Among three judges a draw is a rare decision. There was a scattering of applause, catcalls and boos.
With a shriek of relief Jamala threw her arms around D.D. Dunphy—“They sayin both of us won.”
D.D. laughed wildly. That was not what a “draw” meant—she knew; a draw meant that neither had won.
Jamala turned away to lift her gloves in triumph, and D.D. tried to hug her again, for she hadn’t hugged her properly the first time; the gesture was clumsy, embarrassing—Jamala laughed at her, a shriek of a laugh, and went limping to her corner to leave the ring. D.D. stood at the edge of the spotlight as ringside spectators cheered for Jamala as if she’d defeated her opponent.
A towel was draped over her shoulders. Her skin was scalding-hot, yet beginning to be clammy. Her teeth were chattering with something like panic. Her lower back ached, she could hardly move her legs. Yet hastily then, for the next bout was being announced and the next boxers approaching, D.D. Dunphy left the ring. Her trainer was cursing the decision—she had never heard Ernie Beecher so disgusted.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This stinks.”
D.D. was eager to push from him. She did not like to see his face so distorted.
“And you—the two of you—stank up the place. Hanging on like you did, the both of you—fucking clinching. Fucking draw. That’s ‘stinking up the place’—now you know.”
She knew: she had heard this expression. She had not thought that it would apply to her.
She was feeling sick, dazed. She had to push away from the furious man.
Hurrying after the tall shaved-head black girl who was moving up the aisle toward the locker room resplendent in a gold-embossed robe, surrounded by admirers.
“Jamala! Wait . . .”
The girl turned to D.D., frowning and blinking as if she couldn’t see well.
“Yah? What you want?”
D.D. had no idea what she wanted. What came from her battered mouth was unexpected—“You are the greatest!”
“Ima—what?”
“The greatest. Jamala. You are.”
“Bullshit, girl. You just sayin that—’cause I am.”
Jamala’s eyes were swollen, beginning to blacken. Her face that had been a savage-beautiful face scarcely a half hour before was now battered and raw-looking. The gold tooth might be loose in her jaw, she might be spitting blood. She might urinate blood that night. But she was ecstatic, euphoric. A kind of boundless love leapt from her to D.D. Dunphy like an explosion of music too loud to be heard but only felt as sheer throbbing vibrations for the swollen-faced white girl standing in the aisle gazing at her in adoration—except there came friends screaming “Jamala! J’mala!”—swarming at her, screaming their love for her and grabbing at her. And in the arena supporters were on their feet wildly applauding Princess Jamala Prentis as if she’d won the fight.
In the aisle flatfooted D.D. Dunphy stood forgotten, watching, trying with her hurt mouth to smile too.
UNTIL THE NEXT FIGHT which would eradicate the shame of the draw-fight it would be said to her You won. Should have won. God damn bastards stole it from you.
Training without complaint though often her head felt like the interior of a bell. A thin high ringing in her ears. The bruised ribs ached and at last it was discovered in an X-ray that the rib had been fractured.
Scars in the area of the eye which would heal but not fade. In the eyebrow, a tiny sickle-shaped white scar.
Slowly returning to her full strength. Not immediately beginning to spar again but, in time.
Drilled into her Do not lower your left when you throw a cross. Do not ever lower your left. And do not look away from your opponent.
She was being groomed for the WBA women’s welterweight championship. But first, she must win the Midwest Women’s Boxing Association title.
In the MWBA, D.D. Dunphy was ranked at number nine.
In the WBA, D.D. Dunphy was ranked at number twelve.
Smiling nervously to think how the next fight would be televised—“Almost probably” as Cass Cassidy said.
ESPN boxing night, Pittsburgh Armory on undercard of a fight between (male) heavyweights Kevin Johnson, Homer Cruze. This was a possibility!
Smiled thinking of this as slowly she was plaiting the hair.
Jamala had entrusted her. Rich oily-black hair plaited into cornrows. It was a loving process—it was very slow, exacting. Her fingers were (just slightly) clumsy. Large fingers, small plaits of hair.
Seemed that she was standing before a mirror bent over the girl, the head, an attentively lowered head, no longer shaved but springy with hair, thick with hair, that had to be arranged in fastidious cornrows. But she could not see the face of the (brown-skinned) girl. Still she knew that the girl was Jamala with long hair now, that had to be tight-plaited. Oily fragrance of the hair, slightly coarse in her fingers as her own was coarse, wiry-tough. She loved this smell, wanting to press her face against the hair. Those parts of the scalp that were exposed.
Love you like Jesus loves you. Wish you loved me.
THE NEXT FIGHT, she won by a TKO. And the next, by a third-round knockout.