“Aw, you’ll be fine,” she said warmly. “See you at the fights.” She gave me the address to the commission headquarters and hung up.
What had I gotten myself into? I had been so sure this boxing thing wouldn’t come through, I hadn’t bothered to prepare. Instead of feeling excited, I was worried. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out I was a fraud. I would probably end up confessing it myself because it was the right thing to do. I had always been terrible at accepting unearned gifts.
When I was in high school, a friend and I had planned a party. Pooling our money together, we bought the biggest bottle of 190-proof Everclear we could find. Wanting to stretch the limits of our alcohol, we lined a jumbo garbage can with a Hefty bag and poured in the alcohol with enough juice and diced fruit to get twenty-five teenagers drunk. Halfway through our boozy punch, the party was raided by local police. Terrified, I ran to the back of the apartment, found an open window and climbed through.
Standing alone outside the apartment, I realized I was free. While the rest of my classmates were lining up for punishment, I could walk away and pretend the whole thing had never happened. But instead, I panicked. Unable to handle my good fortune, I made my way back inside, through the same open window, to get my hundred-dollar summons like everyone else.
Maybe I didn’t have to repeat that mistake again. I had spent too much time earning rewards and not enough time collecting them. Since hard work alone wasn’t paying off, I wanted to see how good luck felt.
* * *
Wall Street was not a part of town I frequented. The oldest part of the city, it was built chaotically, like a toddler let loose with a box of Legos. The streets were tiny and winding, barely wide enough for modern cars. Scaffolding shadowed the narrow sidewalks. People had to move in near single file to get anywhere. Turning onto William Street, I had trouble finding the address of the New York State Athletic Commission among the tall glass buildings. It wasn’t until I noticed a small huddle of men in puffy jackets and baseball caps, completely out of place next to the Armani suits, that I knew where to go.
After showing my ID to the security guard, I rode alone up to the nineteenth floor. The elevator opened to a large crowd gathered in the lobby of the commission headquarters. A hodgepodge group of casually dressed men were chatting quietly. I counted only one other woman. This crowd could have easily come from any street corner in the Bronx. It felt like home.
“You must be Dr. Dahl,” said a lanky man who seemed to appear out of nowhere. He looked like he was in his early thirties, staring at his clipboard as he spoke without making eye contact. When I didn’t answer, he looked up with a blank expression. “I’m Tom Marino. I’ll show you where you’ll be doing the physicals.”
I followed him through the crowd into an empty classroom, where desk chairs were lined up in rows facing the front of the room. The walls and floors were worn like an inner-city high school. At a large table at the front, a man was browsing through a manila folder. He had chestnut skin and dark hair that was slicked back into a hirsute helmet.
“This here is Dr. Gonzalez. Dr. Gonzalez...Dr. Dahl. Here’s some more files. I’ll come back with the rest later.” Tom rested a pile of folders on the table before leaving the room.
Dr. Gonzalez smiled broadly. Powdery men’s cologne rose from his gray, sharkskin suit. The shiny material, along with his light blue shirt and iridescent tie, made him look like he had just strutted out of a men’s magazine.
“Hey, hey, hey! You must be the newbie. Welcome! Looks like they’re pairing you up with the old fart,” he said. He was clearly around my age, so I didn’t understand the comment.
“Old fart? What are you talking about? You’re younger than me,” I said, figuring it would be a compliment either way.
“Oh, I’ve been around awhile. What’s it been...maybe four years? I started in residency, so, you see. Old fart.” I didn’t really see. But, remembering that all doctors are trapped in the hierarchy of our respective training programs, he was probably just trying to show me he had been around longer. That made him more senior, regardless of our actual ages.
“You’re ENT, right?” he asked but, before I could answer, pointed at himself. “Pain management.”
“Is that what you call yourself?” I asked, assuming he was explaining the job description of a fight doctor.
“I’m in Pain Management up at Columbia. Kind of appropriate, right?” He laughed at his wittiness and shrugged his shoulders. Even with his posturing and fancy suit, I found him charming.
We continued our conversation, which was mostly him explaining his résumé and why he had more fight assignments than any other commission doctor. “I’m just a sucker for a good fight. Plus, they know I’m always available. My wife gives me a long rope,” he said, dangling a make-believe one from his neck. I listened, sharing as little as possible about myself. I didn’t care about accolades. I was just happy to be there.
The first boxer interrupted our conversation. His eyes were hidden behind Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, under a hat that read New York in rhinestone cursive letters. Sweaty and out of breath, his small frame was wrapped in a red warm-up suit and cloaked with more clothing. He took his place in the chair next to me.
“Tyrone, right?” Dr. Gonzalez asked. “This is Dr. Dahl. She’s new to the commission. I’m just gonna have her watch me do some physicals before we let her loose on her own.” Then he turned to me and dangled a reflex hammer between his first and second fingers. “I’ll bet you haven’t used one of these in a while,” he said, spinning it around like a baton. He was right about that.
He turned back to Tyrone, suddenly assuming an authoritative tone. “Take off your glasses. We’ll do the neuro exam first cuz it’s the hard part. Looks like you didn’t make weight.” I wondered how he knew that.
“Nah, man. Two pounds over. I’m sweatin’ it out.” That would explain the outfit and perspiration. He was already thin. I couldn’t imagine what he would look like two pounds lighter.
“Well, I hope your brain’s not too dehydrated. It’s time for the neuro exam!” Dr. Gonzalez laughed at his own hilarity. He glanced at Tyrone and me and, seeing that his audience wasn’t amused, went back to his serious face. “Okay. These questions may seem a little strange, but I want you to answer them to the best of your ability.
“What is the date?”
“Uh, Wensdee,” said Tyrone, eyes closed.
“Day of the week and time to the nearest hour. Without looking at the clock.”
“October thirteenth, uhhhh, I think it’s, uhh, around five o’clock? I’s hungry, G,” he whined, glancing up at an older man who was standing against the wall. He offered no help, shaking his head and looking away.
“Now on to the harder stuff,” Dr. Gonzalez said, ignoring Tyrone’s complaint. “I’m gonna give you five words, and you have to repeat them back to me. And remember them cuz I’m gonna ask for them again at the end. Okay? Here they are: Table. Red. Apple. Pen. House.”
“Tayble...rayud...payun...hayouse...apple?” he slurred. Tyrone struggled with the words, pronouncing even the one syllable words with two syllables. “We almos’ done?” He was getting agitated.
“Not quite. Now I want you to name the months of the year backwards, starting with December.”
“Sheeut. How’s I s’posed to know that?” Tyrone shifted in his chair, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. His cheeks were sunken so deep into his skull I could see its outline. He looked more like a malnourished cancer patient than an athlete.
“Just try,” Dr. Gonzalez said. “I know you’re tired.”
“Decembah...uh...Novembah...Octobah...Septembah...uhhhh...” Then, in a whisper, “Janary, Febury, March, April, May, June, July, August,” and back to a louder voice, “August...July...” He went back and forth like that until he successfully arrived at Janary. Then he sighed. “Man, why you gotta ask this
stuff? What’s it got to do with boxing?” I was wondering the same thing. Questions like that were usually reserved for psychiatric and stroke patients.
“Just answer the questions,” Dr. Gonzalez said, unfazed. I wanted to get Tyrone some water or a Big Mac or something, but I didn’t dare move. This felt more like the entrance exam.
“Now, what were those five things I told you before? Do you remember?” Dr. Gonzalez was animated now, looking hard into Tyrone’s eyes, like he was trying to give him the answers through telepathy.
“What? Oh, sometin’ bout a rayud apple in a hayouse?” I was surprised he remembered any of the words. I had already forgotten all of them.
“Well, actually—” Dr. Gonzalez made a stern expression, then broadened the corners of his lips into a huge smile “—you passed! Congratulations!”
He leaned over to me and whispered, “That test is just to make sure they’re not too brain damaged to fight. They set the bar pretty low, but you’d be surprised how many guys fail.” I was wondering if even I could have passed, especially with so little food and water.
“Now on to the easy part, Tyrone. Strip down to your pants.” I looked around for a changing room, but there was only open space. Tyrone didn’t seem to care, peeling off his clothes, layer by layer until he was nearly naked. His body was lean and muscular, with no discernible fat.
Dr. Gonzalez began his exam. He did a quick inspection of Tyrone’s ears and mouth and listened to his chest with a stethoscope, muttering the word good with each element, like he was completing his own mental checklist before he filled out the hard copy.
“Now stand,” he said, grabbing Tyrone’s forearm and pushing against it. “Resist me.” Even though Dr. Gonzalez was clearly better fed and leaning in with his entire body weight, Tyrone easily pushed back. When Dr. Gonzalez switched to the other arm, I noticed a large square discoloration that covered most of Tyrone’s left bicep.
“Did you get burned?” I blurted out before remembering my place. Dr. Gonzalez stiffened and glanced over at me.
“Yeah. In the fourth grade. Third degree. I was playing near my gramama’s stove.”
“Did you have a skin graft?” I asked. I didn’t know a lot about burns, but I remembered the burn unit as the saddest place in the hospital.
“Nah. Gramama didn’t believe in doctors.” He looked back at Dr. Gonzalez. “Can we finish this?”
I was horrified. The thought of recovering from that kind of injury without pain medication or medical care almost made me sick. He must have had to disconnect from his physical body for survival’s sake. No wonder he was a boxer.
Dr. Gonzalez, unaffected by this new bit of medical history, continued his exam. “Walk heel-to-toe along this line. Good. Now turn around, close your eyes and put your arms straight out. Yeah, like that. Now hop twenty times on each foot.” After Tyrone finished the exercise, Dr. Gonzalez took his pulse. “Sixty beats per minute. You’re in excellent shape, dude. Get dressed.”
As Tyrone fumbled for his clothes, I studied the rest of his upper body. “What about that one, there?” I asked, pointing at an irregular, thick, three-inch scar on his right shoulder.
“Dat’s from the tird grade,” he said, looking at it and shrugging. “I’s bored.”
“And that one?” I asked, spotting a group of thick keloids across his abdomen.
“Gangbanger went at me with a knife.” He glanced sheepishly at his manager and put his shades on. I thought of my old patient Jerome and, for the first time, wondered what had become of him.
“We done now?” he asked, edging toward the door.
“Yeah, we’re done,” Dr. Gonzalez said. “Go see if you made weight, and get something to eat. See you tomorrow night.”
“He has more injuries from his life than he does from boxing,” I said, disturbed by what I had seen. I was used to seeing people in the immediate aftermath of their injuries. I hadn’t thought about what happened to them when and if they left the hospital.
“Funny, I never usually notice scars and burns and things like that. If I did we’d be here all night. These guys have messed-up bodies. We mainly look for brain injuries, bad vision and hand trauma. Those are the things that affect their ability to fight.” It seemed to me he had it backwards. The scars were probably what made them want to fight in the first place. I wondered if this job would make me lose my compassion, too.
He continued. “It’s kind of silly. The fighters have to do the weigh ins the night before the fight, then they just go home and eat everything they can. Their actual fight weight is probably five pounds over. No one’s figured out a better way to do it, so it is what it is. Let’s go through the paperwork.”
He sat at the table and flipped through the rest of the chart. “They have to get yearly HIV and hepatitis checks, EKGs and eye exams. Every three years they need an MRI. You’d think that neuro exam would be enough!” he said, yet again attempting to make me laugh.
I wasn’t appreciating the humor, so I tried to help him out. “I guess it makes sense to check for STDs. They share some of the same bodily fluids as porn actors, right?” Years of surgical training had made my dark sense of humor even darker.
“Ha ha, yeah,” he said, looking at me with renewed interest. “You are a cool chick. I think you’re really gonna like this.”
“I’m Dr. Roy,” another man said, extending his hand as he entered the room. “Nice to meet you.” He was several years older than Dr. Gonzalez. More subdued, he had already removed his tweed jacket and was rolling up his sleeves when he introduced himself. “Has Dr. Gonzalez been showing you the ropes?”
“That’s funny,” I said, acknowledging the pun. He had the natural cool Dr. Gonzalez seemed so desperate for. I liked him already.
“Now that you’ve seen a physical, are you ready to do one on your own?” he asked, grabbing a manila folder and scanning the contents.
“Sure,” I said, completely unsure. But there was a big pile of charts, and I wanted to be useful.
“Great. Here’s Juan. You can check him in. He’s been through this enough times he can probably do it himself,” he said, patting Juan’s enormous shoulder.
Juan was much taller and thicker than Tyrone. Although I didn’t yet know the weight classes, I could tell he was a heavyweight.
“Hi, mami,” Juan said, bowing his head and removing his hat. Mami. I hadn’t heard that word since I’d left the Bronx. I remembered when Rene first called me mami, a term of endearment that I initially mistook as an insult. What used to make me so angry now warmed my heart with its familiarity. When I lived in the Bronx, I couldn’t wait to get out, but now I had more in common with the people there than the Upper East Side. We were just speaking different languages.
I fumbled through his chart. He was twenty-eight years old and had a record of ten wins and five losses. His labs and tests were all normal except for his vision—twenty-twenty in one eye and twenty-forty in the other. “Is this okay?” I asked Dr. Gonzalez, who had moved on to another fighter.
“Yeah, close enough,” he said. “It’s not rocket science. They just have to be able to see their opponent without contact lenses or glasses. Can’t fight with either of those.”
Juan made it through the neuro exam quickly, beating me to the answers before I asked the questions. His brain was obviously working just fine.
“Okay, Juan, you can remove your...” Before I could finish my sentence, he had already undressed down to his sweatpants. He was tall, over six feet two, and towered over me. Surveying his thick muscles, I had no idea how I was going to be able to push hard enough to test his strength. But the competitive side of me was going to try anyway.
“Resist me,” I said, grasping his forearm and leaning back with my entire bodyweight. The irony of my request didn’t escape me. Although I was thankful I could finally put my thickness to good use, I felt more like I was fl
irting than doing a physical exam. Missing the humor entirely, Juan easily pushed back, almost knocking me down.
“Oh, sorry, mami,” he said, helping me up. Despite my embarrassment at falling, I loved that he was so physically powerful. It was like wrestling a grizzly bear I knew wouldn’t hurt me.
“No, it’s okay. Let’s keep going,” I said, suppressing my inner monologue to regain composure. I continued the exam, nearly falling over each time I pushed or pulled at one of his limbs. But I appreciated the dance. I was so used to feeling like I had to be the strongest person I knew it was a relief to be with someone stronger.
After seven more physicals, we finished checking in all the fighters.
“See you tomorrow night at the fights,” Dr. Roy said. “And remember—don’t wear high heels. You may trip climbing into the ring.”
* * *
I had never heard of Gallagher’s Steakhouse but, when Tom called to invite me to dinner with the commission before the fight, I gladly accepted. Passing an open-display meat locker at the front entrance, I walked into the restaurant and past the bar. It was old-school New York, all dark wood and leather and last night’s smoke, with framed pictures of celebrities covering the walls. The place was empty except for a cluster of small tables in the back, where seven men were seated. Relieved of the confines of their daily work life, some had removed their jackets and rolled up their sleeves. Others had loosened their ties so they hung like open nooses around their necks. I recognized Dr. Gonzalez, who was just as fastidiously put together as the night before.
“You must be Dr. Dahl. I’m David,” a man said, standing and offering his hand. He was mostly bald, with a patch of gray hair around the periphery of his head. His face, which was once undoubtedly handsome, had aged into wrinkled skin and a bulbous nose. Almost disturbing in their clarity, his blue eyes glowed even brighter through his tan skin. His expression was remarkably innocent for a man of his age and position.
“David John Jacobs? The commissioner?” I asked, hoping I had remembered his name correctly. I wanted to make a good impression, and I couldn’t wait to thank him. He was one of the men who had made it all happen.
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