Western boxing?”
“Yep.”
“What shall I work on in the meantime?”
“Uh, let’s see. Just work your fundamentals.” It was the best I could come up with. “And kid, you don’t have to wear a formal karate outfit, if you don’t want.”
“Sir, I prefer to train in my Karateka Nu-Breath Modern Ninja uniform.”
“That would be fine, I guess,” I said and then dismissed my class.
8
I hate the day before a fight.
It was in New York, so we were going to head down to the city at night, go to the weigh-in, have dinner, and go to bed early. Notice I said “go to bed” and not “go to sleep” because I never slept the night before a fight. Before we could leave I still had the morning and part of the afternoon to kill, so I arranged to work some time at the clinic. I didn’t have a ton of vacation time left but I could spare a half a day.
I had a ten a.m. session with Javier Sanchez, a migrant farm worker who came up to Crawford from Florida and the orange groves to work in the apple orchards. Sanchez got busted driving one of the orchard tractors on the Thruway, which was only part of the problem. The other part was that he was two and half times over the drunk-driving limit. I think the troopers got suspicious because he was in the passing lane doing eight miles per hour.
Sanchez barely spoke English and what he did say was mostly unintelligible. He really wasn’t of this culture and he didn’t get how the people in our country operated. He certainly didn’t get this whole human-services deal at all. The idea that the police arrest you and then you have to go some place to talk about things just didn’t make any sense to him. Getting locked up for a year in a smelly jail with little food and lots of bugs probably would’ve made sense, and in many cases might have been easier to take than the Chinese water torture of getting involved in court-ordered treatment.
To make matters worse, he hadn’t paid his clinic bills because, well, he made about a buck-fifty a day and didn’t understand why he was coming to the clinic in the first place. He was one of those victims of the absurd social-services laws. He didn’t have an official address because he lived in a tent on an orchard and he changed orchards frequently. Without an address, a citizen can’t get welfare or Medicaid. He couldn’t even apply for our sliding scale because he didn’t have any of the necessary paperwork like pay stubs and letters from landlords because he got paid in cash and he didn’t have a social security card or a driver’s license. Yet, even with all this bullshit, if Sanchez missed a couple of sessions, the Michelin Woman would make me contact his probation officer and he might go to jail.
Sanchez was half Mexican and half Filipino, and even though he was in his late fifties, he looked seventy. Lots of sun, too much work, and a steady diet of tequila will do that. All in all, he was very likable and I felt for the position he was in. As far as his treatment goals went I didn’t think he was going to be getting any AA MVP awards any time soon, but then again, neither was I.
Sanchez was a half an hour late as usual because he walked three miles each way to the clinic, which he said he didn’t mind. Today, he was wearing faded jeans, ratty Converse All Stars, a wife-beater, and a Chicago Bulls hat. He didn’t look happy and he didn’t smell good.
“Señor Duffy,” he said in his thick and mumbled accent. “Sanchez no money. Sanchez no number house.”
“No number house?” I said.
“No, no number house, no money, no money clinic.”
“No number house?” I repeated. “Oh … no address?”
“Sí.”
“No Medicaid, no welfare because no address, right?”
“Sí.” Sanchez frowned.
Sanchez had as much chance of solving this dilemma as he did getting accepted at the Crawford Country Club. This was the exact type of bureaucratic bullshit that made me want to jump out of my skin. I mean, I think
“Yep.”
“What shall I work on in the meantime?”
“Uh, let’s see. Just work your fundamentals.” It was the best I could come up with. “And kid, you don’t have to wear a formal karate outfit, if you don’t want.”
“Sir, I prefer to train in my Karateka Nu-Breath Modern Ninja uniform.”
“That would be fine, I guess,” I said and then dismissed my class.
8
I hate the day before a fight.
It was in New York, so we were going to head down to the city at night, go to the weigh-in, have dinner, and go to bed early. Notice I said “go to bed” and not “go to sleep” because I never slept the night before a fight. Before we could leave I still had the morning and part of the afternoon to kill, so I arranged to work some time at the clinic. I didn’t have a ton of vacation time left but I could spare a half a day.
I had a ten a.m. session with Javier Sanchez, a migrant farm worker who came up to Crawford from Florida and the orange groves to work in the apple orchards. Sanchez got busted driving one of the orchard tractors on the Thruway, which was only part of the problem. The other part was that he was two and half times over the drunk-driving limit. I think the troopers got suspicious because he was in the passing lane doing eight miles per hour.
Sanchez barely spoke English and what he did say was mostly unintelligible. He really wasn’t of this culture and he didn’t get how the people in our country operated. He certainly didn’t get this whole human-services deal at all. The idea that the police arrest you and then you have to go some place to talk about things just didn’t make any sense to him. Getting locked up for a year in a smelly jail with little food and lots of bugs probably would’ve made sense, and in many cases might have been easier to take than the Chinese water torture of getting involved in court-ordered treatment.
To make matters worse, he hadn’t paid his clinic bills because, well, he made about a buck-fifty a day and didn’t understand why he was coming to the clinic in the first place. He was one of those victims of the absurd social-services laws. He didn’t have an official address because he lived in a tent on an orchard and he changed orchards frequently. Without an address, a citizen can’t get welfare or Medicaid. He couldn’t even apply for our sliding scale because he didn’t have any of the necessary paperwork like pay stubs and letters from landlords because he got paid in cash and he didn’t have a social security card or a driver’s license. Yet, even with all this bullshit, if Sanchez missed a couple of sessions, the Michelin Woman would make me contact his probation officer and he might go to jail.
Sanchez was half Mexican and half Filipino, and even though he was in his late fifties, he looked seventy. Lots of sun, too much work, and a steady diet of tequila will do that. All in all, he was very likable and I felt for the position he was in. As far as his treatment goals went I didn’t think he was going to be getting any AA MVP awards any time soon, but then again, neither was I.
Sanchez was a half an hour late as usual because he walked three miles each way to the clinic, which he said he didn’t mind. Today, he was wearing faded jeans, ratty Converse All Stars, a wife-beater, and a Chicago Bulls hat. He didn’t look happy and he didn’t smell good.
“Señor Duffy,” he said in his thick and mumbled accent. “Sanchez no money. Sanchez no number house.”
“No number house?” I said.
“No, no number house, no money, no money clinic.”
“No number house?” I repeated. “Oh … no address?”
“Sí.”
“No Medicaid, no welfare because no address, right?”
“Sí.” Sanchez frowned.
Sanchez had as much chance of solving this dilemma as he did getting accepted at the Crawford Country Club. This was the exact type of bureaucratic bullshit that made me want to jump out of my skin. I mean, I think
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