started moving the fight his way. Vidal’s boy relied on the jab
too
much, and when his opponent moved inside he danced back like he was stung even before a punch landed.
Kelly ate his tamales between rounds and sucked on the Jarritos. The Mexicans around him were excited and he was excited, too. He’d forgotten the smells outside the ring, the sound and shape of the fight when the gloves weren’t on. The man beside Kelly nudged him and they traded smiles.
Round three was tough for Vidal’s boy; some fighters locked into a losing game when shaken, and everything narrowed into a desperate corridor of try, try again. He kept trying with the jab even though it wasn’t working anymore. A flyweight couldn’t hit with the power of a heavyweight, but solid punches to the inside rocked Vidal’s fighter. Kelly saw the old man shaking his head over his bucket.
The kid went to the corner with a visible kink in his side. Kelly watched Vidal rinse the kid’s gumshield with one hand and press acold pack against his ribs with the other. He talked low and quiet. Kelly had never seen Vidal talk so much. The kid nodded.
The fourth round was the final round. The fighters came forward at the referee’s command. Vidal’s kid circled, started to throw the jab again, but hesitated. Kelly focused on his face, the perceptible struggle to follow corner advice, break from a losing pattern and change things up.
The other kid came in hard with more body punches. Vidal’s kid backed up, but with control this time. He still got hit, but he traded well and then jabbed his way out turning from the corner.
His aim was combinations, trying to put two or three punches together that would keep the other fighter guessing and off those swollen ribs. Vidal’s boy was used to having his way with his arms, being able to reach out and pepper the other guy with jab after jab at distance. The other kid was hardheaded, but knew how to weave in for the sharp body shots he preferred.
The clock ticked. Each punch thrown was a half-second closer to the last bell. Vidal’s kid tried to bring some technique to bear and pull some points back on the judges’ cards, but he didn’t have the ring smarts to keep the other kid away.
Bell and ref were in time with each other. One rang and the other stepped in. Both fighters dropped their hands. They were slick with perspiration and so was Kelly. He stood and clapped and hollered with everyone else. Corner men climbed through the ropes and the ring was crowded the way it always was at the end of a bout.
The other kid took the fight three rounds to one. The fighters embraced. Photos were shot. When Kelly settled back down he was smiling. This was the magic of the fight: no matter how small the purse, the fight mattered when it happened as much as any other fight for any amount of money.
“I forgot,” Kelly said aloud.
“
¿Qué?
” the man beside him asked.
“Nothing,” Kelly told him. “Good fight.”
The man nodded. “
Sí, era una buena lucha
.”
FOURTEEN
E ACH DAY HE WALKED LESS AND ran more. He’d quit smoking altogether and now he wasn’t even drinking beer except on those nights when he and Estéban did business. Running the same route along the main roads got boring, sucking up the smog, so he changed it up with smaller streets and neighborhoods far from his usual haunts.
He found the gym this way. A pack of short, lean Mexican fighters crossed his path on the run. Kelly recognized them immediately the way fighting animals know their own kind. He fell in with them without having to say a word and they loosened their ranks to accommodate him.
Theirs was a humbler section of Juárez, well away from the bright lights and clean sidewalks of the tourist district, but not as broken or filthy as the
colonias
. Boxing was a poor people’s sport, maybe poorer even than
fútbol
. Kelly saw kids playing
fútbol
in the streets with cheap plastic balls or even bags of leaves, but boxing could be had
too
much, and when his opponent moved inside he danced back like he was stung even before a punch landed.
Kelly ate his tamales between rounds and sucked on the Jarritos. The Mexicans around him were excited and he was excited, too. He’d forgotten the smells outside the ring, the sound and shape of the fight when the gloves weren’t on. The man beside Kelly nudged him and they traded smiles.
Round three was tough for Vidal’s boy; some fighters locked into a losing game when shaken, and everything narrowed into a desperate corridor of try, try again. He kept trying with the jab even though it wasn’t working anymore. A flyweight couldn’t hit with the power of a heavyweight, but solid punches to the inside rocked Vidal’s fighter. Kelly saw the old man shaking his head over his bucket.
The kid went to the corner with a visible kink in his side. Kelly watched Vidal rinse the kid’s gumshield with one hand and press acold pack against his ribs with the other. He talked low and quiet. Kelly had never seen Vidal talk so much. The kid nodded.
The fourth round was the final round. The fighters came forward at the referee’s command. Vidal’s kid circled, started to throw the jab again, but hesitated. Kelly focused on his face, the perceptible struggle to follow corner advice, break from a losing pattern and change things up.
The other kid came in hard with more body punches. Vidal’s kid backed up, but with control this time. He still got hit, but he traded well and then jabbed his way out turning from the corner.
His aim was combinations, trying to put two or three punches together that would keep the other fighter guessing and off those swollen ribs. Vidal’s boy was used to having his way with his arms, being able to reach out and pepper the other guy with jab after jab at distance. The other kid was hardheaded, but knew how to weave in for the sharp body shots he preferred.
The clock ticked. Each punch thrown was a half-second closer to the last bell. Vidal’s kid tried to bring some technique to bear and pull some points back on the judges’ cards, but he didn’t have the ring smarts to keep the other kid away.
Bell and ref were in time with each other. One rang and the other stepped in. Both fighters dropped their hands. They were slick with perspiration and so was Kelly. He stood and clapped and hollered with everyone else. Corner men climbed through the ropes and the ring was crowded the way it always was at the end of a bout.
The other kid took the fight three rounds to one. The fighters embraced. Photos were shot. When Kelly settled back down he was smiling. This was the magic of the fight: no matter how small the purse, the fight mattered when it happened as much as any other fight for any amount of money.
“I forgot,” Kelly said aloud.
“
¿Qué?
” the man beside him asked.
“Nothing,” Kelly told him. “Good fight.”
The man nodded. “
Sí, era una buena lucha
.”
FOURTEEN
E ACH DAY HE WALKED LESS AND ran more. He’d quit smoking altogether and now he wasn’t even drinking beer except on those nights when he and Estéban did business. Running the same route along the main roads got boring, sucking up the smog, so he changed it up with smaller streets and neighborhoods far from his usual haunts.
He found the gym this way. A pack of short, lean Mexican fighters crossed his path on the run. Kelly recognized them immediately the way fighting animals know their own kind. He fell in with them without having to say a word and they loosened their ranks to accommodate him.
Theirs was a humbler section of Juárez, well away from the bright lights and clean sidewalks of the tourist district, but not as broken or filthy as the
colonias
. Boxing was a poor people’s sport, maybe poorer even than
fútbol
. Kelly saw kids playing
fútbol
in the streets with cheap plastic balls or even bags of leaves, but boxing could be had
Similar Books
