Girls Can't Hit

by T. S. Easton

  I nodded. ‘See you Saturday.’

  My stomach was flipping as I jogged home. I’d thought the photos were just going to be on the website. That was fine, because Mum never looked online. But she got the Bosford Gazette most weeks and read it cover to cover. No story about the litter problem in Gostrey Park or the closure of another coffee shop on the High Street was too parochial for her, and since the paper was full of crime reports it reinforced her negative view of the outside world. My only hope was that she hadn’t got around to reading it yet and I could tear out the offending story. But as I came in, my heart sank. She was sitting at the dining table, the paper open in front of her.

  ‘So,’ she said, as I sat down opposite her. ‘Would you like to explain?’

  ‘I’m not in the tournament,’ I said, looking down at the table. ‘They just used my photo.’

  ‘But you are sparring,’ Mum said. ‘It says in the article that the reporter watched you sparring. You told me you were only boxing for fitness.’

  ‘Sparring isn’t dangerous, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘You lied to me,’ Mum whispered.

  ‘Well, you were being ridiculous …’ I began.

  ‘Was I?’ Mum asked. ‘Was I really? Trying to keep my child safe is ridiculous, is it? Expecting my daughter to keep her promises to me is ridiculous?’ She glared across the table at me, her nostrils flared and her cheeks pink with anger.

  The tension was punctured somewhat by the sound of a long and whining fart from Ian Beale in the corner. ‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ I said. ‘I should have. But I knew you’d over-react. It’s not a big deal. And it didn’t affect my exam results, did it?’

  ‘It’s going too far, Fleur,’ she replied. ‘I see you eating whey protein and kissing your biceps. I see you out-cycling your father and clanking weights at all hours. I see you wearing boxing boots to a mess ball.’

  ‘Is that what this is about?!’ I snapped back, my heart pounding with anger. ‘It’s about George. Because you lost him. You think I should have stayed as I was, all flimsy and pathetic. Well, I’ve changed, Mum. And you’ll just have to live with it.’

  ‘I don’t have to live with anything,’ she said, glaring at me. ‘This is my house.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘So that’s the way you want it? Fine.’ I stood quickly, knocking my chair over as I ran to the stairs.

  ‘Fleur!’ Mum shouted, but I ignored her.

  I ran up to my room and flopped on to the bed. My head was spinning with all the things I wished I’d said and all the things I was glad I hadn’t.

  Then I grabbed my phone and texted Ricky. Just two words.

  ‘I’ll fight.’

  Destiny Calls

  ‘I’m not fighting Bonita.’

  ‘No, you’re not fighting Bonita, she’d kill you.’ I was tapping into Ricky’s gloves in the ring on Saturday. He’d asked me to stay behind after everyone else had gone so we could talk about the tournament. I hit the pads four times, then rolled under the punch.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ Ricky said. ‘If you don’t feel ready. You don’t have to prove anything to me.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s more about proving it to myself. I’ll fight Taylor, or Destiny.’

  ‘You’re fighting Destiny. She’s heavier than you and stronger, but she won’t kill you.’

  One-two-three-four duck.

  ‘What’s the number-one thing I need to do to beat her?’ I panted.

  ‘Put on five kilos.’

  ‘What’s the number-two thing I need to do to beat her?’

  ‘Don’t worry about beating her. This is just a demonstration. The important thing is that everyone sees how safe boxing is. How it teaches discipline, strength and confidence. We don’t want anyone knocked out.’

  One-two-three-four duck.

  ‘So you just want me to defend myself for three rounds?’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, tapping me on the side of the head. ‘Keep your guard up, Fleur.’

  ‘But that’s not going to make for a very exciting bout,’ I said. ‘You don’t want me to even try to win?’

  ‘Hey,’ Ricky said, stepping backwards, ‘did Rocky beat Apollo Creed the first time they fought?’

  ‘No,’ I said instantly. ‘He lost on points. But he lasted the full fifteen rounds.’

  ‘So did he step out of that ring a winner, or a loser?’

  ‘A winner,’ I said.

  ‘Yep.’ He held up the pads again.

  ‘Boxing certainly is complicated,’ I said as I started punching again. ‘Do you really think I need to put on more weight?’ He’d weighed me at the end of the session. Sixty-one kilos. Four heavier then when I’d started.

  ‘Destiny is sixty-four kilos,’ he said. ‘That’s a big difference, but she’s still in welterweight class, or thereabouts. You’re light welterweight, so close enough, but you could do to put on another couple of kilos. Lots of protein. Eggs, nuts, meat.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘More bloody protein. What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of chips.’

  ‘You can have a few chips, but it’s protein you really need. Keep your diet balanced. You need lots of different colours in your food.’

  ‘What, like Haribo?’

  ‘Keep your guard up!’ he snapped.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, lifting my gloves again. I was exhausted. ‘What does Bonita weigh?’

  ‘Seventy-one kilos,’ he said. ‘She’s middleweight. You’re eight kilos away from that class.’

  ‘And that’s why there’s no danger of me being allowed in a ring with Bonita?’

  ‘You got it,’ he said.

  ‘Thank the Lord for that,’ I said swinging a punch at him. He dodged it and tapped me on the side of the head.

  ‘Keep your guard up.’

  Tarik

  The next few weeks went by quickly. The second year of college was tougher than the first but I felt OK about the work. I felt fit and alert. I was sleeping well and the good exam results had given me confidence. The best thing of all was there was no more PSHE so I didn’t have a class with the Meninists any more. I still saw them in the corridors but they mostly stayed clear since we’d defeated them at Battle. Over the next month I stepped up the training. Dad and I moved our cycle rides to Sunday mornings because it was too dark in the evenings. We’d go out for three hours and try to do more and more each time. After training on Saturdays I’d go for a run with Tarik. It didn’t take me long to get to the point where I could keep up with him, and sometimes even managed to say a few words, other than ‘Ugh’ or ‘Oof’ or ‘Stop … I’m dying.’

  On Wednesday nights Ricky took us through a lot of intense pad exercises, then two by two we’d get into the ring with a sparring partner and try to look like boxers. The main problem was that I was always exhausted by this time. It is unbelievably hard to keep your gloves up for three minutes, while circling around dodging and blocking blows from a heavier opponent. Rocky made it look easy. After we’d sparred we were encouraged to watch the others in the ring. Some of them were really good. I winced once when I saw Jerome hit Dan hard right in the head. But Dan kept his feet and returned a couple of hooks to the taller Jerome’s midriff. It was possible to get hit hard in the head and not go down, if your legs were strong enough. I liked watching Tarik best. He was silky smooth, and always seemed to have enough time to duck a haymaker or block a series of jabs. He never stopped moving, like a shark, and would circle his opponent, waiting patiently for a mistake, then dart in and land a punch or two before backing off again.

  As I climbed out of the ring on one of these nights, still panting from my bout with Destiny, Joe hobbled up to me for a little chat.

  ‘All right, Killa?’

  ‘All right, Joe.’

  ‘Defensively,’ he said, ‘you’re doing great. But I don’t think I’ve seen you land one punch in the last three weeks.’

  I stood and looked back at him, my chest heaving. ‘It’s h
ard!’ I said. ‘Just blocking is difficult enough.’

  ‘Blocking is a lot easier if the other fella’s on his back.’

  ‘The problem is, every time I try to hit, I drop my guard,’ I said. ‘Ricky says I’m better off just blocking for three rounds and losing on points. It’s only a demonstration.’

  ‘A demonstration of boredom,’ Joe growled. ‘You can’t always be blocking.’

  ‘But Ricky said …’

  ‘Forget Ricky,’ Joe said. ‘He doesn’t know everything. And his first thought is always to protect his fighters. That’s OK as far as it goes. But it’s your job to ignore him from time to time and do something stupid, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said.

  ‘Every now and again,’ Joe said, ‘you need to just drop your guard and take a wild swing.’

  ‘And risk getting knocked out?’

  ‘Yeah, but risk knocking the other guy out too.’

  Careful, Now

  I noticed something odd on Tuesday at college. Or to put it another way, everyone had noticed something about me, oddly. I was used to people ignoring me in the corridors. I was used to teachers ignoring me in the classroom for that matter. But today as I walked from the LRC down to the canteen, I couldn’t help but notice loads of people stopped to watch me go by. Conversations dried up as I passed, people ducked out of my way.

  It wasn’t until I walked past the noticeboard in the lobby that I realised why. There was a large poster stuck up. At the top it read:

  ‘Nice work on the apostrophes,’ I muttered. On one half of the poster was a large photo of Tarik, looking smoulderingly mean with his gloves against his chest, where they shouldn’t have been. On the other side was a picture of me, trying to look mean, but I remembered when that photo had been taken and I could see the corner of my mouth just starting to twitch up.

  ‘That Lycra is looking quite stretched,’ Pip said, appearing behind me, making me jump. I remembered I hadn’t been wearing my chest protector, and he was right, my boobs were looking larger than I’d ever seen them look.

  ‘Shut up,’ I snapped. But I looked again. Part of me was mortified, but another shallower part of me thought I actually looked pretty hot.

  It was time for English and Pip and I walked together, him chatting away about some new Steampunk album he’d discovered. I wasn’t really listening; I was too busy noticing how everyone was giving us a wide berth. Usually walking down a corridor Pip would get shoulder-barged or tripped up three or four times. But today nothing.

  As the weeks went by and the days grew shorter, it started to get dark on Wednesday nights by the time we left the club. Tarik would wait for me and we’d either walk or jog together to the bypass. One Wednesday, in the first week of October, he suggested we run a bit further. ‘Got to get some miles in the legs,’ he said.

  When Tarik said ‘a bit further’, I’d assumed he meant around the block a couple of times, but it turned out he meant running to the next town. I was puffed after the first mile, but I could just about keep up with him, as long as I didn’t talk. He did all the talking, in fact, and I just grunted and panted at him from time to time to show I was still listening, and indeed still alive.

  ‘God, I miss carbs,’ he said. ‘Whey protein, meat, nuts, beans. It all gets so boring after a while. What’s your guilty carb pleasure? Pasta, roast potatoes, white bread?’

  ‘Bombay mix,’ I wheezed.

  ‘Oh, Bombay mix,’ he groaned. ‘I love Bombay mix. And kebabs. You like kebabs?’

  I grunted in a tone that suggested I loved kebabs only I was having difficulty articulating my interest just then due to being on the verge of coughing up a lung.

  ‘Sometimes after training I walk through Morrison’s car park and stop at the Kebab Shack.’

  ‘Thought that got closed down,’ I gasped.

  ‘Oh look, that happened two years ago,’ Tarik said, sighing. ‘And ever since people are all like “botulism this, salmonella that”. The point is they do the best triple doner this side of Damascus.’

  ‘OK, sorry I mentioned it,’ I puffed.

  ‘You should come with me one time. I’ll buy you a triple.’

  I glanced over at him, his olive skin glowing. He ran easily, on springy heels, seemingly tireless. Doner kebabs in Morrison’s car park was some distance from worried spinach at the hipster restaurant. But right then it sounded irresistible, botulism and all.

  ‘It’s a date,’ I wheezed.

  Tarik carried on talking as we ran. He seemed at ease, his feet padding regularly beside me, in contrast to the heavy, irregular slapping noise mine seemed to be making. After another mile or so I stopped and asked if we could go back. Not in so many words, of course. I mimed it, by collapsing onto the road clutching my heart and pointing weakly back towards Bosford.

  Tarik looked a little alarmed at my condition. He glanced around. ‘There’s a shop over there. Do you need some water?’

  ‘Yes … please,’ I managed to pant. ‘And … a defibrillator … if they have one.’

  1066 and All That

  On Saturday 14th October I missed Saturday training session for the first time in six weeks. And it took a major event to make it happen. As every schoolchild should know, the 14th of October is the anniversary of the Battle of Hastings, the second most important fight in this country’s history, after Cassius Clay vs Henry Cooper in 1963. And my friend Pip was taking part in it. Admittedly he was fighting on the wrong side, but some things are more important than an existential threat to your entire country. Friendship is one of those things and for this day only, I’d be cheering for the French.

  Blossom and I were in full costume, including wimples, which I was glad of because it was a chilly autumn day. The leaves on the trees in Pip’s wood were a hundred shades, from still vivid green to russet brown. We had arrived early as there was a lot of preparation. This wasn’t a typical re-enactment, with a couple of dozen soldiers on each side. This was the main event, with re-enactment enthusiasts coming from all over the country. The battlefield was teeming with actors in full armour and American tourists taking photos. Blossom and I made a small fortune in tips by curtseying all over the place and adopting a sort of bogus cheeky cockney repartee which seemed to go down well. ‘Bless me wimple, ma’am, I’m proper honoured to be pulling yer ruby. Apples and pears and a good old knees-up.’

  We made rush lights and baskets, whittled willy-spoons and told tales of life in the eleventh century. These were almost entirely made up and included a story about how William ate a macrobiotic diet, used to spend hours playing a primitive version of table football and liked to dress up as a nun on religious holidays. When it was finally time for the battle itself we were pretty shattered, but Garnet had told us we had to narrate the battle for the benefit of the tourists. A crowd of people gathered around.

  ‘Cor blimey, guv. It was a day just like today,’ Blossom began. ‘A thousand years ago and fifty. When William came to this place, to fight for the greatest prize, the very crown of England.’

  As she spoke, we watched William’s men form up at the bottom of the hill: there must have been well over a hundred, far more than usual, and at least twenty horses. I could make out Pip, gangling and hanging back, his height marking him out. I felt a heavy lump in my stomach. I so wanted this to work out for him. The Saxon numbers were swelled too, maybe a hundred and fifty in the shield wall, reflecting the superior strength of Harold’s troops on the day itself.

  Blossom was hissing at me. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘And so the two sides stood a-facing each other, arr,’ I cried, before realising that I’d somehow found myself talking like a Cornish pirate. But I’d started so had to carry on. ‘But who was to begin the fight? William’s minstrel took that honour. A man named Taillefer, who rode alone hard at the Saxon lines, sang rude songs at them and juggled his sword, before dropping his breeches, bending over and showing them the full moon. So it be.’

  A little boy in
the front row grinned in delight at this revelation.

  ‘But Taillefer was soon cut down by a hail of arrows, arr.’

  The little boy’s face crumpled.

  Just then we heard Garnet cry ‘CHARGE!’ and we turned to see the Normans come thundering up the hill. I stopped talking as my heart leapt into my mouth. There was Pip, charging: no longer at the back, he was running, sprinting almost, his shield held high, swinging his sword around his head. I fancied I could hear his roar as he came charging. It was a new Pip. A powerful, purposeful, elegant Pip who I scarcely recognised.

  Closer and closer came the Normans, as the Saxons ducked down behind the shield wall. Surely they couldn’t resist this onslaught?

  And then with a crash and a clatter the Norman knights pounded like a wave against the Saxon wall. In an instant the charge was snuffed out, stopped, just as it had been a thousand years before. We heard the clash and clang of swords as the two opposing sides swung at each other. The little boy next to me shrieked in excitement. It looked frighteningly real and I suddenly had a surge of fear for Pip. Where was he?

  ‘I can’t see him!’ Blossom cried. I stood with her on the crate and we squinted to see.

  ‘Come on, Pip,’ I shouted.

  ‘Has he gone down?’ Blossom asked. ‘He’ll be crushed. Is he on the ground?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. Oh God, I thought. Poor Pip.

  ‘Oh wait,’ Blossom said. ‘There he is.’

  I turned to look. Pip had dropped his sword and shield and was running, stumbling towards his safe space.

  ‘Ahem,’ one of the tourists coughed, and suddenly I remembered we were supposed to be commentating.

  ‘But William’s shield wall held,’ I said. ‘The Saxons fought with such resolve that, err, some of the Normans turned and fled. Arr.’

  ‘They’re chasing him,’ Blossom cried. It was true – a detachment of Saxon warriors had broken out of the shield wall and in their excitement were pursuing poor old Pip towards the woods, waving their swords excitedly. Pip turned to see them and squealed in terror. Back at the main battle, the Normans charged again, concentrating their forces on the gap in the shield wall. I could hear Harold screaming at his troops to close up the gap, but it was too late.