D.D. tried to comprehend this. She did not want to say—she did not want to hint—that there was anything lacking in her training, or anything lacking in her career. What had the interviewer asked her, exactly? Her left ear rang just slightly from the fight. A dull throbbing pain at the base of her neck.
“Well, D.D.! Tell our radio audience: are you a dyed-in-the-wool feminist? Seems like a female boxer would be a feminist.”
Dyed-in-the-wool. She did not comprehend this nor could she interpret the interviewer’s broad smile.
“Yes. I guess so.”
“And are you pro-choice?”
“‘Pro-choice’—how?”
“Pro-abortion. Y’know, women ‘taking control of their bodies.’”
“I—don’t know. I guess not.”
“Not? You are not in favor of abortion?”
Shook her head no. The subject was distasteful to her, the interviewer took note and backed off.
“Well. It’s been great to have you on WOHI-radio this morning, D.D. Dunphy! Tell our radio audience when they can see you boxing next, will you?”
She knew the answer to this question. She recited a date, the name of an opponent, the location—Indianapolis, Indiana.
“Have you ever been to Indianapolis, D.D.? Ever seen where you’ll be fighting there?”
Shook her head no.
FIRST TIME SHE WAS HIT—that is, hit.
Out of nowhere the blow had come stunning her. Left side of her face she had not seen—anything—must’ve lowered her left glove without realizing (as her trainer had tried to drill into her countless times) but in the adrenaline-flood of the fight she’d forgotten, and her opponent (sleek-black super-welterweight from Chicago she’d gained six pounds to fight, another former kickbox champion, ranked number two in her division in the Midwest Women’s Boxing League, aged twenty-eight, 148 pounds and reach sixty-two inches: dynamite) was on her.
“Move your ass and fight, white-girl!”
Jamala’s gloves were beside her face that was savage and beautiful. D.D. felt her soul swerve seeing such beauty as she’d once gone weak in the knees seeing Penelope Schine.
And so she was hit as she’d never (before) been hit. She had not seen the blow coming, flying at her left eye-socket, a crunching blow to the cheekbone sleek with Vaseline—(but the Vaseline had not spared the cheekbone)—and the ridge of bone above the eye in which an inch-long gash appeared instantaneously, filling with blood before even D.D. Dunphy could register how she’d been hit. It was necessary to counter-punch—but she could not, she had not the strength. For several confused seconds not knowing what had happened or even that she was down (which was radically new to her, and new to her and shocking the delirium of the crowd screaming for the local, hometown “Princess” Jamala Prentis with gold-flashing dagger tattoos on her biceps and a gold incisor to match, beautifully shaped Nefertiti head razor-shaved and gleaming with sweat like jewels) but she was determined to rise to her feet, climb up, like steps climbing up, up—now shakily standing, as the referee stepped aside to allow Jamala Prentis to rush at her, a hard stinging blow to her (unprotected) midriff, and she was down again, or almost down—on one knee, shaking her head to clear it as Jamala jeered—“White bitch!” And blood collecting in her mouth. And blood choking her, causing her to cough heedlessly. (The crowd was shrieking—was this a warning to her? Or in encouragement to Jamala Prentis, to destroy her?) But then she was up, it would seem like a miracle—Dunphy is up.
Trying to salvage the wreck of the fight. She could not clear her head to recall—was it round four? Three? (And how many rounds lay ahead?) She would need time to recover—she would need time to make amends for her mistake—yet, was she strong enough to remain on her feet for two more rounds?—she did not think so.) Like a wounded creature she knew to retreat to her strategic defense-posture: knees bent, head lowered, gloves raised to protect her bleeding and bruised face as the taller Jamala Prentis stood before her striking her freely, punches which Dunphy could not block, and could not return—her arms were so weak . . . Jesus, help me! She had not ever called upon Him before, in her new life.
In the elevated ring, in the hot lights, miniature rainbows of wet. Sweat shaken in droplets from a head backlit by lights, and the eyes darkened like the eye-sockets of a skull, and she understood that the triumphant Princess was exhausted too, suddenly—having punched herself out on her unresponsive and stoic-stubborn white-girl opponent whose very crouching-low forced her, at her taller height, to bend her knees, her back, to crouch in a posture unnatural to her, against instinct.
It was not uncommon, such exhaustion mid-fight—D.D. Dunphy felt a stab of hope, the fight was not yet over. She had not yet been defeated. Her face was bloodied, her ribs and upper arms throbbed with pain, but it was a numbed sort of pain, at a little distance. She could recognize the sensation as pain, but not her pain. Her opponent too was breathing through her mouth.