again.”
The dishes and pans were clean, dried and put away. Paloma wiped her hands with a threadbare towel. She wore no polish on her fingernails on Sundays, and the change made her hands look different, more honest somehow.
“I thought you wanted to stop someday,” Paloma said. “We talked about it.”
“I know. But what else am I going to do?”
“There are things out there.”
Paloma looked at Kelly and he looked back. He didn’t sense disapproval from her, but he couldn’t figure out the mind behind the face. Kelly lowered his head and pressed on. “I don’t know what else I could do better than this. Yeah, I’m thirty, but that’s not so bad; in my weight class, some decent training… I could win some fights.”
She was silent for a while, and then finally Paloma nodded. “All right,” she said.
They embraced in the kitchen. The smell of marijuana smoke drifted through the tiny window from the backyard and mingled with the pleasant odor of cooking and Paloma’s skin. “I think I’ve got it figured out,” Kelly said. “I’m trying.”
“I believe you,” Paloma said. She kissed his forehead. Kelly put his hand on her ass. Paloma pushed it away. “Not on Sunday.”
“Okay.”
She said the same thing every week.
THIRTEEN
H E WENT TO THE FIGHTS THOUGH he wasn’t going into the ring.
Vidal worked the corner of a poor young fighter from one of the
colonias
outside Juárez who couldn’t be making much more than the bus fare that brought him there. Kelly raised his hand to get the old man’s attention before he sat down. Vidal nodded, which was as much as he ever offered.
The card wasn’t much – six fights with no one weighing in heavier than welter – but the matches were sanctioned. The atmosphere was better in the athletic hall than at the smokers: Kelly saw women and even a few kids. The crowd was bigger and there were more smiles, fewer scowls. If there was blood, then there would be blood, but it was not what brought the spectators here.
Kelly bought a warm packet of tamales and a bottle of tamarind-flavored Jarritos. Rickety pullout bleachers lined two sides of the hall and shuddered with the moving weight of Mexicans standing up, sitting down or wandering around to talk with friends. A few eyes passed over him with questions behind them, but no one crossed Kelly’s path or objected when he found a good spot. Down by the ring there were folding chairs three deep, but those were assigned and the tickets cost more.
The hall packed them in until everyone had no choice but to sit down hip to hip and arm against arm. A man in a white shirt, black pants and neat bow tie swept the ring with a straw broom. He and another man, similarly dressed, would referee the fights.
When the announcer came onto the canvas things got rolling. He introduced the three judges and read a list of local sponsors. Kelly didn’t know any of the names, and didn’t recognize the first pair of fighters, either. One was Vidal’s boy, the other a rail-thin flyweight with acne pits in his face. The crowd cheered them both the same.
Heavyweight fights got all the attention and the big money, especially in the States, but the little guys had technique. When Kelly fought welterweight, he always hit the scale at exactly 147 pounds. He had the frame to go a real middleweight back then or even super-middleweight if he wanted to push it, but those extra fifteen or twenty pounds felt like a concrete overcoat whether they were fat or muscle. Light fighters were meant to fight light.
The bell rang and the fighters closed. Vidal’s kid had long arms for his size and maybe a two-inch reach advantage if his tape was applied just the right way. He worked from behind the jab and didn’t keep still; he was circling, always circling, and even though the other kid blocked, those little impacts took their toll after a while.
It took most of the first and second rounds, but the other kid got his feet under him and
The dishes and pans were clean, dried and put away. Paloma wiped her hands with a threadbare towel. She wore no polish on her fingernails on Sundays, and the change made her hands look different, more honest somehow.
“I thought you wanted to stop someday,” Paloma said. “We talked about it.”
“I know. But what else am I going to do?”
“There are things out there.”
Paloma looked at Kelly and he looked back. He didn’t sense disapproval from her, but he couldn’t figure out the mind behind the face. Kelly lowered his head and pressed on. “I don’t know what else I could do better than this. Yeah, I’m thirty, but that’s not so bad; in my weight class, some decent training… I could win some fights.”
She was silent for a while, and then finally Paloma nodded. “All right,” she said.
They embraced in the kitchen. The smell of marijuana smoke drifted through the tiny window from the backyard and mingled with the pleasant odor of cooking and Paloma’s skin. “I think I’ve got it figured out,” Kelly said. “I’m trying.”
“I believe you,” Paloma said. She kissed his forehead. Kelly put his hand on her ass. Paloma pushed it away. “Not on Sunday.”
“Okay.”
She said the same thing every week.
THIRTEEN
H E WENT TO THE FIGHTS THOUGH he wasn’t going into the ring.
Vidal worked the corner of a poor young fighter from one of the
colonias
outside Juárez who couldn’t be making much more than the bus fare that brought him there. Kelly raised his hand to get the old man’s attention before he sat down. Vidal nodded, which was as much as he ever offered.
The card wasn’t much – six fights with no one weighing in heavier than welter – but the matches were sanctioned. The atmosphere was better in the athletic hall than at the smokers: Kelly saw women and even a few kids. The crowd was bigger and there were more smiles, fewer scowls. If there was blood, then there would be blood, but it was not what brought the spectators here.
Kelly bought a warm packet of tamales and a bottle of tamarind-flavored Jarritos. Rickety pullout bleachers lined two sides of the hall and shuddered with the moving weight of Mexicans standing up, sitting down or wandering around to talk with friends. A few eyes passed over him with questions behind them, but no one crossed Kelly’s path or objected when he found a good spot. Down by the ring there were folding chairs three deep, but those were assigned and the tickets cost more.
The hall packed them in until everyone had no choice but to sit down hip to hip and arm against arm. A man in a white shirt, black pants and neat bow tie swept the ring with a straw broom. He and another man, similarly dressed, would referee the fights.
When the announcer came onto the canvas things got rolling. He introduced the three judges and read a list of local sponsors. Kelly didn’t know any of the names, and didn’t recognize the first pair of fighters, either. One was Vidal’s boy, the other a rail-thin flyweight with acne pits in his face. The crowd cheered them both the same.
Heavyweight fights got all the attention and the big money, especially in the States, but the little guys had technique. When Kelly fought welterweight, he always hit the scale at exactly 147 pounds. He had the frame to go a real middleweight back then or even super-middleweight if he wanted to push it, but those extra fifteen or twenty pounds felt like a concrete overcoat whether they were fat or muscle. Light fighters were meant to fight light.
The bell rang and the fighters closed. Vidal’s kid had long arms for his size and maybe a two-inch reach advantage if his tape was applied just the right way. He worked from behind the jab and didn’t keep still; he was circling, always circling, and even though the other kid blocked, those little impacts took their toll after a while.
It took most of the first and second rounds, but the other kid got his feet under him and
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