When I Found You

by Hyde, Catherine Ryan

  Carol had gone off to take a shower and go to bed. She had an early morning facing her. Nat actually felt relieved, because of a strange sense that he could talk to either Carol or Nathan individually, but not both at the same time.

  “Is this about me?” Nat asked, when he finally got up the nerve.

  “No. It’s not. It’s about her.”

  “Oh. OK. Good. I mean, not good, but … You know what I mean.”

  A silence, during which Nathan ate a bite of toast.

  Then, “She couldn’t accept you for yourself. Somehow her resentments were more important. She wasn’t willing to be separated from them.”

  “So, it was about me.”

  “No,” Nathan said. “It was about her.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I suppose most people wouldn’t,” Nathan said with a sigh. “Most people prefer to think that their resentment is entirely the fault of the person they resent, and that twisted logic seems to make sense in their minds. But it makes no sense to me at all. It’s like saying it’s your fault if I shoot you, because the gun is aiming at you. It completely disregards who’s doing the aiming. But it’s a popular point of view. Probably because it’s so much easier. It relieves you of the burden of any and all self-examination. You don’t have to understand it now, Nat. Just file it away with everything else I’ve said that sounds like a foreign language to you. Maybe you’ll learn a new language some day. Some people do. It depends how important it is to them to see things differently. I thought Eleanor was … I’m not sure how to finish that sentence. I don’t know what I thought Eleanor was. But in any case, I was wrong.”

  “I’m sorry, Nathan.”

  “Yes,” Nathan said. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “We’ll be out soon.”

  Nathan looked up from his plate. Suddenly. And maybe for the first time. “What do you mean, Nat?”

  “I mean, I’ll get a job or something. Maybe part-time, I don’t know. But we’ll find someplace to live. Like we should have a long time ago.”

  In the silence that followed he felt the old man’s hand rest on his arm.

  “Nat. Eleanor is gone. You may stay as long as you like.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I enjoy your company,” Nathan said.

  What he didn’t say, Nat thought, is that if they moved out it would leave him completely alone. Then again, he really didn’t need to say it.

  • • •

  “So, what was with you back there?” Carol asked.

  He had just barely climbed into bed beside her, and it startled him. He hadn’t known she was awake.

  “I don’t know. What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never seen you like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Like … paralyzed or something. Usually you just know what to do. Even if you do the wrong thing. Usually you just go ahead and do it.”

  He rolled up behind her, his chest against her back. Lay close to her in silence, hearing and feeling her breathing. He put one hand on her heart for further evidence that he was not alone.

  “It’s Nathan,” he said in time.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, like … It’s like, if somebody said, ‘OK, here’s the ground we all walk around on, and now all of a sudden it’s your job to hold it up.’ You know what I mean?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “It’s Nathan.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I guess I see your point.”

  11 August 1979

  Business

  “So, how’d you enjoy your big vacation, Little Featherweight?”

  Nat looked up to see Little Manny standing over him in the mostly-dark.

  It was after midnight, and Nat had let himself into the downstairs gym with the key Little Manny had quietly copied and passed along. He was on his back on a weight bench, bench-pressing without anyone to spot him, which Little Manny had many times told him not to do. He tried not to feel guilty over being caught disobeying.

  “I hate it when you call me that.”

  “I know. I thought you weren’t coming back to train till tomorrow.”

  “I got tired of waiting. I’m not featherweight, and you know it. I used to be lightweight. Now I’m welter. I’ve been gaining weight, and I’m welter now.”

  “Light welter. And you think that’s a good thing.”

  Little Manny took a spotter position, his hands guiding but barely touching the bottom of the bar as Nat pumped it up and down.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.” Silence except for the grunting rush of Nat’s breathing. “Don’t you even want to know why you’re wrong?”

  “Not really, but I know you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

  “Because you just earned the honor of smallest guy in your weight class. You gotta eat about fourteen bananas the day before the fight just to weigh in light welter, and even then you’re barely two ounces into the class. You’d be better off being the heaviest lightweight in the ring. Besides, if you miss the weigh-in by even an ounce or two—”

  “You always got something negative to say.”

  “And you always got your head in the clouds. I speak reality, kid. If you know it all, feel free to go on without me. Besides. I got something positive to say. I got a check from your friend Nathan the elder today.”

  Nat carefully set the weight bar back in its cradle and sat up. “Really? How much?”

  “None of your business.”

  “How can that not be my business?”

  “Because I’m your manager. So just let me manage. I’ll keep my accounting real good with him, but you get to stay out of it. If I tell you, I know you’ll get carried away with all the different ways we can spend it. I know you pretty good. So, now, listen. Friday the twenty-fourth we’re taking the bus down to Philly for your first amateur match. That is, if we can get your license mailed back in time. Anyway, we’ll think positive. Hope the mail doesn’t let us down. We’ll fill out the form in the morning. And you’ll need to get some pictures taken. Like the kind they use for passports. I’ll take care of mailing it all in. Then all you gotta do is cut the six-mile morning runs down to two or three miles of wind sprints, and do all speed work on the bags for a few days. And leave the numbers and the money and the planning and all that other crap up to me. We’ll have to get you a bunch of equipment. Mouth guards and a head guard and stuff. And hand wraps and a belt, and they gotta be real boxing shoes. No sneakers.”

  “I don’t want a head guard.”

  “You got no choice.”

  “I can’t see in those things! I tried that. You were there. You know how bad it worked out. I can’t see the punches coming. And then when it gets hit it sort of slides around, and then I really can’t see.”

  “Look, how many times do I gotta tell you, kid? You don’t get a choice. So just get used to it. Focus on what’s important. Oh, and another thing you gotta do. Go to a doctor and get examined.”

  “For the boxing license?”

  “For Nathan’s insurance company. He won’t back you unless you’re insured.”

  “God. He’s so …”

  “So what? So what’s wrong with a little insurance?”

  “I’m not going to get hurt.”

  “Oh. I see. Good to know. I didn’t realize I was working with the only unbreakable boxer in the US of A. Just go to the damn doctor. If we hurry this up I think we’ll be in time to get in on the Golden Gloves schedule after the first of next year. Lot of bus trips to New York, but it’s worth it.”

  “I don’t care about the damn Golden Gloves.”

  “Well, start caring. ‘Cause they’re like the fashion show of amateur boxing. People turn out to see who’s coming up. You need to get seen.”

  “Why? I already got an investor.”

  “Well, if he’s the only investor you got, then you better hope he’s got a shitload of money, kid.”

  “I do
n’t want to do a bunch of two-bit amateur fights with that head thing on. And a tank top and shit. And do that thing where they’re scoring you on how many punches, and they stop the fight before you can even knock a guy down. I just want to put on trunks, and get in the ring with my regular bare head, so I can see what I’m hitting, and then just show everybody what I can do. That’s what I want.”

  Little Manny crossed his arms in the near-darkness, leaving Nat wishing he could see the older man’s face.

  “Oh, is that what you want? Well, here’s what I want. I want to be six-foot-two and look like a young John Wayne. So we’ll just keep track of how far our wanting gets us. You know what your problem is, kid? You think passion is enough. That it’s all you really need. You think if something’s just really, really important to you, it’ll magically appear. Well, passion is all well and good. You won’t get nowhere without it. But it’s not the whole enchilada. You still gotta go step by step like everybody else. Now, I’m going back to bed. You work out all night if you want. It still ain’t gonna magically turn you pro.”

  “Good. Go to bed. Leave me alone.”

  “What’s with you tonight, kid? You’re even snarkier than usual.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  For one brief, fleeting instant, Nat almost thought he might tell him. That Eleanor was gone, and it was probably his fault, and Nathan was inconsolable in that steely way that only Nathan could manage; and that Nat was scared, a kind of scared he’d never known existed, because he had always thought Nathan would be there, feeling nothing out of the ordinary and steering the ship.

  “I’m fine.”

  “OK, fine. You’re fine. Got it. Lie to me. See if I care. I don’t care. I’m used to it by now.”

  6 March 1980

  What Fight?

  Nat stood with his back against the wall of the enormous gym, biting on the cuticle of his right thumb and trying to block out the din of the crowd. Or even just to tolerate it. He hated to be in rooms where a huge crowd of people all talked at once. It hurt the inside of his head.

  If only the next event would start. Then at least people would quiet down a little, because there would be a fight to watch.

  If you could call this amateur crap a fight.

  Nat watched the next two boxers getting their gloves checked and their minds brainwashed by their trainers. He could see them both nod every couple of seconds, so he knew a lot of last-minute advice was being pushed into their heads.

  He thought they both looked ridiculous in their Golden Gloves tank tops and matching head protectors. Nat always thought head protectors were a lot like training wheels. Like the kindergarten of the boxing world. Like the bunny slopes instead of real skiing.

  And he would have to put one on himself soon. Right after this fight.

  The two fighters ducked under the ropes, both looking panicky. Which irritated Nat, because it meant they took their amateur status seriously. Like this was big-time stuff. Which seemed impossibly dumb.

  He wouldn’t even be here if Little Manny would listen to reason and train him by any other system.

  Nat felt grudgingly aware that the real drive behind his nervousness was having Nathan and Carol along. He had tried every possible tack to convince them to stay home. It wasn’t a big deal, after all. It was just the damn quarterfinals. I mean, if they had wanted to come to the grand championship, that at least he could see. But even at the grand championship, Nat didn’t figure he could get around the humiliation he would feel putting on that stupid padded head guard in front of Carol.

  That was so not the way he wanted to be seen by her.

  He chewed more aggressively on the cuticle, causing it to bleed.

  The announcer’s loudspeaker was turned up too high, and the sound quality was bad, which wasn’t helping.

  He tried to focus on the fight. One guy was already dominating. Really outclassing his opponent. He was a tall, light-skinned black guy who looked a little on the skinny side. But Nat could see his punches had a lot of power behind them, plus his timing was perfect. There’s a guy who must be on the fast track to pro, he thought.

  For the first time that day, he doubted himself slightly.

  Just at that moment, the better fighter landed his last punch. His opponent fell on to the ropes and didn’t bounce back again, and the official got between them, counted, and waved his arms to call the fight. Took the black kid’s arm and held it high.

  It was still hard for Nat to believe that they didn’t even let you go on and knock a guy down. What kind of fighting is that, when nobody even ends up on the mat? It seemed pathetic.

  He winced against the noise of the cheering, and the applause.

  The minute the fight was over, the din of the crowd bored into Nat’s head again.

  Nathan appeared suddenly before his face, camera at the ready.

  Well, Nat thought, it could be worse. At least he wants the photo now, before I have to put the damn training wheels on my head.

  “Stand over here under the sign,” Nathan said, raising his voice to be heard above the crowd noise. He took hold of Nat’s arm and pulled him over to stand under the Golden Gloves 1980 Quarterfinals banner.

  He smiled, but it was all an acting job.

  “Come on,” Nathan said when he had his shot. “You’re up next.”

  Like Nat hadn’t known that already.

  • • •

  Little Manny re-examined the tape on Nat’s gloves ring-side, a nervous habit. “I ain’t gonna give you a bunch of advice, because I told it all to you before, and I know you were listening.”

  “Thank you,” Nat said.

  Carol raced up and kissed Nat on the cheek. At least, as much of his cheek as she could find through the stupid head guard. The kiss ended up landing more on the side of his nose instead. It made his face feel hot. Then she ran back to her seat.

  “Just make that wife of yours proud. That’s all I got to say.”

  Now, how was he going to make Carol proud wearing that stupid-looking thing on his head, and a tank top instead of a proud, bare fighter’s chest? But then he decided. In a rush, just like that. He would look so good out there that no one would have time to think about head guards or tank tops. He would outclass his own amateur status and look like a pro. He would rise above it all.

  For her.

  He smiled at her as he stepped into the ring, and she beamed back at him.

  • • •

  Nat’s very first blow landed perfectly. It was a right to the guy’s body, and it felt great. He could hear a grunt as the air rushed out of the kid. Nat had been thinking of him as a kid, for psychological advantage. He had a baby face, so Nat tried to think of him as a baby.

  That first punch had been so fast, so perfectly timed, that it just beat the baby’s defenses.

  After that Nat could do nothing wrong. And the baby could do nothing right.

  Nat stayed a step ahead at all times, listening to the roar of the crowd in his ears. It felt good. Now that same din felt good, because it was for him. Every move the baby made was defensive, because Nat wasn’t giving him time to do anything but guard.

  He could hear the announcer over the loudspeaker, but somehow he couldn’t focus on the words. It was all a background muddle of sound. Just “Bates” came through. He heard his last name each time it was said. Which was a lot.

  He watched the punches come in through that weird window created by the head guard. It was like watching a movie on a small screen. But even with that handicap, he blocked almost every one perfectly.

  He was on fire.

  The baby came in too close and clinched with him, trying to avoid the pummeling to his head. He followed Nat for five or six steps, too close to hit. Then the official pulled him off again.

  The minute he came free, the baby aimed a powerful swing at Nat’s head. If it had connected, it might have been a knockout punch. But Nat ducked it successfully. And then, in the split s
econd that followed, Nat knew the baby had put so much into that one punch that he was now completely off-balance. And completely unguarded.

  Nat capitalized. With a knockout punch of his own.

  He drove a hard right to the baby’s head. It connected with a satisfying thud.

  The baby did not fall. But he staggered. He took three or four steps back and forth, as if to try to balance himself, his legs looking like rubber. Like a drunkard on a swaying ship.

  In a real fight Nat would have thrown one more great punch and finished him off. In a real fight the baby would be down on the mat, the ref counting over him while the crowd cheered.

  But this was the amateurs.

  The official stepped between them, held up one, then two, then three fingers in front of the drunken baby. Nat turned his head to look for Carol in the crowd. Just as he saw her, he heard the official call the fight.

  Nat felt a hand grasp his wrist and raise his gloved hand in the air. The crowd cheered. He felt a little cheated, because he’d wanted to fight for a lot longer than a minute and a half. It felt good, and he wasn’t ready to stop.

  He found Carol’s face again in the crowd. She was on her feet. Clapping. Cheering. She threw her arms around Nathan and hugged him from the side, jumping up and down while he stood still and applauded.

  She was proud of him. He’d made his wife proud of him. Just like Little Manny said he should. The rest didn’t seem to matter.

  • • •

  Nat stepped up to the urinal, careful, as always, to keep his eyes straight ahead. A guy no older than him stepped up beside him. Nathan could see in the mirror, in his peripheral vision, that it was another fighter. He could tell by the brightly colored flash of his Golden Gloves tank top.

  The guy looked over at him.

  No, no, no, Nat thought. Eyes front. Always eyes front at the urinals. He did not return the glance.

  “So,” the guy said. “You gonna take that fight? Awful lot of money.”