A Book of American Martyrs(175)

In her publicity photos Lorina “The Cougar” Starr appeared to be a sexy-glamorous young woman despite a scarred face. It was a surprise to D.D. to see her in person (at the weigh-in) for she was considerably older than her photos. Her features were Caucasian except for very dark eyes and very black straight hair which had been cut short and streaked with platinum-blond highlights. Her skin was coarsely made up with a red-tinted beige powder. She wore sexy boxing attire—a sequin-spangled red sports bra, Spandex-tight blue trunks that fitted her shapely buttocks tightly. Above her left breast was a tattoo of a red boxing glove and on her right shoulder, a snarling cougar with a curving tail. It was boasted that the Cougar “never gave up a fight” and “never disappointed a crowd.”

At the weigh-in D.D.’s opponent was giddy and edgy with a grating laugh like a cough. She could not seem to bring herself to look at her much-younger opponent still less shake hands with her. “Hey shit, I’m not your friend, girl”—Lorina Starr recoiled from D.D.’s approach when the boxers were urged to shake hands.

D.D. had to restrain herself from saying Sorry! This was a word that came too readily to her.

It was revealed that D.D. Dunphy was heavier than Lorina Starr by six pounds and shorter by two inches. Her reach was fifty-nine inches, Lorina Starr’s reach was sixty-one inches.

(D.D. did not want to think that these two inches might be crucial. Ernie said with a shrug, You got to get inside.)

Lorina Starr’s ring record was three wins, seven losses, one draw.

D.D. Dunphy’s ring record was zero wins, zero losses.

There came scattered applause in the arena as the female boxers, the first bout of the evening, were introduced by the big-voiced male announcer. A few wan whistles stimulated by Lorina’s spangled red sports bra and Spandex trunks and a few spirited handclaps when D.D. Dunphy’s ring record was announced and it was revealed that this was Dunphy’s first fight.

In the front rows only a few spectators were sitting, all male. These were loud-voiced, very possibly drunk. Some were eating hot dogs and drinking from paper cups. (Beer? Officially, not allowed in the Armory.)

In a trance of exhilaration and dread D.D. had entered the Armory. Her ears were ringing. Her mouth was so dry she could not have swallowed except a plastic water bottle was lifted to her mouth by one of her handlers.

She’d been exercising vigorously, somewhat desperately, in the locker room. She was covered in sweat which was consoling to her as a fine-mesh blanket.

Here was a disappointment—just slightly. Her manager Cass Cassidy had not allowed her to wear black in imitation of Mike Tyson. He had not allowed her to wear a cap with the words JESUS IS LORD stitched on it.

Maybe later, he’d said ambiguously. When the Hammer of Jesus had some followers.

D.D. Dunphy had been issued dark-red trunks, dark-red T-shirt trimmed in white. Her shoes were not black shoes but a girl’s shoes, dark red with tassels. There had been some reason for this, she’d had to accept.

She was a soldier now. She was a robot-soldier. Her trainer had instructed her: fix your gaze on your opponent and never look away. “Rivet” your opponent with your gaze “like a viper” and never, never look away.

Did she understand? Yes. She did.

For weeks she’d been told that the fight was hers to win. She could not lose. She believed this.

In the seconds before the bell rang for the first round Ernie spoke matter-of-factly in her ear giving instructions. She was a killing machine. She was a deadly viper. She was a pitbull. She had only to fight as she’d been taught and as she’d been practicing. So many times her trainer had led her through the sequence of punches which she executed flawlessly, tirelessly. She must get inside, for her arms were short. She must move forward, never back. Executing her practice-routines in the gym D.D. Dunphy was near-flawless but with a sparring partner she was less predictable and in this unfamiliar setting, in a vast arena of hundreds of seats, very bright lights, isolated shouts and cries and whistles, and facing an opponent with whom she’d never sparred, she was feeling like one who has opened a door and is about to step inside, trusting that there is a floor on the other side and not—nothing.

The bell rang at last. The boxers emerged from their corners staring at each other like sleepwalkers who have been rudely awakened.

As a cougar might approach a viper Lorina Starr approached her younger opponent with caution. Lorina Starr paid no heed to catcalls from the audience. She was skilled in prevarication, evasion. She had no wish to be hit for she had (many times) been hit and knew what being hit could mean. She was poking at Dunphy with her left jab, looking for an opening to hit the big-shouldered chunky white girl square in the face with her poised right hand and send the girl staggering back into the ropes but this did not happen for Dunphy crouched low, shielding her face with her raised gloves, and managed to slip Lorina Starr’s blows. This was the peek-a-boo style Ernie Beecher had drilled into her, which had been Mike Tyson’s defensive strategy drilled into him by his great trainer Cus d’Amato.

You’re short, short-armed. You need to go shorter.

The welterweights circled each other as isolated calls and whistles came from the arena. D.D. was surprised that the rapid left jab of her opponent scarcely registered against her arms and shoulders, awkwardly thrown, with no evident force behind it.

Strange, unnerving, to see the other’s face and eyes so close to her! The small white scars in the eyebrows that had been darkened with eyebrow pencil, glittering piercings in the ears that were not a good idea (D.D. was sure) to wear into the ring. The skin was damply flushed like her own, somewhat pale, coarse, without the red-tinged beige powder that was meant (D.D. supposed) to suggest “red skin.”