Krist was down, tangled in her own feet. Krist lay facedown, and would not get up for some minutes.
This time, D.D. Dunphy was not so confused. On her steady strong unhurried legs she went to a neutral corner and awaited the count.
Suffused with adrenaline, her heart pumped in joy, exhilaration. The fight was stopped. Her trainer was in the ring stepping toward her rapidly.
His embrace, and a jubilant murmur in her ear—Great work. Even better than the first.
The referee was congratulating her. She had not fully looked at him until now—a middle-aged black man, sharp-eyed. The way this man was looking at her.
Her mouthpiece soaked with saliva was removed. Her arm that had not yet begun to ache was being lifted aloft. The boxing glove smeared with her opponent’s blood was lifted aloft. Though D.D. Dunphy understood that she had won the fight the enormity of the victory had not yet fully sunk into her consciousness like cotton batting absorbing moisture and so she glanced about the arena blinking and moist-eyed as if seeking amid the faces contorted with cheering a face that was familiar to her.
Winner by knockout—one minute fifty-five seconds of the first round—D.D. Dunphy—“Hammer of Jesus.”
“SHE’S A KILLER. Christ, she scares me!”
But it was a delicious sort of scare. The Hammer felt it like a cat shivering as it is being stroked.
SHE WAS IN THE GYM every day. She loved the gym. On the front wall by the counter was a clipping from the Dayton News with a photograph of “D.D. Dunphy—‘Hammer of Jesus””—above a single-paragraph article with the headline Ohio Woman Welterweight, 21, Scores Upset Win Over Canadian Star.
Had it been an “upset win”?—D.D. had not realized.
She was reasonably certain that Cameron Krist had not been a “star.”
She still worked part-time at Target. She had received $1,200 for her second fight but there were considerable expenses now and so she had not been able to send more than five hundred dollars to Edna Mae.
(She knew that Edna Mae had received the money she’d sent because she had heard from Luke after her second fight. Her brother had started off congratulating her for winning her fights but his tone turned mean midway in their conversation and he’d ended up telling her that Edna Mae “wouldn’t touch a penny of the money you sent, she called ‘money from Satan’”—though she’d passed it on to Mary Kay Mack who “didn’t give a shit whose money it was as long as she could spend it on herself.”)
(Yes, Edna Mae, Anita, and Noah were still living with Mary Kay in that “run-down old house” on Depot Street. Edna Mae worked night shifts at the nursing home and attended church twice a week where she was, as Luke said, “somebody special”—not because of Luther but because of her devotion to the church and the right-to-life cause. Anita and Noah were in high school. Mary Kay had had to take disability retirement from work, she was near-crippled from arthritis. And he, Luke, was “probably going to be married”—he’d been living with a woman with two young children for a year—“Feels like it’s time.” Luke had laughed as if this was a joke or perhaps a somber reflection presented as a joke. After Luke hung up D.D. realized that her brother hadn’t asked a thing about her—only just a question about how much she’d be making from boxing if she “ever got on TV.”)
There was a third match, in Gary, Indiana, which D.D. Dunphy won in five rounds by a TKO but which was not televised on ESPN. There was a fourth match, in Wheeling, West Virginia, against a local female boxer with a 6–2 record which D.D. Dunphy won by a split decision after five grueling rounds.
It was said in her hearing That ain’t a she. That’s a he.
In the few newspaper accounts of D.D. Dunphy’s boxing performance it was said Here is a female boxer who lives up to her hype—“Hammer of Jesus.” Dunphy is a hammer!
In Dayton which was her “hometown” she began to be known. A radio talk show host, male, interviewed her on Good Morning, Dayton!—“Here is a female athlete who takes her sport as seriously as any male. ‘D.D. Dunphy’ does not boast, and ‘D.D. Dunphy’ does not waste her breath. How’d you get into this dangerous sport, D.D.? Can you elaborate?”
Her brain was blank. She could not remember—how had she become a boxer? Had it something to do with her father?
“Seeing boxing on TV. I guess.”
“Who are your influences?”
This she could answer. Gatti, de la Hoya, Roy Jones, Mike Tyson—“Not the way he is now but the way he was.” The words seemed to roll off her tongue, and seemed to be the correct words since the interviewer smiled.
“Did you ever meet Mike Tyson?”
“N-No . . .”
“Do you think that women’s boxing will ever approach the achievement of men’s boxing?”
Was this a trick question? She knew that the answer was no. But it would be a mistake to say this and so she said, hesitantly, “Maybe someday—not for a while.”
“And why is that, D.D.?”
“Because there are not many women boxers. Yet.”
“There is prejudice against women boxers, D.D., you probably know. People don’t want to see girls and women covered in blood, beating each other up. Comment?”
She wasn’t sure what to say. She sat biting at a cuticle of her thumbnail, waiting for the words.
“People think that women are ‘nurturers’—not ‘warriors.’ But of course, a woman should be allowed to participate in any sport that men participate in, that’s the current thinking. Agreed?”
D.D. nodded her head yes.
But this was radio! The interviewer gestured for her to speak.
“Y-yes . . .”
“You are on board, I’d guess, for females boxing in the Olympics?”
D.D. nodded yes.
“I mean—y-yes . . .”
“Though you didn’t have any amateur career at all, it seems. Would you have been better served, better trained, more prepared for professional boxing if you’d been able to box as an amateur? For instance, on a women’s Olympic team?”
D.D. tried to comprehend this. She did not want to say—she did not want to hint—that there was anything lacking in her training, or anything lacking in her career. What had the interviewer asked her, exactly? Her left ear rang just slightly from the fight. A dull throbbing pain at the base of her neck.
“Well, D.D.! Tell our radio audience: are you a dyed-in-the-wool feminist? Seems like a female boxer would be a feminist.”
Dyed-in-the-wool. She did not comprehend this nor could she interpret the interviewer’s broad smile.
“Yes. I guess so.”
“And are you pro-choice?”
“‘Pro-choice’—how?”
“Pro-abortion. Y’know, women ‘taking control of their bodies.’”
“I—don’t know. I guess not.”
“Not? You are not in favor of abortion?”
Shook her head no. The subject was distasteful to her, the interviewer took note and backed off.
“Well. It’s been great to have you on WOHI-radio this morning, D.D. Dunphy! Tell our radio audience when they can see you boxing next, will you?”
She knew the answer to this question. She recited a date, the name of an opponent, the location—Indianapolis, Indiana.
“Have you ever been to Indianapolis, D.D.? Ever seen where you’ll be fighting there?”
Shook her head no.
FIRST TIME SHE WAS HIT—that is, hit.
Out of nowhere the blow had come stunning her. Left side of her face she had not seen—anything—must’ve lowered her left glove without realizing (as her trainer had tried to drill into her countless times) but in the adrenaline-flood of the fight she’d forgotten, and her opponent (sleek-black super-welterweight from Chicago she’d gained six pounds to fight, another former kickbox champion, ranked number two in her division in the Midwest Women’s Boxing League, aged twenty-eight, 148 pounds and reach sixty-two inches: dynamite) was on her.
“Move your ass and fight, w
hite-girl!”
Jamala’s gloves were beside her face that was savage and beautiful. D.D. felt her soul swerve seeing such beauty as she’d once gone weak in the knees seeing Penelope Schine.
And so she was hit as she’d never (before) been hit. She had not seen the blow coming, flying at her left eye-socket, a crunching blow to the cheekbone sleek with Vaseline—(but the Vaseline had not spared the cheekbone)—and the ridge of bone above the eye in which an inch-long gash appeared instantaneously, filling with blood before even D.D. Dunphy could register how she’d been hit. It was necessary to counter-punch—but she could not, she had not the strength. For several confused seconds not knowing what had happened or even that she was down (which was radically new to her, and new to her and shocking the delirium of the crowd screaming for the local, hometown “Princess” Jamala Prentis with gold-flashing dagger tattoos on her biceps and a gold incisor to match, beautifully shaped Nefertiti head razor-shaved and gleaming with sweat like jewels) but she was determined to rise to her feet, climb up, like steps climbing up, up—now shakily standing, as the referee stepped aside to allow Jamala Prentis to rush at her, a hard stinging blow to her (unprotected) midriff, and she was down again, or almost down—on one knee, shaking her head to clear it as Jamala jeered—“White bitch!” And blood collecting in her mouth. And blood choking her, causing her to cough heedlessly. (The crowd was shrieking—was this a warning to her? Or in encouragement to Jamala Prentis, to destroy her?) But then she was up, it would seem like a miracle—Dunphy is up.
Trying to salvage the wreck of the fight. She could not clear her head to recall—was it round four? Three? (And how many rounds lay ahead?) She would need time to recover—she would need time to make amends for her mistake—yet, was she strong enough to remain on her feet for two more rounds?—she did not think so.) Like a wounded creature she knew to retreat to her strategic defense-posture: knees bent, head lowered, gloves raised to protect her bleeding and bruised face as the taller Jamala Prentis stood before her striking her freely, punches which Dunphy could not block, and could not return—her arms were so weak . . . Jesus, help me! She had not ever called upon Him before, in her new life.
In the elevated ring, in the hot lights, miniature rainbows of wet. Sweat shaken in droplets from a head backlit by lights, and the eyes darkened like the eye-sockets of a skull, and she understood that the triumphant Princess was exhausted too, suddenly—having punched herself out on her unresponsive and stoic-stubborn white-girl opponent whose very crouching-low forced her, at her taller height, to bend her knees, her back, to crouch in a posture unnatural to her, against instinct.
It was not uncommon, such exhaustion mid-fight—D.D. Dunphy felt a stab of hope, the fight was not yet over. She had not yet been defeated. Her face was bloodied, her ribs and upper arms throbbed with pain, but it was a numbed sort of pain, at a little distance. She could recognize the sensation as pain, but not her pain. Her opponent too was breathing through her mouth.
They lapsed into a clinch. They grasped at one another. Drowning together yet each did not dare to release the other until the referee slapped them apart—“Break!”
A bell rang close beside their heads. D.D. Dunphy blinked to get her vision clear, that was blood-blurred with hematomas in both eyes. She could not comprehend where she was—which corner was hers, she must stagger to in terror of falling to the canvas.
Someone was shouting at her—“Here!”
Blindly she made her way to this person. She was staggering stiff-legged, her opponent had pounded her lower back in the clinch.
Such disgust the man felt for her, he did not utter her name; nor could she have said his name. She sank, slumped onto the stool. She shut her eyes in order not to see him. The dark-scarred face, the furious eyes. She was letting him down! She was not giving him her best.
Rapidly, desperately someone was working on Dunphy’s ruined face with a styptic pencil to staunch the bleeding. Inch-long slash in her right eyelid the referee would come to inspect, stooping over her with an expression of carefully controlled disdain.
The boxing world, as it was called, did not like female boxers.
And how foolish, how pathetic, contemptible—the female boxer with streaks in her coarse, short-cut hair and crosses (white, crimson) on her biceps.
Had Jesus abandoned her? She was desperate to protest to Him, she was not a daughter of Satan.
Something like a pleat in her brain. She was staring at a coarse-textured wall. A fly on the wall, its wings quivering. She stood hesitant, not clear if this was herself?—the pathos of quivering wings?
“Wake up! One more round.”
Her eyes sprang open. One more round! Three minutes.
Her head was strangely heavy on her shoulders, she could barely hold her head up. Something had happened to her neck, the cervical spine . . . And her lower back, throbbing with pain.
The bell rang. The new round began. She was pushed from her stool. She had to look for her opponent—where was her opponent?—the other boxer was slow to rise from her stool as if reluctant to approach D.D. Dunphy in the center of the ring.
Sleekly-beautiful Princess Jamala with gold-flashing dagger tattoos, shaved head, skin-tight Spandex—not so arrogant and self-assured now but slack-armed and dazed with fatigue. That was the black kickbox-champion’s secret—she had never boxed beyond a few rounds. She had always won fights early. She was all dazzle, display and a few very hard, sharp and precise punches. But her stamina had never been tested.
Hammer of Jesus had not been tested either. Now she would reveal herself.
She was wondering if Jamala could see her clearly—if (maybe) the opponent’s eyesight was blurred as hers was blurred. And if adrenaline had over-stimulated Jamala’s heart that was now racing, dangerously fast . . . D.D. knew that she must go on the attack but her legs were like lead. Her feet were leaden hooves. Could scarcely move her upper body to slip punches, could not have stepped out of the way of a serious blow but fortunately the Princess could not hit her—not squarely, not hard.
The effort of her wild right swing sent droplets of sweat flying off her contorted face.
There was a scuffle. Hot breaths, sharp pungent smell of the other’s body. The effort of each was to avoid being thrown down by the other.
Jamala muttered what sounded like Damn you girl, fuck white bitch let go of me even as D.D. pushed her away with both gloves.
(Was it the last round? D.D. could not remember.)
Exhausted and bloodied D.D. nonetheless managed to outbox her opponent and to push her away each time she tried to protect herself by clinching. Almost she wanted to murmur in Jamala’s ear—Forgive me.
She would win the fight on points—she would not try to knock out her opponent. Her strength was diminished, she was not sure that she could throw a crucial punch, and trying to throw would open her up to being punched by her opponent. And there would be no triumph for her in knocking down and humiliating Princess Jamala Prentis—even if she was capable of this.
The last round ended. Panting and staggering Jamala Prentis had not returned a single punch in this round.
D.D. Dunphy had won!—she was sure. Her trainer did not embrace her as he usually did at such a time but touched her shoulder in acknowledgment—“Good. You ended strong.”
The announcer called the boxers to the center of the ring to stand side by side drenched in perspiration, bruised and bloodied, abashed. Wanly the black girl lifted her gloves, to draw a chorus of cheers from her supporters, and so D.D. lifted her gloves as well, to faint applause. Or perhaps it was mocking applause, for the female boxers had not performed well. Dunphy had scored the most punches by the end of the fight but had failed to knock out her opponent.
“The judges’ decision is—a draw.”
A draw! There was a moment’s quiet, as the crowd absorbed the decision—the white girl, who should have won the fight, had not won; the black girl, who should have lost, had not lost.
Am
ong three judges a draw is a rare decision. There was a scattering of applause, catcalls and boos.
With a shriek of relief Jamala threw her arms around D.D. Dunphy—“They sayin both of us won.”
D.D. laughed wildly. That was not what a “draw” meant—she knew; a draw meant that neither had won.
Jamala turned away to lift her gloves in triumph, and D.D. tried to hug her again, for she hadn’t hugged her properly the first time; the gesture was clumsy, embarrassing—Jamala laughed at her, a shriek of a laugh, and went limping to her corner to leave the ring. D.D. stood at the edge of the spotlight as ringside spectators cheered for Jamala as if she’d defeated her opponent.
A towel was draped over her shoulders. Her skin was scalding-hot, yet beginning to be clammy. Her teeth were chattering with something like panic. Her lower back ached, she could hardly move her legs. Yet hastily then, for the next bout was being announced and the next boxers approaching, D.D. Dunphy left the ring. Her trainer was cursing the decision—she had never heard Ernie Beecher so disgusted.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This stinks.”
D.D. was eager to push from him. She did not like to see his face so distorted.
“And you—the two of you—stank up the place. Hanging on like you did, the both of you—fucking clinching. Fucking draw. That’s ‘stinking up the place’—now you know.”
She knew: she had heard this expression. She had not thought that it would apply to her.
She was feeling sick, dazed. She had to push away from the furious man.
Hurrying after the tall shaved-head black girl who was moving up the aisle toward the locker room resplendent in a gold-embossed robe, surrounded by admirers.
“Jamala! Wait . . .”
The girl turned to D.D., frowning and blinking as if she couldn’t see well.
“Yah? What you want?”
D.D. had no idea what she wanted. What came from her battered mouth was unexpected—“You are the greatest!”
“Ima—what?”
“The greatest. Jamala. You are.”
“Bullshit, girl. You just sayin that—’cause I am.”
A Book of American Martyrs Page 56