Pinkie Rosario, on the other hand, was entering the ring with an unimpressive record of 7 wins and 9 losses and no one offering him any hope that he could defeat the up-and-coming “El Águila.”
Theirs was the first bout on the card.
Many of the fans were still filing in, trying to find their seats, when the match started. Some were at the concession stands buying beer, sodas, and popcorn.
The introductions took longer than the fight.
As soon as the bell sounded, Pinkie Rosario rushed toward an unprepared Dávila. He attacked him with three quick jabs, followed by a straight right hand. Dávila tried to fight back, but Rosario was too quick, too strong. A left, right, left combination, punctuated with a thundering uppercut, sent a stunned Dávila crashing to the mat, eighteen seconds into the fight.
While the referee counted, Dávila, stupidly bewildered, staggered to his feet.
He should have stayed down.
Rosario hit him with a left hook, then a straight right. Dávila collapsed on the canvas like a house of cards. This time he did not get up until after the referee had counted to ten, the bell had rung, and Rosario’s arm had been raised in victory.
For Anthony “El Águila” Dávila, there would be no 15 and 0 record. There would be no match for the middleweight championship title against Sugar Ray Robinson.
And the world would not know who he was.
Following his humiliating defeat at the hands of Pinkie Rosario, Dávila lost three of his next five fights. He never recovered from the fact that on the night that should’ve been his, he lost by knockout to an unheralded boxer with a mediocre record. To a fighter with the unlikely nickname of “Pinkie.”
After a loss to a journeyman boxer with a worse record than Pinkie Rosario, Dávila hung up his gloves and left the sport for good. That is, until Marco came along.
Krak-a-tah! Krak-a-tah! Krak-a-tah!
The old man’s face beamed with a gratifying smile. “That’s good, Marco. That’s real good. You can take a break now.”
Marco smacked the speed bag with a final, solid punch. The bag swung back and forth before teetering to a stop. He sat on the bench next to the old man who tossed him a towel that had once been white but was now the color of wallpaper paste.
“Thanks, Grandpa.”
Marco threw the towel over his shoulder. He pulled off his training gloves, gripping them with his armpits, and tossed them on the bench next to his grandfather. Then he mopped up the sweat that was leaking from his forehead. He grabbed his nearly empty water bottle and squirted the rest of its contents into his mouth. Marco stretched his long legs on the floor as he watched Mickey O’Donnell and another teenager trade punches in the boxing ring. In the corner, Bryce Dixon worked the dummy bag with exacting, savage shots. Santos Estrada lay on a wrestling mat, doing sit-ups to tighten his stomach muscles.
“I want you to take the rope and practice skip jumping for a while,” the old man said.
Marco groaned. “Grandpa, do I have to? I’m tired.”
“Grandpa, do I have to? I’m tired,” the old man mimicked in a high voice. “You’re too young to be tired, boy. You can say ‘I’m tired’ when you’re old, like me. You think I used to cry ‘I’m tired’ when I was in the ring? How do you expect to be a champion if you start whining ‘I’m tired’ after every workout? Now, go get the rope. And I don’t want you jumping around like a kiddy garden girl, either.”
Marco sighed. He sucked in a deep breath of air, then let it rush out. “Okay, Grandpa.”
He knew not to disagree with the old man. And not just out of respect. His grandfather never backed down from an argument. He could babble nonstop on any topic, until he felt satisfied that he had gotten his point across.
“Grandpa can talk the devil into buying a box of matches,” Marco’s mother would say.
Marco picked up the rope. He whipped it around his body, alternating between one foot and the other. Skipping rope had been part of his training since he was eight years old, when his grandfather first brought him to the East Grand Boxing Club to teach him how to box.
Marco’s mother had been against letting her son get involved with boxing from the beginning, and she let her father know it.
“You’re trying to relive your life through him, Papi, and I’m not going to let you do it,” she had said.
Not about to be dissuaded, the old man decided to work on Marco’s father instead.
“You don’t want Marco to spend his life working in a body shop like you, do you, Frank?”
Marco’s father was an auto-body repairman at the Maximum Motors Body Shop.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with what I do, Tony. It’s good work, and it pays the bills.”
“Think of it, though,” the old man said. “Marco could be the world champ some day. His name could be up in lights. He’d be up there with Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard, Oscar De la Hoya, and Julio César Chávez. He’d be on ESPN, HBO, Showtime, and all the pay-per-views. And I can guarantee you, Frank, when Marco’s making millions, he won’t just say ‘It pays the bills.’ He’ll be rolling in dough.”
After that, and against his wife’s wishes, Frank agreed to let his father-in-law teach Marco the basics of boxing.
Marco was now preparing to enter his third Golden Gloves Boxing Tournament.
He switched rope-jumping techniques, from the alternate foot-to-foot to a side straddle, then to an arm criss-cross. Skipping rope, he knew, would help him develop the coordination, balance, and speed he’d need when he got in the ring.
His grandfather shifted uncomfortably on the bench. His prosthetic leg had been bothering him. He’d had the same one for almost five years. Time to get it replaced. His left leg, the victim of his diabetes, had been amputated years ago. His eyesight was another casualty of the disease. It had begun to go out, flickering in spurts, like a battery on its last charge. He hoped his eyesight would hold out long enough to let him see Marco turn pro.
He massaged his knee and was about to remove his artificial limb when Raquel Flores and Izzy Peña arrived.
Marco stopped jumping.
“Hello, Grandpa,” Raquel and Izzy greeted the old man. They called him “Grandpa” because that’s what Marco called him.
“Hola, chamacos. ¿Cómo están?”
“Bien, gracias.”
Izzy asked Marco, “You ready?”
Marco looked at his grandfather.
His grandfather stared at him for a moment. “Yeah, go ahead. I think we covered enough for today.”
Marco grabbed the towel and swabbed his face and neck.
Grandpa leaned back on the bench and raised his prosthetic leg up to Izzy’s waist. “Here, help me take this off.”
Izzy looked at Marco with uncertainty.
“Ándale, muchacho. My knee hurts, and I’m having a hard time removing my leg.”
Marco turned his head so Izzy couldn’t see that he was trying to hold back a laugh.
Izzy gripped Grandpa’s artificial leg and gave it a gentle tug.
“Harder!” Grandpa ordered. “It doesn’t come off that easy.”
Izzy pulled with greater force.
“Harder!”
Izzy clamped both hands firmly on the leg and yanked it.
As his artificial leg separated from his knee, Grandpa blew out a long, loud fart.
“Aaah! That felt so good.” A contented smile spread across his face.
Raquel giggled.
Izzy’s face flushed red.
“Sorry, Iz … I was going to tell you … ” Marco couldn’t get the words out, he was laughing so hard.
Izzy glared at him, then he laughed, too.
Grandpa gazed up with an innocent look on his face. “What’d I do?”
Marco’s laughter eased long enough to explain to Raquel and Izzy, “That’s Grandpa’s version of ‘Pull My Finger.’”
Izzy, still holding the prosthetic leg, asked, “What do you want me to do with this?”
; “Gimme that.” Grandpa snatched the leg away from Izzy’s hands. “I need it for my new job. You know I got a new job, don’t you, Marco?”
Marco had already heard this one, so he ignored him. Grandpa asked Raquel, “You wanna know where I’m working?”
“Where?”
“At IHOP.” The old man roared with laughter. “Get it? I hop !”
Marco groaned. “Very funny, Grandpa. We’re leaving. You want us to walk you home or anything?”
“Nah. My girlfriend’s gonna meet me here. She also has one leg. Wanna know what her name is?”
Marco had already heard this one, too.
“Her name’s Ilene. Get it? I lean.”
That one made Izzy and Raquel snicker.
“Don’t encourage him,” Marco said. “He can keep this up all day.”
“Hey, you wanna know what to say to a one-legged hitchhiker?” Grandpa continued. “Hop in! Get it? Hop in!”
“See you, Grandpa,” Marco said.
“Yeah, we’ll see you, Grandpa,” Raquel and Izzy added.
“What does a one-legged turkey say?” Grandpa called out as they exited the East Grand Boxing Club.
When Marco shut the door, he heard his grandfather’s voice yell, “Hobble-Hobble!”
CHAPTER FIVE
When they arrived at the construction site, Izzy’s little sister Blanca popped out from behind a tall yellow crane.
“Izzy! Marco! Raquel! Come here, quick! It ran toward the sand pile.”
“What are you doing?” Izzy scolded. “You know you’re not supposed to play here.”
“I’m trying to catch the cabbit! Come on. Hurry, before it runs away.” Blanca motioned with her hand for them to follow her. She sprinted toward the sand pile that sat next to the hulking steel frame, which in a few months would become the new offices for the Lone Star Life Insurance Company.
She stopped at the foot of the mound. She glanced up and saw a white, furry figure escaping down the side. It ran to a wooden fence and slipped underneath.
“Aw, it got away.” Blanca gave the sand a swift kick.
“What was it?” Marco asked.
Izzy shook his head. “Nada. Un gato. Blanca’s been trying to catch it for the past week or so.”
“It’s not a cat!” Blanca protested. “It’s a cabbit.”
“A what?” Marco wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
“A cabbit,” Blanca repeated. “Un gatonejo. That’s what Tío Beto calls it.”
With a smirk on his face, Izzy said, “Blanca thinks she’s discovered an animal that’s part cat, part rabbit. It showed up at our house one day, and she fed it some left overs. Now it comes around every once in a while looking for more food. She’s been trying to make it her pet, but it’s just a dirty old cat.”
Blanca frowned. “No, it’s not. It has long ears and a bunny tail, and it hops like a rabbit but meows like a cat. It’s a cabbit.”
“Well, it didn’t hop away, that’s for sure,” Izzy said. “It took off running like … like a scaredy-cat.” He laughed. “Anyway, Mami doesn’t want you playing anywhere near the construction site. You need to go home.”
“What about you? You’re not supposed to play out here, either.” Blanca was not about to be shooed away so easily.
“Yeah, but I’m older than you are,” Izzy said. “I know how to take care of myself.”
“Two years isn’t that much older,” Blanca argued.
Marco bent down in a crouch. He rested his hands on Blanca’s shoulders and met her eyes. “¿Sábes qué, Blanca? I’ll bet you the cabbit ran back to your house. He’s waiting there for you right now. He probably wants you to give him something to eat.”
Blanca’s face brightened. That made sense. “You’re right. Thanks, Marco. I’ll see you at home, Izzy,” she said and ran off.
“Don’t tell Mami where I am,” Izzy yelled.
Blanca didn’t reply. She headed down the sidewalk and turned the corner to the next block.
“Thanks for helping me get rid of her,” Izzy said. “She can be a real pest sometimes.”
“Blanca’s okay,” Marco said with a shrug.
Izzy snorted. “Easy for you to say. She’s not your sister.”
The workers had called it quits for the day. They usually did around four-thirty. Marco, Izzy, and Raquel liked to hang around at the construction site.
They had followed the building of the insurance company from the beginning, ever since the Nolan Park Apartments had been demolished to make room for the new offices.
They watched a wrecking ball pulverize the old dilapidated apartment complex, tearing down walls as if they were made out of papier-mâché. Later, bulldozers dug their claws into the ground and tore up the soil. Fat concrete trucks then poured the cement foundation. After the steel girders and beams were added, Marco and Izzy decided the structure would be perfect for climbing. Tons better than the monkey bars at the elementary school.
Raquel leaned against the crane and watched them scale up the building. She was tempted to join them, but she resisted. It wasn’t because she was scared of heights. When she lived in Bustamante, Nuevo León, Mexico, she often hiked up the Cabeza de León Mountain with her father. She had also climbed up the steep slippery hills of the Grutas del Palmito cave on numerous occasions to enjoy the stalagmite and stalactite formations of El Castillo, Salón del Baile, and El King Kong.
But now that she was almost thirteen and living in the United States, climbing anything other than stairs seemed, well, undignified.
Raquel liked Marco. She had a huge crush on him. Of course she’d never tell him that. She’d never tell anybody, not even her cousin, Luisa. But she wrote about him in her diary.
I watched Marco working out at the gym today, she jotted in Spanish in one of many entries she had included about him. He had his sleeves on his T-shirt rolled up. His muscles looked huge on his sweaty arms. ¡Qué guapo!
She had wanted to get to know Marco since the first day of school, when she noticed him in her English and Texas history classes, but she was too nervous to approach him. Her lucky break came when she discovered that her father worked with Marco’s father at the Maximum Motors Body Shop. She went to the shop one Saturday afternoon to take her father the lunch bag that he’d forgotten at home. There, she ran into Marco. They struck up a conversation and from then on became good friends.
Raquel hoped that some day they could become more than friends. For now, though, she was happy hanging out with him.
Marco and Izzy stopped in the middle of one of the beams and peered down. The sand pile rested about twelve feet below them.
Marco hesitated for a moment. Then he leaped into the air.
“Yeehaah!”
He landed with a soft thud, his feet sinking deep into the coarse sand, and rolled down the hill. Izzy jumped after him. Hitting the mound, he spiraled downward until he rested next to Marco. They rose, climbed up to the second story, and jumped off again. They jumped twice more. Finally, they joined Raquel at the crane.
Raquel brushed the dirt off the back of Marco’s shirt. “I wonder who they’re going to get to replace Miss Mac,” she said.
“I don’t know,” Marco said. “Hope it’s someone young.”
Izzy chuckled. “Yeah. Miss Mac had to have been, what? A hundred?”
Marco nodded and smiled. His grin quickly faded. “That was pretty weird, wasn’t it? I can’t believe Miss Mac died right there in the classroom.”
“I know,” Raquel agreed. “That’s got to be the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.” She instinctively crossed herself.
Marco hopped up on one of the crane’s wheels and sat down. “Man, she didn’t deserve to die like that. She was a good teacher. After all the things she did for the school and everything, it seems that she should’ve been allowed to die at home, maybe over the Christmas break — or even during the summer. But not in the classroom with everybody laughing at her, thinking she’d fallen asleep.”
; The image of Miss Mac’s lifeless body slumped in her chair had haunted Marco’s dreams. He felt terrible for having joined in the laughter. He wished he had recognized that something was wrong with her. He would have run to the office and told someone instead of sitting there, giggling like an idiot.
“Well, like they say: ‘When you gotta go, you gotta go,’” Izzy said, making light of the conversation. “I don’t want to talk about Miss Mac’s death. I feel bad about her dying and everything, but come on, she was old. That’s what happens when you get old. I guess that means we won’t have to turn in our book reports.”
Their book reports were due that Friday, and Izzy still hadn’t selected a book to read. He had planned on turning in a book report he’d written the year before.
“Mine’s done,” Marco said. “I was going to turn it in the day she died.”
“Yeah? What’d you read?” Izzy asked.
“Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury.”
“Never heard of it. Was it on the list?”
Marco climbed into the cab of the crane and sat in the driver’s seat. He gripped the steering wheel and pretended to drive it. “No, but I asked Miss Mac if I could read it for my project, and she said it was okay. The title caught my attention when I saw it in the library.”
“What’s it about?” Raquel asked.
“It’s about a time in the future when all books are banned. No one’s allowed to read anything. Any books found are burned.”
“Hey, now that’s my kind of future,” Izzy wisecracked. “No books and no book reports.”
“Anyway, I’m holding on to my book report in case the new teacher asks for it.”
“The new teacher,” Izzy grumbled. “With my luck, she won’t be a hundred years old. She’ll probably be two hundred.”
Raquel glanced at her watch. It was after five. “I have to go. My dad will be home soon, and I have to help my mom fix dinner.”
They headed for the Santa Maria Apartments. When they arrived at Raquel’s door, she gave Marco and Izzy a hug before going in.
Alamo Wars Page 2
