A Book of American Martyrs(220)

Always the elegant devious Aya was moving back from her stymied opponent, moving away, moving laterally, out of the range of Dunphy’s wayward blows. When it was necessary she defended herself with raised arms, elbows. Her tight-curled platinum-blond head bobbed and weaved like a snake’s head. She seemed to be taking pleasure in the very strain of the struggle though her beautiful cocoa-skinned face too was flushed, wet with perspiration. Still Dunphy pushed forward, trying to get inside. It was habitual, Dunphy’s dropping of her left glove, unconscious, lethal—in a moment of vulnerability Aya struck Dunphy with a precisely executed right cross to her chin.

Naomi understood from the eruption of the crowd that Dunphy was hurt. Staggering on her feet she was stunned, she appeared blinded. She could not defend herself. Her gloves sank as if the weight of them were too much for her.

Naomi cried: “No! No . . .”

Another blow to Dunphy’s head, blows to her torso, midriff, as the crowd erupted. Naomi felt a tremendous hatred for the crowd, like a pack of animals they were, savage, stupid.

Yet, Dunphy did not fall even to her knees. Dunphy remained standing, dazed, as the referee began to count: for the referee would not allow Dunphy to continue, in this state; the other boxer would destroy her.

At the count of six, the bell rang.

Naomi realized that she was on her feet, horrified. Others in the audience were standing.

Dunphy stood bleeding and confused in the center of the ring, not knowing what to do. Her corner men came hurriedly to get her.

Voices were heard—Stop the fight!

The ring physician was examining Dunphy in her corner. Naomi stood in the aisle, staring. She wanted to cup her hands to her mouth and call—Stop the fight!

Her throat was hoarse. She hadn’t been aware that she must have been screaming.

Unbelievably then, the examining physician must have determined that Dunphy was able to continue the fight. Dunphy’s corner men were adamant that Dunphy continue. Dunphy herself was looking less confused, more clear-eyed. Her bloodied face had been washed, styptic deftly applied to her wounds.

When the bell rang, and the fight continued, Naomi found herself hurriedly descending the steps, approaching the bright-lit ring. There was a roaring in her ears as of a distant waterfall—the noise of the crowd, or the sound of her quick-beating blood in her ears. She was just below the struggling boxers. She could see Dunphy’s grim-set battered face, and she could see the face of the other, not a young face, a drawn and taut face, and she could hear the women grunting, and the scuffing sound of their feet. She had never been so close, so terrifically close to anyone so locked in struggle, in combat. She could smell the struggling bodies. She could smell her own fear. At ringside she tried to make her way to the farther side of the ring where Dunphy’s corner men were seated, for she intended to appeal to them, to plead with them to stop the fight; but her way was blocked by legs and feet, and furious ringside patrons were shouting at her—“Get away! Get the fuck out of here! Crazy bitch.”

A security guard stopped her—“Whoa there, girl!”

Her face pounded with heat. Her voice came pleading.

“The fight—the fight should be stopped. She’s badly hurt. She might have a concussion. Isn’t there anything that can be done?”—even in her distress Naomi made an effort to be reasonable.

How her parents would smile, she thought. Don’t raise your voice. If you raise your voice you have already lost the argument.

The guard, tall, youthful middle-age, dark-skinned, regarded her with incredulity. “Ma’am this’s a fight—y’know?”

“But—Dunphy is being hurt . . .”

“They taken care of her all right, ma’am. She c’n quit anytime she wants to quit. Best go back to your seat, ma’am. You need help?”

Naomi drew away, offended. Of course she didn’t need help returning to her seat.

In her seat, however, she felt very strange. The shouts and cries of the arena came to her as an undersea vertigo. Her eyes had narrowed as in a mimicry of tunnel vision and so she was spared the spectacle in the boxing ring at which she dared not look.

One of the boxers had slipped, or had been struck, and had fallen to one knee. Astonishingly it was not Dunphy but the other, the opponent with the tight-curled platinum-blond hair and smooth cocoa skin: the cries of the crowd made it difficult for Naomi to concentrate on identifying who had been hurt.

Was this a “knockdown”?—the referee had begun his count. Dunphy had crossed to a neutral corner.

By a count of nine Aya was on her feet. Shrewdly the veteran boxer knew to take nearly the full count, to recover her strength.

But she was shaky, out of breath. Dunphy ran at her like a maddened steer and struck at her as her gloves flailed helplessly. At last Dunphy was inside. Dunphy struck Aya several blows yet Aya did not fall but clutched at her, desperate to stay on her feet. The boxers swayed, nearly fell into the ropes. Curtly the referee said: “Break!” Dunphy wrenched away preparing to fight but Aya lowered her head, seemed to be ducking, and falling against Dunphy—

Sudden bright blood on Dunphy’s forehead, over her right eye. A terrible gash of several inches in thin scar tissue that had scarcely healed since the last fight.

It had been a head-butt. Not a legitimate blow but a foul. Dunphy sank to her knees, and fell to her hands and knees, and what looked like part of her mouth fell out onto the canvas—broken teeth?—Naomi was horrified until she realized that it must be a mouthpiece . . .