A Book of American Martyrs(176)

Sensing herself the stronger of the two D.D. pressed forward, hitting with her jab, harder than the opponent could hit, forcing the opponent backward, off balance. Always she was pressing forward, trying to get inside the reach of the taller boxer. As she positioned herself to throw a right cross the opponent jerked away like a frightened rabbit. Yet D.D. managed to hit her, a rapid right, a rapid and hard left hook, striking the opponent on the right temple, and sending her down onto one knee.

Immediately, a flurry of excitement in the arena.

The referee began his count. Five, six, seven . . . Dazed and blinking Lorina Starr rose to her feet at seven. She might have taken a count of nine to give herself a little more recovery time but she seemed defiant, brash. She was bleeding from a cut lip. Already she was badly out of breath. The referee peered frowningly at her but allowed the fight to continue as Lorina Starr backed away raising her gloves to prepare for an assault which she knew was coming, and which she could not prevent.

The younger and stronger boxer pushed forward aggressively, swarming over her, striking with both fists, a powerful volley of blows as cries lifted from the arena in approval.

The sight of blood on the opponent’s face was exciting to D.D. like the sight of something forbidden. She had not expected to wound the opponent so quickly. She had expected a more experienced opponent, and a more dangerous opponent.

Go forward! Get inside! Hit her!—there came her trainer’s urgent voice, or the memory of his voice.

A kind of madness came over her. A red mist. She was exultant, pushing forward. It was as if she and the opponent were drowning together in some terrible bright-lit place and D.D. had to fight the other woman off, defeat her utterly, to save herself.

Cries of the crowd like the shrieks of rapacious birds.

In this first fight D.D. understands: that is how a boxer knows that she is doing well. She is not just scoring points—she is arousing the crowd. She is intimidating her opponent who hears these cries and understands them utterly. She has no need to wait for a trainer’s terse praise.

An astonishment, the response of strangers. The reaction of the crowd that was so immediate. The crowd was on her side and wanted her to hurt the other, and to win.

D.D. Dunphy’s powerful left hook, her sharp right cross. She had practiced these for months, and could now “unpack” them. Inside the other’s feeble defense raining frenzied blows on the opponent as the opponent stumbled back into the ropes, trying desperately to clinch with her stronger opponent, being shoved away, failing, falling.

Lorina Starr fell heavily, her legs could no longer support her. With an audible thud her head struck the canvas. Panting with excitement D.D. crouched over the opponent not knowing what to do—she had not (yet) had the experience of knocking down, knocking out, an opponent; the situation did not seem real to her, and so she wondered—was this a trick? Was the opponent going to leap up, and attack her? Her heart was beating wildly, flooded with adrenaline. When someone touched her arm—(the referee: urging her to cross the ring into a neutral corner)—her instinct was to punch this person, hard.

But she did not. She understood. Her handlers had been yelling at her, and she understood.

In the neutral corner staring with wide blinking sweat-stinging eyes as (at the count of five) the referee stopped the fight, with a swift gesture of crossed forearms, for Lorina Starr was unresponsive.

In the arena, cries and applause. The first fight of D.D. Dunphy, welterweight, from Dayton, Ohio, had ended in a knockout, a rarity in women’s boxing.

And in the first round: two minutes forty-two seconds of the first round.

Was this possible? She had stumbled out of the neutral corner, summoned by the referee. She did not want to look too closely at the fallen Lorina Starr—“The Cougar.”

Her arm was being raised. Her name was being uttered, amplified—D.D. Dunphy, “Hammer of Jesus”—two minutes forty-two seconds, first round.

Her trainer was beside her. Her mouthpiece was removed. Her smile was the smile of a blind person confused by waves of sound. Her face looked as if it had been slapped, reddened by the jabs of her opponent, but not bloodied. Her skin was intact. Her lips had not been split. Flatfooted now she stood bathed in sweat, glittering in the bright lights. With a stab of something like guilt she was staring at the fallen opponent, slowly coming to consciousness, helped to her feet by her handlers as the small crowd continued to clap, cheer, whistle. There was approval of D.D. Dunphy’s performance and now there was some (fleeting) acknowledgment of the losing boxer Lorina Starr whose last fight this would be.

In the ring, in the bright lights, D.D. stood with her gloves lowered at her sides uncertain what to do. She seemed not to know where to go next.

Then—there was someone—a man—grabbing her, embracing her.

Her trainer! Ernie Beecher virtually never touched D.D. Dunphy except to tie on and remove her boxing gloves. Now, Ernie was embracing her.

“Good work, D.D.! Perfect uppercut. Viper-fast.”

But she’d missed many punches. She’d made mistakes. All that had happened was that her opponent had made more.

He would tell her that later, in the gym. But not now.

Lorina Starr was able now to stand without her corner men steadying her, though they were close beside her. Her sallow, scarred face was bleeding from numerous cuts. She was looking so tired now—much older than thirty—possibly by ten years. Trying to speak, even to smile jauntily—but she could not. In a rush of emotion D.D. pushed away from her trainer to run to Lorina, to embrace her with girlish enthusiasm, as she’d seen winning boxers embrace their defeated opponents. She was feeling almost weak now with gratitude, relief that the fight was over, that she had won.