Pound for Pound by F. X. Toole

wasn’t far.
    Tim Pat said, “I sweated up good, didn’t I, Grampa?” “You sure did.”
    Lupe and Jesse and Billy Tucker were also in heavy traffic, and Lupe drove extra carefully, not being accustomed to this part of the Hollywood Freeway. Billy had drawn a map, but Lupe checked it against the Thomas Guide, a book of street maps of Los Angeles County.
    Billy signed that the Cahuenga exit was just ahead. As Lupe merged right, faster drivers honked at her, made her wish she was closer to home. Once at the exit, Lupe turned right, then headed south on Cahuenga. Dan’s house was located some four miles down the way. Lupe ran into some traffic on Cahuenga, but there was virtually none on the residential side streets.
    Lupe had to stop for lights at Hollywood and at Sunset Boulevards,but made it through Santa Monica Boulevard. Billy directed her to keep going south.
    Dan and Tim Pat proceeded west from the Melrose-Normandie exit, turned right at the corner of Melrose and Wilcox, then headed north a half block. Dan parked under the splayed old eucalyptus tree in front of the gym. Most of the fighters had already finished up. Tim Pat raced inside and leaped into Earl’s arms.
    Earl said, “Lord a mercy, I been attacked by a grizzly fox!” Earl saw Dan’s smile, saw his victory nod. Earl pretended to be a ring announcer, held a water bottle up to his mouth for a mike. “In this cawnah, fightin outta da Hard Knocks Gym in Hollywood, Califahnya; weighin in at two hundred an’ toity-tree an’ tree-quahtah pounds; wit a record of fifty-seven wins an’ no losses, an’ fifty-seven KOs; known troo-out da world as da White Fahx!; ladies’n’gen’lemen, da heavyweight
champion
of da worl! TimateeeePat-rickMahkey!, Mahkey!”
    Earl made the roaring sound of a crowd, then tickled Tim Pat’s ribs; he gave the kid a big kiss on his swollen left eye, and hugged him again. Momolo, who worked in the shop and was being trained as a fighter by Earl, came over to shake Tim Pat’s hand gently and ruffle his hair. Momolo was a young middleweight from Liberia with miniature tribal scars across his shoulders and around his face. The name on the African’s passport was Covenant Buchanan, Momolo his tribal name.
    “You are a warrior,” Momolo said.
    His teeth were white and perfect, and his body had the incredible muscular definition of many West Africans. Earl liked to use the name Momolo instead of his given Christian name, Covenant, because of the African sound to it. Dan also liked the fact that Momolo had a Scots last name. Once they had seen how dedicated Momolo was in the gym, Earl and Dan gave him a job in the shop, where he’d proved equally conscientious. Besides, Dan liked the way Momolo talked.
    “A warrior,” Momolo repeated.
    Tim Pat relived the fight. “I set him up, Momolo, made sure my feet were right, and then I went in there and I got ‘im.” He turned to Earl.
    “But I missed you in my corner, Earl. I told our waitress about you and me and Grampa.”
    Earl said, “I’m proud of you, Tim, and I’ll be in your corner tomorrow when you win that trophy.”
    “Last night I fought for you and Grampa, Earl. Today, I fought for my mom and dad. Tomorrow, I’m fighting for Grandma,” Tim Pat told them.
    Earl said, “Ain’t nobody better.”
    Dan turned away, swallowed hard, and then turned back to the kid. “Show Earl that hook.”
    Tim Pat pranced up to a big bag, fired a one-two and came zinging back with the left hook.
Bang!
Tim Pat threw both hands in the air, did a champion’s skipping jig.
    Earl looked at the boy from Liberia. “See that? Now let’s see you do it.”
    Earl held the mitts, but Momolo’s hook was an arm punch. It was thrown with his weight on his front foot instead of the back. It was a hard shot because Momolo was so strong, but it was still an arm punch, which meant he was working too hard and would tire before his opponent. The hope was that he would learn, and that once he had it,