“How many hours a week do you work, Dawn?”
Dawn. The name came naturally. Dunphy did not react.
“How many hours? I don’t know . . . At Target if you’re not full-time they call you when they need you. It could be different every week. Especially if you work in the stockroom or unloading. Mr. Cassidy worked out a schedule for me at Target where he knows the store manager. There’s a special arrangement for when I need to train before a fight and when I’m away for a fight.”
“That’s ‘Cass Cassidy’—your manager?”
Dunphy nodded yes. Clearly it gave her a measure of pride, that it could be said of her that she had a manager.
“And Ernie Beecher is your trainer? Mr. Beecher has an excellent reputation, I’ve learned.”
Dunphy smiled, hesitantly. Clearly she was proud of Ernie Beecher her trainer.
“Is it strange to work with a man? To be so close, physically close, to a man like Ernie Beecher?”
Dunphy considered this. She did not feel comfortable with the words physically close, Naomi could see.
“And also, Mr. Beecher is a black man. That must be—just a little—given your background—strange . . .”
Dunphy shrugged as if embarrassed. It was clear that she had not given the strangeness much thought until now.
“What does your family think?”
“What does my family think?”
“About your boxing career. Working so closely with Ernie Beecher, for instance.”
Dunphy rubbed her swollen eyelids. Her skin was sallow and doughy. Naomi could see small white scars at her hairline, like miniature gems. It was a revelation that a winning boxer, a young woman who had never lost a fight, could yet wear the signs of rough usage on her face. Half-consciously too, as she labored to answer Naomi’s questions, Dunphy was rubbing the nape of her neck and upper spine as if she were in pain.
Naomi said, sympathetically: “But of course there are no women trainers. Especially no white women trainers. If you want to train to box you have to train with someone like Ernie Beecher. In fact you are very lucky to be working with Ernie Beecher.”
“Yah. I am lucky.”
“I guess—from what I’ve read—boxing has become a mostly black sport? Black and Hispanic? ‘Persons of color’ dominate—like Angel Hernandez, who’s in your weight class? Will you fight her—Angel Hernandez?”
Dunphy shivered, shuddered. A look in her doughy face of sudden excitement, yet dread.
“Yah. Guess so.”
“The only boxer you haven’t beaten conclusively has been a black girl—‘Jamala’. . .”
Naomi had researched D.D. Dunphy on the Internet. She’d made a list of the boxers Dunphy had fought. She saw how the name “Jamala” was startling to Dunphy who stared at her now with an inscrutable expression..
“‘Jamala’ . . .yah. She the best.”
Strange, Dunphy had lapsed into black vernacular. Her voice had become throaty, musical. She’d murmured these words with a look of pained adoration.
“‘Jamala Prentis’—‘The Princess’? No, she lost her last fight. She’s lost three or four fights and she’s ranked below ‘D.D. Dunphy.’ I’ve done my homework. Midwestern Boxing League, World Boxing Association. On both lists you’re ahead of Jamala. You’re the best.”
Naomi spoke with a wild sort of extravagance as if daring Dunphy to believe her.
But Dunphy stared at Naomi uncomprehending. Possibly, she had not known that Jamala Prentis had lost recent fights.
“Nah, Jamala is the best. ‘The Princess’—she got style.”
Though the banquet room was chilly Dunphy seemed to be overwarm. With a little grunt she removed her sweatshirt, tugging it roughly over her head; Naomi had an impulse to help her, but did not. Below the sweatshirt Dunphy wore a T-shirt of some thin synthetic material, tight across her hard, heavy breasts, and cut high on the shoulder, so that the bright lurid tattoos on both her arms were revealed.
On one muscled bicep a cross of what appeared to be crimson flames, and on the other bicep a cross of white lilies. On Dunphy’s left forearm, a purple hammer—Hammer of Jesus.
What a sight! Doesn’t she know what she looks like . . .
She is so naive! So pathetic.
Wanting to believe that she is important.
Wanting to believe that anyone would want to interview her. That anything in her pitiful life matters.
“What striking tattoos!”—Naomi spoke with convincing admiration.
“Yah. I guess.” Dunphy smiled shyly. Tucking in her chin to look at the tattoos in a way that suggested she often looked at them. Naomi thought—She looks at the tattoos instead of looking into a mirror. The tattoos are her mirror.
Badly Naomi wanted to end the interview. She believed that her parents would disapprove of what she was doing, if they could know. Yet she was transfixed, and could not seem to stop.
“Please tell me a little more about your background, Dawn. Your hometown is said to be Dayton but—that isn’t where you were born, is it?”
Dunphy shrugged ambiguously as if to say Guess not. Maybe.
“I read on the Internet that you’re from Muskegee Falls, a small city in central Ohio.”
Was this a question? Dunphy frowned, warily.
“What was it like, growing up in Muskegee Falls?”
“What was it like?”—Dunphy seemed perplexed by the question.
“Did you have a happy childhood?”
Happy childhood seemed to confound Dunphy, who did not reply for a long time.
“Well—did anyone in your family encourage you?”
“N-No . . . They did not want me to be a boxer, I think.”
Dunphy spoke haltingly, with a look of yearning.
“No one? At all? Where did you get the idea, then?”
“I guess—watching TV. With my brother Luke.” Dunphy laughed suddenly. “He never thought I could make it!”
“What attracted you to boxing, when you were watching TV? Assuming that there were other things to watch—including other violent sports . . .” Daringly Naomi spoke, but Dunphy did not register any irony.
“I guess—hitting. If somebody hits you you hit them. I guess—maybe—that was it.”
“‘Boxing is about hitting’—is that it?”
“Nah. Boxing about hitting and not being hit back.” Dunphy laughed, surprising herself. These witty words in a quasi-black idiom were not her own but had been memorized and recited now and this pleased her.
“Can you tell us—(just speak to the camera naturally, as if you are in a conversation)—(my voice will be edited out)—in a fight, what are you thinking? What goes through your mind?”
Dunphy frowned, trying to think. Almost Naomi thought you could see bulky-sized thoughts moving through the young woman’s brain, just slightly too large for the space, as through narrow arteries, making her wince.
“In a fight, it’s like drowning. I mean—you feel that you are drowning and the only thing is to save yourself. The only way you save yourself is by hitting the other boxer, hurting her, knocking her down so she can’t grab you and pull you down. It’s her, or you. My trainer’s voice is in my head. Jab jab jab. Get inside. Go for the right cross. Get inside. Left hook. Counter punch. Get inside. Keep your gloves up. Keep your left glove up. Get inside. LEFT GLOVE UP.” She laughed, and wiped her perspiring face on the sweatshirt. “ ’Cause my arms are short, that’s why he says—Get inside.”
“Isn’t it dangerous? I noticed—the other boxer continuously retreated, and you advanced. But you must get hit a lot.”
This was a sly understatement. But Dunphy did not register slyness.
“Like I said, if you’re good you don’t get hurt. ‘Hammer of Jesus’ can take a punch. That is well known.”
This too was spoken with the air of a memorized remark. And spoken with pride.
“Really, you aren’t afraid that you will be hurt? The head, the skull, the brain seem so vulnerable in box
ing . . .” Naomi’s voice trailed off, with a pleading sound.
But Dunphy shook her head, stubbornly. For someone had assured her Hammer of Jesus can take a punch.
“Do you have medical insurance? Hospital insurance? In case you are ever injured—seriously . . .”
“All that kind of thing is taken care of. My manager . . .”
“Does your contract include medical coverage? What would happen if . . .”
Dunphy lifted the water bottle to drink from it, thirstily. There was impatience and rudeness in the gesture and her doughy face had tightened.
Meanly Naomi thought—I dislike you, too. I want you to be hurt. I want you to fail. I am not your friend!
She should end the interview, she knew. What had she been thinking! A documentary film on women boxers—too awful, too filled with pain, exposure. No one would care to see such a film. There was some interest in women’s champion boxers—to a degree. But D.D. Dunphy would never be a charismatic champion. And no one would wish to see the diminished private lives, that are never shown on TV. No one would wish to know about the losers.
“Just a few more questions, Dawn. Do your parents still live in Muskegee Falls, and do you have family there?” Naomi spoke easily, encouragingly.
Dunphy murmured what sounded like Nah. Not now.
“They have moved away? Where?”
“Mad River Junction—it’s called. Where they live.”
“All of your family?”
“My mother is a nurse, she works at a ‘home’ there. My brother has a job with the county.”
“Your mother is a nurse?”—Naomi had not known this, and wondered if it could be true.
But Dunphy insisted yes. Her mother was a nurse.
“That’s some kind of work you can respect—a nurse. But it is hard work.” Dunphy paused, considering what she’d said. The words had seemed to surprise her.
“Would you like to be a nurse, too? I mean—if you weren’t a boxer?”
“Nah.”
Then, relenting: “Well maybe. It’s some kind of work people respect and it is helping people. And—people respect you.”
“And what of your father, Dawn?”
“My father—my father is not living.”
Dunphy had been preparing for this question and answered it bravely. But then, she came to a full stop as if a bell had rung sounding the end of a round.
“I’m sorry to hear of that . . . He would have been proud of you, as a successful boxer, don’t you think?”
Successful boxer caught Dunphy’s attention. She was staring into a dim corner of the banquet room with a faint smile and seemed for a moment to have forgotten the interview.
“Especially if you become a champion, as it looks you will, soon . . .”
Dunphy looked at Naomi, blankly.
“I mean—your father would be proud of you. Especially if you become a champion.”
Dunphy nodded, vaguely. She had been rubbing at the nape of her neck as if to alleviate pain.
“What did your father do, Dawn?”
“He was a roofer and a carpenter. He was a master roofer and carpenter, people said.”
“How did your father die?”
“My father died in a bad car crash.”
Dunphy spoke rapidly now, to get the words out. Her bloodshot eyes were welling with tears and shifting in their sockets like loosened marbles. She was a very poor liar.
Cruelly Naomi continued:
“How old were you when your father died, Dawn?”
For a long moment Dunphy did not reply. With the lack of self-consciousness of a child she lifted her T-shirt and wiped her eyes. Naomi had an impression of a black sports bra solid and tight as a brace.
“I don’t remember too well. Maybe ten, eleven . . .”
“What do you remember of your father?”
Dunphy sat very still. Her face quivered, as if she were about to burst into tears. Her injured eyes continued to well with tears that did not spill over onto her face.
After a long moment Dunphy’s lips moved. Naomi strained to hear her murmur— . . . loved my Daddy.
Naomi waited, but Dunphy said nothing more. In her brightly friendly disingenuous interviewer voice she continued as if nothing were wrong:
“Do you try to get back home as often as you can? It must be lonely—on the road as you are, so often.”
“Yah.” Dunphy spoke tonelessly, without conviction.
“You visit your father’s grave, I guess? When you go home?”
Dunphy nodded yes. A veiled, vague look had come into her face.
“Is your father buried in—‘Mad River Junction’—?”
Dunphy stiffened, and made no reply. Her swollen eyes blinked rapidly.
Naomi wondered at the young woman boxer, that she didn’t rise from her chair, lean across the table and strike the nervy and intrusive interviewer in the face with her rock-hard fist.
“Your mother is a nurse! That’s a very crucial profession. Are you close with your mother?”
Dunphy nodded yes. But she was a very poor liar.
“Any of your siblings?”
Naomi thought—What a foolish word, siblings! She felt a wave of revulsion for herself, and wondered how she could proceed. It was a hateful exercise. Yet, she could not seem to stop.
If your opponent is on the ropes, you continue to punch. Evidently. If you are a professional. That much, Naomi had gathered from the previous night in the Armory.
“‘Siblings’—I mean, your sister—or your brothers. Are you close?”
Belatedly she worried that Dunphy would be suspicious, the interviewer seemed to know a good deal about her family. But Dunphy only shrugged, pained. Her forehead, that was creased with faint lines, creased more visibly now. She muttered she was OK with them.
“Are they proud of having a professional boxer in the family? With an undefeated record?”
Dunphy shook her head yes. But without conviction.
“Do they come to see your fights?”
Dunphy considered. A look came into her face, almost of cunning.
“Yah sometimes. They do. My aunt came. To Cleveland. She was scared for me real bad but she was proud of me when I won, she said.”
Dunphy fell silent. It did not seem likely that she had told the complete truth here, but the interviewer would not pursue it.
“Is there any discrepancy, d’you think, between being a Christian and hitting other people? Hurting other women, in the ring?”
Dunphy frowned. Roughly she wiped her nose with the edge of her hand. For a long time it seemed that she might answer this question but finally she said nothing, staring at the floor.
“Well. I guess it is a sport. And that is the point of the sport.”
Dunphy nodded yes, vaguely.
“Are you friendly with other women boxers?”
“Not too much . . .”
“You don’t know any? Or—you are just not friendly with the ones you know?”
Grimly Dunphy explained: “You don’t be friends much with somebody you’re gonna fight. You don’t be friends with any of them.”
“Is it a lonely life, then?”
“No. If you have Jesus you are not ever lonely.”
These words had a brassy sound of having been memorized and many times recited. And now a look of defiance came into Dunphy’s face.
“And what is your religion?”
“I am a Christian with the Zion Missionary Church in Dayton.”
“Is that—Baptist?”
“Christian Zion Missionary Church.”
“That is a Protestant church?”
“Y-Yes . . . I guess so.”
“Is your religion helpful to you, as a boxer?”
“‘Helpful’ . . .?”
“Does your religion inspire you?”
“Jesus is my religion. Yes, Jesus inspires me.”
“In what way?”
“Jesus is my friend. I dedicate all my fights to Jes
us, and Jesus helps me.”
Dunphy spoke proudly, passionately. This was the one thing that seemed certain to her.
“Jesus helps you. But Jesus does not help the other boxers, your opponents?”
Dunphy frowned. She had not considered this.
“Maybe. Maybe Jesus helps them. Or maybe He helps us both to do the best we can do.”
What a good answer this was! Naomi had to concede.
“So what Jesus helps you is to realize your own talent and potential. He does not sway the fight.”
“I guess not.” Dunphy seemed wary of agreeing.
“Jesus is fair-minded, he does not play favorites.”
Naomi spoke clearly and simply as if to a small child. Truly she was not being ironic now but wanting badly to know what Dawn Dunphy would say.
Dunphy surprised her by saying sharply: “Why don’t you ask Him, you want to know?”
A quick hard jab. Naomi felt the sting of the jab. Yet with a cool smile she said: “I’m afraid I am not on close speaking terms with your Jesus.”
Thinking—Take care! If you mock her god you will be mocking her.
You will not want Dunphy to know you are the enemy.
In a sudden angry voice Dunphy said: “My fights are for the glory of Jesus. So the heathen will know His name.”
Her jaw was trembling. Her fists clenched as if she’d have liked to punch someone in the face.
Saying, as if someone were defying her, or laughing at her, in a quavering voice like one in pain: “My fights are for Jesus. That is all they are for—for Jesus. If they are not for Jesus but only for me then—God will punish me, and send me to Hell.”
Why was Dunphy so upset?—why was she crying? Naomi was astonished.
It had happened so swiftly. One moment Dunphy had been proudly defiant, the other agitated, her face shining with tears.
“Is something wrong, Dawn? What is wrong? I’m sorry . . .”
Impulsively Naomi reached out as if to take Dunphy’s hand but the young woman was too quick for her and drew both hands back as one might shrink from a snake.
“I guess—I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m going now.”
A Book of American Martyrs Page 65