by Sarah Deming
Gravity would always remember that shoeshine. D’s eyes were wide and bright, his arms a dark blur against the canvas’s blue. His beautiful face held a look somewhere between boredom and arrogance. That was his gift: to not only outclass someone but act like it was nothing.
He kept his perfect game face during the endless wait for the judges’ decision—which, Gravity realized later, was the second sign of something crooked—and his composure did not waver, not even when they said it was a split decision and raised the opponent’s hand.
But Gravity just about lost her mind. By the time Sacred and Shorty had wrestled her back down into her seat, her throat was raw from yelling “Bullshit!”
Gravity cut her eyes away from the platters of fish and broccoli rice that the server set down on their table. None for her. She took a bite of salad and stared past the bustling tables and live band out into the night. The moon hung low in the sky over Copacabana Beach, streaking the ocean with gold.
She still felt blue about D’s robbery, but the pressure of her own upcoming bout had begun to force all other thoughts from her mind. At least the decisions were fairer for the women. One upside to niche sports was that they weren’t worth fixing.
Only two more nights, she told herself, squirming in her chair. The worst part of fighting was waiting for it to begin.
Carmen Cruz said, “Thank you for joining us, Gravity. It would be a shame for you to come all this way and not leave the Athletes’ Village.” She raised her glass and addressed the long table. “To Gravity! And to the memory of her legendary coach, who is with us every time she laces on the gloves!”
“Saúde!” cried everyone, clinking caipirinhas.
Gravity blushed and raised her water glass.
Carmen seemed to know everyone in Rio. Besides Bonnie and Tiffany, their party tonight included a rock climber hired to hang BBC cameras; Igor, the Brazilian conditioning coach; those two women documentarians making the film about Laishram Memi; the parents of an Argentine wrestler; and a Brazilian student Carmen had met at a political protest. There was one empty seat at the table.
Bonnie and Carmen helped everyone to pieces of fish and spoonfuls of broccoli rice. The fish looked crispy and golden, and the broccoli rice was a creamy Brazilian invention that was way more delicious than it sounded.
Gravity took another bite of lettuce and tried to pay attention to the band. There was a guitarist who sang, plus horns and a flute and drums. The Brazilians at the restaurant were singing along softly in their musical language, which would have been annoying in America but seemed to be good manners here. The drummer was laughing as he played, and the flute player actually stopped at one point to kiss a waitress. It reminded Gravity a little bit of an amateur boxing show: everybody seemed involved in making it happen.
“The music is wonderful, yes?” The Brazilian student had scooted over to her. “I am Julia.”
Julia had a pierced lip and eyebrow and was one of the prettiest girls Gravity had ever seen. She spoke in that poetic way people sometimes did when they had learned English out of books.
Gravity said, “I love it.”
She had never heard music like it before. The band played a smooth rhythm that rolled like the waves on the beach behind them. The guitarist was an old man with a floppy hat who had this way of singing like he was talking in your ear. She struggled to find the words to describe it: “It’s cool how the band sounds together, but if you listen to an instrument by itself, it’s like it’s playing its own song.”
“Polyphony,” Julia said, smiling. “That’s called polyphony.”
“What are the words about?”
“Ah. This is difficult to translate. This singer is very funny, also he is very political. This is a new song he wrote for the Games.”
“Really?” The song did not sound like it was about the Olympics. The guitarist’s face had an intense expression, almost like he was mad. “Which sport is it about?”
Julia shook her head. “It is about…the cost of the Games.”
“Oh.” Gravity listened to the flute play a slow descending line. “I guess it must have cost a whole lot to build the stadiums.”
“It is not just money,” Julia said. She took a pack of tobacco out of her knapsack, which was covered with stickers and buttons, and began to roll a cigarette. “Do you know the Olympic Village used to be people’s homes? He sings about an old lady named Maria da Penha. When the government came to kick her out, she would not take their money, because money cannot buy the shade of her mango and avocado trees.”
“What’s that thing?” Gravity asked.
The drummer had picked up a handheld instrument that made a startling moan, something like a crying baby, except you did not want it to stop.
“The cuíca!” Julia said. “A samba instrument that reminds us of the sound of the empty stomach of the people.” She took a long drag of her perfectly rolled cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that rose up into the night. “It recalls our black tradition, fighting against slavery, hunger, poverty, imperialism, and police violence….”
They both fell silent as the song grew faster and louder. Some of the Brazilians had gotten up and started to dance. It made Gravity want to dance too.
“Maria watches the bulldozers destroy her home,” Julia said. “And we call on all the Orixás, who are saints from the world of nature and spirit. We call on the fighting spirit of all the Brazilian people to action against the powerful castes that imprison them.”
“Wow.”
Gravity did not entirely understand what Julia was talking about, but it was impossible not to be swept up in the power of the music. It was one of the best things she had ever heard. She stood up and applauded at the end. So did Julia and Igor and Carmen.
As they sat back down, Gravity asked shyly, “So do you…hate the Olympics very much?”
Julia looked distressed. “Oh no! I told you it was hard to translate. Brazilians always see the best in a hard situation. Every year at Carnival, we leave our problems and just dance and are joyful. We do not hate the Games. I would not be here with you if we did.” She gestured with her cigarette to indicate their table.
Gravity saw with surprise that D-Minus had appeared in the empty seat. She had not seen or spoken to him since yesterday’s loss, but he looked completely recovered. In his white button-down and dark-washed jeans, he seemed to glow in the moonlight. He was bragging to the documentarians about his fight with Uzbekistan as though he had won the gold.
“Everything he did I let him do,” D said, demolishing the remaining fried fish.
Tiffany said, “Save room for the steak.”
D said, “I’m just warming up.”
Igor felt D’s biceps and asked him how much he could bench.
D said, “The only thing I lift is fat women.”
“Who is that boy?” Julia asked Gravity. “He is very handsome.”
Gravity felt her stomach swirl. She said, “He’s…hard to translate.”
D-Minus looked right at them and smiled, flashing a new gold tooth.
Carmen raised her caipirinha.
“Another toast!” she cried. “To yesterday’s elegant pugilistic display by young Demetrius Saint-Amand! No bad decision can diminish his feat, for the true arbiters of boxing greatness are not the functionaries outside the ring but the warriors within it and all those who witness their truth!”
Bonnie and Igor began to drink, but Carmen stopped them, sloshing caipirinhas onto the table.
“I’m not done! And to Demetrius’s burgeoning pro career, which he has kindly allowed me to be the first to announce. Felicidades! To the newest prospect of Brian Jones.”
Bonnie, Tiffany, Igor, and Gravity gasped. D-Minus beamed. The rest of the table looked confused, because Brian Jones was not well known outside boxing circles. Few had actually laid eye
s on the mysterious multimillionaire who was the top manager in the fight game.
Carmen explained that D-Minus’s robbery had gotten everyone’s attention. The blistering postfight interview he had given the press had gone viral. Brian’s people were looking for new talent, and they had reached out to Mr. Rizzo to draw up the papers.
“I fight next month in the Garden,” D said, looking in Gravity’s eyes. “Save the date.”
Gravity and Shorty had worked up a good sweat in the dressing room, and the bright lights kept her warm as she made the walk to face Jean Sullivan. She still had a little bit of neck pain from her bout against New Zealand. It had been an easy win, just like Carmen predicted, but nothing is ever that easy in boxing. She rolled her shoulders to loosen them. They would relax once she got punching. Her legs felt light and strong. Her lungs felt good.
She let the headgear work on her like a horse’s blinders, tunneling her vision away from the crowd and the cameras so that all she saw was Shorty’s back, very straight inside his USA Boxing jacket, and her own boots, marching across the field of play.
A high, small voice yelled, “Hey, Gravity!”
She looked up into the crowd. A few rows up sat a chubby little girl, clutching an American flag. Gravity waved.
The girl cried out, “Mommy, Mommy, Gravity saw me!”
All the pain left her body. Gravity thought of how, when she was very little, she used to watch the Olympics on television with her mom, especially the gymnasts and figure skaters.
Look at me now, she thought.
She paused at the base of the steps that led to the blue corner. She liked the red corner better—the color of blood and anger, the color with the slight statistical advantage—but that belonged to Jean Sullivan as the top seed. One day, Gravity would be where Jean was. For now, she would take blue—the color of water and the sky, the color of having the blues—and run with it. She had always been an underdog.
She finally knew what Coach had meant when he said she had already defeated all her enemies. Her mother and her father were not the enemy, although they had done their part to make life hard. Her enemy was not Rick Ross or Andre Vázquez or Lefty.
Certainly the enemy was not this great Irish champion, ducking into the red corner and raising her long arms overhead, even though the sight of her filled Gravity with something like hatred. A pressure, hostile and impersonal, had been building since the Olympic draw, and it both drew her toward the other woman and repelled her, making it impossible to occupy the same elevator, breathe the same air.
Gravity opened her mouth. Shorty squirted in water and slipped in the mouthpiece, his words of advice floating away over the crowd’s roar.
Too late for that now, she thought. I did all the work back home with Fatso and Boca.
She scanned the jubilant crowd at the Riocentro Pavilion. Earlier that day, the Brazilian lightweight had outpointed Russia, and the Brazilian fans were still singing and waving their flags. She thought of the music she had heard on the beach and what Julia had told her, and as she knelt in the corner and said the Shema, she thanked God for their generous host nation. She asked that He protect them all: her, Jean, everyone in the pavilion, all the Brazilian people.
And let me shine, she prayed.
As she rose, she saw them in the stands, and she laughed so hard she almost lost her mouthpiece. Athletes got two free tickets to each fight, but the flight to Rio was so expensive that only Melsy had come. She was holding up the “G” in “Gravity.” D-Minus rocked the “R,” Sacred had the “A,” Tiffany had the “V,” and it was a good thing D-Minus was such a hustler, because there are a lot of letters in “LET’S GO GRAVITY KICK HER ASS,” and he had conned some poor US athlete or fan into holding each one of them. Even the apostrophe.
The ref was a woman, which struck Gravity as auspicious. She followed her into center ring to gaze into the Irishwoman’s proud green eyes. They leaned in. Their gloves touched. They backed away.
She had no enemies. That was how she saw it. Fear, shame, and despair were her enemies, but she had defeated them long ago. If she had not defeated them, she would not be a boxer.
The center of the ring was empty and bright. It was the only place in the world for a woman like her. Beyond it she saw her opponent: a bouncing red blur, intolerable.
The clear tone sounded. She charged into the light. The closer she got to Jean, the faster she moved, and when she reached the sweet spot her arms knew so well, she let fly the straight right hand. It struck Jean full in the face like ringing a bell.
Gravity broke everything sooner or later. She would break this girl too.
I have a lot of people to thank for the material, inspiration, and support to write this book, which I researched over twenty years in and around boxing. When I was twenty-two and newly arrived in New York, my wonderful tai chi teacher, J. P. Harpignies, told me I was a little young and angry for such an internal practice as tai chi and ought to learn to kick and punch in real time. This book wouldn’t exist without him.
Thank you to all the women I fought during my five years as a competitive amateur. The ones I remember are Patricia Alcivar, Teresa O’Toole, Jamie McGrath, Danielle Bouchard, Sandra Bizier, Gladys Alonso, and Betzayda Abreu, most of whom beat me up. Much love to my sparring partners, Stella Nijhof and Crystelle Samson Morneau, who also beat me up regularly.
Thank you to all my trainers: Mike Smith, Ghislain Vaudreuil, George Acevedo, Ray Velez, and the late George Washington of Bed-Stuy Boxing. And my Pilates teacher, Clarice Marshall, whose work helped me recover from all those punches.
Getting to stay at the MacDowell Colony was one of the greatest things that ever happened to me. I will always be grateful for the gift of that time, during which I wrote the first pages of this book. I also wrote while sheltered by the midwife Sarah Bay; my writing teacher, Steve Friedman; and my gracious yoga student and friend, Jai Apfel.
Thank you to all the Kickstarter donors who made it possible for me to travel to China and Rio. Special thanks to the extremely generous Heather Moran, Debi Cornwall, Daniel Mandil, and Jonathan Sharp. Even more than the financial support, just knowing I had so many friends who believed in me helped keep me going.
My deepest gratitude goes to Pat Russo for creating NYC Cops & Kids, the free community gym in East Flatbush, where I have coached and tutored young boxers for the past six years. Thank you to Teddy Atlas and his foundation for funding the program for many years and to everyone else who helps keep our doors open, including Dave Siev, Ronald McCall, and the New York Police Department boxing team. I am blessed to coach alongside Hilergio “Quiro” Bracero, Aureliano Sosa, Benny Roman, and Wayne Atkins.
I wrote this book for the “kids” of Cops & Kids: Bhopp, Shu Shu, Blake, Africa, Jersil, Earl, Nkosi, Nikita, Reshat, Alban, all the Jonibeks, Julian, Chiquito, Jon, Chris, Leon, Edwin, Cassius, Ruben, Hamza, Henry, Justice, Michael Jackson, Lucky, Willade, Aaliyah, Jay, Renaldo, Samuel, Amadou, Ibrahim, Deen, Chop Chop, Terrence, the Muñoz twins, Khalid, Clarens, Pryce, all the Elijahs, the point guards Lawrence and Stan, my star ASVAB students Alvaro and Brian, and everyone else who walks through our door with the dream of being a champion.
My greatest inspiration for this novel was Claressa Shields, two-time Olympic gold medalist and reigning world middleweight and super middleweight champion. Thank you, Claressa, for existing and for letting me tag along. All the fiercest parts of Gravity I stole from you.
It was an honor to watch all the boxers who contended in the 2012 and 2016 Olympic Trials: Alex Love, Marlen Esparza, Christina Cruz, Tiara Brown, Queen Underwood, Raquel Miller, Tika Hemingway, Franchon Crews, and many others. Mikaela Mayer and Virginia Fuchs were especially generous with their time and stories. Special thanks to Pat Manuel for sharing his journey as a trans athlete.
Thank you to the elite coaches Billy Walsh, Kay Koroma, Joe Guzman, Basheer Abdu
llah, and especially Jason Crutchfield and Al Mitchell, whose superb corner work was a privilege to observe. Thank you, Coach Israel “Shorty” Acosta, for your miraculous story. Thank you, Delilah Ponce-Rico, for being the mom of Cali boxing. Even a knife fight is fun with you.
I would not have survived on the road without my own Tripartite Commission: fierce photojournalist Sue Jaye Johnson, who produced the documentary T-Rex; Coach Christy Halbert, source of all my best pull quotes; and independent journalist Raquel Ruiz, who is the world’s best parcera.
Thank you to the warm people of Spokane. The lovable glove table madman Rowdy Welch. Doug and Rae Ann, beaming love from the stands. Most of all, thanks to Francis Cullooyah, his daughter Taunie, Albert Thomas, and the Kalispel Tribe for inviting me and Raquel to tour their reservation and hear their story. Francis told me that the women boxers’ struggle for recognition reminded him of the struggle of his people. I have tried to do justice to that conversation here.
Thank you to Pat Fiacco and Boxing Canada for being such great hosts at the Continentals in Cornwall and the Pan Am Games in Toronto. Thank you to the nation of Canada for producing the brilliant Corey Erdman, commentator extraordinaire. Thanks to Pan Am champ Mandy Bujold for letting me and Raquel crash in her apartment, with the affirmations stuck to the walls. Thank you, Cathy van Ingen, for doing such important work for domestic abuse survivors in the community.
In China: Thank you to all the boxers, staff, and volunteers at the 2012 Women’s World Championships. Thanks to the UK’s Tasha Jonas and her dad, he of the booming voice from the upper rafters, and thanks to the Liverpudlian documentary crew who taught me the phrase “handbags at dawn.” Thanks to Igor, the conditioning coach, and all the beautiful fighters of Team Brazil. Thank you to documentarians Anna Sarkissian and Ameesha Joshi of With This Ring. Thank you to Regina, the server at the Pizza Hut in Qinhuangdao, and to Tony Liu for letting me teach his English class at Yanshan University.