A Book of American Martyrs(183)
“Bullshit, girl. You just sayin that—’cause I am.”
Jamala’s eyes were swollen, beginning to blacken. Her face that had been a savage-beautiful face scarcely a half hour before was now battered and raw-looking. The gold tooth might be loose in her jaw, she might be spitting blood. She might urinate blood that night. But she was ecstatic, euphoric. A kind of boundless love leapt from her to D.D. Dunphy like an explosion of music too loud to be heard but only felt as sheer throbbing vibrations for the swollen-faced white girl standing in the aisle gazing at her in adoration—except there came friends screaming “Jamala! J’mala!”—swarming at her, screaming their love for her and grabbing at her. And in the arena supporters were on their feet wildly applauding Princess Jamala Prentis as if she’d won the fight.
In the aisle flatfooted D.D. Dunphy stood forgotten, watching, trying with her hurt mouth to smile too.
UNTIL THE NEXT FIGHT which would eradicate the shame of the draw-fight it would be said to her You won. Should have won. God damn bastards stole it from you.
Training without complaint though often her head felt like the interior of a bell. A thin high ringing in her ears. The bruised ribs ached and at last it was discovered in an X-ray that the rib had been fractured.
Scars in the area of the eye which would heal but not fade. In the eyebrow, a tiny sickle-shaped white scar.
Slowly returning to her full strength. Not immediately beginning to spar again but, in time.
Drilled into her Do not lower your left when you throw a cross. Do not ever lower your left. And do not look away from your opponent.
She was being groomed for the WBA women’s welterweight championship. But first, she must win the Midwest Women’s Boxing Association title.
In the MWBA, D.D. Dunphy was ranked at number nine.
In the WBA, D.D. Dunphy was ranked at number twelve.
Smiling nervously to think how the next fight would be televised—“Almost probably” as Cass Cassidy said.
ESPN boxing night, Pittsburgh Armory on undercard of a fight between (male) heavyweights Kevin Johnson, Homer Cruze. This was a possibility!
Smiled thinking of this as slowly she was plaiting the hair.
Jamala had entrusted her. Rich oily-black hair plaited into cornrows. It was a loving process—it was very slow, exacting. Her fingers were (just slightly) clumsy. Large fingers, small plaits of hair.
Seemed that she was standing before a mirror bent over the girl, the head, an attentively lowered head, no longer shaved but springy with hair, thick with hair, that had to be arranged in fastidious cornrows. But she could not see the face of the (brown-skinned) girl. Still she knew that the girl was Jamala with long hair now, that had to be tight-plaited. Oily fragrance of the hair, slightly coarse in her fingers as her own was coarse, wiry-tough. She loved this smell, wanting to press her face against the hair. Those parts of the scalp that were exposed.
Love you like Jesus loves you. Wish you loved me.
THE NEXT FIGHT, she won by a TKO. And the next, by a third-round knockout.
But no TV. (Not yet.)
Showered her body running her hands briskly up and down her sides. Water as hot as she could bear. The pleasure of hot water against her aching muscles, the torn-feeling ligament in her neck, throb of her lower back where (impossible to avoid!) her kidneys had been pounded. Lifting her face to the spray. Shut her eyes, opened her mouth, with the soap poking shyly about her body, between legs, between breasts. That sensation of hot water streaming over her, a sensation like caressing.
Rough embraces of the other boxer, after the fight. Grabbing at each other. Dazed and exhilarated, stunned, drunk with adrenaline, like carbonation in the blood—feeling no pain, or anyway not yet.
Sharp pains in her neck, dull throb at the base of her skull. Dr. Danks prescribed pills, Ernie gave her. And the other, smaller white pills Ernie gave her, one each morning, never forget for it was essential that she not bleed.
Still she was working at Target. Part-time, not half-time. There were no workers’ benefits for either half-or part-time but if (for instance) D.D. Dunphy needed prescription meds, needing to make an appointment with Dr. Danks, needed X-rays—all covered by Dayton Fights, Inc.
Plus dentistry. Plus new boots, new gloves, new fleece-lined nylon jacket of a higher quality than the Target merchandise she could get with her worker’s discount.
Plus, each Sunday at the Zion Missionary Church she left a (folded, inconspicuous) ten-dollar bill in the collection basket.
She was proud—That girl can take a punch.
Not so fast on her feet as certain of her rivals. But harder-hitting, with the (alleged) punch of a man. She was trained to defend herself but boxing is not about defense but offense. Two defensive boxers, you stink up the arena. Fans will boo, catcall. Female boxers too often fell into clinches. Dunphy did not like clinches—you could count on her to shove the other female away. Often she was not fast enough to slip a punch and so it was drilled into her, how to take a punch.
That was how the (aging, slower) Ali won his famous fight against (very young, very hard-hitting) George Foreman. Rope-a-dope. Foreman punched himself out on Ali, lost all his strength and could no more punch than a girl or a child by the end of the fight. Fantastic!
Her eyes were becoming more sensitive. She wore dark glasses outdoors. Her eyes swelled easily. Hematomas developed more quickly than in the past. She could “see”—all she needed to see, to fight.