They lapsed into a clinch. They grasped at one another. Drowning together yet each did not dare to release the other until the referee slapped them apart—“Break!”
A bell rang close beside their heads. D.D. Dunphy blinked to get her vision clear, that was blood-blurred with hematomas in both eyes. She could not comprehend where she was—which corner was hers, she must stagger to in terror of falling to the canvas.
Someone was shouting at her—“Here!”
Blindly she made her way to this person. She was staggering stiff-legged, her opponent had pounded her lower back in the clinch.
Such disgust the man felt for her, he did not utter her name; nor could she have said his name. She sank, slumped onto the stool. She shut her eyes in order not to see him. The dark-scarred face, the furious eyes. She was letting him down! She was not giving him her best.
Rapidly, desperately someone was working on Dunphy’s ruined face with a styptic pencil to staunch the bleeding. Inch-long slash in her right eyelid the referee would come to inspect, stooping over her with an expression of carefully controlled disdain.
The boxing world, as it was called, did not like female boxers.
And how foolish, how pathetic, contemptible—the female boxer with streaks in her coarse, short-cut hair and crosses (white, crimson) on her biceps.
Had Jesus abandoned her? She was desperate to protest to Him, she was not a daughter of Satan.
Something like a pleat in her brain. She was staring at a coarse-textured wall. A fly on the wall, its wings quivering. She stood hesitant, not clear if this was herself?—the pathos of quivering wings?
“Wake up! One more round.”
Her eyes sprang open. One more round! Three minutes.
Her head was strangely heavy on her shoulders, she could barely hold her head up. Something had happened to her neck, the cervical spine . . . And her lower back, throbbing with pain.
The bell rang. The new round began. She was pushed from her stool. She had to look for her opponent—where was her opponent?—the other boxer was slow to rise from her stool as if reluctant to approach D.D. Dunphy in the center of the ring.
Sleekly-beautiful Princess Jamala with gold-flashing dagger tattoos, shaved head, skin-tight Spandex—not so arrogant and self-assured now but slack-armed and dazed with fatigue. That was the black kickbox-champion’s secret—she had never boxed beyond a few rounds. She had always won fights early. She was all dazzle, display and a few very hard, sharp and precise punches. But her stamina had never been tested.
Hammer of Jesus had not been tested either. Now she would reveal herself.
She was wondering if Jamala could see her clearly—if (maybe) the opponent’s eyesight was blurred as hers was blurred. And if adrenaline had over-stimulated Jamala’s heart that was now racing, dangerously fast . . . D.D. knew that she must go on the attack but her legs were like lead. Her feet were leaden hooves. Could scarcely move her upper body to slip punches, could not have stepped out of the way of a serious blow but fortunately the Princess could not hit her—not squarely, not hard.
The effort of her wild right swing sent droplets of sweat flying off her contorted face.
There was a scuffle. Hot breaths, sharp pungent smell of the other’s body. The effort of each was to avoid being thrown down by the other.
Jamala muttered what sounded like Damn you girl, fuck white bitch let go of me even as D.D. pushed her away with both gloves.
(Was it the last round? D.D. could not remember.)
Exhausted and bloodied D.D. nonetheless managed to outbox her opponent and to push her away each time she tried to protect herself by clinching. Almost she wanted to murmur in Jamala’s ear—Forgive me.
She would win the fight on points—she would not try to knock out her opponent. Her strength was diminished, she was not sure that she could throw a crucial punch, and trying to throw would open her up to being punched by her opponent. And there would be no triumph for her in knocking down and humiliating Princess Jamala Prentis—even if she was capable of this.
The last round ended. Panting and staggering Jamala Prentis had not returned a single punch in this round.
D.D. Dunphy had won!—she was sure. Her trainer did not embrace her as he usually did at such a time but touched her shoulder in acknowledgment—“Good. You ended strong.”
The announcer called the boxers to the center of the ring to stand side by side drenched in perspiration, bruised and bloodied, abashed. Wanly the black girl lifted her gloves, to draw a chorus of cheers from her supporters, and so D.D. lifted her gloves as well, to faint applause. Or perhaps it was mocking applause, for the female boxers had not performed well. Dunphy had scored the most punches by the end of the fight but had failed to knock out her opponent.
“The judges’ decision is—a draw.”
A draw! There was a moment’s quiet, as the crowd absorbed the decision—the white girl, who should have won the fight, had not won; the black girl, who should have lost, had not lost.