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white light that hangs down over the ring. Climbing through the ropes, stepping into the resin box, getting
his gloves checked a final time. It s all happening too quickly. He s being torn away from important
details. Strands of tactics, sustaining memories, are being burned off him. He does not feel prepared. His
belly knots and he wants to puke. He needs to see where he is, exactly where, not just this stretch of blue
canvas that ripples like shallow water and the warped circles of lights suspended in blackness like an
oddly geometric grouping of suns seen from outer space. The heat of those lights, along with the violent,
murmurous heat of the crowd, it s sapping -- it should be as bright as day in the ring, like noon on a
tropic beach, and not this murky twilight reeking of Vaseline and concession food and fear. He keeps
working, shaking his shoulders, testing the canvas with gliding footwork, jabbing and hooking. Yet all the
while he s hoping the ring will collapse or Vederotta will sprain something, a power failure, anything to
spare him. But when the announcer brays his weight, his record, and name over the mike, he grows calm
as if by reflex and submits to fate and listens to the boos and desultory clapping that follows.
 His opponent, the announcer continues,  in the black trunks with a red stripe, weighs in tonight at a
lean and mean one hundred fifty-nine and one-half pounds. He s undefeated and is currently ranked
number one by both the WBC and WBA, with twenty-four wins, twenty-three by knockout! Let s have
a great big prairie welcome for Wichita s favorite son, Toneee! The Heat! Ve-de-rot-taaaaa!
Vederotta!
Vederotta dances forward into the roar that celebrates him, arms lifted above his head, his back to
Mears; then he turns, and as Leon and the cut man escort Mears to the center of the ring for the
instructions, Mears sees that menacing face again. Those glowing eyes.
 When I say  break,  the ref is saying,  I want you to break clean. Case of a knockdown, go to a
neutral corner and stay there till I tell ya to come out. Any questions?
One of Vederotta s handlers puts in his mouthpiece, a piece of opaque plastic that mutes the fiery
glow, makes it look liquid and obscene; gassy red light steams from beneath the black metal hulls that
shade his eyes.
 OK, says the ref.  Let s get it on.
Vederotta holds out his gloves and says something through his mouthpiece. Mears won t touch gloves
with him, frightened of what this acquiescence might imply. Instead, he shoves him hard, and once again
the handlers have to intervene. Screams from the crowd lacerate the air, and the ref admonishes him,
saying,  Gimme a clean fight, Bobby, or I ll disqualify ya. But Mears is listening to Vederotta shouting
fierce, garbled noises such as a lion might make with its mouth full of meat.
Leon hustles him back to the corner, puts in his mouthpiece, and slips out through the ropes, saying,
 Uppercuts, man! Keep throwin them uppercuts! Then he s alone, that strangely attenuated moment
between the instructions and the bell, longer than usual tonight because the TV cameraman standing on
the ring apron is having problems. Mears rolls his head, working out the kinks, shaking his arms to get
them loose, and pictures himself as he must look from the cheap seats, a tiny dark figure buried inside a
white pyramid. The image of Amandla comes into his head. She, too, is tiny. A doll in a blue robe, like a
Madonna, she has that kind of power, a sweet, gentle idea, nothing more. And there s Arlene, whom he
has never seen, of whom he knows next to nothing, African and voluptuous and mysterious like those
big-breasted ebony statues they sell in the import stores. And Leon hunkered down at the corner of the
ring, sweaty already, breath thick and quavery, peering with his pop eyes. Mears feels steadier and less
afraid, triangulated by them: the only three people who have any force in his life. When he glances across
the ring and finds that black death s head glaring at him, he is struck by something -- he can see
Vederotta. Since his eyes went bad, he s been unable to see his opponent until the man closes on him,
and for that reason he circles tentatively at the beginning of each round, waiting for the figure to
materialize from the murk, backing, letting his opponent come to him. Vederotta must know this, must
have seen that tendency on film, and Mears thinks it may be possible to trick him, to start out circling and
then surprise him with a quick attack. He turns, wanting to consult Leon, not sure this would be wise, but
the bell sounds, clear and shocking, sending him forward as inexorably as a toy set in motion by a spark.
Less than ten seconds into the fight, goaded in equal measure by fear and hope, Mears feints a
sidestep, plants his back foot, and lunges forward behind a right that catches Vederotta solidly above the
left eye, driving him into the ropes. Mears follows with a jab and two more rights before Vederotta backs
him up with a wild flurry, and he sees that Vederotta has been cut. The cut is on the top of the eyelid, not
big but in a bad place, difficult to treat. It shows as a fuming red slit in that black mask, like molten lava
cracking open the side of a scorched hill. Vederotta rubs at the eye, holds up his glove to check for
blood, then hurls himself at Mears, taking another right on the way in but managing to land two stunning
shots under the ribs that nearly cave him in. From then on it s all downhill for Mears. Nobody, not Hagler
or Hearns or Duran, has ever hit him with such terrible punches. His face is numb from Vederotta s
battering jab and he thinks one of his back teeth may have been cracked. But the body shots are the
worst. Their impact is the sort you receive in a car crash when the steering wheel or the dash slams into
you. They sound like football tackles, they dredge up harsh groans as they sink deep into his sides, and
he thinks he can feel Vederotta s fingers, his talons, groping inside the gloves, probing for his organs.
With less than a minute to go in the round, a right hand to the heart drops him onto one knee. It takes him
until the count of five to regain his breath, and he s up at seven, wobbly, dazed by the ache spreading
across his chest. As Vederotta comes in, Mears wraps his arms about his waist and they go lurching
about the ring, faces inches apart, Vederotta s arm barred under his throat, trying to push him off. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]