Going Fast by Elaine McCluskey Page A

being a reporter, Scott had learned to be unreadable, to keep his judgments to himself. He wanted, for reasons he did not totally understand, to be free to come and go at Tootsy’s, a place he found both soothing and uplifting. He wanted to see how this all would end. It had been years since Trevor Berbick had fought in the city, years since Clyde Gray had brought in fans. Could the drought be ending?
    Scott watched Ownie draw chalk targets on the heavy bag. As a favour to Tootsy, Ownie had stretched out the Runner — “Man, you’re as inflexible as the Pope” — then laced his gloves.
    â€œEvery punch has a number,” he was explaining to him: “1: left hook to the ribs, 2: right to the jaw; 3: right to the body. Sometimes, we order a combo to make it interesting.”
    â€œWhat’s the hardest punch to learn?” asked the Runner,showing greedy teeth, calcium gluttons that had starved his birdlike bones. His hair was orange, and his entire face, even his brows and lashes, were covered with a yellow-orange wash that made his eyes seem naked.
    â€œThe left jab. It should be the easiest, but for some reason it’s not.” Ownie shrugged. “It’s a punch that you’ll need if you’re going to go anywhere. The left jab isn’t used as a club, it’s used as a whip. If you know how to use the left jab properly, that means you can box, and that keeps you in a fight.”
    The Runner, Scott noticed, had been wearing a black Adidas jacket. Scott’s first real sweatsuit was a red zip-top Adidas, back in ’71, before the world of sportswear was fast and slick and ruled by Nike. The baggy jacket crawled up Scott’s back, the stirrup pants were uncomfortably short. The suit was made of a material that seemed impervious to rain, sweat, or dog bites, a cold, clammy fabric that never wrinkled and smelled like the backseat of a taxicab. He’d checked the label once before washing: Made in Yugoslavia. 45% cotton. 55% Helanca, the Greek goddess of synthetics.
    At a time when everyone looked like rejects from the East German track team, Tim Taylor was a fashion insurgent in two-stripe North Stars and cut-off jeans that hung below his navel, cinched with a belt. His furry torso, two sizes too big for his legs, burst out of a chewed-up singlet. At the time, Scott thought Taylor was the only man in paddling with a hairy chest; everyone else had smooth, sculpted pecs that tanned to almond. One day, Taylor finished practice, changed, and got married, a life-altering move Scott heard about one month later.
    Ownie had finished with the Runner, who slipped back into his jacket. He must be one of those slow-twitch muscle types, Scott decided, the kind of athlete who could run thirty miles but needed help with a twist top. His hands were about three fingers wide.
    The door opened and in walked Turmoil and a mesomorph who was insulated from the world by black shades, earphones, and a French Foreign Legion head scarf. The two men weren’t speaking.
    â€œAhm gohn teach Donnie how to box.” Turmoil patted the mesomorph’s back, laughing even though nothing seemed funny. Donnie’s muscles tensed, straining the seams of a hot-pink T-shirt and leopard-print sweats. Behind the glasses, his unyielding eyes roamed the room like radar, slipping contact. “All Donnie know how to do is beat up white boys.”
    â€œDonnie’s here to spar three rounds.” Ownie cut the small talk. “He knows the drill.”
    Eyes inaccessible, Donnie unbuckled a Grizzly weightlifter’s belt, then stripped to a singlet and Lycra shorts.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Punching counter-clockwise, an arc-shaped blur of muscle. While Donnie was warming up, a woman in a Raiders jacket crept through the door and found a spot in the corner. Her hair was pulled up tight in the fashion of a synchronized swimmer. She anxiously chewed her lip.
    The door opened again and Johnny trotted