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“All set for a good work out”, asked Petey as he came over to Amelio.

“Sure, I'll be changed in a minute”.

Amelio came out of the locker room and stepped into the calisthenics corner and began to limber up. Petey came over and began talking to him.

“Listen, kid, if we do all right today, I may be able to line up a fight for you on the east side next week”.

“No kiddin', Petey. Who'll I fight?”

“Angel Montez, he's not a tomato can. He's pretty good”.

“Just watch me go today, Petey. I'll rip that Angel to pieces”. His arms began to flail the air, his mind began to think of the things he could buy with the money he would start to make after he began to fight—a car, nice clothes, money in the pocket. He would show everybody he was worth something. He'd show them.

“Hmps, hmps”, his nose snorted, his arms flew, and in his mind he was fighting for the championship of the world, and everyone loved him.

That night when he went out on the stoop to see the guys, they were all involved very deeply in conversation.

“What's up, guys?” he asked.

“We're trying to decide if we should go down to tenth street”, said one.

“There are some fights down there tonight, and we are trying to decide if we should go see them”, said another.

“Who's fighting?” asked Amelio, “anyone we know?”

“Jose Hernandez is fighting Josh Smith, and Rafael Motara is fighting Angel Montez”.

“Angel Montez?” said Amelio in excited curiosity.

“Yeah, why?”

“He's the one I will have my first fight with next week. Let's go down there and see if he is any good”.

“OK, Amelio. Let's go guys. We're going to see Amelio's first victim”.

“Yes”, said the gang collectively as they rose and moved off, down the street. They began to joke, and one of the fellows started a song which they all picked up as they walked along.

The night of the fight came upon Amelio as quickly as he had wanted it to be slow. He sat in the crowded dressing room nervously adjusting and readjusting the tape on his hands. The place smelled a mixture both sweet and pungent of wintergreen, analgesic balm, and perspiration. There were two other fighters in the dressing room both equally nervous as Amelio, and both equally enrapt over the state of their hand tape. Amelio was trying to remember the things that Petey had told him. He tried to remember the way he saw Montez fight that night downtown. “He's fast and shifty, doesn't have much of a punch”. His inability to fight was seemingly masked behind a subterfuge of picturesque feinting, ineffectual jabs, and horrible grimaces, which were more menacing that Angel's actual ability to box. And yet, Amelio was nervous. Angel had won three fights before. He had knocked out another fellow on the west side only two weeks before.
Perhaps there was something I missed in his style. No, I couldn't be wrong
, thought Amelio,
that guy can not fight. He's just a pretty picture who has a battle on his hands just keeping from running out of the ring. He thinks he's tough, but it's tougher for him to throw a punch at an opponent than to catch one
. Still there was that doubt. That unreasonable feeling of doubt that crept in through a chink in his stomach armor, It crept in the stomach, and stealthily rose up the trachea, closing off the air passage as he breathed, making the palate work extra hard swallowing. The thought of the defenses and the counter defenses that he and Petey had worked on in preparation for this combat, were now infinitely more complex, more incomprehensible, than they had been at training.
I should have trained more. I'm not even in shape
, thought Amelio.
He'll come in fast. I'll have to push him off, stalk him, hit and stalk, work slowly. Maybe he'll cut me to ribbons. Maybe I won't be able to push him off. If I had only trained more. All the things I have to do! I'll never remember them. Left jab, right cross to the stomach, left hook to the jaw, right upper cut. Ave Maria, I'll never be able to do all those things. He'll either skip away and I won't know what to do, or he'll knock me flat. It's pretty damn easy to feel like a fighter, and even easier to train, but how tough it is to get into that square. I should have stayed home. I'll never even make it to the ring
. That insidious, that underhanded, scheming, creeping, enemy had now invaded his legs. They felt cold, incapable of moving. From far off that silent void of thought he heard the familiar phrasing of his name. He focused his eyes, and there, by the door, was Petey, resplendent in greyishwhite work-out shirt, calling him.

“Come on Amelio, it's time to move to the ring. You fight now”.

Amelio hopped off the table. His legs felt as if they were going to buckle underneath him. “Ok, I'm all set”, he felt himself saying, although he didn't mean it. He crossed himself and kissed the thumb and bent index finger that formed a cross. Petey helped him on with the gloves and threw an old faded robe that hung in the dressing room for the use of pre-lim fighters over his shoulders.

The roar of the crowd swelled up in his ear, and as he walked down the aisle behind Petey. Amelio felt the eyes of the entire arena on him. They were all looking at him; at least it seemed they were, and they were all looking at him oddly, he thought. They seemed to look at him with humor. They probably knew he couldn't fight well. They were trying not to laugh. Here and there a few people were laughing.
This is terrible
, he thought.

Down by the ringside Amelio met his foreman, to whom he had given two tickets.

“Hiya, Amelio, let's go kid, let's get that guy”, said the foreman.

“Yeah, good luck kid”, said the man next to the foreman.

That guy with the foreman
—
he looks awfully familiar
, thought Amelio as he slid under the ropes and danced into the ring. The thought of that figure that Amelio could not readily identify roiled his mind tenaciously.
Forget about it
, Amelio said to himself, he had other things to think about at the moment; the fight. He danced into a position from which he could look through the ropes, observed the stranger again.

Of course
, thought Amelio,
he's the counter guy at the luncheonette
. He danced around again facing into the center of the ring.

Across the ring he sensed the presence of his adversary. He only sensed, for his attention was very consciously held to a spot on the canvas in front of him. A canvas he felt certain he would be reclining on in short order. With his head still directed downward, his eyes glanced upward and across the roped-in square, to where Angel Montez was warming up. Angel too was looking across the ring, each observed his opponent. Quickly they danced around so as not to look at each other.
Don't want him to think I care one bit
, thought each to himself.

The referee motioned each man to the center of the ring. They stood facing each other, moving their arms back and forth to limber them up. The referee went into the ritual-like speech with the inapt superlative, which is quoted everywhere fight men congregate. Neither paid attention to the words, they were known all too well, and besides, their minds were furiously thinking of all the things that they forgot, or will forget to remember about each other.

“… and come out fighting”, the referee droned.

They touched gloves, went to their corners, and took off their robes.

“Yeahhh, let's go Amelio”, shouted the foreman.

“Where do you know that little spic that's fighting from?”, asked his friend who sat next to him.

“He works with me over at the platform. You must-a seen him around. He always eats in your place—name's Amelio Gonzalez”.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, I seen him aroun', now that you mention it”.

“He's the one who gave me the tickets for tonight”, said the foreman.

“No kiddin', first time I heard a spic givin' somethin' away”.

“Na, he's awright, this kid. Not like the rest of them. He's awright”, repeated the foreman with a shake of his head. “You know, he hasn't much brains—like the rest of them—but he's awright”.

“Ah, I don-know. They're all a same far as I'm concerned. Him too. Always bein' smart with their talk—no friggin good”.

“Bronggg”, the great bell vibrated sonorously.

The two men advanced toward each other, hands extended in front of them. They approached the center of the ring, then began to move to the left in a wide circle, looking at each other's defenses, waiting for the first blow to fall. Amelio swung his hand, which felt as if it were tied to his side. It sailed out into the air and slipped ineffectually past Angel's shoulder. Angel countered with a short underhand left to the midsection, they danced away from each other, and the fight was on. They got into it in one of the corners, arms flailing.

“C'mon, Ami, let's really pour it on. Pretty good fight these spics are putting on, eh Charlie?”, said the foreman.

“Yeah, these little spics are pretty peppery. Yow, did you see that left. C'mon kid, again, again. You'd almost think they have guts, hanh?”

The bell ended the round. The crowd buzzed between rounds, although Amelio hardly heard it. Petey was talking to him, rubbing him.

“How-d-ya rate it Charlie. Who d-ya think is winning?” asked the foreman after the second round ended.

“I-don-know. That little spic from your place seems to be doin' okay, but the other guy is doin' pretty good too. I guess I'd call it a draw so far. Yeah, one round apiece”.

“Yeah, I guess your right. This'll be the round, the last round”.

The bell sounded and the fighters stepped into the middle of the ring, touched gloves and danced away. Amelio had been fighting pretty hard all fight, but he couldn't get rid of the feeling of fear that came into the ring with him. He jabbed out and bent Angel's nose against his face. Angel's right hurtled into Amelio's jaw. Amelio's head snapped to the side, and a quick white flash filled his eyes. He didn't feel the punch too much, but it affected him. He could feel the dull ache in the back of his head increasing. He felt it as a pressure, a blunt pressure that was inside his head. He shot out a left, a right. Montez countered with a short jab, and danced backwards quickly.

If only I could move myself a little, if I could relax, I'd cream this dancer in front of me
, thought Amelio as he swung his right against Montez's side. Montez lashed into Amelio with a left hook, a right cross, another left hook, another right cross, a left jab, a right upper cut. Montez was making his spurt. Amelio found himself against the ropes, being hit with all sorts of punches. He saw them come at him. He saw Montez in front of him, grimacing, determined to hit him, his arms swinging. Amelio put his hands up to his face to ward off the punches. Some punches landed, pushing him back into the ropes. He felt the stinging of the landing punches all over his upper body.

“C'mon Ami, dance out-a-there, c'mon”, yelled the foreman.

“Looks like your little spic is in trouble”, said his friend without looking away from the ring.

“Yeah”, said the foreman, also without looking away from the ring.

Amelio felt his knees very weak. He felt like kneeling down, his head was spinning. He could feel the blood surging to his head. He leaned forward into his man, and held on. He was pushed away, into the ropes, and again the rain of blows fell upon him.
I've got to fight him. I've got to. If I don't I'll never get another fight. Got to get going. Got to win
, thought Amelio, visions of his dreams going down to the opposition of an incapable fighter. Amelio moved slow footedly out of the corner. Angel came after him, and led with a left hook. Amelio countered with a hard left hook to the mid-section. Angel was surprised and hurt by the strength of that punch. Amelio, too, was surprised at the strength he put into that punch. He brought a right to Angel's jaw; he fell back. Amelio followed.
Got to win. Santa Maria, help me
. Amelio weaved from side to side. He released a terrific short right to the ribs. Angel felt that punch to the top of his head. Amelio saw his chances brighten.
Cadillac, clothes, money, fame, fortune, easier life for everyone
, punch, punch. His arms were assailing the body of his opponent. Left, right—his arms were going at a terrific pace now, with the precision of a machine, as his body swung from side to side, arms extended, travelling into their mark and out again. He could hardly see his opponent. His determination blinded him. He was so nervous he couldn't remember a thing except to keep throwing punches. Angel was against the ropes. Amelio's arms were going without his controlling them. Left, right, left, right, right. The crowd was on it's feet, roaring,

Got to get him, got to, go down, you bastard, go down
. Amelio's arms didn't want to move. It was difficult to get them to fly forward. They were stiff from over use, but he forced them forward, left, right, left, right—

“Brongg”, he heard the bell, a loud roar, and found himself hanging on the shoulders of the referee and Angel.

“Nice fight Angel”.

Angel, who had suffered from that last barrage of punches, nodded and clung to his seconds who had come into the ring.

“That kid really showed him a thing or two didn't he, Charlie?”

“Yeah”, Charlie was saying, nodding, a pleased smile on his face. “That kid that works with you is all right. You know that?—he's okay. What did you say his name was?”

“Amelio Gonzalez. Told you he was awright”.

“Kid is a good little fighter. Real good. Why don-t'cha bring him over Monday, the lunch is on me. Amelio Gonzalez hanh? Pretty good! Yeahhh, nice fight Amelio, nice fight kid”, yelled Charlie, who was on his feet with the rest of the crowd, yelling loudly in tribute, as the referee raised Amelio's hand aloft, toward the smoke filled top of the arena.