is
through sleeping for the night, he gets quietly out of bed and goes
downstairs. He makes himself a cup of coffee and waits for the paper.
* * *
T wo days pass and the old
man is still in the gym. He ties the laces in Nick’s gloves before
he boxes; he holds the heavy bag that Nick hits afterwards.
Nick prefers to let the bag swing, but he allows the
old man his small jobs; he doesn’t want to be the one to tell him
that he’s in the way.
He avoids conversations. The old man spits when Nick
talks to him, trying to talk back.
Nick has begun to think that the old man knows
something about fighting. He’s never done it himself—his nose is
thin and straight and there’s no thickness in his eyebrows, and he
is the kind of old man that if he had fought, he would have been
hit—but he seems to know what he’s watching. There is a certain
impatience that crosses his face when a fighter is flat or tired or
lazy in the ring. He reminds Nick of a trainer.
When the old man watches, nobody gets the benefit of
the doubt.
Afterwards, when he sweeps
the floor, he will push the broom into the feet of the boxers as they
sit on the bench dressing. He makes an angry popping noise, and the
fighters move their feet.
* * *
A in’t there a number you
can call," one of them says to Nick, "they come pick
somebody like that up?"
Nick is sitting near the window, watching the old man
pick up the pages of the Evening Bulletin that have drifted across the floor. He shakes his head. "I don’t
know what you’re supposed to do," he says.
"How long you going to let him stay?" the
fighter says.
Nick shrugs. "It’s pretty cold," he says,
"to put somebody out."
The door opens downstairs, and then closes. Nick is
expecting a trainer, an old guy named Louis Grizzert who’s got a
kid he wants him to work with. He stands up, his legs feel tired and
fragile from being outside in the cold all day working on engines,
and walks to the head of the stairs.
It isn’t any Louis Grizzert on the stairs, though.
Nick stands with his hands on the railing, looking down, and out of
the dark Phillip Flood rises into his life. Behind him are the boys
who lost their shoes to the colored kids. They are carrying gym bags.
Phillip Flood is wearing a tie and a suit and a
cashmere coat that drops to his knees. He looks up at Nick and
smiles.
"Nick, my man."
"How you doin’, Phil?" he says.
He tries to remember the last time he spoke to
Phillip Flood; he thinks it might have been the week he moved into
Charley’s house.
Phillip Flood takes the last eight steps in a sudden
burst, and then pulls off one of his gloves and reaches for Nick’s
hand. Out of breath.
Nick shakes hands, trying not to give Phillip Flood
his knuckles to squeeze. People were always squeezing fighters’
hands to show they were strong. Nobody considered how sore fighting
made them, not to mention working on engines.
Phillip Flood pulls him close, still holding on to
his hand, and hugs him. Nick feels the cold from outside and then the
shoulder of the coat against his face, and he is surprised at its
softness. He smells cologne.
"Nicky," Phillip Flood says, "I wanted
to thank you, what you did for my boys."
Nick pulls himself back and looks at the boys. The
taller one—the nephew—is looking around the room like he might be
interested. The other one is bored.
Nick shrugs. "We been there ourselves," he
says.
Phillip Flood lets go of his hand. "I don’t
remember nobody takin’ my fuckin’ shoes .... "
He looks at his son then, the son looks back.
"So what I was wondering, Nick, would you have
time to work with them a little . . . You know, show them something
for next time."
Phillip Flood brings his fists up on either side of
his face, imitating a boxer. His front teeth press into his lower
lip, turning it white.
Nick looks at the boys again.
"Those were big guys," Nick says.
"Sometimes you just give up your shoes."
Phillip Flood laughs and then puts his hand on
through sleeping for the night, he gets quietly out of bed and goes
downstairs. He makes himself a cup of coffee and waits for the paper.
* * *
T wo days pass and the old
man is still in the gym. He ties the laces in Nick’s gloves before
he boxes; he holds the heavy bag that Nick hits afterwards.
Nick prefers to let the bag swing, but he allows the
old man his small jobs; he doesn’t want to be the one to tell him
that he’s in the way.
He avoids conversations. The old man spits when Nick
talks to him, trying to talk back.
Nick has begun to think that the old man knows
something about fighting. He’s never done it himself—his nose is
thin and straight and there’s no thickness in his eyebrows, and he
is the kind of old man that if he had fought, he would have been
hit—but he seems to know what he’s watching. There is a certain
impatience that crosses his face when a fighter is flat or tired or
lazy in the ring. He reminds Nick of a trainer.
When the old man watches, nobody gets the benefit of
the doubt.
Afterwards, when he sweeps
the floor, he will push the broom into the feet of the boxers as they
sit on the bench dressing. He makes an angry popping noise, and the
fighters move their feet.
* * *
A in’t there a number you
can call," one of them says to Nick, "they come pick
somebody like that up?"
Nick is sitting near the window, watching the old man
pick up the pages of the Evening Bulletin that have drifted across the floor. He shakes his head. "I don’t
know what you’re supposed to do," he says.
"How long you going to let him stay?" the
fighter says.
Nick shrugs. "It’s pretty cold," he says,
"to put somebody out."
The door opens downstairs, and then closes. Nick is
expecting a trainer, an old guy named Louis Grizzert who’s got a
kid he wants him to work with. He stands up, his legs feel tired and
fragile from being outside in the cold all day working on engines,
and walks to the head of the stairs.
It isn’t any Louis Grizzert on the stairs, though.
Nick stands with his hands on the railing, looking down, and out of
the dark Phillip Flood rises into his life. Behind him are the boys
who lost their shoes to the colored kids. They are carrying gym bags.
Phillip Flood is wearing a tie and a suit and a
cashmere coat that drops to his knees. He looks up at Nick and
smiles.
"Nick, my man."
"How you doin’, Phil?" he says.
He tries to remember the last time he spoke to
Phillip Flood; he thinks it might have been the week he moved into
Charley’s house.
Phillip Flood takes the last eight steps in a sudden
burst, and then pulls off one of his gloves and reaches for Nick’s
hand. Out of breath.
Nick shakes hands, trying not to give Phillip Flood
his knuckles to squeeze. People were always squeezing fighters’
hands to show they were strong. Nobody considered how sore fighting
made them, not to mention working on engines.
Phillip Flood pulls him close, still holding on to
his hand, and hugs him. Nick feels the cold from outside and then the
shoulder of the coat against his face, and he is surprised at its
softness. He smells cologne.
"Nicky," Phillip Flood says, "I wanted
to thank you, what you did for my boys."
Nick pulls himself back and looks at the boys. The
taller one—the nephew—is looking around the room like he might be
interested. The other one is bored.
Nick shrugs. "We been there ourselves," he
says.
Phillip Flood lets go of his hand. "I don’t
remember nobody takin’ my fuckin’ shoes .... "
He looks at his son then, the son looks back.
"So what I was wondering, Nick, would you have
time to work with them a little . . . You know, show them something
for next time."
Phillip Flood brings his fists up on either side of
his face, imitating a boxer. His front teeth press into his lower
lip, turning it white.
Nick looks at the boys again.
"Those were big guys," Nick says.
"Sometimes you just give up your shoes."
Phillip Flood laughs and then puts his hand on
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