LITMIR.BIZ

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formed a “C” with the thumb and index fingers and a “K” with the middle, ring, and pinky on the same hand.

      “Monteff,” the one with the pick said. “Mama’s looking for you, go on inside.”

      “Awe, T-Money, come on,” Monteff cried, throwing his head back in agony.

      “Aight, it’s your ass, nigga… Speaking of ass whoopins, ya’ll been holdin’ down the set?” His tall, thin body loomed over us. His Adam’s apple bulged.

      “Hell yeah. Aw hell yeah,” us kids roared urgently.

      “We need to hand out any violations?” the one with the hat asked. He mashed his wide fist into his palm high over our heads. “Any mouth shots?”

      This sent a shiver of frightened murmurs through the crowd. Even BB got spooked. His eyes bugged, and his bottom lip drooped open.

      “Ah, we just fuckin’ witcha,” the older boys said, bursting into laughter. A sigh of relief hissed from us kids.

      “But ya’ll need ta get toughened up,” T-Money said. “So we gonna have us some boxing matches today.”

      “How about dangly, old Leroy,” BB shouted. “He ain’t never fought nobody.”

      “Yeah?” T-Money asked, furrowing his brow. “Come’ere, Leroy.” Leroy sifted to the front. “And who else?” T-Money scanned our faces.

      “What about Joe,” BB said. “Dat white boy prolly neva fought nobody.”

      “Who’s Joe?” T-Money asked.

      All the kids turned and shot their index fingers directly at me. A pang singed through my throat. I’d been in plenty of fights. I was the toughest kid in my grade at St. Greg’s, but all these kids were from Pierce—the rough public school down the street.

      “You wanna fight?” T-Money asked, baring his yellow-white chops.

      I nodded and pulled my t-shirt off. The kids oowwwed.

      “Hell yeah,” T-Money said. “I like your style boy, you look like you finna whoop ole Leroy.”

      The boys formed a shoulder-to-shoulder circle about the size of a boxing ring. I slipped my crucifix off and handed it to Ryan. He slid it over his head without a word.

      “Twon, get Leroy’s corner,” T-Money directed, motioning to the other big kid.

      Leroy was a little taller than me and skinnier. He wore a white t-shirt with grease stains streaked across the belly and some tight cut-off blue jeans. Leroy twirled his finger through his light-brown afro that sprang out puffy and thick like the tips of cauliflower.

      T-Money crouched down to my eye level and gripped his jogging pants as he chomped a wad of Juicy Fruit. “You got him, champ. You just gotta go’n whoop his ass... Hit him like dis.” T-Money bobbed on the toes of his black Reeboks. Then, he threw quick-darting punches into the air like he was swatting flies with closed fists. Years later, when I started to box, fighting at park districts around town and then the Golden Gloves, I’d learn that boxing was way more than hitting and getting hit. But I’d always look back at this as my first real bout.

      My stomach was uneasy and bloated. The plan was to get him in a headlock, hip-toss him to the ground, and then pound his face with my free hand—a move that had won me most fights. But I was usually angry when I fought. Now, I just felt sick and dizzy as the circle of boys hooted.

      “Naw… I betchu Joe’s gonna whoop his ass,” Ryan sneered at a mahogany-toned black kid who’d just walked up.

      BB solemnly stepped into the center of the circle of boys, announcing, “And in this corner,” BB raised his small palm towards Leroy, “with a record of zera and zera... dangly, old Leroy...” Laughter rippled through the ring.

      “And in this corner,” BB said, raising his arm towards me, “also with a record of zera and zera... Whitey Joe...”

      Everyone’s eyes beat down on me as they giggled and clapped. Mad, eager smiles spread across their faces, and BB waved us both to the center of the ring. Twon loomed behind Leroy, and he glowered down at me. A thin line of peach fuzz undulated above his mouth. T-Money kneaded my traps and shoulders. They walked us up close to each other, and our foreheads almost touched. Leroy and I tried to make mean faces, but they slid from grimaces to grins.

      “Rules...” BB said, looking down and scratching his chin. “Fuck... it ain’t no rules...” The crowd squealed. “Aight, no bleedin’ too much, and no cryin’.”

      The boys roared.

      “Now go back to your corners, and come on out swingin’,” BB declared, placing his hands on his hips. “And don’t be swingin’ like no girls or nothin’.”

      As I walked back to my corner, Ryan rushed up.

      “You got him, Joe... You got him.” Ryan’s green eyes gleamed. His spiky buzz-cut blazed in the sunlight like a copper crown.

      I smirked. My heart pulsed. The yells deafened me. I couldn’t think. I just scanned their faces. An obese, light-skinned black kid with a saggy, off-yellow shirt; a little white kid with a blond box cut; a wiry Assyrian kid with a shaggy, loose-curled afro. All of ’em bounced on their toes with the same excited, toothy grins. The ground felt soft and unstable under my sneakers. Their sudden shouts spouted up and swallowed the next.

      “Let’s get ready to rumble!” BB bellowed, and then stepped back. Leroy and I stood across from each other. We didn’t know what to do.

      “Go on an’ fight,” BB ordered, and clapped his hands together.

      We walked out in the middle. Both of us awestruck, we smiled and glanced around. Suddenly, Leroy’s fist lurched out and cracked my forehead. A loud “Ohh!” rang from the circle. My head rocked back. I’d never been punched like that. I saw the fist, then the blue sky. Then, I was looking back at Leroy again. A howl surged through my ears. It wasn’t funny anymore. An orb of broiling energy materialized in the center of my chest. I squeezed my fist, and the energy gushed straight through my arm and bottlenecked at my wrist. Then, it exploded as my fist burst into Leroy’s eye socket. His head whipped back, and his smile evaporated.

      We commenced to drive our clutched fists into each other’s heads. There was no form, no technique. The blows were all guided by complete and blind malice. I heard nothing, thought nothing. There was no time, just the moment. We teetered into the circular wall of boys, and they just shoved us back toward the center.

      After a few calamitous minutes, I drew arm-weary. Tears splashed down Leroy’s face. His lip sparkled with blood. I couldn’t catch my breath. My arms flapped at my sides like two dead lake trout, and I crumpled to the cement. A joyous howl ballooned up around me. The sudden embarrassment wrenched in my heart and hurled me to my feet. I rushed Leroy and dug my fist into his belly, deep, so he cried out. Then, he crumbled to the ground and wept in heavy, tired sobs. T-Money rushed into the middle of the ring waving his hands over his head.

      “That’s round one. End-a the round,” he said, then he grabbed my elbow and led me back to the corner. Twon picked up Leroy.

      “That’s good, Joe!” T-Money urged. “You got him! You gon’ whoop dat marg!”

      Ryan stepped up on my side. His bright eyes glowed. There was a hopeful smile on his thin lips. “You all right, Joe?” he asked. “You all right?”

      I got a lump in my throat and nodded.

      “Damn, Leroy, I thought you was a sucka... You ain’t a sucka at all...” BB squeaked. “But you betta not let that white boy whoop you.”

      When T-Money called out for round two, a few hot tears streamed down my face. I didn’t want to stop, and I didn’t know why I was crying. The tears infuriated me. I wanted to fight, and I wanted to win. Leroy’s bottom lip was split down the center, and bright-red blood glistened across his quivering mouth. A thin stream slid down from the cut and

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