by Jinx, Hondo
This time, he really threw the jab. His left fist smashed into the mitt with a loud thump-smack.
Marvella nodded. “Better. Give me a right.”
He hammered her other mitt then plodded after her as she danced away, beckoning him to follow.
Strangely, her limp had completely disappeared. She moved smoothly, rocking and feinting like Freddie, suddenly fluid, as if she’d never needed a cane.
He threw another jab. Then another. Then another, following her around the ring and punching when she told him to punch.
“Your footwork sucks. What are you, a robot? You move like a robot. Jab.”
She glided around the ring, moving smoothly, catching his punches as easily as a burly man with tons of experience.
Her transformation was mind-boggling, but Johnny was too focused on landing his shots to give it much thought.
“Give me a right.”
Johnny drilled the mitt. The punch echoed off the high ceiling.
Marvella held up both hands. “One-two.”
Johnny gave her a left-right combination.
Then she was moving again, dancing fluidly away from him. Johnny trudged after her.
“You don’t even know how to cut off the ring, do you?”
Johnny shrugged.
Marvella shook her head in disgust. “Give me a jab. All right. Double it up now. Again. Now step to your right so I have to come back this way.”
She turned her left mitt. “Hook.”
He threw a looping left.
“You call that a hook? Like this. Tighten it up. The hook comes from the shoulder. Yeah. Pivot the front foot. Twist it like you’re grinding out a cigarette. That’s it. Better. Gonna use that to walk people down.”
Halfway through the round, Marvella quit moving and stood at the center of the ring, calling and catching combinations.
The more Johnny threw, the more confident he felt. Not only in himself but also in Marvella’s ability to catch his hardest shots. Cane or no cane, limp or no limp, she handled his hardest rights and hooks with ease.
And he was really throwing them now, slamming away with both fists as soon as she gave a command.
“Jab. One-two. One-two-hook. Don’t rush it. Throw the right all the way, don’t pull it. That’s it. Let it load up that left hook. One-two-hook. Better. Now put a right hand on the end, you feel me? That’ll put you back on balance after that big hook. Now jab out and find your angle.”
The thirty-second buzzer rang, and the timer light turned from green to yellow.
Marvella clapped the mitts together. “Thirty seconds, kid. Show me what you got. Punch as fast as you can, as hard as you can.”
Breathing hard, Johnny squared his shoulders and hammered the mitts, giving it everything he had, pushing through the exhaustion and twisting with every shot, grunting like a beast, his punches cracking like rifle shots.
The bell rang.
Marvella dropped her mitts and turned away. “Not horrible. But sloppy.”
Johnny gasped for air, feeling like he’d sprinted a mile. It was only then, trying to catch his breath, that he realized people around the gym were staring at him.
There were whispers but no laughter. Jobbo stood by his bag, throwing hooks in the air, grinning a little.
Nearby, Rico and Gloria leaned close, eyeing Johnny and whispering, Gloria fanning her flushed cheeks with one hand.
Over by the double-end bag, Freddie caught Johnny’s eye. A huge grin filled the hood of her sweatshirt. She gave him two enthusiastic thumbs-up.
“That’s enough for tonight,” Marvella said, dropping the mitts into her bag. Then she helped him pull off his gloves. “Get out of the ring and let some real boxers use it.”
She dropped the gloves in the bag and slung it over one shoulder and grabbed her cane. As soon as the cane was back in her hand, the limp returned.
Johnny went over and held the ropes for her, and they descended the stairs, making way for the next sparring session.
“Take off your wraps,” Marvella said. “You’re done punching stuff today. Take those wraps home and wash them. Warm water, a little detergent. Hand washing is easier. They get all tangled up in a washer. Then hang them up to dry. Otherwise, they’ll stink.”
“All right.”
She studied him for a second. “Where did you fight before?”
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere?”
Johnny shook his head.
“What are you, then, a wrestler? A football player?”
“Not really.” He’d wrestled as a kid and played some football in high school, but all of that was behind him. He was starting over here in this Vicarus world. “I’m a bricklayer. Well, I used to be a bricklayer. Now, I guess I’m a dishwasher.”
Marvella adjusted her eye patch and allowed a slight grin. “Really moving up in the world, huh?”
“Yeah,” he laughed.
“Why does a kid who can make two bucks an hour laying brick wash dishes for half the money?”
He shrugged. “I’m new in town.”
“New in town.”
He nodded.
Her good eye studied him for several silent seconds. “You never had any juice treatments?”
Puzzled, he shook his head.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you, kid?”
Again, he shook his head.
Her laughter was full of contempt. “What are you, a country boy? You come out of the farmlands?”
I’m from Philly, he thought, but remembering his role here, he nodded. “Place called Livingston. Little factory town on the river. You heard of it?”
She shook her head. “Sounds like a shithole.”
He shrugged.
“So you just got here? Just fell off the turnip truck?”
“Yup. Just got here yesterday. My name’s—”
“Don’t bother, kid. You’ll quit soon enough.”
“No, I won’t.”
The bell rang.
Now, she half turned, not looking at him so much as through him, as if she were staring not only at Johnny but also at a long line of fighters who’d already come and gone. “Yeah, you will. Everybody quits.”
He scowled back at her. “I won’t.”
“Not you, huh? That’s what they all say. Why do you want to box?”
He shrugged. “Money.”
“Money. Everybody wants money. And yeah, if you don’t need money, you’ll never make it out of the amateurs. But what’s your real reason? Don’t bullshit me, kid. I want the truth.”
He thought about that for a second. Why was he here?
Originally, he’d come into the gym because he thought the Vicarus people wanted him to—and because he thought it might be fun.
But getting mugged by Jobbo hadn’t been fun.
So why was he back?
He remembered the end of the round, nailing Jobbo, feeling the shot rock him, and remembered the look of dismay on Jobbo’s face as he’d stumbled backwards. That single punch had changed everything. He’d hurt Jobbo, hurt him bad. Jobbo was his for the taking—but then the bell had rung, and it was over.
Johnny hadn’t come back despite the beating; he’d come back because of it.
“I want to kick Jobbo’s ass. I want to knock him out.”
One corner of Marvella’s mouth curled slightly upward in an almost grin. “All right, kid. Good answer. A dumb answer. Dumb as hell. But good. You know why? Because I believe you.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s a start. Some people come in here, never laced up in their life, tell me they want to be champ, like it’s something you just decide, as easy as buying a shirt or changing your hair color. Other people say they want to prove themselves. I say to who? They say to themselves. I tell them, they want to prove themselves, go climb a fucking mountain.”
Behind them, another sparring session was getting underway, a pair of lean guys circling cagily, exchanging crisp jabs.
> “This sport, it’s no joke,” Marvella said. “It’s not a substitute for anything, you understand? It’s primal. So your motivations, they need to be primal, too. Like getting some back on Jobbo. That’ll work for now. Of course, I’m not letting you in that ring again until you earn it, you understand. And I gotta say, you set your sights pretty high, kid. Don’t let Jobbo’s gut fool you. He’ll lose it. Then a week later, it’ll be back again. But he’s a pro, a journeyman. You got a long way to go before you’ll ever be ready for a guy like Jobbo. If you ever are. You feel me?”
“I understand.”
“You think you understand, but you got no idea. Nobody knows shit about boxing, what it costs, when they start, or they’d never step foot inside a gym. You hate Jobbo?”
Johnny shrugged. “No, but—”
“He beat you. Made you look like a sucker and a punk. You hate him.”
Johnny shook his head. “No. But I hate losing.”
“It burns, don’t it?”
He nodded. “I hate losing more than I love winning.”
“But you want payback, right?”
“I do. More than anything. I want to knock Jobbo out.”
“You want to avenge that sparring match? Forget Jobbo. Go after your stupidity. That’s who really wrecked you. Jobbo was just being Jobbo, you feel me? You’re stupidity stabbed you in the back, made you look stupid in front of all those people.”
“I did all right in there.”
“You got your ass handed to you, plain and simple. You want to fight, you need more than juice. And learning how to do it, learning how to fight? That’s not enough, either. Anybody can learn to throw a punch. Right now, you just need a reason to fight. But eventually, you’re gonna hit the wall. And then you’re gonna need a reason to keep fighting. And that’s a whole different beast. You feel me?”
He nodded.
“That reason will have to come from here.” She thumped his chest. “It can’t come from up here.” She rapped his skull. “You can’t think your way to the title, kid. You gotta have a white-hot fire in your heart. Some people fight because they have to be the best. Being number one, winning the title, means more to them than breathing. Other people, more than you’d think, people like Freddie—and she’s a beautiful fighter, beautiful, fast hands, good feet, real talent, and a good kid, too—they fight because they’re scared.”
That surprised Johnny. Freddie sure didn’t seem scared.
Marvella pointed her cane at him. “Right now, you got a little anger in you.”
Johnny said nothing, but Marvella was wrong. He’d never been an angry guy. Not really. He had lots of friends, and people always said how easy going he was. Sure, a couple times he’d snapped but never without good reason. He was more of a long fuse, big explosion type, not what you’d call an angry guy.
But what the hell? If she wanted to think he was a candidate for anger management, so be it. He just wanted her to teach him how to whip Jobbo. Because that much was true. He wanted payback.
And his Vicarus riders would crave it, too.
“You think you’re mad at Jobbo, but you’re mad at yourself for falling into his trap. You want him to take you seriously. You want everybody to take you seriously.”
Johnny grinned. “That’s true.”
“Well, you gotta earn that shit. So for now, stay angry. Some trainers, they say you can’t fight if you’re angry. That anger makes you tense and stupid, makes you take too many risks and get tired too fast. They say you gotta let go of your anger. That’s bullshit. You can’t control emotions. You gotta use whatever you got. I’ve known plenty of angry fighters. Hell, I was one myself. But you gotta get up on that anger and ride it or it’ll ride you all night. I mean, it’ll dog you deep and dirty. You feel me?”
“Yeah.”
“You let anger use you, it’ll eat you up, bones and all. You gotta use it instead. You learn to do that, you’ll be all right. So don’t listen to these assholes who say to control your emotions, your anger. Embrace your anger. But don’t start any shit with Jobbo. Not till you can finish it. And that’s a long time off.”
Johnny frowned, remembering how he’d staggered Jobbo.
“Don’t look at me that way, kid. I’m telling you. You want to work with me, you got a long road before you get another shot at Jobbo. In the meantime, stay angry. Every time you see Jobbo, remember how he punked you out and beat your ass in front of everybody, like you’re some kind of joke. Don’t let your anger show, but let it grow.”
As she talked, Johnny felt anger burning higher in his chest.
“Then, someday, if you stick with it long enough to hit the wall, we’ll figure out why you’re really here and whether you really got what it takes to be a fighter.” Marvella looked him in the eyes. “You feel me, kid?”
“Yeah, I get what you’re saying. I’ll work hard. Just tell me what to do.”
“For now, just shut your mouth and do the work. Most people, they can’t do that. They think they can. They want to. They come in all fired up, ready to whip the world, but a week or two later, they get sore and tired and forget why they wanted to do this in the first place. They see their friends cruising on Easy Street, fucking around, living it up, and they think to themselves, The hell am I doing, cutting weight and getting up early to run?
“That’s the shit that’ll get you. Not the punches. All that in-between shit. Boxing is a lonely-ass sport, kid, and if you can quit now, you’re better off quitting than ever starting in the first place. But some people, they have a fire in them, and they can’t quit. No matter what. Maybe you’re one of them, maybe you aren’t. We’ll see. For now, though, you put in the work. You like to party?”
He shrugged. “Some.”
“No more partying. No getting drunk, no smoking, no drugs.”
“All right.”
“You can’t half-step in boxing. You gotta go all in. You got no teammates to save your ass if you have an off day or don’t work hard enough outside the ring. You gotta get control of your life. How you live, what you do, how you think, everything. You work hard, eat right, stay away from that fast life, you feel me?”
He nodded.
“You come to the gym six, seven days a week. Go to bed early then get up at four in the morning and run while everyone else is asleep.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Why so early?”
“Because I said so, that’s why. Listen, kid, if you don’t have the balls to get up at four, there’s no way you’ll make it in the ring.”
He spread his hands. “All right. I’ll get up at four.”
“Do your roadwork early. Get it out of the way. Eat a good breakfast. No bullshit. No donuts, no pastries, no junk cereal. You want eggs and fruit, avocado and meat, a big heap of greens. Eat a lot of greens. They keep your nose from bleeding. Have a light lunch. No pizza or cheesesteaks, not too much grease, you feel me? Then not another morsel until after the gym. I don’t want you puking on the canvas.”
He nodded.
“Cut back on sugar and flour. That shit’s poison. Eat stuff that used to be alive. Plants, meat, nuts, fruit. That’ll get you started. We’ll fine tune things and max your juice later if you’re still here in a couple of weeks, you feel me? But I don’t waste my time with quitters. You can punch a little bit, but you still gotta show me you got heart and can listen. Now go over there on that crunch board and do some sit-ups.”
“All right. How many do I do?”
“How many do you do?” Marvella said, half-grinning again. “All of them. You just keep going until you can’t go no more. Then I’ll come over. I don’t start counting until you start cramping.”
Chapter 14
Johnny’s alarm went off at a quarter to four in the morning. He rolled out of bed and took a leak and put on shoes and grabbed his sweatshirt and went out the door, having slept in his shorts and t-shirt and socks.
It was dark and cool. Here and there, lights burned in a few of the motel rooms, likel
y people still partying from the night before.
He went downstairs and stretched beside the empty pool, taking deep breaths and holding them, the rush of oxygen and the cool air waking him up.
He walked out to 8th.
The street was empty save for the buzzing, blinking neon signs, everybody with a brain in their skulls still sleeping, it being the middle of the frigging night and all.
But Marvella said run at four, so Johnny would run at four.
He walked to the end of the block then started jogging, shuffling slowly at first, his body coming to life slowly like a car on a cold winter’s morning.
He coughed and spat into the street and stepped it up a little, breathing in through his nose as he turned down Tyson Lane and trotted down the narrow street lined in brownstone rowhouses.
He ran, cursing the hour and Marvella and boxing, wishing he could head home and hit the rack and knowing he could if he really wanted to. That was the worst of it. Here he was, running while the rest of the world slept, running while Marvella slept and the crowd slept and even his opponent slept, out here at this ungodly hour, running when he should be asleep, and there was no one even here to know whether he was doing it or not.
He could just go home and go back to sleep and then, when he saw Marvella at the gym, he could say, “Run? Sure, I went for a run. It was great!”
But he couldn’t. And wouldn’t.
Running faster, he could feel Marvella all around him, watching with that patented look on her face, the one that somehow managed to blend boredom and contempt, like she had X-ray vision that spotted only lies and weakness.
She would know, he told himself, turning onto twelfth and heading west. She would know if I bagged the run.
That was bad enough. But worse was the realization, as he warmed up and found his rhythm, sailing over the sidewalk with longer strides, breathing in the fresh morning air, that Marvella actually wouldn’t know. She had no magical powers, no cameras hidden along his route, no spies.
Shit, if she did have any spies, they would all be asleep.
Just like everybody else in the world… except him.
His dumb ass was out here running at four in the fucking morning.