The Contender: Chapters 14–20

He put his hands under his head and watched them eat breakfast, smiling as the girls kept peeking at him over their cereal bowls.

He said something to the driver, and the cab lurched into the uptown traffic.

What happens when you turn pro? You get a Cadillac and a chauffeur?

And then he went out and had a whole chicken. Said he wanted to get an appetite for dinner.

A breeze had sprung up, whipping flecks of white on the Hudson River.

"I don't know," mumbled Henry, lowering himself into a soft chair.

If you eat a big meal too close to a fight there isn't time for proper digestion. Makes you sluggish and slow, and one good punch to the belly and—

"This is a fairly well-integrated neighborhood," said Spoon.

The room was dark, and the murmur of voices outside the door was too low to make out words.

They climbed into the front, Bud carrying his black satchel, an overnight bag, and a large cardboard box.

The referee pulled them apart, and ducked as a long right arm looped over his head.

He bounced off the ropes, flicking the jab ahead of him, pop-pop, into Rivera's face, pop-pop, reddening the bent nose.

It seemed like hours before his tongue pushed out the mouthpiece, and then six hands were moving over him, thick, square hands pulling on the elastic waistband of his trunks, "Deep breath, Alfred, deep breath," stick hands stabbing into the muscles of his neck and back, and slim hands tilting the water bottle to his mouth.

The crowd started whistling, piercing whistles that upset his concentration.

Rivera was plodding after him now on slow and heavy feet, pop-pop, stay one step ahead of him, jab and jump away, jab and hook and duck under the swinging arm.

His legs were soft rubber and a fire was raging in the lower part of his belly.

Bud held a small bottle under his nose, and the fumes clawed up into his brain, and cleared his head.

"For one thing, a lot of groups are trying to organize self-help programs in the black communities. Parents' groups, tenants' groups... ."

They whimpered in the cold, and began to wake up.

The huddled figure moved, and Alfred suddenly felt sick.

You don't have the killer instinct, Alfred, the coldness to beat a man into the ground when you sense his weakness.

You conquered your fear. You worked hard. You almost quit once, and then you came back and worked harder.

Betty bustled in a few minutes later, and started chattering with Spoon about her day at school.

I talked to that doctor at the narcotics clinic, Alfred.

They went down the aisle three abreast, Donatelli and Henry moving him along with their shoulders, Bud right behind with the towels and the bucket, up the ring steps and through the ropes.

A gray shirt and a black bow tie hovered above him, and a forefinger waved in his face.

Hubbard was pummeling his ribs now, and Alfred worked his left arm free and began banging at the side of the bullet head, again and again and again, until Hubbard straightened up.

Alfred lunged forward on his left foot, and spun away from the ropes.

The bell rang, but neither of them heard it, grunting, straining, slugging, and then everyone was in the ring pulling them apart, grabbing their gloves.
". . . by unanimous decision . . . Elston Hubbard."

"Let him breathe," bellowed Bud, pushing them all out and slamming the door shut.

The snow deadened his careful footsteps, over the smaller rocks, over the low thicket of leafless bushes.

He moved in closer, his knees quivering as the snow seeped through his trousers.

"You a fighter. Always so meek and quiet."

"I'm on probation, they'll send me away this time."