by Jinx, Hondo
What about his new speed?
Even his agility and power had noticeably increased.
So why did Marvella look disgusted?
“Where’d you get the boost?” she said.
“Huh?”
“Ain’t nobody gets that quick overnight without a juice boost. Where’d you get it? No way a dishwasher can afford the real deal.”
It was an awkward moment.
Johnny had never been much of a liar. You want to live a good life, just tell the truth and deal with any consequences immediately. Otherwise, you end up living a lie and feeding the irrationality and unrealistic expectations of those around you.
But he couldn’t tell Marvella the truth because that would mean mentioning the game, and Paul and Annabelle had made that stipulation very clear.
If he mentioned the game, Vicarus would hurt him.
“I didn’t get a boost,” he half-lied. “Things are just clicking, I guess.”
“Just clicking, huh?”
He nodded, looking straight into her good eye.
“Well, kid, you get impatient and want things to click again, stay away from black market boosts, you feel me?”
She nodded across the room to where Rico had a new guy swatting the double-end bag. Gloria stood a short distance away, surrounded by a handful of the old dudes who always seemed to hang around the gym.
“Some trainers,” Marvella said, “they push their guys to boost up, hook them up with black market dudes, up their stats on the cheap. Don’t play with that shit, Johnny, you feel me? People get all fucked up. Go blind, start getting seizures, die. Black market boosts are bad shit, you feel me?”
He nodded.
“You’re hungry. I see that. And there ain’t nothing wrong with being hungry. You gotta be, gotta stay hungry, you want to stay in the game. Just don’t let your hunger eat you up.”
He nodded.
“Be patient, kid. Everybody says there’s no free rides in Fight Town. I’ll tell you something else. There ain’t many shortcuts, either. You gotta put in the time, develop yourself. Your body, your mind, your skills. Everything together, you feel me? What good’s all that power if your feet can’t get you close enough to touch your man? What good’s a little extra speed if it takes ten years off your life? Sometimes, you gotta wait.”
He wanted to tell her the truth because he knew she didn’t believe him. But he just nodded. “I got you.”
“Go get sparring gear and a drink of water,” she said. “Take the round and meet me at the ring, kid.”
Johnny returned the bag gloves to the gear closet and picked out a cup and some headgear.
The communal headgear was still damp with another fighter’s sweat.
Someday, when he got some money ahead, he’d buy his own headgear like Freddie did.
Speaking of Freddie and her headgear, he looked up as she climbed the ring steps for her last pre-fight sparring session.
Her opponent, Juanita Bolivar, was a red-haired, 119-pound foxgirl with a dozen open-class bouts, most of them wins.
Johnny’s heart sped up, seeing Freddie slip through the ropes.
Come on, Freddie, he thought. You got this.
He slipped into the cup then went to Jimmy’s window and asked for sparring gloves.
Jimmy took his time, distracted by a soap opera on TV, so by the time Johnny turned around, Freddie and Juanita stood with their trainers talking at the center of the ring like two opponents before a fight where the ref hadn’t bothered to show.
Johnny slung the sparring gloves over one shoulder, grabbed his mouthpiece, and headed for the water fountain.
“Looking sharp tonight, buddy,” Jobbo said from where he shadowboxed in his winter coat and cap.
By way of some reverse miracle, the journeyman had regained a ton of weight since his fight at the Arena.
Freddie, prophet to this reverse miracle, had predicted Jobbo would.
But how the hell had the guy beefed up so much in so short a time?
“I see you’re suiting up,” Jobbo said. “You want some work?”
“Yeah, I’m sparring.”
“When you gonna get in the ring with me again?”
“As soon as Marvella gives me the green light. I’m ready anytime.”
Jobbo laughed. “We’ll see about that, buddy. You let me know, all right?”
They pounded fists.
Johnny got a drink, savoring the cold water on his parched throat, then rinsed off his mouthpiece and ambled over to ringside, where he clutched the mouthpiece in his teeth, watching Freddie spar the foxgirl and rewrapping his hands, which had loosened up over the course of the workout.
Freddie and Juanita clashed in a blur of punches, their colorful tails jutting up and quivering like furry flags shaking in the wind.
Freddie’s hands were gloved lightning, faster even than the foxgirl’s, but Juanita’s defense was superhuman. She hung in the pocket, slipping and dipping, slick enough to pick off Freddie’s body shots on the points of her elbows.
Neither woman was landing much.
Freddie was getting off first, keeping Juanita on her heels. The Fox Port fighter threw counters and made a few spirited attacks, but Freddie had height and reach on her, and her feet were as quick as her hands.
Some of Juanita’s punches were connecting but not cleanly. The pro was less concerned with hitting and more concerned with not getting hit.
Rolling the sweaty wraps over his hands, Johnny turned his fists to stone. Wet wraps always go on tighter.
Up in the ring, the two fighters broke apart and Juanita started circling. Freddie pursued her, throwing fast jabs, but Juanita’s head movement was too quick.
At the bell, the foxgirl timed Freddie, slipped her jab, and rocked Freddie’s head back with a stiff counter jab.
It was the only decent punch of the round, which Freddie would’ve lost if it were being judged.
“Get up here,” Marvella told Johnny.
He climbed the stairs.
“Take her mouthpiece and give her some water.”
Freddie came over and stood in the corner with her arms on the top rope. There was no sitting down between rounds during sparring. That was only in fights.
Freddie was breathing hard, but after Johnny plucked her mouthpiece and rinsed it off over the bucket and gave her a squirt of water, Freddie got her breathing under control.
She was laser-focused on Marvella, who patted Freddie’s shoulder and showed her first smile of the night. “Nice work, Freddie. How you feel?”
“Good—but she’s too fast.”
“That’s cause you’re headhunting, baby. Forget the head, you feel me? All you gotta do is touch her with your jab, all right? Jab at the chest. She can’t move that so fast as her head.”
Freddie nodded.
Johnny gave her another shot of water.
“You got one job this round, baby,” Marvella told Freddie. “Jab the body. Slow her foxy ass down.”
Freddie nodded. Johnny put her mouthpiece back in.
She grinned at him, looking cute but ridiculous in her headgear. “Anks, Yonny,” she said through her mouthpiece.
He clapped her sweaty arm. It was hot to the touch. “Jab the body,” he echoed.
The bell rang.
This round went better. Just as Marvella said, Freddie had a lot more luck jabbing to the body.
But after Freddie landed it a few times, Juanita adapted.
Johnny saw it happen, saw Juanita take a jab to the chest, dance away, and climb onto her bicycle.
The whole dynamic of the sparring match changed in an instant. It was like a chess match when one opponent makes a breakthrough and sends a pawn-storm toward a castled king.
Earlier, Juanita had been outslicking Freddie and using her defense to set up counterpunches.
Freddie’s jab to the body had solved that puzzle, so Juanita adjusted, dancing away and flicking jabs, never setting long enough to give or take anything serious
.
The bell rang.
It was Freddie’s round.
“Better,” Marvella told Freddie, who still wasn’t winded.
The trainer turned to Johnny. “What do you think, kid? What should Freddie do this round?”
“Stick to the plan,” Johnny said. “Jab to the body but cut off the ring.”
Marvella nodded, offering another rare smile. “Good advice, kid. Freddie, give it a shot, all right? Only this time, you land the jab, drop the right on her. I’m talking pop-pop, okay? Jab to the chest, right to the head. One on top of the other. Pop-pop. Put that hand speed to work, baby, you feel me?”
Freddie nodded, grinning.
Johnny was crazy about her.
And proud of her, too, when the bell rang, and she put the plan into action.
Freddie stalked the smaller fighter, jabbing at the chest, and managed to cut off the ring a few times.
This threw off Juanita’s rhythm. Whenever that happened, she set her feet and threw a quick flurry then spun away and danced back to the center of the ring.
“What’s foxy doing?” Marvella asked him without taking her eyes off the match.
“Freddie’s jab’s messing her up. But whenever Freddie cuts off the ring, Juanita sets her feet and throws a fast combo. Just light punches. But they’re enough to stop Freddie, make her cover up. Then Juanita slips out the side door.”
Marvella nodded. “Good eyes, kid. Now, what should Freddie do about it?”
Johnny thought for a few seconds. As he pondered her question, the scenario played out again.
Freddie cut off the ring. Juanita jarred to a stop, fired a dozen slapping shots, and spun away from the ropes.
“Freddie needs to punch while Juanita’s punching,” Johnny said. “Instead of covering up when Juanita flurries, she needs to keep punching. She hits harder than Juanita.”
This earned another smile from Marvella. “That’s right. Freddie’s used to being the slick one, used to girls chasing her. But now she’s doing the chasing. She’s not used to being the aggressor. Now, she gets what she wants, she’s not sure how to finish it, you feel me? Like she probably understands she has what she wants right in front of her, but she freezes up for a second, and it’s gone.”
For the first time, Marvella looked away from the match and her good eye stared straight at Johnny. “Freddie’s ring name is Fearless, but that poor girl is full of fear, you feel me?”
He nodded.
“I keep telling her she’s got nothing to be afraid of,” the trainer said. “You feel me?”
Johnny nodded.
“You agree, kid? You agree she’s got nothing to worry about?”
And suddenly Johnny realized they were talking about more than boxing. Marvella was protecting Freddie outside the ring, too.
“I agree,” Johnny said. “She has nothing to worry about. She should go for it. She won’t regret it.”
Marvella nodded, returning her attention to the fighters. “I don’t yell so good. Holler at your girl. Tell her to punch with her.”
Johnny cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Punch with her, Freddie! Don’t cover up. She throws, you throw. She’s right in front of you.”
A few seconds later, the 30-second buzzer rang.
Freddie cut off the ring. Juanita started to flurry.
Instead of covering up, Freddie tucked her chin and threw her own punches.
Both fighters landed shots, but Freddie got the best of it.
Juanita finally extricated herself and spent the remaining seconds racing around the ring, staying well away from Freddie, who had solved her puzzle.
For tonight, anyway.
But Juanita was talented and experienced. Before they sparred again, she would switch things up.
Because that’s what good fighters did, Johnny was coming to realize. They were more than just stats and luck.
Good fighters adapted between fights.
The best fighters even adapted during fights.
The bell rang, the girls touched gloves, and Juanita left the ring as Freddie’s next opponent, a sturdy 132-pounder with a few fights came through the ropes.
“Not bad,” Marvella told Freddie. “Good adjustment at the end.”
Freddie grinned at Johnny. She was feeling good, he knew. Her weight was on point, and she’d just bested a more experienced opponent.
He smiled back and gave her some water.
“Now this next girl,” Marvella said. “She’s not so slick but she can punch a little bit.”
Chapter 37
The next few days flew by.
On Marvella’s orders, Freddie started slacking off at the gym, but she still got up to run and train with Johnny.
He loved it but told her to do what she had to do. The last thing he wanted was her overtraining on fight week, missing sleep, and not being ready for her big match.
“Don’t worry about me, Johnny,” Freddie said. “It’s sweet, but I’m good. Day of the fight, I’ll sleep in a bit. Other than that, though, I want to stick to our schedule. Besides, I don’t want you to get impatient and start looking for a new partner.”
“No chance. You and me, Freddie. All the way to the top, right?”
Freddie beamed. “Right. Champs together.”
Johnny’s training went in the opposite direction. Marvella worked him harder than ever, especially in the ring. If he kept pushing, kept progressing, she would get him on a fight card the following month.
Monday night, he sparred three rounds with Malik, an open-class middleweight.
Malik was fast and cracked pretty good for a 165-pounder. He definitely out-landed Johnny, but Johnny hung in there and had a few good moments. His biggest problems were his agility, defensive liabilities, and endurance.
Between the second and third round, sucking wind, he triggered his 3-minute Endurance Stat Boost, 25%. It made a huge difference, removing Johnny’s second opponent—fatigue—and allowing him to match his skills with Malik’s.
The middleweight still won the round, but Johnny landed his share and made the open-class fighter back up. When the final bell rang, despite having lost, he felt triumphant.
And deeply, deeply exhausted when the boost wore off a few seconds later.
It was all he could do to get down the steps.
But he was still pumped. Because over time, he would build up his conditioning, speed, agility, and skills. His confidence surged. He had hung with an open-class fighter.
Tuesday night, he sparred with a light-heavyweight novice visiting from a gym in another neighborhood.
“This is different,” Marvella told Johnny as she smoothed Vaseline over his face. “You feel it?”
He nodded.
“This boy’s coming from enemy territory. He comes in here, looking to piss in your gym, you feel me? You and this kid, you might end up fighting someday. It ain’t war. I’m not saying it’s war. But let’s give him something to remember you by.”
Johnny chomped down on his mouthpiece and breathed in deeply through his nostrils. He felt good. Excited.
Normally, Marvella stressed the importance of sparring etiquette. You hurt somebody, you backed off, let them recover.
But tonight, with this guy coming in from Tiger Square, it was different.
Johnny rolled his shoulders, feeling free.
The bell rang.
Fifteen seconds into the first round, Johnny broke the kid’s nose with a power jab.
Marvella told him to back off, and he did, but when the other guy came charging in, a bloody snarl splitting the delta of gore draining from his ruined nose, Johnny threw a short right and put the kid on his ass.
That was enough for the Tiger Square crew.
“Stay in the ring,” Marvella told Johnny.
Next, Johnny sparred Clarence, a smaller 8th Street heavyweight with a few fights who hoped to win the novice city championship this December then get serious and cut down to cruiserweight for the open class an
d beyond.
“Boy’s got you by thirty pounds,” Marvella whispered before the match, “but he’s soft. Move on him. Make him burn up gas chasing you, you feel me? Use your jab, then go to the body. He don’t like it in the breadbasket.”
“Let’s see a little razzle dazzle, Johnny,” Freddie said with a grin.
Clarence could punch but he was slow. Johnny stuck to the outside, working his jab and keeping the angle on him.
Every time Clarence turned to square up with him, Johnny threw a long right to the bigger man’s body.
These shots landed with authority. Johnny’s fist sunk into the man’s soft gut like he was beating on old heavy bag with loose stuffing.
Marvella was right.
Clarence hunched with every body shot. He got slower and slower, and by the end of the session, Johnny was able to go upstairs, tacking on a hook and a second right hand before getting outside again.
He won all three rounds. Things were really coming together.
Meanwhile, life outside the gym was great.
He loved his time with Freddie. Running still sucked, but he told himself every run built up his endurance, which he needed for fighting.
He applied the same logic to all sorts of things, from lifting stuff at work to running up the steps to his room at the Oasis to paying extra for cult coffee and cult food each morning.
Fierce competitors that they were, Johnny and Freddie both got better at chess, going back and forth with wins and draws, though Johnny usually edged her out.
During meditation, Freddie spent less time coaching him and more time readying her mind and body for the upcoming fight.
Johnny dove into his grid and got busy clearing streets with all the workmanlike doggedness he’d built up mixing mortar, hammering out the mixer, and laying brick.
Each day he opened more of his grid. Usually, he found the obstruction and simply crushed it, using his will like a wrecking ball. As the week went on, he found he was able to strengthen the flow of juice on any given street and use that streaming torrent to blow through minor obstructions.
After these small victories, he rewarded himself by stealthily opening one eye and staring in near awe at his partner as she meditated.
Freddie was beautiful. Tough, too. Smart, reliable, funny, and kind. She was the perfect match for him both as a training partner and, he hoped, much more beside.