It was strange then, in the gym with D.D. Dunphy Jesus kept His distance. He did not (yet) approve. There were strong feelings against female boxers. She dreaded the day her Target co-workers found out how she was training at the downtown gym (which was mostly a black and Hispanic gym) and what her hopes were. She confided in no one of course. Not even the female supervisor who’d seemed to perceive (how?—D.D. had not told her) that here was a girl whose mother did not wish to lay eyes on her.
Edna Mae had evinced disgust saying it had to be the influence of Satan that young women would wish to box like men displaying their bodies to the most ignorant crowds and hitting one another in the face like savages for money. D.D. had not known how to refute her mother or any others at her mother’s church for some part of her did not disagree with these harsh words. But it was not true, as Edna Mae accused—she was not Satan’s daughter. She was hurt but she was angry also. She was often hurt, and she was often angry. She felt a kind of disgust and rage herself seeing on TV female boxers heavily made-up and in sexy tight clothes more like swimsuits than proper ring attire like the male boxers wore. For her fights D.D. Dunphy would wear black (like Mike Tyson had done)—black T-shirt over a sturdy sports bra, black shorts to just above the knee which was the length for men.
Soon it would be her time. The time of D.D. Dunphy –“The Hammer of Jesus.”
At work, at Target she was mesmerized by such thoughts. At the heavy bag, at the speed bag, doing her squats, lifting weights and doing push-ups, sit-ups, jumping rope she was mesmerized. Her lips parted, her breath came quickly. The voices of others were remote to her. The voices of others were like radio stations fading. Derisive and jeering male eyes she did not see. Crude remarks she did not hear. Ugly bitch, homely cunt somebody put a bag over her head willya?—she did not hear. What fascinated was The Hammer of Jesus in the ring in TV lights. The female boxer who was not herself but “D.D. Dunphy” in black T-shirt, black trunks. Tight-laced black shoes. Muscled shoulders and arms, muscled thighs, legs. Vaseline rubbed into her face. Mingling with the sweat-glisten. Her hair trimmed short and neatly shaved at the nape of her neck. Her hands tight-bound inside the handsome eight-ounce red gloves. Climbing into the ring and the TV lights blinding in a delirium of anticipation. Cheers and whistles of the crowd and there was the referee lifting her gloved hand in triumph declaring Winner by a knockout and new WBA Women’s Welterweight Champion of the World—D.D. Dunphy the Hammer of Jesus.
“Jesus, help me. ‘Jesus is Lord.’”
She would wear a black cord cap stitched with these words. One day (if it was God’s will) she would have sponsors to pay her expenses and support her—Adidas, Nike, Reebok.
Or maybe, a local car dealership. Dayton Sports Supplies.
Johnette Taylor had had a local sponsor when she’d lived in Dayton. She’d had sponsors through her career until she’d begun to lose, then the sponsors dropped away.
D.D. wanted to ask about sponsors for she knew how crucial it was to have a sponsor, you could not afford to be a boxer otherwise for the money was too little especially for female boxers and even those female boxers who were ranked and had won titles. From Ernie she’d learned that the current WBA women’s welterweight champion had to work part-time at a Walgreen’s in Omaha, Nebraska—this was surprising to her, and disappointing.
“Just to inform you, D.D. Just so you know.”
“Know what?—that that is how things are right now but won’t be always, maybe.”
A wildness came into her voice. She understood that this man was trying to discourage her and she could not bear it.
“I don’t want to fight for money, anyway.”
“What, then?”
“For—a reason.”
“What reason?”
She considered. She could not tell him all that was in her heart—the memory of her father who had sacrificed his life, and who was being forgotten.
She could not tell him—To make of myself something worthy. To make of myself something proud in Jesus’s name.
She heard herself laugh, instead. The way she laughed when she caught her feet in the damn jump rope, or punched herself out on the heavy bag and had to grab it to keep from fainting.
Things that upset her and angered and frustrated her she’d learned to laugh at. The wildness came into her like flame, you had to laugh or scream like a crazy person.
It was a surprise to others, who expected you not to laugh but hide your face in shame. But Jesus counseled her—Laugh to show you are not not-laughing. Laugh to show that you can laugh.
“Might be, no reason is worth it. Just sayin, D.D.”