t have any three-star coaches, and Fatso and Boca had never bothered to take the necessary clinics. Gravity had been the one to suggest Tiffany Clarke. She had been worried that D would bitch about being coached by a girl, but he had just shrugged and said, “She’s a professional.”

  Tiffany sprinted up the ring stairs and stood at the red corner gazing calmly across at the Uzbekistanis. She was tight with the Barbadian coach and had enlisted him to assist. He held the ropes apart as D-Minus ducked through and bowed to all the judges.

  “He looks good,” said Tiger Biggs.

  Tiger had won his bout against Australia, and Bonnie was sitting next to him, cutting off his wraps. He and D were friends for the time being. They would not meet until the semis, if they both kept winning.

  “This kid strong,” Shorty said as they watched Jonibek Khotamov take the ring and bow to all the judges. Uzbekistan’s bantamweight champion was long but solidly built, his pale arms striped with muscles.

  “That don’t matter,” Sacred said. “D too fast for him.”

  They all rose to their feet and cheered as the announcers called D’s name. Gravity popped in a stick of gum and began chewing fiercely. She prayed that Sacred was right and that D’s speed would make the difference. Across the arena, the Uzbekistani team cheered for their champion and shook their flags.

  She was happy D had the red corner. Ms. Laventhol had told her once that red had a slight statistica
l advantage. Apparently, the judges subliminally perceived it as more aggressive than blue. That was why the number one seed always got red. A lot of things could affect the judges, including crowd noise, which was why Gravity had come ready to cheer for D with every hit.

  When the opening bell rang, D shot out of the corner right at his opponent, whipping out a blistering jab. Before Khotamov could get set, he changed directions and stabbed with a lead right.

  “Beautiful!” Gravity screamed, rising to her feet.

  D seemed to have gotten the message that he needed to start fast. He kept moving and did not let up the whole first round. The two were about the same height, but D had those long arms, and he knew just how to use them.

  Gravity felt herself get hot when she thought about that, and she glanced at Sacred, who was looking right at her with a knowing smile. Gravity blushed and looked down. Sacred patted her knee. The two of them had had a heart-to-heart about boys back at the Olympic Village.

  “First round in the bank,” Sacred said. “He took that boy to school.”

  The second was even better. Just as Khotamov started to time D’s jab, countering with a straight right on top, D switched southpaw. Gravity laughed at the beauty of the move. D was probably even better as a lefty. It threw the other kid off, and right away, D landed a left cross flush to the jaw. Khotamov wobbled into the ropes, touching a glove to the canvas.

  Gravity and Sacred whooped in unison, leaping up from their seats.

  If a boxer’s glove touched the canvas, it was supposed to be ruled a knockdown. But the referee just brushed off Khotamov’s gloves and gestured for them to continue, as though it was a slip. Looking back on the fight later, Gravity would realize that this was the first sign of something crooked.

  D spent the third round dipping and rolling in a never-ending dance, punctuated with sharp counterpunching. It was a near-perfect performance, and Gravity thought wistfully of how proud it would have made Coach. Right before the final bell, he even got off a shoeshine: a flashy roll of body shots that was usually just for show. It made Khotamov look like a novice.

 

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