by F. X. Toole
Earl saw the symptoms. He knew what they meant because he’d seen some of them in his little girl. He waited for Dan to do something about them. When he didn’t, Earl took Dan by the arm one day and drove him to Dr. Milton Kogon’s office in the Cedars-Sinai Towers. Earl knew the cardiologist because he had saved the life of his daughter Orla, who suffered from congenital heart disease.
Kogon ran the tests. His eyes were kind behind thick glasses, but Dan could see that he was strong—a solid 147 -pounder under his white coat. Earl stayed beside Dan, because Dan looked like he might bolt. Blood pressure. X-rays. EKG. The sonogram didn’t look good.
Results of the blood work took two hours. Piss test. Dan loved the instructions for women on the wall of the crapper: With one hand, spread the external lips …
Treadmill. Dan pushed himself to prove the other tests wrong, but pain remorselessly built inside him. He had to quit at ninety seconds. The nurse gave him a squirt of nitro under the tongue. Kogon nodded, and she gave Dan another squirt. Kogon took Dan into his office.
Dan winked at Earl. “I’ll catch a cab.”
Earl understood Dan’s need for privacy. “See you at the shop.”
Kogon said, “Angiogram for starters, Mr. Cooley. We go in at the right side of the groin so we can take pictures, get you on tape. But if the tests we’ve taken are right, as I judge them to be, I’m sure we’ll end up doing an angioplasty.”
“That’s the balloon you hook to the hardware you run up my vein.”
“Up the femoral artery. If we discover arterial blockage during the angiogram, we then go back in with the balloon, as you call it. At the point, or points, of obstruction, we expand the balloon, then deflate it and remove it with the catheter. Now the blood can flow like it’s supposed to. Your pulse is strong, so the problem’s not with your heart.”
If he only knew, Dan thought.
Dan said, “When does the atrocity begin?”
“Tomorrow morning, unless you want a heart attack tomorrow afternoon. You check into the hospital this afternoon.”
Dan said, “How long’s this catheter thing you run up into me?”
Kogon said, “Hundred centimeters, a yard, more or less.”
Dan said, “The hell with your hundred centimeters. I could die on the table, right?”
“Yes, you could,” Kogon admitted. “But without it, if you don’t get on the table, you’ll die sooner rather than later.”
“I got a fight to work day after tomorrow.”
“You should be out by then,” Kogon said.
“So, it’s okay I work the fight? I gave Earl my word.”
“Is the fight local?”
Dan lied. “Yeah.”
Kogon cleaned his glasses. “Ordinarily I’d say no, but barring complications, you could. We have to make sure your circulation is restored and the incision has closed. The femoral artery opens and you’re dead.
So as my bubba Manya would say, it couldn’t hoit to rest. Except that hardheads like you will always take the chance, right?” “Ain’t no romance sleepin by the phone, Doc.” “None in a casket, either.”
Dan said, “Ain’t no pockets in a shroud, Doc.” He liked Kogon.
CHICKY
Chapter 12
In Fredericksburg, Texas, a good lick outside of San Antonio, Chicky fought another left-hander like himself, Tommy Farrell, a ropy-armed white-boy Army corporal stationed at Fort Sam Houston. Farrell was pumped and pissed and there to clean Chicky’s clock. By now Chicky knew what to expect from a southpaw. He “switched” from left-handed to orthodox, trying to get his left foot outside the lefty’s right foot the same way the fat Indian had finessed him. It was the same move Eloy had tried to teach him, going all the way back to the Juniors. Chicky could see the change in the white guy immediately, saw his steely eyes go on double alert. But fighting as a right-hander still felt awkward to Chicky. He lacked power, the one thing he’d always depended on while fighting as a left-hander.
Trini shouted at him between the first and second rounds, ordered him to fight as a lefty, said to go out and give it to the puta madre, the whore mother.
Farrell was a savvy, hard-eyed, twenty-two-year-old Irish boy out of New York’s Hell’s Kitchen. The irlandés brought with him a record of seventy-two wins and twelve losses. Twenty-five of those wins were by knockouts. Chicky got tagged hard and had to go right-handed again to keep from being dropped by the more experienced New Yorker. Farrell drove lead lefts to Chicky’s solar plexus that knocked the wind out of him and made him half brain-dead. His roadwork had led to superb physical conditioning, and that kept him from folding, but self-doubt butt-fucked him for the first time in all his fights, and he forgot most of what he knew. Between rounds, it was Paco who yelled at Chicky, called him Chickenshit Chicky.
“Then you go fight that blond gabacho sumbitch,” Chicky told him.
Chicky lost the fight, even though halfway through the third round he dazed Farrell when he switched back to southpaw and with raw power tried to go kamikaze do-or-die. The Cavazos blamed him for the loss, said it was because he wouldn’t listen to them, said going from left to right had cost him the fight. Chicky saw it otherwise, knew that going right-handed had kept him from being knocked clean fucking out. He didn’t like the truth, but there it was. He’d just been beaten, not by much, but the truth was the truth. After the last bell, each fighter went, as always, to the opposite corner to nod to the seconds. At mid-ring they met and shook hands. Both said, “Good fight.” The white boy winked and touched his jaw, acknowledging that it had been a tough fight.
Chicky said, “Eres un pinche gallo de pelea,” you’re some fuckin fightin cock.
“Huh?” said the mick, his pale skin mottled and scraped.
Chicky said it in English. “You’re one tough white-ass.”
Farrell snorted. “Ey, Mex, you ain’t so bad yaself.”
Something was happening to Eloy. He’d stopped eating so much junk food and was losing weight. The puffiness in his face had lessened, and there was some spring in his step. He still had the swollen gut, but he started going to the gym with Chicky again. He shadowboxed after a fashion, and even did some light work with the weights. He also did some stretches, and very few squats, but it was better than nothing. Chicky was proud of him. He’d even cut down on the booze, or so it seemed. At least Chicky couldn’t smell it on him. Even so, Eloy would sometimes nod off to sleep in the time it took Chicky to go to the kitchen and back. What Chicky didn’t know was that Eloy had been buying those squat little bottles from Trini again—not to get high on, just to get by. Morfina.
In Poteet, he’d hung out with white and Tex-Mex boys, and dated a few Anglo girls, but he felt best with the Tejanas. He liked to joke with them in Spanish, and dance to norteña music, and be invited home for Mexican dinners. Most fathers of white girls didn’t think much of boxers, and Chicky couldn’t blame them. Fathers of Mexican girls admired him for boxing, looked at him with squinty grins when he came home a winner, but even they would not want their daughters to marry a pug. That would change when he got his degree from Texas A & M. One of the fathers got drunk, wanted to fight Chicky to demonstrate how tough he was. Chicky declined, modestly saying that he was sure the old man could whip his ass. Then Chicky went out in the field and screwed the old man’s daughter in the cab of daddy’s brand-new, big ol’ green-and-yellow John Deere tractor.
A month after Chicky graduated from high school, a date in mid-September was set for the Senior Division of the Texas Amateur Boxing Regionals. They would be held at the San Nacho complex, a location that fit Chicky like a wet shirt. The San Antonio region was one of five in the state of Texas. There was a gang of boys of all colors and sizes in all five regions stomping at the bit to kick ass and take names in San Antone. The Regionals were serious business, one link in a long chain. The first link was made up of more than fifty Local Boxing Committees located throughout the U.S. Winning in the Locals moved you to the Regionals. Win there and
you went to the Nationals. A win in the Nationals meant you fought in the Olympic Box-Offs. A win in the Box-Offs and you had a shot at the Olympic team. It would be a long grind, but Chicky was as sure as tar melted on the road in July that he’d make it. If not with power and the kind of slick he hoped one day to learn, then with heart and will, a huevos.
He had been running regularly. Now he ran daily, and felt he could run to the moon. He’d gained a little weight, and remained between 144 and 145 pounds, or just below the welterweight division’s top of 147. Chicky drove into the San Nacho and trained every afternoon. No girl trips, not even to nearby Leming. His record had increased to sixty-two wins with nine losses and thirty-three KOs. He was an experienced, hard-hitting, hardheaded Mexican boy with a dream. The last day of the finals would be held on his eighteenth birthday.
Chicky’s punches added to the harsh echoes of the San Nacho gym. He stuck the mitts and banged the bags. The Cavazos pushed him hard—that was their job. Their job was also to get sparring partners for him, but amateur sparring partners were scarce as hen’s teeth. Yet the San Nacho was filled daily with local fighters, as well as fighters from as far away as Bandera and Seguin. One boy said he was from Pawnee. Most were Latinos who weighed 135 and less. The Anglos were bigger, and usually weighed 160 and more. When no one else was available, Chicky would work easy with the little guys for speed. But he had to work hard with the middle- and super-middleweights whether he liked working hard or not.
Trainers of local fighters in Chicky’s class were reluctant to let their charges work with him—either because he was a lefty, or because their boys were gun-shy about Chicky’s punching power. The best that competing trainers could hope for was that Chicky would get hurt, or maybe knocked off before their kids would have to fight him.
The scarcity of sparring partners at his weight often meant that Chicky had to work with pros, or with the bigger amateurs, if he wanted to test himself. Sometimes he was sharp, sometimes flat and dull. It was that way with everyone. But when Chicky had to give up a fifteen-pound weight advantage to inexperienced amateurs, boys who thought they had to throw punches at max power at all times, it could take its toll. Chicky wouldn’t notice the hurt until after the sparring session. He’d be forced to take days off from sparring to heal, and cuss himself for being a punk. But he came back, many times while still hurting. When boys in his weight class from out of town came in looking to spar, he’d take them on, but they were usually in San Antonio for only a day or two. Even though they used the sixteen-ounce sparring gloves that amateurs and professionals usually wear when they “work,” the out-of-towners would pass when offered a second shot at Chicky the next day.
Chicky sparred with pros and did well, but professional boxing tends to be slower than the amateurs because the pros fight more rounds and must pace themselves—and because the gloves are smaller, meaning they have less padding and do more damage. For 147 pounds and less, pros wear 8 -ounce gloves. Above 147, including heavyweights weighing 260 and more, pros wear 10 -ounce gloves. Padding in professional gloves is distributed well above the wrist, meaning there is less over the knuckles. Amateur gloves weigh 10 ounces for weights below 147, and 12 ounces for weights above, and are designed with more padding over the knuckles. Pros’ hands are wrapped differently, as well. They use the same amount of gauze as amateurs, ten yards; but amateurs are only allowed, give or take, thirty inches of tape, depending on the size of their wrists and hands. Pros are allowed ten yards, though the guys in the heavier divisions are given the leeway of a few more yards. Wrapped and taped properly, the pro’s fist is a lethal weapon. Hands wrapped by a coyote corner man can lengthen a fighter’s reach on each hand by as much as three-fourths of an inch inside the glove. Fires ignite and blackouts occur when those fists land. Getting hit wears you down.
Pros also go to the body more. Punching power, as well as the number of punches landed, will score points in the pro ranks. In the amateurs, scoring is determined solely by the number of punches landed. A knockdown is scored equally with a powder-puff jab. Working with pros got Chicky in good condition, but he knew he needed to increase his speed and the number of punches he threw. He wished he had someone like Farrell to work with, only a right-hander. But he also hoped the Irish boy would be in the tournament so he could avenge his loss, something that stuck in his craw. Winning was what all this was about.
None of the usual fighters in Chicky’s weight from the San Antonio region worried him. He had heard about them, or had fought and beaten them, and each day he felt more confident. Waiting to fight, especially when tournaments were scheduled well in advance, and when so much was riding on them, was tough on everyone. Chicky was anxious to get it over with, and especially anxious about meeting Farrell again.
What concerned Chicky most was fighting a hardhead, someone who would put his life on the line the same as Chicky. It would be like two bulls at the watering hole, where the odds for victory or defeat could be even. Either fighter could lose or win, but even the winner would be damaged goods, maybe permanently. Fighters who fought like bulls usually had short careers. Those who could take big punches were usually the ones more likely to walk on their heels and talk funny through crushed sinus cavities. Chicky knew he needed a good, long look at the tactics that the great boxers and their trainers did their absolute best to keep secret from other fighters and trainers.
Chapter 13
While Chicky was learning how much he still had to learn, another fighter, Cyrus “Psycho” Sykes, began to get the attention of the fight people of San Anto. He was on parole, and had fought some local fights around Houston and Galveston since his release. He had recently moved to San Antonio from the hellhole of the Fifth Ward of Houston to live with an aunt. He got started boxing as a junior in the smokers that were held regularly by the various fight clubs in and around Houston. He had a record of sixty-seven and seven, with twenty-six wins by KO. He had fought six southpaws, and four of his losses came from fighting them. Two of those losses resulted from his intentional fouls, fouls he committed to keep from being knocked out. He didn’t like left-handers, felt cheated by them. He didn’t mind hitting low, or any of the other dirty moves, if that’s what it took. Scraping the laced and taped portion of the inner side of a glove across his opponent’s face was a favorite.
Sykes said, “Muhfuh leffies come at you backwards.”
He had fought in a few competitions in the joint, where he did sixteen months for aggravated assault. He’d beaten up his youngest sister, who had sold some of his rap CDs for crack money. While she lay knocked out on the bathroom floor, he used her burning cigarette to char two capital letters, “HO,” high on the inside of her left thigh. Though he walked around several pounds heavier, Psycho Sykes would fight at the same weight as Lobito Chicky Garza.
Sykes, at twenty-two, was blue-black, had purple in his gums, and shaved his head smooth. His dead eyes languished behind the latest Oakley sunglasses. His drug of choice was hydrocodone cough syrup, Tussionex, because once high, he could maintain it with little sips from the bottle. Use of a glass crack pipe was not uncommon. He wore expensive ‘hood clothes and $150-dollar Nikes. His fight gear was all brand-new Reyes stuff, Mexican, top of the line.
He trained under old George Hanks at Hanks’s Gym on the Eastside, dark town. The old man stood erect at five foot eight and 162 pounds. He had white hair cropped close. Most men wished they had his arms and neck. He had fought some in the fifties at 135, but had a family to support and soon went to work. He opened a small gym and trained some good professional fighters along the way, but once he got them started, someone quick and dirty would always lure them away with a coin purse full of dollars and a suitcase full of lies. Because of the respect he’d earned through the years, white and Latino fight guys always called him “Mr. George,” while blacks called him “Mist Jawg.” He had retired from the San Antonio school system as a gardener, had stopped training pros altogether, and now worked with kids as young as eight. Th
e hope was to give them power and self-respect as they moved up through the amateurs, and that both would serve them in the world of education and commerce. His boys usually made the finals, and often won. They were gentlemen fighters, and were always welcome and respected in every part of Texas where they fought. What brought Sykes to the San Nacho gym was that Mr. George did not have fighters at his gym big enough, or with sufficient experience, to deal with Sykes’s relentless pressure.
Chicky had seen Sykes a few times, but had never watched him work. Either Sykes had just finished, or he had come in while Chicky was finishing up on the rope or doing sit-ups. Chicky refused to play stare-down games with Sykes, since he stayed behind his Oakleys, but Chicky knew he would have no problem meeting him in the middle of the ring once the shades came off.
Paco Cavazo said, “They say he’s one bad nigga.”
Chicky said, “Bring the bitch on.”
Paco saw Sykes as a serious threat. Once he learned Sykes’s schedule, he purposely brought Chicky in at a different time to guarantee there would be no pretournament flare-ups between the two. Out of sight, out of mind, and Chicky forgot about Sykes. Word in the gym on Sykes was that he could bang, fight guys gave him that; but they also shunned him because he always tried to play gangsta games. Local amateur trainers refused to let their boys spar with him.
Convinced that he was a black avenger who could walk through any punk who doubted his badness, Sykes didn’t care what others thought or did. The pros waited for their chance. They’d work with him all right, but he’d have to pay.
