Leonard Gardner - Fat City

“What’s that?”

“It believing in yourself. That the will to win. The rest condition. You want to kick ass, you kick ass.”

“I hope you’re right”

“You don’t want to kick ass, you get your own ass whipped.

“I want to kick ass. Don’t worry about that.”

“You just shit out of luck.”

“I said I wanted to kick ass.”

“You got to want to kick ass bad . They no manager or trainer or pill can do it for you.”

“I want to kick ass as bad as you do.”

“Then you go out and kick ass.”

“All right.” Ernie moved away, irritated with his deferring to a boy. Lethargically he bobbed and shuffled. When his name was called through the doorway, he began wildly shadowboxing.

“Hold off. You’ll wear yourself out. We got to go on now,” said Ruben. “Babe, get the towels, get the towels.”

“I didn’t get a chance to warm up,” Ernie complained.

“That’s okay, you’re ready. Just stay loose. Where’s the bucket?”

“I got the bucket in my hand,” whispered Babe. He was dressed in russet slacks, a yellow knit shirt and a moss-green cardigan sweater with a towel over one shoulder.

“Got the bottle?”

“The bottle’s right here in the bucket.”

“You put the water in it?”

“I wouldn’t bring an empty bottle.”

“I’m just asking. I don’t want to bring my kid out there without any water.”

“I got the damn water. Take it easy. I told you I got the water.”

The three went out into the crowd. The referee, a short, bald, heavy man in gray, was leaning back with outspread arms on the ropes. A towel around his shoulders, Ernie scuffed his shoes in the resin box under the blazing lights. When he went to his corner, Ruben gripped the back of his neck and tried to shove the teeth protector into his mouth. Resisting, Ernie broke away and spit out his gum.

The bell tolled in summons. Whistles, restive clapping, echoed in the arena. At last a Mexican in a brilliant red robe jogged down the aisle, followed by his handlers. Ducking through the ropes, he caught a foot, and his lunge into the ring was converted to prancing and shadowboxing, a second scurrying after him attempting to untie the robe.

“Good,” said Ruben. “You got the reach.”

His name was Manuel Rosales. At the scattered applause given its announcement, Ernie was uneasy; but at his own introduction there was the same tribute to his merely being here in trunks. Ruben and Babe were out of the ring now but their massaging hands were still on him. The house lights went off and Rosales faced him across the white canvas. Startled by the bell and a shove against his back, Ernie bounded forward. His opponent turned around in his corner, went down on one knee and crossed himself. He rose immediately, his hair, in a grown-out crew cut, standing up like a wild boar’s bristles. The two touched gloves across the referee’s arm. Ernie, embarrassed about hitting Rosales so soon after prayer, reached out to touch gloves again and was struck on the side of the head. Offended, he lashed out and felt the thrilling impact of bone through the light gloves. Stirred by shouts, amazed by his power over the crowd, he sprang in, punching, and was jolted by a flurry. He backed off. Chewing on the mouthpiece, he danced around the ring while Rosales charged after him, swinging and missing. The referee maneuvered his nimble bulk out of their way, and the opposing seconds shouted unheeded instructions.

“Jab! Throw the right! Throw the right! Jab! One-two!”

“Pégale! Tírale al cuerpo! Abajo! Abajo!”

Between rounds Ruben coached with a ruthless expression Ernie had never seen on him before, his arms sometimes punching out in demonstrations.

“Step in and nail him. Understand what I mean?”

“Hook,” croaked Babe, leaning through the ropes with the tape-covered water bottle.

At the bell, Ruben’s hands were at Ernie’s buttocks, heaving him up off the stool, and when Ernie came back after a round of dancing and jabbing, he was hit in the face with a wet sponge. He was rubbed, patted, squeezed and kneaded. Cold water was poured into his trunks. He was harangued, he was reprimanded, and he listened to nothing at all. As he stood up, the towel passed under his nose and he recoiled from the fumes of ammonia.

His lead sent a shower flying from Rosales’ hair. He stepped away and Rosales hurled himself into the ropes.

“Go in! He’s tired, he’s tired, he’s tired!” Ruben yelled, and Ernie realized he was tired too. He struck out and moved away. Backed into a corner, he was attempting to clinch when a blinding blow crushed his nose. Bent over with his arms around Rosales’ waist, he became aware of the referee tugging on him. Locked together, the three staggered about, blood spattering their legs, until Ernie’s grasp was broken.

Blearily he saw a gush of blood down his chest. The referee was holding him, looking up at his eyes. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Ernie said through a throbbing nose and began to understand that something was wrong with him. Afraid the fight was going to be stopped, he pushed toward Rosales, there openmouthed behind the referee, his gleaming body splashed with blood. He was blocked. He lunged, but the referee, his face fat and red above the black bow tie, was pressing him back, his fingers fumbling for the mouthpiece. Ernie turned his head from side to side, dodging his hand and protesting through the rubber: “Shit, I’m okay. Shit, goddamn it, I’m okay.” Then Ruben was in the ring, holding him by the shoulders.

“Tilt your head back. Breathe through your mouth.”

He was being sponged in his corner when his opponent, now back in the red robe, came over, mumbling, to hang an arm briefly around his neck.

“Look to me like he butted you,” whispered Babe after Rosales had gone back across the spotted canvas. “I don’t know what it was.”

“Sure he butted you. Because he can’t punch,” said Ruben, and he went to the referee.

With his hand on the back of Ernie’s neck, Ruben complained loudly up the aisle to the dressing room, where Buford Wills sat lost in the folds of a royal-blue robe and Wes Haynes stood waiting in gloves, white shoes and jockstrap.

“You lose, huh?”

“He wasn’t hurt at all. It should never been stopped.”

Ernie’s gloves were pulled off and the handwraps cut away with hasty precision. A gray-haired manager came and peered at his nose.

“You want to get a note from the doctor before you leave. You can get that nose set tomorrow and it won’t cost you nothing.”

“He was butted. They should throw that kid out of the ring.”

Ernie removed the trunks and cup and they were given to Wes Haynes. Grumbling, he put them on. “They all bloody,” he objected to Ruben.

“That’s all right. It’s not your blood.”

Ernie was left standing with his head tilted back. Blood still trickling over his lips, he went to a mirror. His nose looked like a boiled sausage about to burst. He went into the shower room and, feeling the pulse of splintered bone, stood with closed eyes under the spray.

Wes Haynes had not lasted a round. Hurling himself forward with a right swing, he had run into a cross to the jaw. Then wildly pummeled, he had crouched against the ropes with his gloves cupped before his face, unsure of what to do and so merely waiting for his opponent to stop hitting him so that he could start hitting again himself. But when the punches ceased he looked up to find the fight had been stopped. Mortified before so many witnesses, he had shaken his head as though truly dazed.

In the dressing room afterwards, Wes had remained close to Buford Wills. He sat next to him in the car. In a Mexican café in Salinas he was next to him still, their dark fists side by side on the table, each holding a bottle of orange soda. Buford had been outboxing the flyweight champion of Fort Ord until knocked senseless in the final round, and now Ruben glanced at him, inquiring with a cheerfulness Wes could see was forced: “Doing all right? How you feel?”