A Book of American Martyrs(172)

She’d said to Ernie, she wanted to box like Rodriguez. She wanted to be that good.

And another time she said, she wanted to spar with Rodriguez. Just once.

Ernie frowned at such a notion. Ernie shook his head no. Not a good idea.

Why not? She could learn from Rodriguez better than anyone else in the gym.

“Why not? He’s a light-heavy. He’ll hurt you.”

“I need that. I need to know.”

But Ernie was resolute. Not a good idea. No.

For weeks she was fixated on Rodriguez who was training for a fight in Cincinnati. The idea of Rodriguez filled her head like a balloon inflating. She began to neglect some of her own routines, observing his. And he’d begun to notice her. In the gym, D.D. Dunphy was beginning to be known as a female boxer Ernie was training, and Rodriguez knew of her, and (she could tell) did not approve of her. He did not approve of female boxers, and he did not approve of her.

She saw him glancing at her. Not-friendly, but cold. Disdainful. Hispanic male, in disdain of a serious female athlete. He was hawk-faced, with small scars in his eyebrows, sleek black hair tied tight in a little pigtail at the back of his head. Despite blemished skin on his face and neck he was good-looking, vain. His light-heavyweight body was muscled and fit and the flesh at his waist had not yet become flaccid. On his back, biceps and forearms were cobwebs of tattoos like florid wounds.

Rodriguez sparred with a succession of partners. D.D. Dunphy yearned to be one of these.

She pleaded with Ernie. “I c’n learn.”

“Learn what? Getting your jaw broke?”

He was indignant. His praise of her, precious as water to a creature avid with thirst, had become sparing, grudging.

(Was Ernie jealous of Hector Rodriguez? She smiled to think so.)

At Target, those long hours. Dreaming of the gym, its pungent smells, male-sweat, windows opaque with grime. As at her exercises when Rodriguez was not in the gym she dreamt of him. Her eyelids were so heavy! Suddenly they were sparring together as equals. Or almost.

They were sparring together as equals until suddenly Rodriguez released a fury of blows aimed at D.D.’s head, body, head—for the first time, D.D. Dunphy was knocked down.

He relented, and crouched over her. He spoke her name—“D.D.”

It was Graziano and LaMotta. On their feet, embracing. At the conclusion of a long fight in which one man was the winner and the other the loser yet the face of each was battered, bloody.

She dared to greet Hector Rodriguez when he arrived at the gym one evening with two friends. He was wearing a dove-gray suede jacket, not new, slightly soiled. On his feet, tooled leather boots. His manner with Ernie Beecher’s new-girl-in-training was curt, indifferent. There was some tension between Rodriguez and Beecher, as between a son and a father who have disappointed each other and will not forget. But D.D. had timed the encounter with such care, she was in motion, moving past the men, not a moment of indecision, not a backward glance it was so casual to her.

She was observed shadowboxing, in the style of Rodriguez. The inclination of the head, the flurries of sharp quick precise blows to head, body, head of the (imagined) opponent. That short left hook, in an arc of six inches.

In a hoodie drawn over her head, in a chilly corner of the gym. So that, from a little distance, you could not see who it was—female, male.


“‘PHYSICAL.’ ”

The sound of the word was fascinating to her: “phys-i-cal.”

She had never said this word aloud. But now Ernie Beecher had made an appointment with a Dayton doctor for her physical.

The doctor-visit was not a pleasant experience. It had been explained to her that in order to box she had to be “licensed”—in order to be licensed she had to pass a physical examination. She had never had such an examination in her life, she was sure.

Dr. Danks was a heavyset (white) man in his sixties with thin white-feathery hair, blood-veined eyes and nose, a mild tremor in his hands. His stomach was round and prominent, he could not easily move from the chair in which he sat beside his girl patient. His eyes behind bifocal glasses moved along her body to her prim-tucked feet and up again to her stiffened wax-face.

“No problems, eh? Though you are training hard for your first fight?”

Training hard. First fight.

She had not heard it so phrased, that she was training hard for her first fight.

Had Ernie Beecher told the doctor this? She felt a flood of great happiness, and could not speak.

“Your trainer has requested a prescription for you. When a female is boxing there’s concern for—well, the ‘menstral cycle’ it is called. A female athlete should take precautions so she is always at her peak. I’d hoped to examine you a little more thoroughly but, well—you are obviously in excellent condition. Ernie Beecher has a reputation for working with only the best athletes he can find. So now, miss, if you can cooperate just a little—we can complete these formalities and you can be on your merry way.”

She hadn’t heard much of this. She had not quite heard the shameful words menstral cycle. And merry way—what did that mean?

She could think only first fight. Training hard.

Wheezing Dr. Danks was not going to touch her further, that was all that mattered.

He conferred with the nurse-receptionist, and shuffled out of the room. In a bright cajoling voice of the kind one might employ with a recalcitrant child the woman told D.D. that she could “provide a swab” from between her legs herself, with a cotton Q-stick—“That should be enough, then. Like a ‘Pap smear.’” D.D. was very much embarrassed, but took the little stick from her, and cautiously touched herself with it, between the legs where (she supposed) there was some sticky dampness. Blushing deeply she handed the befouled stick to the nurse-receptionist who took it with gloved fingers. “Thank you!”