elastic top of his trunks was sopping with the
sweat that streamed in rivulets down his hairless chest. Each time his
fist missed the timing bag, he would glance nervously a few feet away
at another kid who had turned
his
timing bag into
an explosion of sound and movement. Then Zoot would smash the bag with
a right cross, snapping it back on the chain, try to connect with a
left, miss, swing again with his right, and miss again.
'Try not to hit harder with one hand than the other,' I said.
'You have to create a kind of circular momentum.'
'A what?'
Great choice of words
, I told myself.
'You called my house yesterday,' I said.
'You Mr. Robicheaux?'
'Yes.'
'Oh, yeah, well—I be with you in a minute, okay?
They
waiting for me over at the ring. I'm gonna go three with that white boy
putting on his kidney guard.'
'You said you had some pretty important things to tell me,
Zoot.'
His eyes flicked sideways, then came back on my face again.
'I gotta go my three. This ain't an easy place to talk, you
know what I mean?'
'Yeah, I guess so.' I looked at the white kid who was climbing
up in the corner of one of the rings. His skin had the alabaster
iridescence of someone who seldom went out in the sunlight, but his
stomach, which was tattooed with a red-and-green dragon, was a
washboard, and the muscles in his arms looked like pieces of pig iron.
'Who is he?' I asked.
'Ummm, he fights in Miami and Houston a lot.'
'He's a pro?'
'Yes, suh.'
'You sure you want to do this, partner?'
He licked his lips and tried to hide the shine of fear in his
eyes.
'He's a good guy. He's been up against some big names. He
don't do this for just anybody,' Zoot said. 'I'll be right back. You
ain't got to watch if you don't want. There's a Coca-Cola machine back
in the dressing room.'
'I'll just take a seat over here.'
'Yes, suh. I'll be right back.'
I don't think I ever saw anyone box quite as badly as Zoot.
Either he would hold both gloves in front of his face so that he was
unable to see his opponent or he would drop his guard suddenly and
float his face up like a balloon, right into a rain of blows. His
stance was wrong-footed, he led with his right
hand, he used his left like a flipper, he took shot after shot in the
mouth and eyes because he didn't know how to tuck in his chin and raise
his shoulder against a right cross.
Fortunately the white kid went easy on him, except in the
third round when Zoot swung at the white kid's head coming out of a
clench. The white kid stepped inside Zoot's long reach and hooked a
hard chop into his nose. Zoot went down on his butt in the middle of
the canvas, his long legs splayed out in front of him, his mouth-piece
lying wet in his lap, his eyes glazed as though someone had popped a
flashbulb in his face.
Twenty minutes later he came out of the dressing room in his
street clothes, combing his wet hair along the sides of his head. His
nose had stopped bleeding, but his left eye had started to discolor and
puff shut at the corner. We walked across the street to a café
that
sold pizza by the slice and sat at a table in back under a rotating
electric fan.
'Have you been boxing long?' I said.
'Since school let out.'
'You trying for the Golden Gloves?'
'I just do it for fun. I don't think about the Gloves or any
of that stuff.'
'Let me make a suggestion, Zoot. Keep your left shoulder up
and don't lead with your right unless you go in for a body attack. Then
get under the other guy's guard and hook him hard in the rib cage,
right under the heart.'
He fed a long slice of pizza into his mouth and looked at me
while he chewed.
'You been a fighter?' he said.
'A little bit, in high school.'
'You think maybe I could try for the Gloves?'
'I guess that'd be up to you.'
He smiled and lowered his eyes.
'You don't think' I'm too good, do you?' he said.
'You just went three rounds against a pro. That's not bad.'
'I know what you're really thinking, though. You ain't got to
make me feel good. Like I
sweat that streamed in rivulets down his hairless chest. Each time his
fist missed the timing bag, he would glance nervously a few feet away
at another kid who had turned
his
timing bag into
an explosion of sound and movement. Then Zoot would smash the bag with
a right cross, snapping it back on the chain, try to connect with a
left, miss, swing again with his right, and miss again.
'Try not to hit harder with one hand than the other,' I said.
'You have to create a kind of circular momentum.'
'A what?'
Great choice of words
, I told myself.
'You called my house yesterday,' I said.
'You Mr. Robicheaux?'
'Yes.'
'Oh, yeah, well—I be with you in a minute, okay?
They
waiting for me over at the ring. I'm gonna go three with that white boy
putting on his kidney guard.'
'You said you had some pretty important things to tell me,
Zoot.'
His eyes flicked sideways, then came back on my face again.
'I gotta go my three. This ain't an easy place to talk, you
know what I mean?'
'Yeah, I guess so.' I looked at the white kid who was climbing
up in the corner of one of the rings. His skin had the alabaster
iridescence of someone who seldom went out in the sunlight, but his
stomach, which was tattooed with a red-and-green dragon, was a
washboard, and the muscles in his arms looked like pieces of pig iron.
'Who is he?' I asked.
'Ummm, he fights in Miami and Houston a lot.'
'He's a pro?'
'Yes, suh.'
'You sure you want to do this, partner?'
He licked his lips and tried to hide the shine of fear in his
eyes.
'He's a good guy. He's been up against some big names. He
don't do this for just anybody,' Zoot said. 'I'll be right back. You
ain't got to watch if you don't want. There's a Coca-Cola machine back
in the dressing room.'
'I'll just take a seat over here.'
'Yes, suh. I'll be right back.'
I don't think I ever saw anyone box quite as badly as Zoot.
Either he would hold both gloves in front of his face so that he was
unable to see his opponent or he would drop his guard suddenly and
float his face up like a balloon, right into a rain of blows. His
stance was wrong-footed, he led with his right
hand, he used his left like a flipper, he took shot after shot in the
mouth and eyes because he didn't know how to tuck in his chin and raise
his shoulder against a right cross.
Fortunately the white kid went easy on him, except in the
third round when Zoot swung at the white kid's head coming out of a
clench. The white kid stepped inside Zoot's long reach and hooked a
hard chop into his nose. Zoot went down on his butt in the middle of
the canvas, his long legs splayed out in front of him, his mouth-piece
lying wet in his lap, his eyes glazed as though someone had popped a
flashbulb in his face.
Twenty minutes later he came out of the dressing room in his
street clothes, combing his wet hair along the sides of his head. His
nose had stopped bleeding, but his left eye had started to discolor and
puff shut at the corner. We walked across the street to a café
that
sold pizza by the slice and sat at a table in back under a rotating
electric fan.
'Have you been boxing long?' I said.
'Since school let out.'
'You trying for the Golden Gloves?'
'I just do it for fun. I don't think about the Gloves or any
of that stuff.'
'Let me make a suggestion, Zoot. Keep your left shoulder up
and don't lead with your right unless you go in for a body attack. Then
get under the other guy's guard and hook him hard in the rib cage,
right under the heart.'
He fed a long slice of pizza into his mouth and looked at me
while he chewed.
'You been a fighter?' he said.
'A little bit, in high school.'
'You think maybe I could try for the Gloves?'
'I guess that'd be up to you.'
He smiled and lowered his eyes.
'You don't think' I'm too good, do you?' he said.
'You just went three rounds against a pro. That's not bad.'
'I know what you're really thinking, though. You ain't got to
make me feel good. Like I
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