by Adrien Leduc
fighters.
“You’ve got him, Moshe,” said Dinardo as he and his brother stepped backwards into the crowd. “Remember what Lenny taught you.”
Remember what Lenny taught me. Cooy’s a bear. I’m a mosquito. I’m small. I have to move. Pester my opponent. Wear him down. Then move in. Two or three combos and he should hit the ground. Right jab to the chin. Left hook. Right hook. One, two, three. I can do that. I think. What if he grabs onto me?
“Then you bite him kid!” Lenny’s words echoed through him as Cooy rolled up his sleeves, a menacing sneer playing across his face.
“Take off your jacket, Moshe!” someone yelled from behind him. Was that Paolo? Jacket off. Jacket off. I’ll be able to move better.
Moshe slipped out of his jacket and cast it aside. Ten feet away, Cooy pointed to his violin case which presently sat at Peter Carlson’s feet.
“You want that back, you’d better fight me.”
Moshe ignored his opponent and glanced at the violin case. It was waiting for him to take it home. His beloved violin. Oh, how he missed it.
With a sudden rush of adrenaline Moshe rushed forwards. He knew Lenny wouldn’t approve of a sudden attack, but Lenny had also said to trust your instincts and that’s what he was doing. In an instant Moshe had closed the gap between him and Cooy and with his momentum behind him, aimed a flying right at his opponent.
Wham.
Moshe felt his fist connect with Cooy’s ear. Pain shot through his hand as his knuckles collapsed against the pudgy boy’s thick skull.
“YOU LITTLE SHIT!”
Moshe watched as Cooy bent to his knees, clutching the right side of his head.
“AGAIN, MOSHE! HIT HIM AGAIN!”
The crowd was really getting into it now - he could feel it - and all around him Moshe heard their shouts.
“AGAIN! AGAIN!”
“KICK HIS ASS, SILVERSTEIN!”
“CRUSH THAT JEW!”
“MAKE HIM PAY, MOSHE!”
All in all, more of them seemed to be cheering for him and Moshe felt his chest grow six inches larger. But Cooy was angry now and barreling down on him, fists raised high.
“You’re dead, you little shit!”
Woosh.
Moshe felt a rush of air as he ducked just in time to avoid being struck by Cooy’s left hook.
Jab to the stomach.
Cooy recoiled, taking a step backwards.
Light on the feet. Keep moving. Wear him down.
Woosh. Another miss.
Moshe danced. Backwards, forwards, side to side, ducking and weaving. Cooy, panting, followed him helplessly around the ring, aiming punch after punch yet never finding his target.
After several minutes Cooy abandoned his boxer’s stance in favour of a wrestler’s stance. Intent on tackling him, Moshe knew he had to be careful not to get caught. After dodging another punch, Moshe stopped to catch his breath. At that moment, with arms outstretched, the pudgy boy lunged at Moshe and caught him by the waist.
Wham. Jab to nose.
Cooy released him and hit the ground.
There was a round of oohs and aahs from the spectators followed by shouting:
“COME ON! GET UP!”
“MOSHE, MOSHE, HE’S OUR MAN, IF HE CAN’T DO IT, NO ONE CAN!”
“You’ve got this, man.”
Moshe recognized Dinardo’s voice.
“Wait him out a bit more then finish him. You’ve got this.”
Moshe didn’t dare turn to search the crowd for his friend. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on Cooy and watched as the pudgy boy pulled himself slowly to his feet. Blood poured from his nose and he wiped it on his shirt sleeve. His gaze moved towards Moshe and then, with a loud roar, he flew towards him, arms flailing wildly. Moshe braced himself, knowing he would have to hit his target hard and true.
“Eyes open, arms up.”
Lenny’s words echoed through him. He thought of his violin. Of his father, working day and night to pay for it. Of all the suffering and anguish Cooy and his cousin had caused him. A second later, as Cooy plowed into him, he let loose a stiff right jab. The sound of his fist connecting with the boy’s skull was deafening as they fell to the ground, Cooy on top of him.
Gasping for air, Moshe writhed and squirmed out from under the heavy boy in a panic. But he needn’t have panicked. For Cooy wasn’t moving and the crowd held their breath as Paolo Dinardo stepped into the ring and rolled the boy over with his foot.
“He’s breathing…but he’s out cold.”
Excited chatter broke out amongst the student spectators. Moshe didn’t care that he’d won. All he wanted was his violin.
“My violin,” said Moshe, moving towards Peter Carlson. The fourteen year old glared at him, as though he would be next to face off against Moshe, but one look from Paolo Dinardo and the eighth grader shifted his gaze to the violin case at his feet.
“Here,” he muttered, picking it up and tossing it in Moshe’s direction. And then it was all over. Moshe took up his violin case as several raucous students, cheering loudly, hoisted him onto their shoulders and began to chant: “MOSHE, MOSHE, HE’S OUR MAN! IF HE CAN’T DO IT, NO ONE CAN!”
- 14 -
“Stupid Valentine’s Day…”
“Why? What’s wrong with Valentine’s Day?”
It was four days later and Moshe and Dinardo sat in the library, working on a research project for social studies.
“What’s not wrong with it? Juliana wants a dozen red roses. I can’t afford a dozen red roses.”
Moshe looked off into the distance as he pondered his friend’s dilemma.
“How much do a dozen red roses cost anyway?”
“About three dollars.”
Moshe felt in his pocket for the two dollar bills his mother had given him earlier that day for lunch.
“Tell you what,” he said, taking the money from his pocket and laying it on the table, “we go to yours for lunch and I’ll give you my lunch money.”
Dinardo looked at him. “Really? For real?”
Moshe grinned. “Of course. Why not? Besides, it’s not as though I have anyone to buy a dozen red roses for.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Moshe glanced at his friend and then whirled around to see what Dinardo was looking at.
“Anna…”
“Hey, Moshe.”
“I - “
“Please. Don’t speak. I have to explain what happened at the Christmas Ball. Do you mind if we…take a walk?”
Moshe looked back at his friend.
“Don’t worry about me, man.”
“Well, here,” he said, pushing the two dollar bills towards his friend. “Take this money and buy those roses. I’ll see you at lunch.”
“Thanks. You’re a pal, Moshe.”
“Don’t mention it.”
As it turned out, Anna’s maternal grandfather, William Bates, had suffered a fatal heart attack the morning of the Ball and when Mrs. Kingsley got the call, she raced to the school to fetch Anna. Mr. Kingsley had driven them to the train station and Anna and her mother had taken the next train to Winnipeg.
There they had spent the next four weeks with family and friends, saying their goodbyes and arranging the sale and auction of the sundry items of her grandfather’s estate. By the time they’d returned to Ottawa, on the second of February, Anna had so much school work to catch up on that she locked herself in her room for an entire week, working day and night, and only coming out to eat. Though far removed from the world in her small ten foot by ten foot bedroom, she’d heard of Moshe’s fight with James Cooy. Several of her friends (many of which had been cheering for Moshe during and after the event), had told her every detail.
“I’m not really one for fighting - “
“And me neither,” Moshe had interrupted her. “I don’t want to be a violent person - “
“However,” Anna had continued as she’d pressed a finger to his lips, “James Cooy is a special case. He only under
stands violence. He used to tease me in fourth grade until I hit him over the head with my lunchbox. I was suspended for a week, but it was worth it.”
Moshe was pleased that she’d understood and even more so when she’d invited him to supper the following Saturday.
“Mother would like very much to meet you. She heard you play at the Remembrance Day ceremony and she was very impressed. Mother majored in music at university until she dropped out to get married and have my sister and I. But she’s always been fond of music and anyone who plays an instrument. So she already likes you.”
Moshe was flattered. “I’d like very much to come to yours for supper.”
“And I already told her, no pork.”
Moshe laughed. “Alright.”
“So Saturday at six?”
“I’ll be there.”
They’d parted ways then, agreeing to go for ice cream after school with Dinardo and Juliana.
- 15 -
“You’re happy for a boy who’s still got four months of school,” Marthe Silverstein chided as Moshe made his way groggily into the kitchen the following morning. “What’s got you walking on a rainbow?”
Moshe sat down at the table where he found his father’s coffee mug empty, but still warm.
“I have a girlfriend, mamma.”
“A girlfriend!?”
“Yes, mamma,” he said, helping himself to a slice of toast.
Marthe Silverstein rushed to the table and sat down. “At your age. You’re only twelve. What do you know of love?”
“I know I love Anna Kingsley.”
“An – na Keeng – slee…”
“And I know that I’m going to marry her someday.”
Marthe Silverstein burst out laughing then. “You wait until I tell your father tonight. Ooohhhh. He is going to split his sides over this.”
The woman sighed and looked at her son. “My Moshe. Twelve years old and he’s found the girl