Gravity

by Sarah Deming

  “You love him,” Melsy said. “You love that boy, and I hooked up with him. I am so sorry. I never would have done that if I knew.”

  “I do not love him!” Gravity said, but she could feel herself blushing. Why was she blushing?

  She just loved his boxing. And his sense of humor. And just the whole infuriating D-Minusness of him. And he had been right about Lefty. He was usually right about the important stuff. It was just that he was such a dick about it.

  “You know what?” Melsy said thoughtfully. “I think he likes you, too. He talked a whole lot about you.”

  “Really?” Gravity searched her cousin’s eyes. She was dying of curiosity but did not want to seem too eager.

  Melsy understood. “He said you were the best woman boxer in New York. He said you were a little like him, because you had the devil in you. I could tell he meant that as a compliment.”

  “Hmm.” Gravity tried not to show her disappointment. She wanted to be the best woman boxer in the world—after Sacred, of course. And she had been hoping maybe he would have said something about her as a girl, not just as a fighter.

  When she looked back at Melsy, her cousin was studying her intently.

  “What?!” Gravity said. “I don’t love him. He’s too conceited.”

  Melsy nodded. “Oh yeah, he’s conceited. But you gotta admit, he backs it up. And Demetrius knows how to treat a woman.” She gave Gravity a mischievous look. “Don’t believe what you hear about black guys not going downstairs. That boy stayed there for hours. I just about lost my mind.”

  Gravity gasped. She tried not to picture it, but funny questions kept popping up in her mind, like whether he had kept his hat on the whole time. Soon she was laughing so hard it made her sore rib twinge.

  Tyler woke up instantly.

  “What’s so funny?” he demanded. “And who ate my rice?”

  The remaining days until China flew by like a coconut falling from a skyscraper. Gravity woke up painfully early to do roadwork—there were beautiful runs uptown like the High Bridge to the Bronx and the winding paths of Fort Tryon—then she ate egg whites and oatmeal and slept on the endless subway ride to school with Ty.

  She got a little more sleep in her classes. Now that she was in the running for Rio, all of her teachers had come around to Ms. Laventhol’s way of thinking, and nobody minded if she sat in the back row and snoozed. Her teacher for culinary lab even looked the other way when she curled up in the supply closet.

  Melsy or Rosa picked Ty up, which let her go straight to Smiley’s and train with Tiffany. By the time she got home, she was so exhausted that she barely had the energy to eat the healthy dinner Auntie Rosa had prepared before she collapsed onto the futon—the special orthopedic neck pillow actually did help—and slept dreamlessly until it was time to drag herself out of bed and do it all over again.

  Before Gravity knew it, it was her last training day at Smiley’s.

  “I have two surprises for you,” Tiffany announced when Gravity entered the gym.

  “Uh-oh,” Gravity said. She was not so sure she liked surprises.

  “Don’t worry,” Tiffany said, laughing.

  “Good things come in twos,” said Truth and Honor.

  They were gloved up and waiting for her to spar. Tiffany had invited all of her clients to Smiley’s that day to spar Gravity one round apiece, as a way to say goodbye. The white-collar clients were nervously waiting their turn. Even the kids from her beginning boxing class were there, looking cute in their oversized sparring gloves, like little puppies with big paws.

  Gravity pulled her headgear over the tight new braids that Melsy had just put in that morning. She pushed her hands into the sparring gloves Tiffany held. They were her favorites, red, white, and blue, with gold piping. Shorty had given them to her in Cornwall, and Tiffany had written inspirational sayings on the linings in permanent marker. She did that for all her fighters. The left glove said “Arms too short to box with God.” And the right glove said “If you ain’t the hammer, you the nail.”

  Gravity climbed into the ring and the fun began. Honor came in first and got Gravity’s legs warmed up by dancing around and making her cut off the ring. Next came Truth, who was more of a puncher than her twin. Truth had improved a lot since Cornwall; at her best, she could push Gravity, but nobody was trying to push her today.

  The little kids came in, one by one. For some it was their very first time sparring, and they took it adorably seriously. Tiffany got in the ring to referee, hiding her laughter behind a stern face when they turned their backs or closed their eyes or tried to throw karate kicks.

  A half dozen of Tiffany’s top competitive fighters cycled through next, each showing her a little something of what they did best. The bodies came and went, different looks and shapes and sizes, different smells, different rhythms. It was like being passed from one partner to the next in a rough but affectionate dance.

  Next came the white-collar clients: the nice physical therapist Johann, the annoying mergers and acquisitions lawyer, the kooky psychiatrist, the snobby yoga clothes designer, and the lady who bred designer dogs called Cavapoos. Gravity had to pay attention, because these were not seasoned boxers but just normal people blowing off steam from their stressful New York lives. As a result, they were either too aggressive (the lawyer and the designer) or too fearful (Johann and the psychiatrist). The Cavapoo breeder was just right.

  Finally Tiffany came in to give her a round, and they went a bit harder. Tiff was a light-punching bantamweight, so her power was not a problem, but her superb defense gave Gravity fits. When they had first sparred, Gravity had found her impossible to touch, but today she managed three solid connects, which was a small victory. When the final bell rang, everybody cheered.

  It had been twenty rounds, but Gravity felt energized rather than fatigued, and after downing some water and orange slices, she had plenty of energy for her first surprise, which turned out to be Fatso.

  “I thought you might want to get in a few rounds of pads for good luck,” Tiffany said.

  Gravity was so happy to see him that she leapt up off the apron and into his enormous arms without even thinking about how sweaty she was, but he did not seem to mind. He patted her on the back and murmured, “All right, baby. Let’s see how much you forgot.”

  Fatso had just returned from Hong Kong, where he had been training an action star, and he wore a spectacular black silk uniform embroidered with gold dragons. Soon he was drenched in sweat too, as he moved her through her paces, circling fluidly around the ring. He barked out numbered punch combinations and she threw them straight and true in the Coach Thomas tradition. They landed in his mitts with a satisfying thwack. Then he threw hard countershots, trying to hit her for real, but she ducked and slipped and blocked and pivoted while he said, “That’s my girl.”

  Everyone gathered around to watch them work, even that old Irish guy who thought women should not box. She could feel their admiration. The first time Gravity had seen Fatso work, it made her think of this one tomcat. He was always sleeping in a sunbeam on the boardwalk, his big belly pooling around him, until the day a sparrow flew by. Then he lifted his head lazily and, without warning, jumped way up high—higher than Gravity’s head—and caught the bird in his jaws. Fatso was explosive like that. You couldn’t tell by looking at somebody resting how fast they could move.

  It felt so good to be back in the ring with him. Tiffany was a good trainer, but she did not know Gravity as well. Her style was more defense-oriented, and it just wasn’t the same. Fatso felt like family.

  Gravity wanted to tell him how much she had missed him and Coach. She wanted to ask how D’s preparations were going for Azerbaijan and what everybody was saying about her at the gym, but she knew that gossip was not Fatso’s style. So they spoke through the pads, like they always had. When they were done, everyone applauded.

>   “Not bad,” Fatso said. He took off one punch mitt, removed a dragon-embroidered handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped the sweat from his brow.

  “Not bad?!” Honor objected.

  Truth cried, “Gravity gonna teach them what her name means!”

  “Not bad,” Fatso repeated.

  He took off the other mitt, carefully folded up the handkerchief, and put it back in his pocket. Then he set his heavy paws on Gravity’s shoulders and fixed her with his cold, unblinking gaze. It went through her like a metal detector, and she squirmed in her boots, even though she was not hiding anything.

  She was on weight. She had been running every day. There was nothing she could have done differently. Except go back in time and not fuck Lefty or spar Jenna or let Mom steal, but what was done was done. She would get in the ring in China without regrets.

  “You’ll do all right,” he pronounced at last.

  He hugged her to his enormous chest and thumped her back.

  “And now for your second surprise,” Tiffany said.

  When Gravity got out of the ring, she saw that Johann the physical therapist had set up a whole kit of hot stones and aromatherapy oils around one of Smiley’s massage tables.

  A massage!

  Sometimes Melsy gave her neck rubs or Ty walked on her back, but she had never had a real massage before. Her neck and shoulders cried out for attention as she hurried to take off her boots and tank top. She lay facedown, and the gym went away, replaced by the scent of lavender and the feeling of Johann’s strong but gentle hands.

  “Just relax,” he said.

  His palms traced warm furrows along her back and over her knotted shoulders.

  It was not so easy to relax. Boxing was hard, and so was life. She was always a little tense, waiting for the next blow.

  “Relax,” he said again, placing warm stones at the base of her spine.

  She almost cried, it felt so good.

  BOXINGFORGIRLS.COM

  THE WOMEN WARRIORS’ WITNESS

  Carmen Cruz, Independent Journalist

  May 19, 2016

  World Amateur Championships Brackets Set: Tough Draw for US Women

  QINHUANGDAO, CHINA—A total of 285 female boxing champions from 64 nations have traveled to this seaside city three hours’ drive from Beijing. After a week of competition, 10 will emerge as new world champions. But the world’s attention will be on the Olympic weights. This week determines which 36 women—12 flyweights, 12 lightweights, and 12 middleweights—will win the right to box in the Summer Games.

  It is not true, as we have heard some boxers claim, that the top 12 finishers in each weight are going to Rio! A boxer must finish at the top of her weight relative to other boxers from her continent in order to qualify.

  If you have questions about what this means for you or your boxer, feel free to email Boxing for Girls. Please note that due to slow, censored internet in China, we will not be live tweeting this event and will have only sporadic access to social media and champagne.

  Flyweights

  There are 49 boxers in this weight class, led by top-seeded Elsie Mortimer of the UK, the defending Olympic champion. California’s Kaylee Miller comes in riding high off her gold medal finish in the Continentals. However, she has drawn an extremely difficult bracket, with a preliminary match against five-time world light flyweight champion and London bronze medalist Laishram Memi of India. Should she win, Miller will then face the second seed in her weight, Russia’s Elena Petrova, who took gold this year at the European championships. Miller must finish as one of the top two flyweights from the Americas to qualify.

  Lightweights

  This weight class fields 47 boxers, including “Irish” Jean Sullivan, the defending Olympic champion considered by many the face of women’s boxing. The undefeated newcomer Gravity Delgado of Brooklyn has drawn a fearsome opponent for her first match in Azerbaijan’s Katarina Karimova, the former light welterweight world champion, who enters unseeded but is among the toughest in this class. Should Delgado pull off the upset there, she will face the hometown champion, third-seeded Du Li. Delgado must finish as one of the top two lightweights from the Americas to qualify, and she looked vulnerable last month in Cornwall. Keep in mind that this is single elimination: one loss and Delgado is out.

  Middleweights

  This class boasts 34 competitors, all hoping to unseat defending Olympic and world champion Sacred Jones. As the top seed, Jones snags an opening-round bye that will leave her fresh to demolish the winner of Tajikistan versus Germany. It seems unlikely that any fighter in this tournament can end Jones’s four-year winning streak, but we expect strong showings from the Dutch, British, and Chinese champions. Jones must finish as one of the top two middleweights from the Americas to clinch her Olympic berth.

  China was the strangest place Gravity had ever been. Everything about it was different from home: the smell of the humid and smoggy air, the taste of the food, the look of the squat gray buildings, the feeling of life being smashed together into a smaller space.

  Outside of the tournament area, nobody spoke English at all. When she and Sacred had gone into a supermarket to buy toiletries, it felt like they had fallen off the edge of the earth. A tiny Chinese lady had rescued them and, watching their pantomime, led them to the aisle with the deodorant and shampoo. She refused to leave, trailing them to the cash register and then back to their dorm, until the male security guard, who was wearing a big gun, put out his cigarette and scolded her—the Chinese men always seemed to be smoking and scolding—and sent her away.

  Before she left, the tiny lady had told them, “I love you. I love America,” and taken a selfie with them.

  Everyone wanted a photo, especially if Gravity was with Sacred or another dark-skinned teammate. The Chinese acted like they had never seen black people before. Sometimes they even wanted to touch their hair, but Sacred seemed used to it and was very patient. Gravity towered over nearly all of the Chinese people they met, even the men.

  Despite all this strangeness, the boxing ring was the same. Boxing rings everywhere were the same. When Gravity followed Shorty out into the brightly lit, echoey Olympic Sports Center—it had been built for the Beijing Games—and walked up the steps into the squared circle, she felt a calm come over her and the certainty that she had done everything in her power to prepare. All her life had been preparation.

  As Gravity knelt in the corner and sang the Shema to herself, she felt serene. The team had gotten to China four days ago, so she had recovered from her jet lag. Making weight had been easy. Her longing for Coach had faded into a dull, distant ache like the ache in her almost-healed rib. And she did not give a moment’s thought to Lefty, except to reflect that, by qualifying for Rio, she would prove how much better than him she was.

  She rose and Shorty reached over the ropes to knead the nape of her neck in a comforting way. She was getting used to Shorty, although he did not know her like Fatso or Coach and his advice was hard to follow. She put that worry out of her mind as she locked eyes with Katarina Karimova.

  The Azeri stood eye to eye with her, the first lightweight she had faced who was her equal in stature. She was dark-haired and very pale beneath her red headgear, and her grim black eyes revealed nothing. Gravity had the dim sense of hardness behind them: hard work, hard will, hard knocks in whatever places she had come from that had led her to that ring. Then the bell rang, and everything else went away.

  Gravity leapt forward with a one-two to announce her presence, but the tall Azeri slipped and turned, slapping her with a hook. They reset, and Gravity tried again, but again Katarina evaded and countered with a cross to the nose and hook to the temple, both of which scored. Her shots were not hard, but they were quick and from unusual angles.

  As they circled at center ring, Gravity studied her. There was something twitchy about Katarina’s moveme
nts, something jerky and unpleasant. Her pale face was contorted with concentration as she leapt forward, feinting to Gravity’s head and lobbing a one-two to the body that Gravity caught on her elbows. She tried to counter off the block, but Katarina tied her up on the inside, and she was skilled in the clinch, and Gravity could not free her hands.

  A single, long buzzer sounded, and Gravity relaxed her arms, but that was the bell for ring B. Katarina seized the moment to land a flashy uppercut, catching Gravity with her mouth slightly open so that her jaw rattled with pain. Enraged by the cheers of the Azeri team, Gravity lunged after Katarina, who grinned as she slid back, slapping in a final hook right before the triple tone sounded that Gravity should have known—What an idiot!—was the bell for ring A.

  Back in the corner, Shorty gave her water and told her to spit.

  “You tired?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Then pick it up! You need to close the distance, Gravity. Step to her with the jab. Punch in, don’t rush in.” He gave her water and told her to drink. “Use feints. Feint, then jab. Feint, then right hand. No one punch at a time.”

  She looked at his kind face, so serious behind the little wire glasses, and knew he was worried. He put the mouthpiece back in.

  “You letting her tie you up on the inside. You gotta punch on the inside.”

  It was too much. Shorty was good at the physical work of cornering—he gave her just enough water, he had her rise just before the warning—but he gave too much information, and he let her feel his fear. She felt a sudden pang of intense longing for Fatso, who always knew just what to say.

  She stared across at Katarina.

  What would Coach and Fatso do?

  As Katarina shuffled forward out of the red corner, grim and strong and awkward, Gravity closed her eyes for a split second and prayed. And God must have answered her prayer, because she heard Coach and Fatso inside her head, just as clearly as she could hear the Shema.