Nick’s
back, guiding him toward the far side of the gym.
"Do me a favor here, Nick," he says
quietly.
Nick nods, not enjoying the feel of the hand on his
back.
"These kids are dead pussies."
"Those were big guys," Nick says again.
"They come home without their shoes," he
says, "I want them to come home bloody. I want them to come home
with their balls."
Nick doesn’t say anything to that.
"They got to learn how to handle themselves for
their own good."
Nick shrugs, thinking that is probably true.
Phillip Flood takes his hand again, and puts
something in it. Nick looks down and thinks for a moment that it’s
a ten-dollar bill. There are too many zeros, though.
"You know what I’m saying, here, Nick,"
he says. "I don’t want them so busted up I got trouble with
Theresa, but outside of that.
Nick gives him the money back. "It’s ten
dollars a month if they like it," he says, "just like
anybody else."
Nick says that, but there are only half a dozen
regulars—most of them cops—who pay. It costs Nick two, three
hundred dollars a month to keep the place open.
"Nicky," he says, "I don’t want ’em
to like it. They got fucking pizza, they got television. They already
got enough shit they like."
He puts the bill in Nick’s shirt pocket and pats
his chest. "They don’t have to win no Golden Gloves," he
says. "Just teach them some balls."
And then Phillip Flood leaves.
The kids stand dead still in the middle of the room,
holding their gym bags, the tall one watching everything at once. The
other one, Phillip’s kid, looks bored. Or looks like he’s trying
to look bored.
Nick feels the money in his pocket, feels a hundred
dollars changing the gym.
"You want to try
this?" he says.
* * *
H e wraps Charley’s kid’s
hands.
The other one sits down in front of an old television
set by the toilet and adjusts the wire hanger Nick uses for an
antenna, and watches the dance show from West Philadelphia.
Nick remembers the name now, Bandstand .
Charley’s kid looks at his hands after Nick wraps
them. That first time, it’s like letting them hold a gun.
Nick pulls a pair of sixteen-ounce gloves out of the
locker and he ties the kid’s laces, and then takes another pair out
and has the old man tie his. The gloves are faded and worn, and tufts
of horsehair stick out of the seams. Nick holds the ropes and the kid
climbs in the ring, smiling at the feel of the mat. The other one,
Michael, looks up from the television set a moment, his mouth half
open, and then he smiles too. A different kind of smile.
"The first thing let’s do," Nick says,
"punch me right in the face. As hard as you want."
He drops his face even with the kid’s and offers
him his cheek.
The kid looks at him a moment, then at the gloves.
Then he moves his hand, almost slow-motion, until it touches Nick on
the line of his jaw. Nick smiles at him. Most kids, they’ll hit you
in the face with a hatchet if you let them.
"You can hit harder than that," Nick says.
The kid nods.
"C’mon, I want you to hit me a good one."
The kid drops his hands.
"It’s all right, I’m used to it."
The kid seems to think it over. "That isn’t
how you do it," he says quietly.
"It’s how you learn," Nick says. "You
remember that colored kid took your shoes?"
The kid nods.
"Pretend like that was me."
But he sees the kid doesn’t want to hit him.
"I’ll tell you what," Nick says, "let’s
just move around here a little bit, and when you see a chance, you
waffle me then."
The kid likes that better. He holds up his hands and
follows Nick around the ring. Nick taps him on the forehead once in a
while, getting him used to the feeling; the kid doesn’t seem to
mind. Nick hits him a little harder, then offers the side of his face
for the kid to hit him back.
He throws a punch—not as awkward as he was
outside—and Nick is surprised at its weight.
He ducks underneath the next one and the kid stumbles
into him, and there is a noise as his face cracks
back, guiding him toward the far side of the gym.
"Do me a favor here, Nick," he says
quietly.
Nick nods, not enjoying the feel of the hand on his
back.
"These kids are dead pussies."
"Those were big guys," Nick says again.
"They come home without their shoes," he
says, "I want them to come home bloody. I want them to come home
with their balls."
Nick doesn’t say anything to that.
"They got to learn how to handle themselves for
their own good."
Nick shrugs, thinking that is probably true.
Phillip Flood takes his hand again, and puts
something in it. Nick looks down and thinks for a moment that it’s
a ten-dollar bill. There are too many zeros, though.
"You know what I’m saying, here, Nick,"
he says. "I don’t want them so busted up I got trouble with
Theresa, but outside of that.
Nick gives him the money back. "It’s ten
dollars a month if they like it," he says, "just like
anybody else."
Nick says that, but there are only half a dozen
regulars—most of them cops—who pay. It costs Nick two, three
hundred dollars a month to keep the place open.
"Nicky," he says, "I don’t want ’em
to like it. They got fucking pizza, they got television. They already
got enough shit they like."
He puts the bill in Nick’s shirt pocket and pats
his chest. "They don’t have to win no Golden Gloves," he
says. "Just teach them some balls."
And then Phillip Flood leaves.
The kids stand dead still in the middle of the room,
holding their gym bags, the tall one watching everything at once. The
other one, Phillip’s kid, looks bored. Or looks like he’s trying
to look bored.
Nick feels the money in his pocket, feels a hundred
dollars changing the gym.
"You want to try
this?" he says.
* * *
H e wraps Charley’s kid’s
hands.
The other one sits down in front of an old television
set by the toilet and adjusts the wire hanger Nick uses for an
antenna, and watches the dance show from West Philadelphia.
Nick remembers the name now, Bandstand .
Charley’s kid looks at his hands after Nick wraps
them. That first time, it’s like letting them hold a gun.
Nick pulls a pair of sixteen-ounce gloves out of the
locker and he ties the kid’s laces, and then takes another pair out
and has the old man tie his. The gloves are faded and worn, and tufts
of horsehair stick out of the seams. Nick holds the ropes and the kid
climbs in the ring, smiling at the feel of the mat. The other one,
Michael, looks up from the television set a moment, his mouth half
open, and then he smiles too. A different kind of smile.
"The first thing let’s do," Nick says,
"punch me right in the face. As hard as you want."
He drops his face even with the kid’s and offers
him his cheek.
The kid looks at him a moment, then at the gloves.
Then he moves his hand, almost slow-motion, until it touches Nick on
the line of his jaw. Nick smiles at him. Most kids, they’ll hit you
in the face with a hatchet if you let them.
"You can hit harder than that," Nick says.
The kid nods.
"C’mon, I want you to hit me a good one."
The kid drops his hands.
"It’s all right, I’m used to it."
The kid seems to think it over. "That isn’t
how you do it," he says quietly.
"It’s how you learn," Nick says. "You
remember that colored kid took your shoes?"
The kid nods.
"Pretend like that was me."
But he sees the kid doesn’t want to hit him.
"I’ll tell you what," Nick says, "let’s
just move around here a little bit, and when you see a chance, you
waffle me then."
The kid likes that better. He holds up his hands and
follows Nick around the ring. Nick taps him on the forehead once in a
while, getting him used to the feeling; the kid doesn’t seem to
mind. Nick hits him a little harder, then offers the side of his face
for the kid to hit him back.
He throws a punch—not as awkward as he was
outside—and Nick is surprised at its weight.
He ducks underneath the next one and the kid stumbles
into him, and there is a noise as his face cracks
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