On the Ropes (Down for the Count) (2 page)

When Mami was sick, she either slept all day or she was throwing up in the bathroom. Every morning, I heard her making a phone call for more medicine. About twenty minutes after she got off the phone there was a knock at the door. It was usually a man dressed in dark, baggy clothes that brought her medicine. After that, she disappeared into her bedroom. Sometimes, she came right out; while other times, she stayed in there for close to an hour.

Most mornings it was me who got us ready for school. Some days, if we were lucky, there was actually food in the house, but only if Mami had felt well enough to go grocery shopping. Other days, we went to school hungry. Mrs. Gibbons, my teacher, occasionally brought in fruit for us. She slipped it to us in the hallway and always reminded us not to tell anyone.

Mrs. Gibbons was the nicest teacher in the school. She always asked about Jase and I, and she made sure we ate lunch every day. Sometimes during class, I’d daydream that Mrs. Gibbons was our mom, but then the dismissal bell would ring and snap me back into reality. I always hated the end of the day; that meant that school was over, and it was time for us to go home.

Jase and I would take our time walking home from school because we never knew what we were walking into when we got there. Was our father going to be there? If he was home, what kind of mood would he be in? Would he and Mami be fighting? More often than not, they’d be fighting. Papi would be yelling at Mami because the house was a mess and dinner was not made; it was always for the same reasons. “I work all fuckin’ day; the least you can do is clean this fuckin’ pigsty and make dinner,” he’d yell, raising his hand to her.

Depending on his mood after hitting our mother, sometimes he’d take his anger out on us next. The two of us would huddle in our room, trying to keep quiet, but he’d burst through the door yelling, “And you two! All you ever do around here is make messes and eat! It’s about time you start helping out.”

Some nights, we were lucky, and he’d just leave after he yelled at us. Other nights, he’d physically pick us up, drag us into the living room, and make us start cleaning. “And get me a fuckin’ beer too, you little piece of shit!” he’d yell at me. “I don’t know why your mother even wanted you in the first place. You’re nothing but a waste of space and money.”

I’d encourage Jase to clean as quickly as he could so that we could go back into our room and wait for our father to pass out on the couch. This had become an almost daily occurrence for us.

“Gabriel and Jason, it’s time to go,” a voice says, snapping me out of my memory. “Gabriel, you’ll be coming with me and Jason will be going with Dave.”

“What do you mean, I’m going with you and Jase is going with Dave?” my voice begins to tremble. Once I realize what’s happening, I begin to scream at the top of my lungs, “You’re not taking my brother from me. I’m all he has!”

Debbie tries to soothe and calm me down, but this only makes matters worse. I begin kicking and punching her as I yell in Spanish, “
No me puedes quitar a mi hermano, puta estúpida
!”

Before I know it, I’m taken away kicking and screaming. Dave grabs ahold of my feet while another man has my torso. Jase is crying hysterically; sobbing my name over and over, and there’s nothing I can do. I watch Debbie escort him out of the courtroom and realize that everything that I’ve ever known is gone.

“Everybody wants to be somebody. The thing you have to do is give them confidence they can. You have to give a kid a dream.”

—George Foreman

“Gabriel, let’s go! Didn’t I tell you not to go out last night? Get your head out of your ass! You wanna win your next fight, you better step it up!” Frankie yells from across the ring. “You need to make a choice: Do you wanna go out and party or do you wanna fight?” he sneers and pounds his fist down on the ring. “You can’t have it both ways, kid. Your opponents aren’t drinking and partying like you, they’re in the gym training!”

“
Ciera tu maldita boca viejo pendejo,”
I mutter in Spanish. My mother had taught my brother and me Spanish. I only use it on occasion now, but when I was a child, I was fluent.

I know what I have to do to win this next fight, and I don’t need Frankie yelling in my fucking ear, distracting me. My fight against Gavin ‘
The Gladiator
’ Sullivan is in two weeks, and he is,
absolutely,
the toughest opponent I’ve faced to date. The two of us have sparred before but have never actually fought each other. Our experience puts us on an equal fighting ground with each knowing the other’s strengths and weaknesses. I’m planning on using this knowledge to my full advantage.

“Jimmy! Get in there and kick his ass,” Frankie barks, pointing at the ring.

“You got it, Frankie,” Jimmy hops up onto the side of the ring and slips under the ropes. “You ready for me, Saint?” he asks, hitting his gloves together.

“You couldn’t beat me on your best fucking day, Jimmy,” I egg him on. I can’t help but laugh as I stare back at him. He’s trying so hard to act tough, but I can’t take him seriously, he’s just Jimmy to me. We’ve known each other since middle school, although we didn’t start out as friends.

Back in the seventh grade, we liked the same girl. Her name was Tina Stetson. She was a pretty blonde and was the first girl in our class to “develop”; Jimmy and I took notice. Tina flirted with both of us, using each of us to make the other jealous. It went on for weeks until finally, we came to blows one day after school.

I acted tough about it, but to be truthful, I’d been scared shitless because it was my first actual fight. The rumors had been circling all day and by the end of seventh period, the majority of our classmates knew about the fight. The two of us met in the back parking lot of school, and when I arrived, there were about twenty-five to thirty kids waiting; even Tina was there. Jimmy and I exchanged some words before either one of us actually threw a punch.

Everything after that was a complete blur. I don’t even remember who swung first. I just know that I was on top of Jimmy, pummeling him, by the time the fight was broken up, and it took two male teachers to pry me off. I had beaten Jimmy pretty badly; both his top and bottom lips were split, his left eye was swollen closed, and blood was running down his face from his nose.

Both of us were hauled into Vice Principal, Mr. Dufresne’s office. Mr. Dufresne insisted that we tell him who had arranged the fight. Neither one of us would rat the other out, so we both kept our mouths shut. Ultimately, we ended up serving in-house suspension. Mr. Dufresne assumed that being two young boys, we would’ve enjoyed a few days off from school. So he figured that sticking us in an enclosed room together was a more severe punishment. Little did he know, that was the best possible outcome for me; considering the last place I wanted to spend any time, was at home with my foster parents.

Now, as I look at Jimmy, I realize that he’s not that lanky thirteen-year-old kid anymore, he’s a man. I size him up as we stand directly in front of one another. He stands just shy of five feet ten; with dark brown, almost black, hair that’s cut very closely to his scalp. His shoulders and chest are broad, and his build is stocky. He easily outweighs me by a good eight to ten pounds.

I, on the other hand, have looked and weighed about the same since I was seventeen, and there’s no doubt that I’m the spitting image of my father; which drives me insane. I hate even bearing his name, let alone looking like him, but I’m reminded every time I look in the mirror that the apple didn’t fall far from that tree. I remember him having jet black hair, dark eyes, olive complexion, and a slender build. I stand only about five feet eight, like him, and though my weight has been consistent, I’m actually much leaner and more muscular.

Snapping back to the here and now, I stare Jimmy down and my eyes narrow on him.

“You’re ‘bout to get schooled, son,” Jimmy laughs, mocking me.

“Wait, wait!” Both Jimmy and I turn around, and we see Tyler running toward the ring. “Can I announce the fight?” he begs us as he hops up under the ropes.

“Tyler, this isn’t a real fight,” Jimmy looks down at him.

“I know, but Saint promised that the next time he spars, I can announce,” he sounds so disappointed. With his head hanging low, he slowly turns around and starts walking towards the ropes to exit the ring. As he climbs through the ropes, he turns his head, and our eyes meet. His giant green eyes have nothing but sadness in them. Tyler is one of Frankie’s “at risk” kids. He reminds me so much of myself at his age, it’s as if I’m looking into a mirror at myself from twelve years ago.

I turn to Jimmy and say, “I did promise him,” as I give him an over-exaggerated sad look.

“Alright, Tyler. Come on up,” Jimmy says, defeated.

Tyler’s eyes and face light up when he hears Jimmy.

Both Jimmy and I go to opposite corners, giving Tyler the middle of the ring. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice all the kids gathering around the ring, watching in awe. We’re violating one of Frankie’s numerous rules: No kids on the canvas.

Tyler clears his throat and puts on his best announcer’s voice, “Introducing first: Fighting out of the red corner, wearing green trunks with white trim, weighing in at…” Tyler looks at me in a panic.

“One hundred and sixty pounds,” I whisper.

“Weighing in at one hundred and sixty pounds,” he sounds so confident, “Gabriel ‘
The Saint’
Vega!” he yells.

The kids on the outside of the ring begin to cheer.

Tyler then turns his attention towards Jimmy’s side of the ring. “Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing black trunks with red trim, weighing in at…”

“One hundred and sixty-nine pounds,” Jimmy whispers to Tyler.

“One hundred and sixty-nine pounds, Jimmy ‘
The Jackhammer
’ Santoro!”

I hear booing from outside the ring. Looking at Jimmy from across the ring, I begin laughing. Shrugging my shoulders, then pounding my gloves together, I taunt him, “You’re going down, Jackhammer!”

“In your dreams, Saint.”

Tyler motions us to the middle of the ring. “I wanna good, clean fight. Tap gloves and good luck!”

I can’t resist smiling at him, he’s taking the job so seriously.
It makes me wonder how many boxing matches this kid has watched. Jimmy touches his gloves to mine in “the boxer’s handshake,” then we step back to our corners. Tyler quickly exits the ring and the bell rings, signaling the start of the round.

Jimmy and I dance around, each of us throwing jabs but not hitting the other. The kids are cheering me on, “Come on, Saint! Hit ‘em!” one of them yells.

Jimmy’s toying with me just as much as I’m toying with him. We’ve probably sparred over a thousand times throughout the years and have become the best of friends. That in-house suspension back in the seventh grade was one of the best things that could have happened for either of us. It was during those few days, that we discovered how much we had in common. Both of us grew up in the same type of situation and had shitty parents. A strong bond was formed, and we even agreed that Tina wasn’t worth our time or energy; boy, was she pissed when we both started ignoring her. Jimmy and I were pretty tight until he ended up living in a foster home outside of our school district. We were separated and lost contact, until the day Frankie had taken Jimmy in off the streets to show him the world of boxing; just like me. Frankie was well known in the community for taking troubled teens off the streets and showing them another way of life, so I wasn’t too surprised when he stepped in to save Jimmy too.

I owe my life to Frankie. I was headed down the wrong path and hanging with the wrong crowd when we were introduced. Skipping school, doing drugs, and stealing cars was just another day in my life. Eventually, I found myself arrested and facing grand theft auto charges. At my arraignment, my foster family told the judge they couldn’t handle me anymore, and the judge ordered me to one year in a juvenile detention center for boys.

After my hearing, the judge presiding over my case pulled me into his chambers. As I’d walked through the doorway, I had immediately noticed the wall of books behind the judge’s desk. I’d never seen so many books in one place before, besides the school library. Curious, I’d looked around the room, and the paintings on the walls had caught my attention. One of them had a guy wearing a black robe and a strange white wig on his head; I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Gabriel,” I jumped in surprise. The judge was sitting in an oversized leather chair behind his massive mahogany desk. Reluctantly, I took a few steps closer to him. “May I call you Gabriel?” the judge asked in a stern voice.

I nodded my head nervously.

“Please, have a seat,” he instructed me, as his tone lightened. “I’m Judge Ferrier and I’m familiar with you and your brother, Jason’s, history.”

My eyes grew wide at his words.

“I was Judge
Marshall
’s law clerk in your father’s case,” he explained to me.