A Book of American Martyrs(173)

Alone in the examination room she lay on the table for a moment unable to move. She had been spared the outrage of a pelvic exam.

Edna Mae would be relieved, and not so disgusted with her.

Never would she forget those words—Training hard. For your first fight. Waves of relief, gratitude, hope swept over her.

“Thank you, Jesus!”

He had not abandoned her after all. But she knew that.


IN THE WAKE of the doctor-visit she was given by her trainer a small plastic container of white pills. One-a-day, each morning.

“What’s this for?”—D.D. was doubtful about taking pills recalling how pills had affected Edna Mae.

These were smaller pills, but also white.

Ernie told her it was to “prevent problems”—“like, once a month”—since she was a “female athlete, who has to take precautions.”

He seemed embarrassed, irritated. As if D.D. should have known what he was talking about.

For a long slow moment D.D. did not comprehend, then a kind of comprehension came over her, like murky water rising.

Near-inaudibly, shamefaced she murmured OK.

The first fight was scheduled that very day.


NOW THERE WAS A DATE, a goal. Now she could measure the days on the calendar until February 11, 2009.

Not wishing to recall the previous times she’d marked calendar dates.

Now she was officially in training, now everyone knew. There was respect for her. In the eyes of the others, except maybe the young women who came to the gym only to “exercise”—there was a new interest, maybe a kind of awe.

That her?—Dunphy?

Christ! That’s a female Tyson.

One day sparring with Eduardo, a lapsed welterweight, formerly one of Ernie’s promising young boxers, D.D. was stunned by a blow to the right temple that seemed to fly out from Eduardo’s right glove. She was dazed, and slipped to one knee; she felt how the ring floor pulled at her, like a magnet; but there came Ernie’s terse command—Get up. Get on him—and she managed to get her balance, and to rush at her opponent with a flurry of blows to his midriff and lower belly, groin—in her desperation, and with a murderous intent, driving him back into the ropes.

“Hey! Fucking Christ! What’re you doing!—” Eduardo was gasping for breath, bent double. Tears shone on his cheeks.

Adrenaline rushed through her veins. So fierce she felt that flames might be oozing through her pores.

Ernie halted the match. Dunphy had hit low, with a vicious intent. He had not seen that in the girl, until this hour. There was something about her pebble-colored eyes and small mean mouth that was frightening to him, but exhilarating.

So then I knew. Dunphy could do it.

You got to be hungry, and to want to kill the opponent.

That’s all. That’s everything.


“MY FIRST FIGHT.”

Spoken aloud these words had almost the resonance of an echo.

“Six weeks from now, my first fight.”

She was beginning to tell people. Co-workers at Target. The supervisor Evelyn who seemed to like her. (But was very surprised to hear her good news.) A neighbor in the apartment building in which she rented a single, ground-floor room overlooking a front yard of mostly concrete.

Shyly, yet boastfully—My first fight. Cleveland. I have a trainer and a manager—yes.

It was a wonder to her, to say so matter-of-factly—I have a trainer. Ernie Beecher is my trainer.

Stranger to say—I have a manager. Mr. Cassidy . . .

Cass Cassidy was a partner in the Dayton gym. It wasn’t clear (to D.D.) if he was a business partner of Ernie Beecher or if he was Ernie’s employer. He was very friendly with Ernie often laying his hand on Ernie’s shoulder and calling him old buddy. He was a middle-aged (white) man who “managed” boxers and who appeared at the gym from time to time. If you heard a loud voice, laughter—it was likely to be Cass Cassidy trading wisecracks with the young (brown-skinned) boxers.

Cassidy had been Hector Rodriguez’s manager at some previous time. But Rodriguez no longer won fights and so he had another manager. (D.D. had been crushed to learn that Rodriguez had lost his fight in Cincinnati by a “split” decision. This was his third straight loss. It was said of Rodriguez that “his luck had turned against him” which was alarming to D.D. Dunphy to hear for it suggested something like a tidal wave, a shudder of the earth and a flooding that could not be prevented—an Act of God.)

Hector Rodriguez had not reappeared in the gym in weeks and D.D. was so immersed in her own training, she had given up looking for him.

“H’lo, ‘D.D.’ How’s it going.”

The voice was flat yet coercive. D.D. heard herself murmur, “OK.”

Often, D.D.’s voice sounded sullen, grudging when she was asked any question. She did not mean this. She had a fear of stammering, or saying the wrong thing and being laughed-at.

They were in Ernie’s office. D.D. had been summoned here. She had had a vigorous workout that afternoon and had showered and her hair was wet and lank, brushed back from her forehead. Every part of her body ached and yet—she was very happy! Ernie had told her she was “making progress.” A dozen times a day she whispered Thank you, Jesus.

Ernie introduced her to Cass Cassidy who was to be her “manager.”

Cassidy’s hand snaked out, and D.D. was shaking the hand. The fingers felt somewhat cold. For a scant moment she feared the fingers would not release her hand.