by Jinx, Hondo
His battered face lit up at the sight of them. “Hey, Freddie. Hey, buddy.”
They all pounded it, Jobbo sloshing some beer onto Johnny’s fist.
“Good fight,” Johnny said. “Close one.”
Jobbo shrugged. “Almost got him.”
“Same old Jobbo,” Freddie said, pointing to his rapidly disappearing cheesesteak. “Why don’t you lay off that shit and go down a weight class or three?”
Jobbo made a face. “I’ll let these assholes pound my face for a payday. But quit eating? Fuck that. I’m a bear, Freddie, not some tiny-ass catgirl.”
He crammed the rest of the steak into his mouth and somehow managed to swallow it all.
“Are you a bear or a boa?” Freddie laughed. “Catch you later, Jobbo.”
“Later, guys. See you at the gym.” Turning back toward Cheesesteak Depot, he said, “Time for round two!”
Johnny and Freddie headed back to their seats just in time to catch the main event.
After the first round, the highly anticipated bout unfortunately looked like it was shaping up to be a stinker.
Sammy “The Pride of Deer Park” Prince was several years younger than “Hammering” Hank Harper, an aging slugger from the Ward with heavy shoulders and a head like an onion.
Freddie shook her head sadly. “I remember when Harper’s agility, endurance, and speed were all over 70. Sucks watching fighters get old. I hope I can make my money and get out of the game, you know? That’s the dream.”
Prince was taller than Harper, too, with a three-inch reach advantage that he had clearly learned to use since their second fight, which the younger man had barely won on points, avenging his loss in the first matchup two years earlier, when Harper, still undefeated at that point, had won a hard-fought but well-deserved split decision.
But the fighters’ careers were clearly on divergent paths.
Prince, a rangy fighter with a world-class jab, wasn’t just younger; his style had also protected him from much of the damage the slugger had accrued over the years.
Earlier in his career, Freddie explained, Harper had been an explosive puncher with legs like coiled springs.
Now thirty-three years old, balding, and battle-scarred, the puncher merely plodded forward, catching shots as he tried in vain to land the big punch that the mortified crowd from the Ward began to suspect might have left him, too.
Because Harper’s legs were clearly gone, and by the middle rounds, he was cut and bleeding, breathing through an open mouth, and missing badly, one time winging a hook with such misplaced violence that he missed Prince by a foot, spun halfway around, and slipped to the canvas.
Prince spent the first half of the fight on his bicycle, working his jab and pot-shotting Harper from middle range.
But after the fifth, Prince stepped it up, hanging in the pocket and slipping punches to punish the older fighter with vicious counterpunches.
The Ward booed Prince as he taunted their fighter, sticking his chin out and shimmying his hips as he kissed his biceps after staggering the slugger with a crisp, eight-punch combination.
Over the course of those ten brutal rounds, Harper took one hell of a beating but pressed doggedly on, banging away at Prince’s ribs with hooks, and in the tenth and final round after having lost every minute of the fight, Harper finally came upstairs with a blistering hook that dropped Prince to the canvas.
Harper shook a fist over his head and hurried into the neutral corner, and the ref leaned over the fallen man, counting loudly.
Prince pawed at the ropes, trying to get to his feet, but his legs were shot, and the ref counted him out with less than half a minute remaining in the fight.
The place went wild.
Johnny had never heard such noise; 150,000 fans jumping up and down and hugging each other and screaming at the tops of their lungs. The air vibrated with the deafening roar of the crowd as the streaming ads disappeared overhead and the Arena’s vast ceiling became a single screen displaying a slow-motion replay of Harper’s crushing hook, Prince’s head spinning around, and the cocky fighter dropping like a felled tree. The crowd pointed skyward and cried out in ecstasy.
Harper stared up with them, gaping mouth grinning, watching the gigantic replay with all the rapt attention of a man worshipping at the altar of a god he thought had forsaken him.
There was something in that stare and smile that rattled Johnny almost as deeply as the night’s death had.
Make your money and get out of the game, he thought, latching onto Freddie’s dream.
Freddie tugged on Johnny’s arm and pulled his head down and spoke directly in his ear to be heard over the excited crowd. He thrilled at the feel of her lips so close to his earlobe and the warmth of her breath on his cheek.
“Come on, Johnny. Let’s get out of here before they quit replaying the knockout, or we’ll get stuck in the mass exodus. You ready?”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning down to speak directly into her ear. “Quarter to four comes early.”
Freddie shivered at the proximity of his lips, and goosebumps rose along her toned arm, which he took in his, leading her out of the row, past cheering fans, down the steps, and across the concession area toward the exit.
Chapter 26
After the fights, he came home to find his laundered clothes folded neatly on his bed and his freshly pressed suit pants hanging in the closet.
It was a little weird knowing Millie had invaded his room, but he felt better when he discovered the note she’d left on the nightstand.
Thanks again for the generous tip, Johnny. You are proof that good people do exist!
I apologize if I acted strangely last night. Honestly, I just didn’t understand your generosity. No one has ever been so kind to me.
Thank you, Johnny!
Fondly,
Millie
Beside the note squatted an origami rabbit with pointy ears.
Johnny grinned, happy the girl had relaxed and accepted the gift for what it was. Maybe now he could help her at least escape dumpster diving.
And who knew? Sometimes, all it takes for people to overcome a bad life is one step in the right direction.
Johnny showered and hit the rack then tossed and turned for an hour, remembering the fights, the death of the fighter, and most of all, the wonderful time he’d had with Freddie.
A second later, he felt a twinge of unease.
After her next fight, Freddie would enter the open class. And then, eventually, the pros.
And there would be a lot more on the line than just a sign-on bonus. As he pictured the frowning medics carrying the dead man out of the ring, his gut tightened. He hated the idea of Freddie getting punched, let alone hurt or even…
No. It was too terrible to consider.
Boxing was her choice, though, not his. He would never try to talk her out of it. But he sure as hell would push her hard and help her to be the best she could be.
Holding hands had been great. So had the feel of her head on his shoulder.
He hoped they would get closer and share more. Waiting would be tough, but she was worth it.
At some point, he finally fell asleep.
Then, what seemed like fifteen minutes later, his alarm buzzed him awake.
A tiny figure waited for him outside of the gym. Two purple braids snaked from the shadowy hood of her gray sweatshirt.
Half asleep, they muttered groggy good mornings and started jogging down 8th.
By the end of the three-mile run, they ran smoothly with matching strides, both of them wide awake.
“Come on,” Freddie said, leading him into Coffee & Chess, a hole-in-the-wall shop on Arguello Avenue. “My treat.”
She splurged, buying large cult coffees, and borrowed a battered chess set.
“Want anything to eat?” Johnny asked, pulling a wad of bills from his pocket.
“Nah. It would just make us sleepy. You nod off during meditation, I throw you off the roof.”
“W
ow, I thought Marvella was tough.” Then he watched her remove her lid and pour cream into her cup. “Ugh—what are you doing to that poor coffee?”
“What?” Freddie said, continuing to pour.
“It was beautiful. Now it looks like you filled your cup at a mud puddle.”
Freddie stuck out her tongue. “Don’t judge me. You should’ve seen me before Marvella laid down the law. My coffee was half sugar.” She smiled wistfully. “Those were the days. I lived on sugar. Which is why I’m so sweet, of course.”
Johnny lifted his cup, sampled the liquid midnight, and smacked his lips. “I’ll just stay bitter.”
They found a seat near the front window and sipped their coffee, talking as they played three games of chess.
Freddie won the first two games easily.
“This is the first time I’ve played in years,” Johnny said. He and his brothers used to play chess to decide all sorts of things, from who got the top bunk to who had to pick up dog shit.
“Excuses.”
By the third game, it was coming back to him. He pushed her right to the edge. “Next time we play, I’ll kick your ass.”
“Big talk from a guy who’s 0-3 on the board. Want to put a little wager on it?”
“Sure. If I win, you have to kiss me.”
She smirked at him. “Nope. I don’t trust myself. Some part of my brain might lose on purpose. I’ve got it. Whoever loses has to drink coffee the same way the winner does.”
“Weak-ass bet.”
“Take it or leave it, punk.”
“Heh. Deal. Next time, prepare to enjoy real coffee.”
Freddie laughed.
With the cult coffee warming their bodies, they went up to the roof and meditated as the sun came up.
First, they cleared their minds. Then, they synced their breathing.
This time, Johnny went deeper.
Freddie taught him to locate his grid. It was strange. At first, he simply felt his energy. But with her help, he began to sense what she described: a complicated web of miniature pathways running through his entire body like the streets of a sprawling metropolis.
Here and there, his juice zoomed along the grid like cars upon streets. In other spots, pockets of juice paused like cars parked along streets. In other places—especially his lungs—these juice-cars crammed together in traffic jams.
He mentioned this to Freddie when they were finished and just sitting there with light of the rising sun warm upon their faces.
“Yeah, I noticed you get winded easy. Good news is endurance is the easiest stat to improve. Over time, we’ll open your streets and get your juice running smoothly.”
For breakfast, Freddie took him to El Gallo Gordo, the best taco truck in town, where they ordered massive, cult-style breakfast tacos for 50 cents apiece.
They ate on a bench, groaning with pleasure through big mouthfuls of flour tortilla, scrambled egg, shredded cheese, finely diced potato, bacon, and brisket—yes, bacon and brisket—all of it seasoned to perfection.
Around them, Fight Town was coming to life. It being Sunday, the street vendors were absent, most of the shops remained closed, and the businessmen in their sharp suits and women in their summer dresses were nowhere to be seen, but food places were open, men were selling papers on the corner, and more and more people appeared on the sidewalks, drifting lazily along, sipping coffee and talking quietly. Everything had a pleasant, sleepy feel to it.
“Thanks for telling me about El Gallo Gordo,” Johnny said after polishing off a second, equally glorious breakfast taco. “That was… life changing.”
Freddie laughed. “An appropriate reaction. You gonna walk me home or what? I gotta get a shower and be at the pool by eight.”
“Want me to scrub your back for you?” Johnny asked.
Freddie rolled her eyes. “Mom would love that. At least your blood would wash down the drain.”
“Well, we can’t have that. I need my blood for training. Catch you later, Freddie. See you at the gym tonight?”
“You know it. And hey, Johnny? Thanks. This was fun. I think I’m going to like training with you.”
At work, everybody busted his balls.
“Look, Johnny!” Ginny giggled. “You’re famous!”
“Front page,” Jerome laughed. “You’re really moving up in the world!”
New Exhibitionist Statue in the Ward! the headline read. Below, Johnny stood before the tree, eyes half-closed, a goofy smile on his face as he gave a thumbs-up and pointed toward the little statue.
“They wrote about you,” Ginny said. “They even quoted you.”
She pointed to the section.
Reading it, Johnny frowned.
Up-and-coming boxer Johnny Rockledge, 21, of the Ward says the Exhibitionist is definitely a male. “Trust me,” Rockledge, who called himself “someone to watch for in the fight game,” told reporters, “the Exhibitionist is a dude. I happen to know that as a fact.” When pressed for an explanation, the elusive Mr. Rockledge declined to further comment.
“That’s bullshit,” Johnny said, glaring at the paper. “I never said any of that.”
“Watch out, Orlando,” Jerome joked from beneath his tall, white chef hat. “We got an up-and-coming boxer here.”
Orlando smiled easily. Everyone had given him a hero’s welcome after his win the night before. His face barely had a mark on it. “Don’t listen to them, Johnny. And never trust anything you read in a newspaper. These reporters say whatever they need to say to sell more copies.”
Later, during his lunch break, Johnny sat on a milk crate in the alley behind the diner, eating a turkey sandwich and finished reading the article.
Apparently, the Exhibitionist had been delighting and mystifying Fight Town for over a year now. Every month or two a piece of art would appear. And it wasn’t just statues. Apparently, the artist, who signed every piece “The Exhibitionist” in tiny script, painted and worked in ceramics, too.
All of Fight Town was fascinated by the Exhibitionist.
The Fight Town Tribune offered a 100-dollar reward to anyone providing the identity of the artist and twice that to the Exhibitionist if he or she stepped forward.
Johnny had heard of mysterious street artists back in his old life, super talented people who would occasionally leave little masterpieces around their city.
It was cool but made no sense.
Then again, most people probably thought the same thing about boxing.
In that sense, he identified with the Exhibitionist.
Because both of them had discovered the secret to true happiness: find something you love and give it your all, public opinion be damned.
Chapter 27
Marvella moved across the canvas as smoothly as a scowling ballerina. She wore the mitts but hadn’t raised them yet.
“That’s it. Nice and easy now. Keep rocking. Not too much. No bouncing. You bounce, he hits you, you’re stuck. He can time a bounce, use it against opponents, you feel me?”
Johnny nodded, keeping his wrapped fists close to his head.
He had already shadowboxed, jumped rope, and worked out on the double-end bag, heavy bag, uppercut bag, and speed bag, completing three rounds at each station. Through most of it, Freddie was at his side, and they had agreed to do stairs together at the end, regardless of how many flights each fighter racked up.
They were in this together.
“Everything’s about rhythm,” Marvella said. “Just rock, okay? Back and forth, nice and easy. Come ahead now. Baby steps. Find your rhythm. That’s it. Move your head. Move your hands, too. Keep them in position. Don’t go dipping back and forth behind them. You’re fighting, not playing peek-a-boo.”
Marvella demonstrated, bringing the mitts up to her face and moving her head side to side, slipping invisible punches.
“Rock back now. Push off that back foot and jab. That’s it. Let me hear your breath.”
Johnny rocked back and stepped, snapping out a jab and exhaling t
hrough his nose.
“All right. That’s it. Step a little bit more with it. Not much. All right. Good work, good work. Again. Quit dropping your right hand when you jab. You want to catch a counter hook? No? Then knock that shit off.”
Johnny nodded, jabbing the air and keeping his right hand plastered to the side of his head.
“Bad habits are hard to break while you’re sparring, let alone fighting. Cast them off now in the gym, before it’s too late, you feel me?”
Johnny nodded.
“And you get in there with a jabber, bring your right hand around the front of your face when you throw your jab. Don’t just stand there eating punches all night.”
She demonstrated then held up the punch mitts. “Jab.”
Johnny’s punch cracked loudly off the mitt. It felt—and sounded—good.
“Jab.”
They moved around the ring, Marvella calling out punches and combinations, Johnny throwing with bad intentions.
Despite getting up early to work out and then working all day, he felt strong. His breathing was labored, but his punches remained crisp. He landed shots from new angles, cracking the mitts loudly.
They kept it up for three rounds. At the end, he was breathing hard, but he could’ve struggled through another round.
Progress.
“Not bad,” Marvella said without smiling as she pulled off the mitts and went back to her cane and limp. “You’re punching harder. But you’re still dropping the right hand when you jab. What are you, lazy or suicidal?”
“I’ll stop dropping it.”
“Not until you catch a hook. I can tell you’re a hammerhead. Guys like you, you come in here thinking you can fight, and maybe you can a little, but the thing is you don’t listen, you never fucking learn until you pay the price, you feel me?”
“I’ll work on it.”
“Get in front of the mirror,” Marvella said, pointing toward the front of the gym. “Watch yourself as you shadowbox. You drop that right hand, make a mental note. Keep count in your head how many times you drop it. That’s how many sets of steps you do at the end, you feel me?”