“Round three!”
This time, Paddy came at him swinging. Will took punches to the chest, the ears, even his left eye. The eye watered, the ring blurring further. Will hit back hard and fast, hammering Paddy’s right arm again and again, to bruise it, to numb it. The boxers were both tired, both bleeding. Will knew it was an even fight.
“Boys, take a breath,” the official said. Will didn’t want to take a breath. He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to think about his mother or Eddie or anything outside the ring. He moved reluctantly back to the ropes and looked out toward the sea. And his heart sunk.
Striding through the crowd, his top hat blacker than black, his jaw firm, his stride purposeful, was Will’s father. Coming straight for the tent. Mr. Atwood’s jaw was set in its politician smile, the false smile hiding a world of anger. But before Will could think, before he could even tell if his father had seen him, the bell rang. This was it. He had to fight.
Everything came together at the core of him. His rage at his father, his guilt about Eddie, his pride in his mother, all of the times he’d been hit, been called small, been called weak. It all came together in a hurricane, twisting up from his gut into his fists. The fighters met at the center of the ring, and Will didn’t dance. He didn’t lean or jump or bounce. He hit; he hit hard, left-right, left-right, until his knuckles were sticky with blood, his hands numb, his body dulled. He didn’t know what Paddy did—Will didn’t see his face or feel Paddy’s punches. He just hit. And finally, with the last ounce of strength he had, he pulled his elbow back, turned his fist, and cut sharp against the underside of Paddy’s jaw. Will felt the skin split, he heard the crack, he blinked his eyes, and there was Paddy: curled on his side, his knees drawn up, on the floor of the ring.
Will stepped back. He waited. He listened to the count. He heard the crowd. Sensations came back to his body—mostly in the form of burning, stinging pain. He waited.
“Six. Seven. Eight. Nine—”
He waited.
“Ten! And the fight goes to Will Atwood!”
And there were cheers. Actual cheers, from the men in the crowd, from the strangers around him. Will looked down. Eddie had risen to his feet, hooting. His mother rose, her hands clasped under her chin, her face truly proud. And behind her, his father, still as a stone—but with something in his face Will didn’t recognize. He looked at his father for a long time, longer than he realized. Then he turned back to the ring, to where Paddy had pushed himself to a seated position. Will crossed the ring, reached down, and took his bloodied bruised hand. He shook with Paddy, forcing his numb fingers around his opponent’s.
“Good fight, sir,” he said.
Paddy looked up at him, stunned, and then he squeezed Will’s hand. He didn’t say a word.
And Will stepped down from the ring to meet his family.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Will stood face-to-face with his father, looking up at him but not nearly as small as he’d once been. In that moment, his father’s face was frozen, and Will did not know what to expect. But the face broke into a smile, something Will could barely remember ever seeing, and his father’s long arms wrapped around him.
“My boy!” Mr. Atwood said into the top of Will’s head. “My boy! That was extraordinary. An extraordinary fight!”
Will pulled back and saw his mother smiling brightly, small tears in her eyes. Eddie was still standing beside her, his arms crossed over his chest, looking down.
“I saw you up there,” his father said, his arms still on Will’s shoulders. “I saw you up there, and I saw the spirit in your face, and the strength in your fight. I … I was wrong. You are not a disgrace, not at all.”
Will didn’t know what had done it, what had changed his father. He didn’t know how to tell him that this was his dream coming true—this moment, his family there, seeing him fight. Seeing him win. Seeing that this was something real. Something he was good at. He could barely believe it was happening this way. But Will knew that there was one person who had made it possible. One person who he had let down.
“Dad, I need you to meet someone,” Will said. “This is Eddie Tancredi.” His stomach flip-flopped as he said the name. “He is the greatest fighter alive, and he made me the fighter I am.”
Will stood back so his father could see Eddie. He prayed he wouldn’t watch his father’s smile or pride disappear. He needed his father to see that Eddie was not just an “immigrant” or a “criminal”—that Eddie was as good a man as any other, better. Will was terrified. But his father moved forward, reached his hand out, and grasped Eddie’s.
“It’s a pleasure, an honor, sir,” his father said. “An honor to meet you. You saw something in my son that I didn’t see, and I thank you for that. You’re an honorable man.”
Eddie nodded, shaking Mr. Atwood’s hand. “You have a great boy, sir,” he said.
Will stood back from the two men. His mother whispered something to his father, her hand on his arm. His father looked down at his mother and then back at Will. Then he began to whisper with Eddie. Will was in a daze. The heat and the people around him had started to make him dizzy. His father, Eddie, his mother, the nearby roar of the ocean … It all started to feel unreal, like a dream. Finally, his father straightened up and clapped his hands together.
“It’s settled, then!” he exclaimed.
“We’ve asked Eddie to come and work for us,” his mother said.
“For us?” Will looked to Eddie, who was smiling, though he still looked tired.
“You know we’ve been needing a new gardener. And the gardener’s room has been empty. He can stay there.”
“Eddie?” Will looked at his friend. Eddie nodded.
“And you’ll have to keep training my boy, I suppose,” his father said to Eddie, winking, drawing his arm around Will.
“Really?” Will looked up at his father.
“After what I’ve seen today, Yale will have to wait,” his father said.
Eddie nodded at Will. “These Coney Island fights will go on all summer,” he said.
Will felt as though the sky had broken open. His father’s arm around him, his mother’s smile, a way to thank Eddie. A way to keep fighting. It all seemed too perfect to be true.
A small crowd had gathered nearby. At first Will thought they might have come to congratulate him but, no. They had recognized his father.
“Mr. Atwood, sir,” one of the men finally said. “We think you’re a great man. My family voted for your father, and we’ll vote for you.”
Will’s father turned to the crowd. Will’s heart sunk.
“Well, I thank you,” his father said. But his voice didn’t change. It was his family voice, not his politician’s voice. “But today is about my son. He’s just won a big fight, and we are going to celebrate as a family.”
Will was bursting with impossible pride as they began to walk. And then another man stepped in front of his parents. He removed the soggy cigar from between his lips, wiped his hand across his pant leg, and extended it to his father.
“Lew Mayflower, sir.”
His father shook Mayflower’s hand.
“I thank you for coming out to our fights, sir. You certainly have my support.”
His father nodded. Will stood still. He waited for his father to light into Mayflower, to bellow about the dregs of society, the crime-ridden streets. But his father remained silent.
“Your boy is a good fighter. A good fighter, with great promise,” Mayflower said, not looking at Will.
His father spoke: “Don’t you forget that, Mr. Mayflower.”
Will’s father turned and kept his arm around Will. Strolling behind his mother and Eddie, they set off down the boardwalk, in search of a steak dinner and maybe even some cake.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Heather Duffy Stone is a writer and a school counselor living in Accra, Ghana.
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