7 October 1978
Pro
Nat stood facing Little Manny in his tiny, smoky room, wearing unfamiliar and uncomfortable gloves. Holding them raised, poised, in perfect position. At least, as best he could remember.
Feathers sat between them on the floorboards, panting, little drops of sweat flipping off his tongue and hitting Little Manny’s old, filthy wood floor.
Little Manny wore two big padded punch mitts that he held up for Nat to jab at. He was so short he had to hold them above his head. Nat assumed their purpose was to allow his trainer to feel the force of his jabs.
“That dog’s drooling on my floor.”
“Sorry. You want me to tie him up outside?”
“Nah. Who cares? Floor’s not clean anyway. Only, what’s he drooling for? It’s cold.”
“I don’t know. Maybe from the walk over?”
“What’re you waiting for? An engraved invitation to arrive by messenger?”
“Oh. Right.”
He jabbed with his right, glancing off one of Little Manny’s training mitts.
“What? Are you joking?”
He jabbed again. Harder this time.
“No, seriously. Is that a joke? Most guys work out in the can. What the hell did you do in there for three years? Like I can’t guess. Only, even if that’s true, your right hand should be in better shape than that.”
“It’s just that I’m thrashed from this new job. Geez. You have no idea. My arms feel like they’re about to fall off. Thank God I started on a Thursday. If I’d started on Monday I think the week would’ve just about killed me.”
He tried a couple more jabs, but he knew they were every bit as pathetic.
“You’re gonna have to start on Monday next week.”
“Oh. Right. Well, maybe I’ll be more used to it by then.”
Little Manny let out a sudden sound, a cross between a sharp laugh and blowing a raspberry. It startled Feathers, who skittered off into the corner. “Very funny. You’re a bundle o’ laughs, kid. Heavy labor like that? Eight hours a day? Take you four, five weeks to get used to it. Minimum.”
Nat’s gloved hands fell to his sides. “Four or five weeks?”
“Don’t stop, kid. Keep jabbing. You were doing lousy but at least you were doing.”
A couple more jabs. It was starting to hurt a lot. Not only throwing the punches. That had hurt all along. Just holding his arms in position was getting hard to bear.
“Now, one good thing, though,” Little Manny said. “When you do get used to it, you’ll be in much better shape. They’re paying you to work out.”
“That’s what I was hoping, yeah. I had to think of something good about that job. The foreman hates me. And it takes me forty-five minutes each way on the bus.”
“What do you think about all that time you’re riding the bus?”
“How much better everything’s going to be when I go pro.”
“Pro? Who said nothing about going pro? I never said I thought you could go pro.”
“Well, screw you, then. I’m going pro no matter what you think.” And he jabbed again. Harder this time.
“Aha. Now I know how to get something out of you. You’re one of those guys has to get mad.”
“Is that why you said it?”
“No. I said it because I never told you I thought you could go pro.”
“Why the hell can’t I?”
“I never said you couldn’t, either. Just stop getting so ahead of yourself, kid. I can’t even get you to hit these mitts so’s I can feel it, and you’re already accepting the featherweight title in your head.”
“I’m not featherweight.”
Another jab.
“Better. Hell you’re not.”
“Welter, maybe.”
“In your dreams, little boy.”
“Don’t even do that. It’s not funny.”
“Well then, hit me.”
Nat aimed a shot between and well below the mitts. Right at the little man’s torso. Little Manny blocked it perfectly. Then he dropped the mitts to his sides and looked Nat in the eye. Nat looked down at the floorboards.
“The anger thing’ll help your cause in the ring. Breaking the rules won’t. That’s what the officials are there for. Make sure you don’t get away with nothing. No shit. You know? And don’t think they won’t be watching you every minute.”
“Sorry.”
“You don’t gotta be sorry. You just have to learn to channel what you feel. Use it, you know? Right now it’s your worst enemy. It could be your best friend.”
“How?”
“What do you think I’m trying to teach you? Why do you think you gotta show up here every day you don’t work?”
“Oh. Right.”
“Now. You gonna hit me, Little Featherweight, or what?”