by Sarah Deming
Aaliyah’s cheering section took up half of the stands. The dockworkers from her union screamed when the announcer called her name, waving rainbow signs that said “EMPRESS AALIYAH.” To Gravity’s irritation, she saw that her roomie, Chantal, was among the loudest boosters.
The nerve! Gravity had cheered for Chantal all week. Now she was glad Marisol Bonilla had kicked her ass.
But Gravity had fans in the room too. All her teammates screamed when they called her name. Genya had won his fight, qualifying for Trials, and was bouncing all over like a big puppy. The New Jersey team was cheering for her too, along with Lefty’s Connecticut cousins. The old couple from Denny’s, whose names were Doug and Rae Ann, held a hand-painted sign that said “LET’S GO, DOOMSDAY!”
She skipped out to center ring to meet the eyes of her opponent. Aaliyah was an imposing presence up close. Tattoos covered the tawny skin of her arms, which were cut like a bodybuilder’s. Her simple cornrows highlighted the beauty of her face, somewhere in between pretty and handsome. Gravity lifted her chin, threw back her shoulders, and stared.
She saw something she liked in Aaliyah’s hazel eyes. A tiredness, maybe, or a blankness. The sense that she wasn’t fully there, not the way Gravity was.
When she went back to her corner, Gravity hugged Fatso over the ropes and told him she loved him, which seemed to take him by surprise. It took her by surprise too. She wasn’t sure what had come over her. Maybe it was Francis’s story about the eagle feather. Or maybe the Valentine’s Day spirit. She felt filled with love for everybody, filled with love for boxing.
Fatso said, “I love you too, baby. You go show her how we do.”
She danced out at the bell and started circling left, thinking they were going to feel each other out, but Aaliyah stepped straight at her with the jab. It was a stiff jab, perhaps the stiffest she had ever felt from a woman. The right that followed also landed, but Gravity rolled, diminishing its impact. Their bodies smashed together, and Aaliyah walked her to the ropes and held her there, attempting to work the body but smothering her own shots.
Gravity felt herself absorbing information, felt Aaliyah’s tremendous physical strength pressing against her. This was what Coach meant by “woman strength.” As the youngest fighter in the division, Gravity was at a disadvantage against older opponents who had grown into their power. But she felt something else, too: Aaliyah’s overreliance on brute force.
Paloma had been better in the clinch. She had known little tricks to make room for her punches. Gravity was in no danger this close with Aaliyah; it was like the eye of the hurricane. She sagged, letting the bigger woman expend energy trying to muscle her around.
Gravity took the openings where she found them, sliding to one side or the other to dig left hooks to the liver or right uppercuts to the ribs. Body shots were like money in the bank.
When the bell rang, Gravity trotted back to the corner. Fatso and Boca moved with their usual composure, but she could feel their worry. Fatso told her to keep her left hand high to block Aaliyah’s right.
Boca said, “You lost that round, G. Stop running and stand your ground.”
She took some water, rinsed, and spat.
“Never ran, never will,” she said.
Fatso laughed. “All right, Brownsville. Whatcha gonna do?”
“She’s almost done, I swear,” she told him.
He swiped more Vaseline across her lips. “All right, baby. Just don’t wait too long. You got six minutes.”
Someone called, “Seconds out!” and Boca took away the stool.
“Finish everything with the hook,” Fatso yelled as he left the ring.
She bounced on her boots and gazed across at Aaliyah. It was strange. Somehow, she just knew she could not lose.
Of course, she would probably have to beat Aaliyah twice, because it was double elimination. But one thing at a time. Tonight, she would send her to the losers’ bracket. Tomorrow, she would enjoy another day off. Then she would beat her again, or Paloma, or whoever else battled back. She felt certain of it, with an almost religious faith.
Aaliyah started every round aggressively, so Gravity held back, moving laterally along the ropes to draw her in. When the old champion complied, her hazel eyes glazed with fatigue, Gravity spun her, landing a right-left to the body, then danced back out to center ring.
Aaliyah rushed in again, missing with the right. Gravity dug for another two-piece downstairs, and that was when it happened: Aaliyah stumbled. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but Gravity understood. Her legs were shot from all that good body work and all the needless wrestling.
Time to shine. Gravity drew her weight back like a slingshot. She had long arms, and Coach had taught her to throw very straight, to maximize her reach and power. The lead right hand made a beautiful sound as it connected with Aaliyah’s cheekbone, and so did the left hook that struck her temple. Aaliyah looked stunned, so Gravity followed with a jab-cross-hook combo, rolling left.
She didn’t hear the eight count until the referee yelled at her to go to the neutral corner.
The bell rang on “seven,” ending the round.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Fatso.
She waved away the stool, too hyped up to sit. She opened her mouth and drank the water Fatso offered. She drank in his joy, too, the sense of having pleased him. Past his shoulders, she saw D-Minus and Genya taunting the D.C. Headbangers, who were rooting for Aaliyah.
Svetlana and Nakima were on their feet, hands cupped to their mouths. Their voices came to Gravity’s ears: “Good round, G!”
The bell rang again, and the real fun started. At Cops ’n Kids, Gravity was considered a puncher, not a boxer. Stylists like D-Minus and Boo Boo made her look crude. But the advantage to being outclassed on a regular basis at your home gym was that you were actually pretty slick compared to the general population.
Gravity boxed that last round against the hard-hitting Seattle dockworker at a level she had never before attained. She knew it was special as it was happening. In the spacious sense of time that she experienced, she found herself recalling Svetlana’s advice, back in their tiny locker room: “Take control of the rhythm.”
It was like she was catching some basic pulse that spiraled over the square canvas and deep down into the earth. She risked strange combinations that she had written in her journal but never tried. She danced to the right. She threw as she moved. Her hands found all the open places, and she felt so filled up, like she had more power than she could ever use.
BOXINGFORGIRLS.COM
THE CHAMPAGNE OF SPORTSWRITING
Carmen Cruz, Independent Journalist
February 16, 2016
Meet Your 2016 US Women’s Boxing Olympic Trials Champions
SPOKANE, WASH.—Twenty-four women came to Spokane dreaming of Olympic gold. After a week of magnificent battles, three leave with the right to represent their country in Rio.
But their tickets aren’t booked yet. They will still have to qualify for the Games with top finishes at the Women’s World Championships this May in Qinhuangdao, China.
Before that, the US will send a full team to a warm-up tournament in Ontario, the Americas Continental Championships.
And before that, we will dance and drink champagne.
Flyweight Kaylee Miller, 23, Los Angeles: This sunny southpaw picked up boxing as cross-training for track and field while earning her B.A. in communications at UCLA. Undaunted by her five prior losses to London Olympian Aisha Johnson, Miller fought ferociously in the winners’ bracket finals, losing a split decision. She battled back through the grueling challengers’ bracket, defeating the delightful Marisol Bonilla to earn her rematch with Johnson. This time, Miller used her superior reach to triumph decisively.
She is used to bucking the odds. All her life, Miller has struggled with obsessive-compuls
ive disorder. She says she hopes her success will empower others to recover from mental illness and chase their dreams: “It’s about being happy. That makes the bad thoughts go away.”
Lightweight Gravity Delgado, 16, Brooklyn: This tall, whip-thin puncher shocked the field in Spokane. The youngest competitor in the tournament, Delgado put on a boxing clinic to frustrate and outpoint the bigger, stronger Aaliyah Williams. Williams battled back, decisioning Luz Ortega—who, in another upset, had eliminated defending champion Paloma Gonzales—and Delgado faced Williams a second time. Picking up right where she left off, Delgado deconstructed Williams more thoroughly than I would have thought possible.
“I always loved to fight,” said the teen, who is a junior at William E. Grady High School in Coney Island and spends her spare time studying classic fighters like Marvin Hagler, Alexis Argüello, and Mike Tyson. “I guess I just have this anger inside me. Those nine minutes that the fight lasts? I wish all of life was like that.”
Middleweight Sacred Jones, 21, Detroit: Back in 2012, Jones was the Gravity Delgado story: the teen phenom who stormed through the field. Now she’s boxing royalty, with an Olympic gold medal and a four-year winning streak. Jones won every round of every fight this week. When I wished her luck, she grinned and said, “I don’t need it. Give it to somebody else.”
She is still seeking the commercial success she hoped would attend her historic medal, but with a documentary in theaters now and another gold in Rio likely, the word seems to be getting out.
Gravity wore her gold medal to the disco. Underage boxers weren’t supposed to get in, but Sacred and Kaylee went in first and Kaylee came out five minutes later with Sacred’s bracelet for her. Gravity took it with wonder, still getting used to the fact that she and Sacred Jones were going to be teammates, maybe even friends.
All around her, the same operation was taking place between various boxers: Gravity saw Monster and Nakima slipping their bracelets to Genya and Svetlana. Lefty did not need one because he had his brother’s fake ID, and D-Minus did not need one because he had somehow gotten a VIP press pass that let him in everywhere.
Inside, it was dark and hot. The bar was at the back, three people deep. In front were the DJ booth and dance floor, pulsing in a pool of lasers and fog machine smoke. She and Kaylee pushed through the crowd by the door and made their way to the corner of the bar where Sacred stood, looking like a sexy sci-fi heroine in her skintight gold jumpsuit.
“Thank you!” Gravity yelled over the music, passing back Sacred’s bracelet.
“Ahoy, matey!” yelled Kaylee, who was always making pirate jokes. “How’s the briny deep?”
Sacred lifted her glass of orange juice to indicate the area on the dance floor where a gorgeous Jamaican superheavyweight was dancing in a pool of light.
“Too bad he can’t fight,” Sacred yelled.
Kaylee said, “Maybe he can do other things.”
She grabbed one of the free bottles of PLASMAFuel off the bar and made a gesture so obscene that they all broke up laughing. Sacred laughed so hard the orange juice went up her nose.
“How about them?” Gravity cried, pointing to the sharp-dressed sons of a famous boxer from Omaha. Identical twins, one competed at lightweight, one at light welter. They stood out from the dance floor like a special effect.
“Hot,” Kaylee said. “And they can fight.”
“Nah.” Sacred shook a finger. “Too tiny. I never go below junior middle.”
They laughed again. Gravity looked from Kaylee to Sacred, letting it sink in that she would get to travel around the world with these two. She could not remember ever feeling this happy.
“Speaking of tiny, your boyfriend is sexy,” Kaylee said.
She nodded toward where D-Minus was holding court in the middle of the bar. Gravity was positive he had seen her come in, but he was refusing to meet her eyes.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she told Kaylee.
Why did everyone think she and D were an item? At the moment, he wasn’t even speaking to her. She maneuvered herself closer until she could catch the end of D’s rant: “Fuck the amateurs. I’m turning pro.”
“Yo, they violated you,” Genya said.
Boca took a swig off his Corona and said, “They always screw us. They hate New York fighters here.”
Gravity sighed. Incredibly, the story among her team now seemed to be that D-Minus had deserved the decision against Tiger Biggs. Gravity had refused to join in with that bullshit. As a result, everybody was giving her the cold shoulder.
None of them had even come to watch her fight that night. It hurt her feelings, but beating Aaliyah the first time had been the hard part; tonight had been like walking in tracks already stomped down in the snow. She touched the gold medal hanging against her chest and told herself it didn’t matter. She worked her way back to Sacred and Kaylee.
Lefty had joined them. His white guayabera glowed under the black light as he leaned back against the bar sipping an enormous goblet filled with blue liquid, sliced fruit, and a plastic monkey. Gravity expected him to ice her out like the rest of the team, but instead he lifted his drink and yelled, “There she is! Great fight, champ!”
Gravity was surprised. “You saw it?”
“Claro! How’m I gonna write songs about you if I don’t do research?” He extended the glass to her. “Here, have a Screaming Orgasm.”
Gravity was tempted to ask if it had alcohol, but she didn’t want to look like a nerd in front of everybody. She was touched that Lefty had come out to support her when everybody else was being so lame.
Sometimes, right before she broke things, she got a premonition of disaster. This was not the case with the Screaming Orgasm. Even after the plastic monkey stabbed her in the pad of the thumb, she still thought she could recover, but the sides of the goblet were slick with condensation, and she was still fatigued from her fight. The cocktail made an impressive sound as it smashed against the club floor.
Everyone stared.
“You a mess,” Sacred said, laughing.
Kaylee asked the bartender for napkins so she could swab the deck.
Gravity rummaged in her pocket so she could pay Lefty back, but he told her to chill. He pulled a silver flask out of his back pocket and took a swig.
He winked. “Always have a Plan B.”
“Come on, let’s dance,” said Sacred.
Kaylee had already started to shimmy in place in her ruffled yellow sundress.
“Wanna dance, Left?” Gravity asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “I’ll just stay here and admire your beauty.”
Sacred led them out into the sea of fog and disco lights. They danced over into the circle formed by Marisol Bonilla, Aisha Johnson, Aaliyah Williams, Nakima Fanning, and Kiki Mailer. Everybody smiled and parted to admit them. Gravity felt a little awkward seeing Aaliyah again so soon after their two battles, but the other woman smiled at her warmly and reached across to clasp her hand, yelling, “Good fight, baby.”
Gravity was glad Melsy had told her to pack nice clothes. She had on her cutest pair of jeans, the ones with the rhinestones on the butt, and a gold wrap sweater that left her stomach showing. All the boxers looked beautiful. There is no dance floor in the world better than one filled with boxers and trainers after the fights are done.
Aisha Johnson, in a hot-pink minidress and platform heels, stepped into the center of the circle and started twerking. The silver medal bounced against her chest and everybody cracked up and cheered. She danced her way back out, pointing at Gravity.
This was a tough act to follow, but Gravity shimmied to the circle’s center and closed her eyes, waiting for the music to find her feet. Dancing was the one thing both sides of her family enjoyed. Her mother danced by throwing her hands in the air and jumping up and down like a kid in a bounce house. Tyler imitated robots. Auntie
Rosa could dance salsa and bachata really well. Melsy preferred EDM. The one thing Gravity’s whole family had in common was that they danced like nobody was watching.
That was why it was such a surprise to find out that someone was. When she danced her way back out, tagging in Marisol, someone hugged her from behind and whispered in her ear, “Nice moves. Got any Puerto Rican in you?”
It was Lefty, who knew she was Dominican, so she didn’t understand why he was asking that.
She said, “No.”
He said, “Want some?”
“Ew!” She pulled back and narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t be gross.”
He laughed. “Sorry. It’s just, that’s the worst pickup line I ever heard. I always wanted to try it. Your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“To try to pick me up with a terrible line.”
“What if I don’t want to pick you up?”
“Then it’s a good thing it’s terrible!”
She laughed. “Okay. If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”
“Nice one!” He gave her a high five. “If I told you that you had a beautiful body, I’d be telling the truth. Do you know why southpaws make better lovers?”
“Why?”
“Come find out.”
She laughed.
Lefty moved his eyes up and down her body. “Look at you, all grown up and winning everything.”
Gravity blushed. “Stop.”
“What?” he said. “A man can’t look?”
So she looked too. The disco lights glistened off the diamonds in his ears. Next to his right eye, a butterfly bandage covered the cut he had gotten in his brave stand against the puncher from Kronk. It looked cute there, like a little kiss.
