Was this a question? Dunphy frowned, warily.
“What was it like, growing up in Muskegee Falls?”
“What was it like?”—Dunphy seemed perplexed by the question.
“Did you have a happy childhood?”
Happy childhood seemed to confound Dunphy, who did not reply for a long time.
“Well—did anyone in your family encourage you?”
“N-No . . . They did not want me to be a boxer, I think.”
Dunphy spoke haltingly, with a look of yearning.
“No one? At all? Where did you get the idea, then?”
“I guess—watching TV. With my brother Luke.” Dunphy laughed suddenly. “He never thought I could make it!”
“What attracted you to boxing, when you were watching TV? Assuming that there were other things to watch—including other violent sports . . .” Daringly Naomi spoke, but Dunphy did not register any irony.
“I guess—hitting. If somebody hits you you hit them. I guess—maybe—that was it.”
“‘Boxing is about hitting’—is that it?”
“Nah. Boxing about hitting and not being hit back.” Dunphy laughed, surprising herself. These witty words in a quasi-black idiom were not her own but had been memorized and recited now and this pleased her.
“Can you tell us—(just speak to the camera naturally, as if you are in a conversation)—(my voice will be edited out)—in a fight, what are you thinking? What goes through your mind?”
Dunphy frowned, trying to think. Almost Naomi thought you could see bulky-sized thoughts moving through the young woman’s brain, just slightly too large for the space, as through narrow arteries, making her wince.
“In a fight, it’s like drowning. I mean—you feel that you are drowning and the only thing is to save yourself. The only way you save yourself is by hitting the other boxer, hurting her, knocking her down so she can’t grab you and pull you down. It’s her, or you. My trainer’s voice is in my head. Jab jab jab. Get inside. Go for the right cross. Get inside. Left hook. Counter punch. Get inside. Keep your gloves up. Keep your left glove up. Get inside. LEFT GLOVE UP.” She laughed, and wiped her perspiring face on the sweatshirt. “ ’Cause my arms are short, that’s why he says—Get inside.”
“Isn’t it dangerous? I noticed—the other boxer continuously retreated, and you advanced. But you must get hit a lot.”
This was a sly understatement. But Dunphy did not register slyness.
“Like I said, if you’re good you don’t get hurt. ‘Hammer of Jesus’ can take a punch. That is well known.”
This too was spoken with the air of a memorized remark. And spoken with pride.
“Really, you aren’t afraid that you will be hurt? The head, the skull, the brain seem so vulnerable in boxing . . .” Naomi’s voice trailed off, with a pleading sound.
But Dunphy shook her head, stubbornly. For someone had assured her Hammer of Jesus can take a punch.
“Do you have medical insurance? Hospital insurance? In case you are ever injured—seriously . . .”
“All that kind of thing is taken care of. My manager . . .”
“Does your contract include medical coverage? What would happen if . . .”
Dunphy lifted the water bottle to drink from it, thirstily. There was impatience and rudeness in the gesture and her doughy face had tightened.
Meanly Naomi thought—I dislike you, too. I want you to be hurt. I want you to fail. I am not your friend!
She should end the interview, she knew. What had she been thinking! A documentary film on women boxers—too awful, too filled with pain, exposure. No one would care to see such a film. There was some interest in women’s champion boxers—to a degree. But D.D. Dunphy would never be a charismatic champion. And no one would wish to see the diminished private lives, that are never shown on TV. No one would wish to know about the losers.
“Just a few more questions, Dawn. Do your parents still live in Muskegee Falls, and do you have family there?” Naomi spoke easily, encouragingly.
Dunphy murmured what sounded like Nah. Not now.
“They have moved away? Where?”
“Mad River Junction—it’s called. Where they live.”
“All of your family?”
“My mother is a nurse, she works at a ‘home’ there. My brother has a job with the county.”
“Your mother is a nurse?”—Naomi had not known this, and wondered if it could be true.
But Dunphy insisted yes. Her mother was a nurse.
“That’s some kind of work you can respect—a nurse. But it is hard work.” Dunphy paused, considering what she’d said. The words had seemed to surprise her.
“Would you like to be a nurse, too? I mean—if you weren’t a boxer?”
“Nah.”
Then, relenting: “Well maybe. It’s some kind of work people respect and it is helping people. And—people respect you.”
“And what of your father, Dawn?”
“My father—my father is not living.”
Dunphy had been preparing for this question and answered it bravely. But then, she came to a full stop as if a bell had rung sounding the end of a round.