Ryan
Lone Star Boxing Club in Loveland, Texas, reminds me of the gym I trained at in Chicago. They’re both gyms where dedicated boxers train in the hopes of going pro one day. Most guys who come here daily are like me, trying to get in as much training as possible.
“Where the hell have you been, Hess?” steroid-addicted Larry calls out from behind Lone Star Boxing Club’s front desk as I walk in the door. “Usually you get here at the butt crack of dawn.”
“Life happened,” I tell him.
“I hear ya, bro.”
He tosses me a white corner towel that’s been washed so many times the logo is peeling off. I catch it in one hand and head for the small locker room on the other side of the gym. After that talk with Paul earlier today, I definitely need to be here. It’s the only place where I belong, where I’m in control of my destiny. Boxing used to be my escape, but now it’s part of my life. I don’t mind the sweat, and I ignore the pain. When I’m fighting my mind is at peace and I can focus without being distracted or inhibited by anything or anyone.
After changing, I find an available punching bag. Most guys here aren’t into chatting, which is just fine with me. I don’t usually talk unless I got something to say.
“Lookie here! It’s our resident delinquent, Ryan Hess, in the flesh,” my friend Pablo calls out. He’s oblivious to the unwritten no-chatting rule. He works out here a couple days a week and goes to Loveland High with me. “Thought you’d be at the funeral,” he says.
I hit the bag and start to warm up. “I was.”
“Why’d you duck out early?”
I stop punching. “I didn’t duck out, Pablo. I was there. I left. End of story.”
He grins, his chipped front tooth a sign that he doesn’t always play it safe. “You know what you need?”
“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me, whether I want to hear it or not.” I would ignore him, but I left my headphones in my duffel so I can’t zone out.
“You need to work on your social skills.”
Whatever. “Maybe I don’t want to be social.”
I punch the bag again.
And again.
Pablo says, “You need a crew because you can’t fight the world on your own, Hess. You’re not an island.”
What the fuck is he blabbing about? An island? “You’ve been readin’ too many self-help books, Pablo. Why don’t we go in that ring and spar?”
He chuckles, the sound echoing throughout the gym. “You ain’t gonna find me in the ring with you, Hess. Rumor has it you knocked out Roach last week,” he says. “And Benito the week before that.”
“They lost focus.”
His mouth twitches in amusement. “They’re two of the best damn fighters in this place, pendejo. At least they were until you came along. You fight like you’ve been throwin’ punches your whole life.”
Little does he know I used to be the resident wimp when I was younger. In elementary and middle school in the western suburbs of Chicago, I got beat up a lot. I didn’t talk much and my clothes came off the rack at Goodwill. I was an outcast, a kid who didn’t fit in. Hell, I still don’t fit in. And I still don’t talk much. But I learned pretty early on that getting beat up sucks.
One day in seventh grade Willie Rayburn was chasing me after school like he always did. With the bully hot on my trail, I wasn’t paying attention when I ran right into this high schooler named Felix. He lived in the trailer next to ours.
He asked me why I was scared of Willie. I shrugged.
He asked me if I wanted to learn how to fight. I nodded.
After that, I’d meet Felix on the small patch of grass behind our trailer park every once in a while and he’d teach me how to box. He said his father was a boxer and told me if I learned how to throw a punch like a pro, guys like Willie Rayburn would leave me alone.
I remember the first time I fought Rayburn. It was glorious.
It went down in the school cafeteria. I’d been talking to a pretty girl named Bianca. Willie came up and told Bianca that I was trailer trash whose mom was an alcoholic whore. I hated when people found out I lived in the old dirty trailer park on the edge of town. My mom had a history of bringing random guys to the trailer, but she wasn’t a whore. She was hoping one of them would stick around long enough to take care of her. All they ended up doing was giving her black eyes and aiding her alcohol addiction.
I hated my life, my absent dad, my mom, and Willie Rayburn.
That day everything I’d been holding inside me burst like a volcano. I wasn’t gonna feel sorry for myself and play the victim anymore.
Before he could punch me or push me to the ground, I whacked Willie with a solid left hook. Willie fell and I was immediately on top of him, punching him repeatedly as frustrated tears streamed down my face. My fists kept flying until three lunch supervisors hauled me away.
I didn’t care that I’d broken his nose and was suspended a week from school. After I came back the kids wouldn’t even look at me for fear I would do to them what I’d done to Willie. Instead of upsetting me, it was empowering. I liked that people didn’t mess with me and thought I was tough.
Even if I was still an outcast.
The gym is suddenly quiet as Todd Projansky, the owner of the gym, walks in with four guys who look like they’re seasoned fighters.
“Who are those guys with Projansky?” I ask Pablo.
“The guy in the middle is a fringe contender named Mateo Rodriguez,” he answers in a low voice. “Supposedly he trains at a gym in Mexico where Camacho gives pointers to a couple of guys. I’ve seen him fight. He’s good.”
Wait. My brain has a hard time processing what I think I just heard. “Back up. The dude knows Camacho? Are you talkin’ about Juan Camacho, the boxing legend?”
“The one and only.” Pablo shrugs. “At least that’s the latest rumor.”
Damn. Juan Camacho is a world-famous Mexican boxer who was the heavyweight boxing champ in the seventies. He didn’t only win it once. He dominated for years. And then he disappeared without a trace. He’s got to be in his sixties by now. He was an old-school fighter who used to train like a beast.
When I started boxing I’d watch videos of him and mimic his moves. Hell, I’d act out entire matches of his, copying his quick jabs and the way he moves around the ring. If this Rodriguez guy knows him . . . “I’m gonna see if it’s true.”
“Don’t.” Pablo grabs my shoulder and holds me back. “You don’t just walk up to a guy like Rodriguez.”
“You might not, but I do.” I make my way across the gym with one goal on my mind. Finding out if the rumor is reality.
Mateo Rodriguez has black hair and he’s wearing a plain white tank and shorts as if he’s ready to fight. He’s not crazy muscular and doesn’t look intimidating, but then again I learned a long time ago you don’t assess anyone’s skill unless you see them in the ring. He’s watching two guys spar with his arms crossed on his chest like he’s analyzing cattle. When I stand in front of him, he raises a brow.
“I heard you know Juan Camacho,” I say without any hesitation. “Is it true?”
He doesn’t answer right away and instead eyes me curiously. “Who is this gringo?” he asks Projansky.
“Ryan Hess. He’s a new fighter from Chicago,” Projansky explains. “Moved up here last year when his ma married Sheriff Blackburn.”
His jaw twitches as he turns back to me. “Look, kid, Camacho doesn’t sign autographs.”
“I don’t want an autograph,” I tell him. “I want to meet him and see if he’ll train me. What club is he affiliated with?”
“Train you?” Rodriguez lets out a low chuckle, then stares me down. “Camacho isn’t affiliated with anyone. And he sure as hell doesn’t have time to screw around with young pendejos who don’t know shit about boxing yet think they can throw down in the big leagues.”
The problem Rodriguez is that he made the mistake of judging my skill before seeing me in a bout.
“Go three rounds with me,” I challenge. “If I win, you introduce me to Camacho.”
“Are you challenging me?”
“Yes.”
The side of his mouth quirks up in amusement. “And if I win?”
I look him straight in the eye. “You won’t.”
“You’re a cocky motherfucker, aren’t you?” I can feel all eyes on us. Guys like Rodriguez won’t back down from a challenge, because their masculinity is at stake. Some guys’ll risk everything to save their precious egos, inside the ring and out. “Tell you what, Hess. I’ll make it easy on you.” He winks at his friends. “We go thirty seconds. If you land one solid punch, I’ll take you to Camacho.”
One punch in thirty? “What’s the catch?”
He holds his arms out wide. “There is none. If you don’t got the skill to land one in thirty seconds, you don’t got what it takes.”
I hold out my hand. “Deal.”
He shakes it. Deal is done.
I walk back to Pablo. “You gonna be my cornerman? You said you had my back.”
“I didn’t say I had your back.” Pablo shakes his head so hard I think he’s going to give himself a concussion. “I said you should be more social so you have a crew to have your back. I’m not a crew.”
“Well, you’re all I’ve got.”
He cranes his neck to look over at Rodriguez and his buddies who are now in the ring prepping him for the fight. “You think you can land one in thirty seconds? Don’t get me wrong, you’re a great fighter, Hess. But he’s got more time in the ring than you have. He can just dance around for thirty seconds and make you look like a damn fool.”
“I’m not planning on looking like a fool. I know I can do this. You with me?”
Pablo loosens his shoulders as if he’s the one about to fight. “Yeah. I’m with you.”
When I take my place in the corner in full gear, the owner of the gym comes up to me. “You’re a decent fighter, Ryan,” he says. “But Mateo Rodriguez is no joke. You let up for one second or get distracted, he’ll pound you like you’re a piece of raw meat. Those thirty seconds will feel like thirty minutes.”
I nod. “Did you give Rodriguez the same speech about me?”
Projansky shakes his head. “No. You’re the underdog.”
I’ve been the underdog my entire life, so his words don’t faze me. If anything, they make me stronger and more focused on my goal. One solid punch. That’s all it’ll take.
“He’s a slugger, so watch out for the power of his hits,” Pablo tells me when Projansky joins the spectators outside the ring. “I saw him knock a dude out with one punch in the first round. Don’t get that close to him.”
“If I don’t get close, how am I supposed to land a solid punch?” I ask.
Pablo shrugs. “Beats me, man.”
When the bell rings signaling the fight is on, Rodriguez and I dance around the ring. He hits the air a few times as I duck his jabs. One of those air bombs gives me an opening to get a liver shot, but I just clip him as he backs up.
“You think you can do this?” Rodriguez taunts as we move around the ring.
“No sweat.” I motion for him to come closer with my gloved hands. “Why don’t you come at me?”
“I’m waiting for you to make a move. We’re about ten seconds in and you haven’t landed shit.”
“I got time,” I say confidently.
“Ticktock. Don’t forget to keep your hands up,” he says in a condescending manner as if this is my first bout.
He has no idea the ring is where I feel most comfortable. When I’m here, nothing else matters.
I’m usually a patient fighter, analyzing my opponent. That way I can be unpredictable. Sometimes I stay at a distance and sometimes I prefer to close the gap and hit hard and fast. One technique doesn’t fit me and I like switching it up. The problem is this round isn’t the usual three minutes. It’s thirty seconds. I’ve got to make my move now.
Pablo says Rodriguez is a slugger, which means he might be slow but crazy powerful. I’ll let him think he’s got a shot at knocking me out. Then I’ll go in for the prize.
I close the gap and can see the hunger for blood in Rodriguez’s eyes. I know his punch is gonna sting, but I’m ready for it.
He thinks he’s got this.
He lands an uppercut and I stumble backward to let him think he’s got the best of me. I’m obviously tougher than I look, and a better actor than he is an athlete.
Guys with inflated egos celebrate too soon.
As he turns to his friends to flaunt his victory, I quickly regroup and throw a solid hook to his jaw just as the bell echoes through the gym. Now it’s Rodriguez’s turn to stumble backward.
“Next time don’t forget to keep your hands up,” I joke.
I hold out my gloves for him because there isn’t any more animosity. Rodriquez was trying to make me prove myself. He set a bar and I met it. Now I get the prize.
He taps my gloves, a boxer’s handshake signifying respect. “You’re tough,” he says. “Most guys would’ve been out with that uppercut.”
“I’m not most guys.”
“Obviously.”
After taking my gloves off, I meet Rodriguez and his crew beside the ring. “All right, gringo, you earned it,” he says. “You want to spend the summer training in Mexico?”
“All right, man.” He hands me a piece of paper with instructions to a bar across the border. “Meet me at this bar in a week and I’ll get you a meeting with Camacho.”
Wow, that was easy. “Thanks so much, man. I really appreciate it.”
“Just stick with me and you’ll move up.”
After shaking his hand, I’ve got a renewed sense of purpose. All I have to do is break the news to my mom and Paul that I’m going to Mexico for the summer. I know it won’t be met with enthusiasm, especially because Paul feels a need to break me down and prove to my mom that I’m as worthless as he makes me out to be.
I nod. That’s four days from now. “I’ll be there.”
Max Trieger told me the law of averages says things will get better. Maybe the guy was right. I look up and give him a silent thanks.
Outside, Pablo drapes his arm around me. “We have to celebrate your win, Hess.”
“How?”
Pablo grins wide as if he knows he’s going to annoy the shit outta me. “Friday night we’re going out to party. Don’t even try arguing, because I won’t take no for an answer. You owe me one.”
“And if I don’t pay up?” I ask him.
“Then you’ll lose your one-man crew.”