A Book of American Martyrs(182)

Her eyes sprang open. One more round! Three minutes.

Her head was strangely heavy on her shoulders, she could barely hold her head up. Something had happened to her neck, the cervical spine . . . And her lower back, throbbing with pain.

The bell rang. The new round began. She was pushed from her stool. She had to look for her opponent—where was her opponent?—the other boxer was slow to rise from her stool as if reluctant to approach D.D. Dunphy in the center of the ring.

Sleekly-beautiful Princess Jamala with gold-flashing dagger tattoos, shaved head, skin-tight Spandex—not so arrogant and self-assured now but slack-armed and dazed with fatigue. That was the black kickbox-champion’s secret—she had never boxed beyond a few rounds. She had always won fights early. She was all dazzle, display and a few very hard, sharp and precise punches. But her stamina had never been tested.

Hammer of Jesus had not been tested either. Now she would reveal herself.

She was wondering if Jamala could see her clearly—if (maybe) the opponent’s eyesight was blurred as hers was blurred. And if adrenaline had over-stimulated Jamala’s heart that was now racing, dangerously fast . . . D.D. knew that she must go on the attack but her legs were like lead. Her feet were leaden hooves. Could scarcely move her upper body to slip punches, could not have stepped out of the way of a serious blow but fortunately the Princess could not hit her—not squarely, not hard.

The effort of her wild right swing sent droplets of sweat flying off her contorted face.

There was a scuffle. Hot breaths, sharp pungent smell of the other’s body. The effort of each was to avoid being thrown down by the other.

Jamala muttered what sounded like Damn you girl, fuck white bitch let go of me even as D.D. pushed her away with both gloves.

(Was it the last round? D.D. could not remember.)

Exhausted and bloodied D.D. nonetheless managed to outbox her opponent and to push her away each time she tried to protect herself by clinching. Almost she wanted to murmur in Jamala’s ear—Forgive me.

She would win the fight on points—she would not try to knock out her opponent. Her strength was diminished, she was not sure that she could throw a crucial punch, and trying to throw would open her up to being punched by her opponent. And there would be no triumph for her in knocking down and humiliating Princess Jamala Prentis—even if she was capable of this.

The last round ended. Panting and staggering Jamala Prentis had not returned a single punch in this round.

D.D. Dunphy had won!—she was sure. Her trainer did not embrace her as he usually did at such a time but touched her shoulder in acknowledgment—“Good. You ended strong.”

The announcer called the boxers to the center of the ring to stand side by side drenched in perspiration, bruised and bloodied, abashed. Wanly the black girl lifted her gloves, to draw a chorus of cheers from her supporters, and so D.D. lifted her gloves as well, to faint applause. Or perhaps it was mocking applause, for the female boxers had not performed well. Dunphy had scored the most punches by the end of the fight but had failed to knock out her opponent.

“The judges’ decision is—a draw.”

A draw! There was a moment’s quiet, as the crowd absorbed the decision—the white girl, who should have won the fight, had not won; the black girl, who should have lost, had not lost.

Among three judges a draw is a rare decision. There was a scattering of applause, catcalls and boos.

With a shriek of relief Jamala threw her arms around D.D. Dunphy—“They sayin both of us won.”

D.D. laughed wildly. That was not what a “draw” meant—she knew; a draw meant that neither had won.

Jamala turned away to lift her gloves in triumph, and D.D. tried to hug her again, for she hadn’t hugged her properly the first time; the gesture was clumsy, embarrassing—Jamala laughed at her, a shriek of a laugh, and went limping to her corner to leave the ring. D.D. stood at the edge of the spotlight as ringside spectators cheered for Jamala as if she’d defeated her opponent.

A towel was draped over her shoulders. Her skin was scalding-hot, yet beginning to be clammy. Her teeth were chattering with something like panic. Her lower back ached, she could hardly move her legs. Yet hastily then, for the next bout was being announced and the next boxers approaching, D.D. Dunphy left the ring. Her trainer was cursing the decision—she had never heard Ernie Beecher so disgusted.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This stinks.”

D.D. was eager to push from him. She did not like to see his face so distorted.

“And you—the two of you—stank up the place. Hanging on like you did, the both of you—fucking clinching. Fucking draw. That’s ‘stinking up the place’—now you know.”

She knew: she had heard this expression. She had not thought that it would apply to her.

She was feeling sick, dazed. She had to push away from the furious man.

Hurrying after the tall shaved-head black girl who was moving up the aisle toward the locker room resplendent in a gold-embossed robe, surrounded by admirers.

“Jamala! Wait . . .”

The girl turned to D.D., frowning and blinking as if she couldn’t see well.

“Yah? What you want?”

D.D. had no idea what she wanted. What came from her battered mouth was unexpected—“You are the greatest!”

“Ima—what?”

“The greatest. Jamala. You are.”