A Book of American Martyrs(168)

“Jesus, help me. ‘Jesus is Lord.’”

She would wear a black cord cap stitched with these words. One day (if it was God’s will) she would have sponsors to pay her expenses and support her—Adidas, Nike, Reebok.

Or maybe, a local car dealership. Dayton Sports Supplies.

Johnette Taylor had had a local sponsor when she’d lived in Dayton. She’d had sponsors through her career until she’d begun to lose, then the sponsors dropped away.

D.D. wanted to ask about sponsors for she knew how crucial it was to have a sponsor, you could not afford to be a boxer otherwise for the money was too little especially for female boxers and even those female boxers who were ranked and had won titles. From Ernie she’d learned that the current WBA women’s welterweight champion had to work part-time at a Walgreen’s in Omaha, Nebraska—this was surprising to her, and disappointing.

“Just to inform you, D.D. Just so you know.”

“Know what?—that that is how things are right now but won’t be always, maybe.”

A wildness came into her voice. She understood that this man was trying to discourage her and she could not bear it.

“I don’t want to fight for money, anyway.”

“What, then?”

“For—a reason.”

“What reason?”

She considered. She could not tell him all that was in her heart—the memory of her father who had sacrificed his life, and who was being forgotten.

She could not tell him—To make of myself something worthy. To make of myself something proud in Jesus’s name.

She heard herself laugh, instead. The way she laughed when she caught her feet in the damn jump rope, or punched herself out on the heavy bag and had to grab it to keep from fainting.

Things that upset her and angered and frustrated her she’d learned to laugh at. The wildness came into her like flame, you had to laugh or scream like a crazy person.

It was a surprise to others, who expected you not to laugh but hide your face in shame. But Jesus counseled her—Laugh to show you are not not-laughing. Laugh to show that you can laugh.

“Might be, no reason is worth it. Just sayin, D.D.”

He was what you’d call a light-skinned black man or (she thought) some kind of Hispanic mixed with black. Seeing him with others in the gym who were dark-black Ernie Beecher did not look “black” especially but seeing him with so-called “whites” (like herself she supposed) he did look “black”—what they called “African-American.”

Later on she’d hear that Ernie Beecher had every kind of “mixed” blood—black, Jamaican, Hispanic, Native American, Asian (Cambodian). How accurate this was she could not know. Or that he was fifty years old, or more!—this was a surprise to her, she’d thought he was much younger given how he sparred in the ring with some of the guys and how tireless he was with her trying to drum into her head defense strategy. He had a wife it was said. He had children by several women it was said. He’d been a light-heavyweight a long time ago—you could see his name in small letters on a frayed poster headlined TOMMY HEARNS VS. PIPINO CUEVAS. That had been August 1980, Detroit.

So long ago!—1980. D.D. tried to imagine what Ernie Beecher had looked like then.

He was not a normal-looking man. There was something intense and alert about him, in his eyes like the eyes of a hawk. His face had a twisted look like tree roots that have grown together. Eventually, she would perceive that his face was badly scarred.

She’d have liked to ask this man about his boxing career. Liked to have seen some photos.

But she knew better. She would never ask. She feared losing his goodwill. His patience with her.

It was amazing to her, he’d been so kind. He had not allowed her to pay the full amount for gym hours but a “discount.”

He did not ask questions. If the name Dunphy meant anything to him—(she had no reason to suspect that it did: no one remembered)—he gave no sign. He was gentlemanly. He did not tolerate bullshit, rowdy behavior, any kind of disruptive or disrespectful behavior in the gym. He would kick you out, you merited it. She had witnessed this with her own eyes. She had heard him speak critically to a young gym instructor, one of his own relatives. He did not forget but he might forgive.

His eyes were soft liquidy-black. His voice was so soft for a man’s voice sometimes she could not really hear him but could only murmur Yes. Yes Ernie.

The smell of him was such, so defined, his smell. Alone in the place she rented on Post Street a few blocks away in the bed that was her bed where often, so tired, she slept in most of her clothes and on cold nights her woolen socks she would wake suddenly in the night smelling his smell and in her confusion not know where she was.

She loved him so much! She wanted to tell him of her father who had given his life for the lives of innocent babies who could not protect themselves. She wanted to tell him how badly she missed her father and also she missed her mother and her family in Mad River Junction where she could not return for she was not welcome.

And he would ask Why are you not welcome, D.D.

And she would say Because my mother believes that I am a daughter of Satan.

But she was shy. And when she was in any proximity to him she was likely to be winded—panting to catch her breath, and her heart beating crazily in her chest. The worry was constant—Am I strong enough? Maybe I am not strong enough.