Four years ago – Baton Rouge, Louisiana
The sound of leather hitting leather echoed through a dinghy gym on the northern edge of the city. A tall, lanky kid circled a heavy bag throwing punches. Jab, jab, straight, step. Jab, straight, weave, uppercut to the body. Jab, jab, step, straight.
“That’s right, youngster! Jab! Jab! Weave! Keep moving and throwing punches in bunches! We don’t train no fighters who block shots with their mouth! Move!”
Jab, step, jab, weave, hook, body shot.
“Hands up! Don’t get tired now! The other man ain’t gonna get tired and when you drop your hands, he’s going to drop you!”
Uppercut, jab, jab, hook, step, hook. Jab, jab, jab, step, hook.
Three computerized beeps rang out. The fighter picked up his pace, throwing flurry after flurry. More power shots. Fewer jabs. He leaned into the heavy bag with one hand up and threw a few shots to the “body” before backing up with a hook high.
“Time! Good stuff, Abel, but remember to keep your elbows in and your hands up. You might have the reach advantage on a lot of these guys, but you take one too many counter shots to face and you’ll be face down on the canvas.”
Hands on hips, Abel nodded as he tried to suck in as much oxygen as he could. “Yeah, I hear you, D’Anthony,” he said.
D’Anthony threw a towel at him. “Don’t ‘yeah, I hear you,’ me. This ain’t fighting lil’ motherfuckers down Scotland Ave. You got all that height, but sticks got more meat on they bones. Unless you’re trying to cut to make bantamweight, you’re going to have stay on your toes and not let these short, stumpy mini-Butterbean looking kids hit you with them hamhocks. You got that?”
“What do you want me to say to that?”
“What… What do I want you to say? Fucking say ‘Yes, D’Anthony. I’m not going to let the fat white boys hit me because I know I can’t take too many shots. You are a very wise and helpful trainer to stop me from taking a beating.”
“All of what you said,” Abel laughed.
“You won’t be laughing when Skyler catches you on the mouth with a hook and rings your bell even through the headgear. Get your ass back in front that bag and go again!”
“I can’t get no water?”
“Water’s for the weak. Get your ass back in front that bag.” D’Anthony shook his head. “Talking about any ‘can’t I get water.’ The fuck he thinks this is? St. Vincent?” He turned back to Abel and snapped, pointing at the bag. “I don’t hear no punching!”
Abel put his hands up and went through the motions once more. In a few weeks, a real target would be in front of him. Another lightweight would be standing across from him for his first junior bout in Monroe.
Nerves were beginning to set in. He was too heavy for a bantamweight and close to being too light for a lightweight, but he couldn’t keep more weight on and cutting was nigh on impossible when his mother demanded he eat three square meals a day.
D’Anthony’s words were true. His opponents would be at the weight limit. They would be stronger. He would have to be faster and use his reach to his advantage when he could.
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Present day – Nueva Providencia, Texas
Abel came to a stop in front of a diner at the corner of Nueva Providencia’s main drag. He doubled over and struggled to catch his breath. He was out of shape – likely because he only ran after he had sex these days. He was a regular at the diner, though, Rebecca’s Last Stop as it was called because it was the last place to get food from in the town before you left it.
He went through every morning for breakfast, ordered the same thing, sat in the same booth in the same old waitress’s section. They did the same song and dance as he ate, paid, and left. That day was only different in that he ran there instead of driving.
Walking into the diner, the manager who was standing at the host’s stand handed him a menu without looking away from the conversation that he was having with a trucker.
He sat in his usual booth facing the street and his typical waitress, Maggie, set a mug on the table in front of him and began filling it with coffee. She set down two packets of sugar when the mug was filled.
“Morning, Abel,” she said. Her voice was scratchy, likely from years of working in a diner and even more years of smoking.
He looked up at the aging woman. She was a Nueva Providencia lifer and it showed on her face. Once, she’d told him that her parents ended up there because her father was an international trucker and living close to the border seemed like a good idea. Her husband, now an ex-husband, left town a couple years back. He wanted a wall.
“Morning, Maggie.”
“Are you going to try something different today?” She asked him every day if he was going to try something else on the menu.
“I’ll just take the usual. Three pancakes, two eggs scrambled, two pieces of bacon and two links of sausage. And the coffee, of course.”
Maggie shrugged as she turned to put in his order. She hadn’t bothered writing it down. She never did.
Abel looked out onto Main Street at the few people beginning their mornings this early. He was sure that it was the same people every day. Shopkeepers coming to get their stores ready for the day or the local bank’s manager opening for the little old women of Nueva Providencia to deposit their saved pennies and dimes.
It seemed like everyone in the town was old. The younger citizens got out when they could, if they could. Those that couldn’t ended up like Miguel, living vicariously through others or making weekend trips to Mexico or Houston. Abel liked it that way.
The table shifted under his hands and a Hispanic man, probably in his 30s, sat across from him.
“Can I help you?” Abel asked.
“Si, you can. My name is Alberto Reyes. I’m Celia’s brother.”
“I’m too old to be fighting brothers for their sister’s honor. She’s a grown woman.”
Alberto laughed. “You’ve got me wrong, amigo. You’re right. She is a grown woman. I don’t care what she gets up to with mayates.”
Abel let the racial slur pass without response. “So, why am I talking to you? I don’t know you,
amigo.”
“That cabrón, Miguel, told Celia and Beatriz that you are a fighter. I’m a promoter down in Mexico. I’m sure you need some money. I think you can help me.”
“I’m not a boxer anymore.”
“Yeah, and I’m paying for the wall, cabrón. You don’t just put down your gloves unless you realize that you have no business in the ring. Are you running from beatings? ¿No tienes los huevos para la lucha? Eh? No more cajones?”
“Haven’t met a man yet who could beat me.” Abel shrugged. The highest level he’d fought at was elite men’s, his last fight two years ago, but the statement wasn’t entirely false.
“I got a couple guys on my roster who need opponents. How much do you weigh? 165? 170?”
“I’m not a boxer anymore.”
“Just answer the question, amigo. Think you can cut to middleweight?”
Abel shook his head. “I’m 196 pounds.”
“Mierda,” Alberto leaned forward as if he could tell how much Abel weighed by looking at him sitting down. “Looks can be deceiving, eh? Well, if you can pack on five or six more pounds, I can set you up with a fight with the future heavyweight champion of the world, Beto Cruz. You’ll split the purse 80-20. Beto getting 80.”
“I’m not a boxer anymore,” Abel repeated.
“We’re talking about thousands of dollars you’re leaving on the table, amigo.”
Maggie returned and set three plates in front of Abel. She glanced at Alberto, but he waved her off as he started to stand up.
“Need anything else, hun?” she asked Abel.
“Fresh coffee, please This one’s gone cold because of my friend here,” Abel said. Maggie nodded and headed back to the counter.
Alberto held his hands up, a card in his left. “I’ll leave you to your huevos, cabrón. But take my card, because I have a feeling you’ll change your mind.” He placed the card on the table and left the diner.
Glancing at the rectangular slice of card stock, Abel picked it up, folded it twice, and dropped it into the mug of coffee before picking up his fork and beginning to eat.