“Y’know, Johnette Taylor was trained here?”
Had not known. Mortified by not-knowing.
Not exactly true that Johnette had “trained” for her pro fights in this gym but he’d seen the promise in the girl at age sixteen for (maybe) women’s Olympic boxing which was being talked about then—but had not (yet) been approved. Soon as Johnette turned at age nineteen pro she left Dayton: new trainer, new manager, Cleveland-based. He had not followed her career after she’d lost the WBA women’s welterweight title a year ago and there were rumors of injuries.
“Y’think you could learn to box like Taylor? Eh?”
Shyly the girl nodded her head yes.
Her face was mottled with embarrassment. She smiled inanely. He wondered if she was just slightly retarded—speaking at a pitch that was audible seemed to require an effort from her, a measure of audacity. As if she had been made to believe that no words uttered by her, no expression possible from her, could be of the slightest interest to another person; yet, she had the audacity to imagine that she could become a professional boxer . . .
And how much effort had it required for her to enter the gym, step inside this place almost entirely male, and smelling of bodies, funky sweat-smell, and everybody in sight male, at the machines, at the heavy bags, speed bags, in the badly stained ring (two lanky-limbed young guys in their twenties, black-Hispanic, eight-ounce gloves, headgear, sparring with quick sharp fists), loud voices entirely male, and on the walls posters and photos of male boxers. She had nerve, at least.
Feeling impatient with the stolid plain-faced girl but protective too thinking Keep your money. I don’t want your money. Just turn around and get out of here if you know what’s good for you.
“So—is it OK?”
“‘OK’—what?”
“You can give me lessons? Like to be a b-boxer?”
Her voice was so pleading, and the way she was breathing through her mouth like her life depended upon the next words a stranger might utter quick and glib like dealing out cards in a game in which he had nothing at stake and she had everything, how in hell could he say anything except—“Tell you what: come back tomorrow. There’s nobody got time for you tonight.”
Relief in her face, and a sudden smile that made her appear even younger, childlike with hope.
Muttering Thanks! and turning quick to leave before the stranger changed his mind.
“Wait. What’s your name?”
Mumbled what sounded like D.D. Dun-fie.
“‘D.D.’—? That’s a name?”
She laughed, blushing but pleased. “Yah. It is.”
HAMMER OF JESUS. That was her.
With Jesus’s help, that would be her.
She knew she was crude, clumsy. She knew she had much to learn. Her legs didn’t move her fast enough (yet) and her arms were short for a boxer so she’d be at a disadvantage with a longer-armed opponent. She would have to learn to take punches if she wanted to throw punches. (Which she was willing to do.) There are fights won when the stronger boxer has punched himself out on the body of his opponent like young George Foreman on the body of not-young Muhammad Ali (she’d seen on ESPN TV) and if that is a way of winning, D.D. Dunphy was eager for it.
Though she was strong she became winded quickly in the gym which was surprising to her—at work, at the Target unloading dock, D.D. Dunphy had the most stamina of anyone including the young guys.
D.D. was the one who didn’t bellyache. Didn’t complain even on freezing-cold days. Did her job and kept her mouth shut. Thinking her private thoughts while her co-workers kept up a steady stream of stupid chatter and nasty jokes of which some (she knew) were addressed to her—Just means I have to work hard at the gym. I will work hard.
She would make the name proud: Dunphy.
She would not call attention to herself for that reason, that she wished to honor her father Luther Amos Dunphy.
But, if she was questioned, if she was interviewed, on TV for instance, then she would say quietly—I am dedicating my boxing to my father Luther Amos Dunphy and to Jesus who is my Savior.
Many of the boxers she and Luke had seen on TV thanked Jesus for their victories. Many knelt in the ring to bow their heads in a quick prayer or to cross themselves if they were Catholic. The great heavyweight Evander Holyfield (who’d beat Mike Tyson in two fights for the heavyweight title) wore a baseball cap with the stitching JESUS IS LORD. George Foreman became a Christian minister. The female boxer D.D. admired most was the junior lightweight WBA champion Tanya Koznick (“The Wildcat”) who could not have been taller than five feet two inches and who fought like a wildcat in fact in defiance of safety and caution, overwhelming and intimidating her opponents with fierce flurries of blows. On the biceps of both arms Tanya Koznick brandished tattoos of the cross and she wore a small gold cross on a thin gold chain around her neck even in the boxing ring. She began TV interviews saying in a throaty broken voice she owed everything to Jesus and most of all she owed her life—Before Jesus my life was trash. Jesus lifted me up out of that trash.
Hearing these words D.D. Dunphy shuddered and felt faint as if Jesus had touched her on the forehead—lightly, with just His fingertips.
It was strange then, in the gym with D.D. Dunphy Jesus kept His distance. He did not (yet) approve. There were strong feelings against female boxers. She dreaded the day her Target co-workers found out how she was training at the downtown gym (which was mostly a black and Hispanic gym) and what her hopes were. She confided in no one of course. Not even the female supervisor who’d seemed to perceive (how?—D.D. had not told her) that here was a girl whose mother did not wish to lay eyes on her.
Edna Mae had evinced disgust saying it had to be the influence of Satan that young women would wish to box like men displaying their bodies to the most ignorant crowds and hitting one another in the face like savages for money. D.D. had not known how to refute her mother or any others at her mother’s church for some part of her did not disagree with these harsh words. But it was not true, as Edna Mae accused—she was not Satan’s daughter. She was hurt but she was angry also. She was often hurt, and she was often angry. She felt a kind of disgust and rage herself seeing on TV female boxers heavily made-up and in sexy tight clothes more like swimsuits than proper ring attire like the male boxers wore. For her fights D.D. Dunphy would wear black (like Mike Tyson had done)—black T-shirt over a sturdy sports bra, black shorts to just above the knee which was the length for men.
Soon it would be her time. The time of D.D. Dunphy –“The Hammer of Jesus.”
At work, at Target she was mesmerized by such thoughts. At the heavy bag, at the speed bag, doing her squats, lifting weights and doing push-ups, sit-ups, jumping rope she was mesmerized. Her lips parted, her breath came quickly. The voices of others were remote to her. The voices of others were like radio stations fading. Derisive and jeering male eyes she did not see. Crude remarks she did not hear. Ugly bitch, homely cunt somebody put a bag over her head willya?—she did not hear. What fascinated was The Hammer of Jesus in the ring in TV lights. The female boxer who was not herself but “D.D. Dunphy” in black T-shirt, black trunks. Tight-laced black shoes. Muscled shoulders and arms, muscled thighs, legs. Vaseline rubbed into her face. Mingling with the sweat-glisten. Her hair trimmed short and neatly shaved at the nape of her neck. Her hands tight-bound inside the handsome eight-ounce red gloves. Climbing into the ring and the TV lights blinding in a delirium of anticipation. Cheers and whistles of the crowd and there was the referee lifting her gloved hand in triumph declaring Winner by a knockout and new WBA Women’s Welterweight Champion of the World—D.D. Dunphy the Hammer of Jesus.
“Jesus, help me. ‘Jesus is Lord.’”
She would wear a black cord cap stitched with these words. One day (if it was God’s will) she would have sponsors to pay her expenses and support her—Adidas, Nike, Reebok.
Or maybe, a local car dealership. Dayton Sports Supplies.
Johnette Taylor had had a local sponsor when she’d
lived in Dayton. She’d had sponsors through her career until she’d begun to lose, then the sponsors dropped away.
D.D. wanted to ask about sponsors for she knew how crucial it was to have a sponsor, you could not afford to be a boxer otherwise for the money was too little especially for female boxers and even those female boxers who were ranked and had won titles. From Ernie she’d learned that the current WBA women’s welterweight champion had to work part-time at a Walgreen’s in Omaha, Nebraska—this was surprising to her, and disappointing.
“Just to inform you, D.D. Just so you know.”
“Know what?—that that is how things are right now but won’t be always, maybe.”
A wildness came into her voice. She understood that this man was trying to discourage her and she could not bear it.
“I don’t want to fight for money, anyway.”
“What, then?”
“For—a reason.”
“What reason?”
She considered. She could not tell him all that was in her heart—the memory of her father who had sacrificed his life, and who was being forgotten.
She could not tell him—To make of myself something worthy. To make of myself something proud in Jesus’s name.
She heard herself laugh, instead. The way she laughed when she caught her feet in the damn jump rope, or punched herself out on the heavy bag and had to grab it to keep from fainting.
Things that upset her and angered and frustrated her she’d learned to laugh at. The wildness came into her like flame, you had to laugh or scream like a crazy person.
It was a surprise to others, who expected you not to laugh but hide your face in shame. But Jesus counseled her—Laugh to show you are not not-laughing. Laugh to show that you can laugh.
“Might be, no reason is worth it. Just sayin, D.D.”
He was what you’d call a light-skinned black man or (she thought) some kind of Hispanic mixed with black. Seeing him with others in the gym who were dark-black Ernie Beecher did not look “black” especially but seeing him with so-called “whites” (like herself she supposed) he did look “black”—what they called “African-American.”
Later on she’d hear that Ernie Beecher had every kind of “mixed” blood—black, Jamaican, Hispanic, Native American, Asian (Cambodian). How accurate this was she could not know. Or that he was fifty years old, or more!—this was a surprise to her, she’d thought he was much younger given how he sparred in the ring with some of the guys and how tireless he was with her trying to drum into her head defense strategy. He had a wife it was said. He had children by several women it was said. He’d been a light-heavyweight a long time ago—you could see his name in small letters on a frayed poster headlined TOMMY HEARNS VS. PIPINO CUEVAS. That had been August 1980, Detroit.
So long ago!—1980. D.D. tried to imagine what Ernie Beecher had looked like then.
He was not a normal-looking man. There was something intense and alert about him, in his eyes like the eyes of a hawk. His face had a twisted look like tree roots that have grown together. Eventually, she would perceive that his face was badly scarred.
She’d have liked to ask this man about his boxing career. Liked to have seen some photos.
But she knew better. She would never ask. She feared losing his goodwill. His patience with her.
It was amazing to her, he’d been so kind. He had not allowed her to pay the full amount for gym hours but a “discount.”
He did not ask questions. If the name Dunphy meant anything to him—(she had no reason to suspect that it did: no one remembered)—he gave no sign. He was gentlemanly. He did not tolerate bullshit, rowdy behavior, any kind of disruptive or disrespectful behavior in the gym. He would kick you out, you merited it. She had witnessed this with her own eyes. She had heard him speak critically to a young gym instructor, one of his own relatives. He did not forget but he might forgive.
His eyes were soft liquidy-black. His voice was so soft for a man’s voice sometimes she could not really hear him but could only murmur Yes. Yes Ernie.
The smell of him was such, so defined, his smell. Alone in the place she rented on Post Street a few blocks away in the bed that was her bed where often, so tired, she slept in most of her clothes and on cold nights her woolen socks she would wake suddenly in the night smelling his smell and in her confusion not know where she was.
She loved him so much! She wanted to tell him of her father who had given his life for the lives of innocent babies who could not protect themselves. She wanted to tell him how badly she missed her father and also she missed her mother and her family in Mad River Junction where she could not return for she was not welcome.
And he would ask Why are you not welcome, D.D.
And she would say Because my mother believes that I am a daughter of Satan.
But she was shy. And when she was in any proximity to him she was likely to be winded—panting to catch her breath, and her heart beating crazily in her chest. The worry was constant—Am I strong enough? Maybe I am not strong enough.
She recalled how Luke had laughed at her. Dawn Dunphy, thinking she could box.
She had to smile. It was—well, it was weird. Anybody would laugh at her. She would laugh at herself if she hadn’t been herself. But Jesus had faith in her, she was sure. As Jesus had had faith in her rising against the high school boys who had hoped to shame her but had only shamed themselves.
The hammer of Jesus she’d wielded in her hand! When she’d finished with her enemies the hammerhead had been slick with their blood.
“ONE-SIXTY-ONE.”
He’d weighed her, like a steer. By the expression in his face she saw that he was not happy.
“What’m I s’posed to be?”—her question was piteous.
“One-forty-seven. Welterweight.”
Welterweight! It was the first he’d named what she would be.
Her heart flooded with what felt like warm blood. Her eyes flooded with tears. She could not bring herself to look at him, at his face, for fear of betraying what was in her heart.
“Yah. OK. I c’n do that. I guess.”
She was a heavy girl. “Stout”—her aunt Mary Kay said of her, and of herself.
Much of it was muscle. But not all.
Had to stop eating any kind of junk food in her hand, food out of Styrofoam boxes, sugary sodas, fries. Her weakness was French fries so greasy-salty her fingers stung as she ate ravenously. The appeal of those fries in the strip mall Wendy’s you could douse as much catsup on them you wanted, nobody to stop you or even notice.
The sharp taste of catsup, mustard, diced onions she liked. A lot.
Also she loved doughnuts. Dipped in fat, fat-saturated. Plain doughnuts, white-powder sugar doughnuts, cinnamon doughnuts, cream doughnuts, doughnuts sprinkled with gritty brown sugar—D.D.’s mouth filled with saliva at just the thought.
At Target in the food department with your employee discount you could buy doughnuts marked down for quick sale, that were no longer fresh or were broken into pieces . . .
He was talking to her about diet. He’d given her a printout listing foods to eat and foods to avoid. She would try but she could not afford most of the foods to eat (fresh greens, lean meats) as he might’ve known.
But already she was beginning to lose weight even as she was adding muscle, and feeling better, stronger even as she was (often) feeling allover aches and pain and numbness and a ringing in her head like church bells at a distance. And her heart filled with jubilation of all that was to come.
Welterweight was one-four-seven or under. That was the ideal weight for D.D. Dunphy at five feet eight inches in gym shoes.
Her dream was within the year having her first fight and soon then—(she was vague about how this would come about: her trainer would know)—making enough money to quit Target or work part-time. If things went well—(if she won her fights)—she would be matched with contenders Angel Diaz, Pryde Elka (“The Squaw”), Yolinda Crowe. If she won these fights she would be match
ed with the WBA women’s welterweight champion Ilse Kinder if Ilse Kinder was still the champion.
In Mad River Junction they’d see her. On the TV. Maybe not Edna Mae who never watched TV but her great-aunt Mary Kay, her brother Luke, Anita, Noah, neighbors, kids from school, and teachers.
Miss Schine would see her! Miss Schine would be happy for her.
And in Muskegee Falls, they’d see her. People who’d known them in that place where her father Luther Amos Dunphy had lived and worked and where in the courthouse he’d been found guilty and sentenced to death.
She would speak quietly. She would give thanks to Jesus in a voice of pride. She would reveal to the interviewer that her career as a boxer was in memory of her father Luther Amos Dunphy.
“And I want to thank my teacher Miss Schine . . . She had faith in me, too.”
SHE WOULD OVERHEAR him. His voice.
She didn’t eavesdrop. She did not ever eavesdrop.
She had not eavesdropped as a girl though knowing (guessing) that her parents were speaking of her little sister Daphne in their lowered worried voices. For it was being said (by certain of the relatives) that the little girl was not right in the head.
Badly she wished to hear. But she did not hear.
For she was worried about Daphne too. She and Luke would exchange a look, when Daphne could not seem to stand without being held upright but tumbled onto the floor as if her spine had broken.
Dropped objects onto the floor as if her fingers would not function.
And there were other times, she’d wanted to hear what adults were saying. When her father’s brothers came to the house to speak of what Luther has done. And what must be done now.
So too in the Dayton gym, she wanted to overhear what Ernie Beecher might be saying. The hope was so keen it was a dread that he might be speaking of her.
For Ernie was on the phone often. It was a mobile phone, he carried it with him out of his office. He spoke, and he listened, frowning at the floor. Sometimes his mouth twitched and he was laughing. Sometimes he scarcely spoke at all. The mystery of another’s life, inaccessible to her, yet riveting to her, filled her with an anxious sort of wonder.
A Book of American Martyrs Page 52