Pound for Pound by F. X. Toole

had gone to them with questions, but they treated him like he was looking for a way out, instead of in.
    Trini said, “Somethin wrong with your tittie,
ése?
”
    Chicky couldn’t go to Eloy. His granddaddy had been the first one to pass the Cavazos’ tough-guy system on to Chicky. Besides, his
abuelo
was shit-faced all the time.
    Thanks to the work with the little pro, Chicky was able to control a right-hander easily in his next fight, and the next as well. Then he fought two speedy black fighters from the Eastside, winning both matches by a split decision. It scared him—not fighting blacks, but what it would be like to fight top-ranked blacks for a shot at the Olympics. And how would he handle them as a pro?
    The better he got, the better his opponents got. Now all his fights were hard fights. He began going home with some of the lumps and black eyes he had sent other boys home with. He continued to win, but puzzled over why he had to fight so hard, why he got winded despite his roadwork. The clever boxers, even the boxer-punchers, did not have to grind out wins the way he did. He’d heard it said that there was a finite number of punches a fighter could take. Each fighter would have a different number, but they all had a limit. Chicky didn’t believe in a limit at first. Now he wasn’t so sure.
    There were other aspects of boxing that troubled Chicky. Being left-handed had always given Chicky an edge with right-handers. Punches from southpaws bewildered them, especially the jab, because it came at them from the same side they used to throw their jabs. He’d tried to set up his usual attack with the El Paso pro, but the guy knew how to handle a lefty and made Chicky aware that being a hard-hitting southpaw wasn’t enough. Now he had to learn consciously what he had instinctively done in the past. He must seek to
agarrar la onda
of boxing, to dig to the depths of the sweet science and seize its hidden truths. Part of that was to strip the opponent of what he did best, take his very fight from him—take his balance, limit his ability to punch, drain him of power. Chicky knew, in his gut, that there had to be more, starting with his own spread-eagle stance. The El Chuco Indian also made him wonder if he could keep fighting as a pro, when he’d have to go twelve blistering rounds in a title fight.
¡Híjole!
    As Chicky began to meet better fighters, he found that he could only land punches within the distance of his own, limited reach. Even at that range, he’d sometimes miss openings wide as a barn against slick fighters “on their bicycle,” boxers who continually bobbed and weaved, guys who baited him in so they could take him out. With such fighters, his punches would come up short, usually by inches, but sometimes by half steps as well. Those black fighters from San Antonio’s Eastside had given him fits, though he didn’t like to admit it. Range and distance were a problem the Cavazos’ style of fighting would never help him solve. It meant, bottom line, that he had to stay close and trade shots. He’d been hit hard, so he knew he could take a shot. He knew he hit harder than anyone he’d ever fought, but he also knew that power couldn’t always save him. Knew that there had to be others who could punch as hard as he, maybe harder. What if he had to face some black bird who could move him to his left and hit like he hit? It cost him sleep.
    Chicky watched how the Cavazo brothers taught newcomers, andlistened to them as they called instructions to experienced fighters. When he finally broke the code of their style, he almost laughed. The Cavazo style was no style. Essentially, it was street fighting—plant your feet wide apart and swing hard, homeboy, and forget that your face will fucking wear out.
Ay, madre de Dios,
Chicky thought. It was a style that worked well when fighting Mexicans who fought the same way. What you had to do to beat most of them was to absorb more punishment than they. And there