H eartfelt thanks to my parents; to Michael Lesy and to Nadia for helping me locate my center; to North Point Press, especially Brian Blanchfield, Jeff Seroy, Rebecca Saletan, Andrea Joyce, Don McConnell and above all Paul Elie, for taking a chance; to Lisa Dicker and Chris Byrne; to my people at the L: Wendy, Josh, Frank and Sarah; to the editors of the Village Voice Literary Supplement ; to Milton and the Supreme Team; and, finally, to the fighters, with my admiration and respect.
S top the fight ! someone yelled, and the cry was picked up.
Stop the fight! Stop the fight! chanted an audience that wanted no such thing. Strange that I could hear it so acutely although I was struggling for my life. But you feel the crowd, its mood, its back and forth, and know if you have won it over or lost it. You fear its judgment; you want its support and strength.
Stop the fight! I heard distinct voices, just as I could hear Laura shouting punch combinations from the front row (Two-four-five! Follow with a hook!). I had become a giant, filling the room, everything that happened vivid and precise. My opponent and I clashed again, force against force, a dark collision.
The referee heard also and pushed between us. He pointed me to a corner and I went to gasp against the ring-post pads. For the first time I noticed the blood covering me: in places like dark raindrops, in other places gathered in thick blotches and smeared in a film across my skin. It wasnt my blood.
After I left New York for the summer, I tried to stay away from boxing. From Providence I heard that Milton had found a new home at a swank downtown health club that was trying to build a boxing reputation. Within two weeks, however, he was on the street again. This time it was Julians fault. As Julian sparred a house fighter, the houses corner began to disparage Julians style and skills. Feeling disrespected, Julian proceeded to give the fighter a painful lesson: That doesnt feel like a slap now, does it? Youre dealing with the champ. Milton was told thatsince he couldnt control his fighters, he had to take them away. Next stop was the South Bronx gym where we had attended a Metro prelim a year before.
Also that summer, an X ray of Giuseppes perpetually injured thumb revealed a fracture. He had planned to enter the Empire State Games. Meanwhile, in a freak nonboxing accident, Laura tore a ligament in one of her fingers and couldnt fight for over a month. In August, I made my way to a Rhode Island gym. After a few days of training, I sparred a featherweight with seventy amateur fights. I felt like Id been lowered into the piranha tank but I was able to make him miss, and to score on occasion. The sport still pulled at me.
Back in New York in September, I wanted to enter the Metros as my last amateur tournament. I made a few trips to the South Bronx gym. Victor trained there but had left Milton. I saw Victor and Julian war in the ring and it saddened me: teammates no more. Tired of the commute and Miltons unreliability, Stella had also left and was training at Gleasons.
Two weeks after registering, I dropped out of the Metros. I was working long days and the training stressed me terribly. It was hard to leave; I thought it marked the end of my amateur eligibility, but I couldnt justify the effort to myself. Then in late December, I received a phone message.
Is this Bob Anasi? Milton asked. I have some news. The stupid idiots changed the rules back to how it was. You can fight novice again in the Gloves this year.
I went out and picked up a copy of the Daily News. It was true. They had reversed the decision of the previous year, and now novices could again fight in two Gloves before turning open (another change meant I met the age deadline by two months). I sent in the entry form and told myself I would begin training by the second week of January. Even if my fight date was a few weeks earlier than the previous year, I would still have a solid month to prepare. Giuseppe, the Gloves scholar, assured me that 25 novices were never called before the middle of February. My first year I fought on February 10, he said. But its been later every year since then.
I called Milton the first week of January, and when he didnt answer the message I called him again. Nothing. I walked into a gym on 14thStreet where he trained clients and found his heavyweight, Nelson, working the desk.
Miltons gone, yo, Nelson said. Hes down in Florida with Shannon Briggs.
Hes training Shannon Briggs? I said in amazement. Briggs was a heavyweight contender who had fought George Foreman and Lennox Lewis.
Yeah, Shannons supposed to fight Tyson. Milton got a call to go in the middle of the night and the next morning he was at the airport. I dont think hes ever coming back.
A few days later, I received my card in the mail from the Daily News. I would be fighting on January 17, nine days away.
That never happened before, Giuseppe told me. There must be a lot of twenty-fives this year.
Actually, I was lucky. The first preliminary round for 25s was being held in two days. I had done the right thing by registering late and there was always the chance that Id get a bye.
With no time and no trainer, I did what I could. I went to Gleasons and found some hard sparring with a pair of Russian kids who had followed their trainer to the United States just to box. Two boys, sixteen, one dark, one light. They were very fast and fought in an awkward European style that I had never met before.
I thought about quitting every single day as the Russians carved me apart. I did quit once or twice but changed my mind again within an hour or two. The tournament stretched before me, into the distant sun of April. My doubts gave me a new appreciation for the tenacity that had kept Laura training at my age for years, full-time job and all. I never wanted to quit when I sparred but as soon as I got home and saw another day swallowed by boxing, I felt a frenzied desire to escape. The day before the fight, I told myself that, win or lose, I would retire immediately afterward.
The prelim took place at a Catholic school in south Brooklyn, at the far end of the B line. I weighed in at 128 pounds even. An ounce more, and I would have been skipping rope in the hallway (or, depending on the draw, the officials might have pushed me up to 32). Thinking of the disappointments of the previous year, I wrote down Gleasons and not Supreme Team for my club affiliation.
The first five fights were announced without my name being called and I thought I might be free. Finally, however, I was matched. Number nine, the last fight that night. Nelson had agreed to work my corner, and as we sat together in a classroom (the fighters sprawled on tables or cramp-legged behind desks), he handed me his cell. It was Milton.
Anasi, do you know who youre fighting?
No, Ive never seen him before. Hes supposed to be from Gleasons. Some black kid.
Whos his trainer?
I didnt know that, either. I asked Milton how Florida was and told him I hoped hed be there for my next fight.
My opponent was a tall, skinny black kid wearing a Police Athletic League boxing shirt over his Gloves jersey (which might have been an attempt at intimidation, for the PAL turned out good fighters). I felt a little jittery but not particularly tense. At the bell we walked out and started to throw. From the previous year, I had learned not to go back, and so I slipped toward him and kept punching, letting the referee separate us if we came too close. My opponent was orthodox and fought with a hands-down style reminiscent of my own. The first round was fairly even but in the second round I pressed the action; he was content to let me initiate and then try to counter.
