The Contender

by Robert Lipsyte

  “It’s a long road, Alfred.”

  “Huh?” The car was parked in front of Henry’s house, and Spoon was smiling at him.

  “It’s all right. I still have daydreams about what might have been.” Spoon offered his hand. “Nice meeting you, Alfred, and seeing you again, Henry.”

  “You’ll be coming up the gym?” asked Alfred.

  “I’ll be there. Good night.”

  “Good night. Thanks for the ride.”

  The car pulled away, and Henry tugged at his sleeve. “Want to sit on the stoop for a while?”

  “I got to run tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Well, take it easy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Alfred took a few steps, then turned. “Henry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Henry, I want to…uh, well, thanks a lot, Henry, you and your father, too, for carrying me home that night.”

  Henry’s thin face beamed. “Oh, sure, man, that’s all right. You got KO’d, right? Can’t win ’em all.”

  “Thanks.”

  He walked fast, in a hurry to get into bed and play the whole day back in his mind. The policemen on the corner raised their eyebrows at him, smiling and nodding like that, and the people on the stoop he waved to looked at each other, but Joe Louis had a good word for everybody and Sugar Ray and Cassius were men enough to be sweet. He started to say hello to the three boys standing in front of his stoop, but the word died in his throat when they turned around.

  “Where you been, Uncle Alfred? We been waiting up all night for you,” said Hollis.

  “Now, let’s us take a little walk,” said Major, grabbing his arm.

  8

  “MONDAY NIGHT AND dressed so fine,” said Major, leaning against the locked clubroom door.

  “‘So fine,’” echoed Sonny, circling behind Alfred.

  “Where you been, Uncle Alfred?”

  Alfred stared at his black shoes. His knees were quivering. He wished he were sitting down.

  Hollis showed his buck teeth. “You know Uncle Alfred can’t talk ’less James is around to tell him what to say.”

  “Where’s James?” asked Alfred.

  “‘Where’s James, where’s James?’” mimicked Major.

  “What you want with me?”

  “‘What you want with me?’” mimicked Hollis.

  “I’ll tell you,” snapped Major, pushing away from the door with his elbows. “Friday night we gonna hit Epsteins’ again, only this time we’re goin’ in easy. This time, you gonna help us.”

  “No chance,” said Alfred. The words were out of his mouth before he could swallow them back.

  “What you say?” Major’s eyes narrowed. “What you say to me?”

  Alfred jammed his hands into his pockets, and pressed his fingers through the cloth into his thighs. His knees stopped quivering. “I said no.”

  “You said no?”

  Alfred tensed for Major’s attack, but there was only surprise on the heavy face.

  “Look, slave, you don’t have to come with us.”

  “No.”

  “All you got to do is disconnect them wires on the burglar alarm.”

  “No.”

  “Whatsa matter with you?” said Hollis.

  “We’ll split with you,” said Major, “and you don’t even have to come.”

  A vein popped out on Major’s forehead, and his thick arms shook from the strain of keeping his muscles flexed. Where was all that coolness, that confidence? “No chance at all,” Alfred said.

  “You crazy?” asked Hollis, looking from Alfred to Major, then back to Alfred. “What’s got to you?”

  “I gotta go now,” said Alfred, quivering again as he took a step toward the door.

  Major jumped in front of him. “Where you think you going?”

  “Home.”

  “Not till I let you.” The knife came out fast and clicked open. “You ever hear of a squealer’s scar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you know what I’m gonna do. One cut, from your mouth to your ear. You wear it the rest of your life.”

  Hollis was frozen, his mouth hanging slack. Sonny’s eyes were dull and staring. Alfred pressed down on his toes to quiet his knees.

  “You want the scar?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re gonna do it, right?”

  “No.”

  Major’s tongue flicked out between his lips, and a bead of sweat broke out on his nose. “No?”

  “He’s crazy, Alfred’s crazy, man,” said Hollis.

  “Must be crazy,” said Major, straightening out of his knife-fighter’s crouch. “I’ll give you to Wednesday to get back to your senses.”

  “Answer’s no,” said Alfred.

  “Don’t have to decide now.”

  “I’ve decided now.”

  Major’s voice was almost a scream. “But why?”

  “Because I don’t need to, that’s why,” said Alfred, taking a second step toward the door.

  “The Epsteins don’t care about you, you just a black nigger slave to them.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Just a black boy to carry out their garbage, that’s all.”

  “Got nothin’ to do with them,” said Alfred, moving past Major.

  “You scared.”

  “You think that if you want.” He put his foot on the first step.

  “Why?”

  He reached the door and unlocked it. “I got things to do, that’s why.”

  “You got to Thursday to decide,” screamed Major. “You got to Thursday—”

  Alfred closed the door behind him just as his knees sagged, shuddering violently. Then he straightened, and all the way home he wanted to raise his right arm to the ringside crowd on the stoops.

  9

  THE BIRDS WERE GOSSIPING in the trees. There goes Alfred, smooth and easy, watch his knees come high and steady, cham-peen Alfred, looka him.

  “Hang in there, Al, you’re lookin’ good,” yelled the smaller cop, and Alfred waved back and put on a burst of speed just to show them how good he could look, his arms swinging easily at his sides, sucking in the air through his nostrils, letting it out his mouth. He ran for more than an hour, over grass and gravel, until the sun burned away the early mist and dried the dew. Squirrels skittered out of his way. Twice he saw other runners, and they waved and smiled at him. Like they were all partners. A stitch chewed at his side, but he kept running until the stitch disappeared. His breath caught in his ribs, but he kept running until he got his second wind. He didn’t stop until cars and buses began to snarl and belch their way through the roads of the park, filling his nose and mouth with gas and oil fumes.

  On the way home, he stopped every twenty steps for two quick deep-knee bends. He tried to hop up the first flight of stairs on his left leg and the second on his right. He almost made it.

  At the door, he touched his toes ten times before throwing it open and striding smack into Aunt Pearl.

  “Alfred?” Her face was stern, her hands on her hips.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He winked at the girls, kissed his aunt on top of her head, and cakewalked around the kitchen table. “No applause, folks, please.”

  “You drunk?”

  “Now, Aunt Pearl, you know I never drink till after breakfast.”

  Charlene giggled in her cereal.

  “Where you been?”

  “Out running.”

  “From what?”

  “From One Hundred Tenth to Eighty-fifth Street and back, nearly three miles.”

  “Don’t you make fun of me, Alfred. Wipe that smirk off your face. Where you been?”

  “Ladeez…and, uh, ladies. An announcement.” The twins began to giggle, too. “Introducing Alfred Brooks, the up-and-coming champeen of the world.”

  “Now you gonna be the down-and-out chump if you keep on.” She snatched up a big wooden serving spoon. “You ain’t that big I can’t still whip that smirk off your face.”

&nbs
p; The girls ducked back into their cereal.

  “Now. Where you been?”

  “I been running in the park, build up my wind, get in shape, strengthen my legs—”

  “Slow down. What are you talking about?”

  “Aunt Pearl, I’m gonna be a boxer.”

  “Boxer!” The word rattled the cereal bowls, and the girls came up with milk on their noses. “Are you out of your mind? Boxer! Now you better…Alfred Brooks, I can tell, you’re not fooling, are you?”

  “No, ma’am. Mr. Donatelli. At the gym. He’s gonna teach me to—”

  “Boxer! And get your head busted open? What would your sweet momma say, Lord rest her soul, if she knew I let you…” Her voice trailed off. “Where you go last night?”

  “Madison Square Garden.”

  “With who?”

  “Henry and—”

  “Henry Johnson?”

  “Yeah. And Jelly Belly and Spoon—”

  “Spoon?”

  “Bill Witherspoon. He’s a schoolteacher, used to be a boxer.”

  “Hmm.” A trace of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “An’ I been so worried. First you get beat up, then act so strange yesterday morning. Then out so late last night and your good suit’s all wrinkled, I thought you had some more trouble. An’ this morning you sound like you’re drunk or something.”

  “I feel good.”

  “Who’s this Mr. Donatelli?”

  “He’s a boxing manager and he has a gym. Henry works there. He’s had a couple champions.”

  “You planning to quit your job for this thing?”

  “Not right away. Be a while before I get to be professional.”

  “I don’t like this boxing business one bit. Full of gangsters, and people get hurt bad.”

  “Mr. Donatelli’s no gangster. Last night he made Willie Streeter stop ’cause he had a cut eye, and he made Spoon quit ’cause he was getting hit too much. And Spoon was winning fights.”

  “We’ll talk to Reverend Price about this. Now let’s eat.”

  “I’ll have orange juice, two boiled eggs, toast, and tea.”

  “You’ll have what? This ain’t a restaurant.”

  “Boxers can make big money, Aunt Pearl. You might not have to work no more, buy you a little house by Aunt Dorothy’s, a car so you can drive to church on Sunday, a—”

  “Don’t you load no promises on your head, honey.”

  “I’m serious, Aunt Pearl.”

  “I know you are. You never been excited about anything in your life till today. But I just wish it was something else.”

  10

  LEFT…LEFT…SNAP it out, Alfred,…left…right…right…left…left-left…

  The first week was all pain, steel claws ripping at his shoulder muscles, raking his arms. The sweat rolled off his forehead and flooded his eyes, but they wouldn’t let him stop to brush the sweat away…left…left…snap it out…even as his reflection grew hazy in the full-length mirror. Keep punching, they yelled, faster, harder, more.

  “Your arms hurt, Alfred?”

  “A little, Mr. Donatelli.”

  “They should hurt a lot. Okay, now. Time.”

  Time…time…three minutes of shadowboxing, one minute of rest, three minutes of shadowboxing, one minute of rest, time…time…until he woke up moaning one night, his arms as heavy as cement sacks, his fingers numb. Charlene was at the foot of the bed. She looked scared.

  “Should I wake up Momma, Alfred?”

  “No. Go on back to sleep. I had a bad dream.”

  “It musta been terrible.”

  Left…left…right…left…harder, harder, faster…snap it out, left…right…c’mon, c’mon…

  The second week was worse. Bud yelled at him to stay up on the balls of his feet and Donatelli told him to keep his chin tucked against his chest.

  Even Dr. Corey had his two cents worth: “Never take your eye off the peanut bag, Alfred.”

  Sit-ups, push-ups, deep-knee bends. Angel and Jose, the Puerto Rican boys, cackled like hens when the medicine ball knocked him over like a tenpin. Denny grinned and threw it again harder, but Alfred was braced and ready. It only staggered him.

  He could barely lift his arms up to his locker after workouts. Twice that week he fell asleep before dinner. At dawn, the alarm clock buzzed him awake like an angry rattlesnake.

  That Sunday, after the morning service, Aunt Pearl marched him up to Reverend Price. She told him that Alfred needed guidance. He didn’t like the way the Reverend looked down at him, scratching his big jaw, as if he were a school kid. But somewhere deep in his aching muscles a tiny voice was praying that Reverend Price would make him quit.

  “What seems to be our problem, Sister Conway? Has Alfred strayed from the path of righteousness?”

  “He’s boxing, Reverend, he’s—”

  “Oh,” said the preacher, his eyes moving around the room, his voice getting vague. “Youth is a time of great physical energy, Sister, and of curiosity. This is a passing phase. He’ll soon grow tired of this meaningless pursuit and devote his…”

  Left…left…faster, faster…atta boy…pick it up…chin in…right…right…snap it out…

  By the middle of the third week the pain began to fade. He rushed through his exercises just to get in front of that mirror and shoot out those jabs, straight out, hard, until the little shocks in his shoulder told him the punches were straight and true. Spoon came up that week, and they all watched him spar a few rounds with the heavyweights, Jelly and Pete Krakover. Dr. Corey said that Spoon looked better than Willie Streeter did that night at the Garden.

  Spoon worked with Alfred on the heavy bag, showing him how to keep his wrist straight but relaxed so he could hit hard without hurting himself. But Spoon worked with Angel and Jose, too, and there were some days when no one looked at him but Henry.

  He started waking up before the alarm that week, fresher in the morning, stronger. The hour in the park was the best time of the day. It sometimes seemed as if he could run forever, showing his heels to the friendly policemen, waving at other runners. He wished he had someone to run with, someone like James, a partner, pacing him over the wet grass and over the gravel, sprinting across the deserted roadways, dropping back into a jog on the dirt paths. He’d even slow down for James. Someday, he thought, old James would come out from behind a tree, howling like Mosely of the Jungle, and he’d wink at Bad Brooks and fall into step. They had seen a movie like that once, two cowboy brothers who had a fight, and at the end they joined up again, riding into town together to face the gang. They won, too.

  The thought would make Alfred sad, and he’d speed up until he pushed it out of his mind. Henry was the nearest he had to a partner now, and Henry would never know how good it could feel when a running wind chilled the sweat in your hair.

  At breakfast, Aunt Pearl would make some comment about his huge appetite eating them out into the street, but she smiled when she said it. And then he went to work. Jake was still going to the bank in the afternoons, but Alfred couldn’t get bothered about it, not when he felt his muscles flex every time he stacked the canned goods or lifted a box. Even the worst part of the job, carrying out the loaded garbage cans, didn’t seem so bad when the muscles across his back and shoulders rippled and tensed. They had always rippled and tensed, but now even lugging garbage cans was part of training, of getting into shape.

  There was a lull one afternoon. There were no customers in the store, and Alfred began throwing the hook at his reflection on the door of the steel food locker. He had just knocked out Jose, Angel, and Denny, one, two, three, when old Lou wandered into the back room.

  “What’s this, Alfred?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Epstein, I was just—”

  “From the shoulder it has to come, the power is here.” He tapped a bony shoulder, shuffled his feet, and threw a slow but graceful left hook. “You want to be a boxer?”

  “Yes. I’m training at Donatelli’s gym.”

  “A good ma
n, Donatelli. Ask him about Lou Epstein someday.”

  “Hey! Are you Lightning Lou Epp?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Bud Martin talked about you. He said you were real good, but you cut too easy.”

  A slow smile spread across Lou’s thin face. “He remembered, eh? A good cut man, Bud Martin, one of the best. How long you been training?”

  “About three weeks.”

  “Forget it. I would tell my own son the same thing, especially my own son. Forget it.”

  “Why?”

  Lou sat down on a packing case. He rubbed a small red sore on the top of his bald head. “Why? I’ll tell you, Alfred. Once it was something, boxing. There were dozens of fight clubs in the city. You could see a good fight every night of the week. Irish fighters, Italian, Jewish fighters, then Negro fighters, there were enough matches for anybody who wanted to fight. No more. Even a good fighter can’t make a living out of it. You know why?”

  “People aren’t interested in going to fights?”

  “Part of it,” said Lou. “Television came in, and used the same fighters over and over again, a few got rich, the rest had to get jobs. And even the rich ones lost their money. The racketeers, the crooked matchmakers, the rotten managers just—”

  “Mr. Donatelli’s not like that, he—”

  “Sure, sure,” said Lou, raising a spidery hand. “Donatelli’s one in a million. That’s why he has to sleep in a room by the gym. Boxing people don’t like to do business with an honest man. And another thing, the kids these days aren’t interested in learning to fight. It’s hard work. Nobody wants to work no more. Who knows, maybe they’re right.”

  He stood up. “You see that friend of yours, James Mosely, anymore?”

  “Not since…not for a long time.”

  “Okay. You tell Bud hello for me, Donatelli, too.”

  Off your heels…faster…left, right, left, right…snap it out, jab, hook, jab…harder…

  He began to lose track of the days. They rolled off like perspiration, up at dawn, run, breakfast, work, the gym, home, dinner, television, sleep. Sometimes on Fridays or Saturdays he went to the movies with Henry and Jelly, but it wasn’t like going to the movies with James. Henry just sat there, his mouth open, staring at the screen, and Jelly was always jumping up for candy or ice cream. Not like the old days when Alfred would follow James up to a corner of the balcony and root for the monster and cheer the Indians and afterward change the ending of the picture if they didn’t like how it came out.