“Was it Vizcacho?”
“Vizcacho, yes, and he had a funny first name. Filomeno, something like that. That was a shot to the liver put Darnell down, and that’s a punch’ll floor anybody, it lands right, and what did he do, Darnell? Got up, took an eight count, and hit Vargas hard enough to erase half his tattoos. Knocked him out, remember?”
“I remember.”
“He’s lost four fights, Darnell, his entire career. One early decision, it was the other kid’s hometown, no way on earth we were gonna get a decision there. You didn’t see that fight, Keisha, it was before you were in the picture, but believe me, we got robbed.” He shrugged. “It happens. It still pisses me off, but that’s the kind of shit that happens. He lost that fight, and he lost a decision to Armando Chaco that could have gone either way, and he was stopped twice. Once was a head butt, the other fighter couldn’t continue, and they went to the scorecards and two judges had the other kid ahead.” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “The other was when he lost the 160-pound title, and you couldn’t argue with it. Darnell was taking way too much punishment, and the ref was right to step in.”
“That’s not how you felt at the time.”
“Darnell wanted to go on, and he’s my fighter. I got to want what he wants. But we looked at the films afterward, and we both agreed it was the right thing, stopping it. Look, Keisha, do you have to make it harder for him? He’s gonna have this fight, and one more for the title. He’s got his hands full training for it. Why give him a hard time?”
“Gee, I don’t know, Marty. Maybe because I love him.”
“You think I don’t? Keisha, don’t be like that. Sit down, have another Coke, a real drink, whatever. Listen, Darnell’s gonna be fine.”
She started to say something, but what was there to say? She kept on walking.
She was seated at ringside when he fought Rubén Molina.
At first she hadn’t intended to be there. “I can’t watch,” she told him. “I can’t.”
“But you always there,” he said. “You my good luck, don’t you know that? How’m I gonna get in the ring, my good luck charm ain’t there?”
She didn’t believe she brought him luck, wasn’t sure she believed in luck at all. But if he believed it...
She kept opening and closing her eyes. She couldn’t watch, couldn’t not watch. Every time Molina landed to Darnell’s head, she felt the impact in the pit of her stomach. Molina didn’t have much of a jab, he just stuck it out and groped with it, but he had an overhand right that he sometimes led with, and he was able to land it effectively.
In the third round, one of those right-hand leads snapped Darnell’s head back, and he grinned to show it hadn’t hurt. Fighters did that all the time, she knew, and it always indicated the opposite of what they intended.
Darnell stayed with his fight plan, working the body, punishing Molina relentlessly with hooks to the rib cage. In time, she knew, the body blows would get to Molina, taking the spring out of his legs and the power out of his punches, but meanwhile he kept landing that right, and Keisha winced every time he threw it, whether it landed or not.
Couldn’t watch, couldn’t not watch...
Midway through the sixth round, Darnell double-jabbed, then missed with a big left hook. Molina hit him with a right hand and put him on the canvas. She gasped — the whole crowd gasped, it seemed like — and he was up almost before the referee started counting, insisting it was a slip. He was off balance, that much was true, but it was a punch that put him down, and he had to take a count of eight, had to meet the ref’s eyes, had to assure the man that yes, he was fine, yes, he wanted to keep fighting. Hell, yes.
He kept his jab in Molina’s face for the rest of the round, and hurt him with body shots, but Molina landed an uppercut during a rare clinch and it snapped Darnell’s head back. And there was another right hand at the bell, caught Darnell flush, and she saw his eyes right before the ref sprang between the two fighters.
The doctor came over to the corner between rounds, said something to Darnell and to Marty, shined a flashlight in Darnell’s eyes. The ref came over to listen in. Oh, stop it, she wanted to shout, but she knew they weren’t going to stop it, and the doctor returned to his seat and the bell rang for the seventh round.
And the seventh round was all Darnell’s. He was determined to make up for the knockdown, and he pressed his attack, throwing three- and four- and five-punch combinations. The bodywork brought Molina’s hands down, and a right cross with thirty seconds left in the round sent the boy to the canvas.
Stay down, she prayed. But no, he was up at eight, and the bell ended the round before Darnell could get to him.
The round took a lot out of both fighters, and they both coasted through the eighth. Molina kept his jab in Darnell’s face through most of the round and landed the right once or twice, with no apparent effect.
At the bell, Darnell stood still for a moment, and she caught a look at his eyes. Then he recovered and loped over to his corner, and she got to her feet and pushed her way through, reaching a hand through the ropes and tugging at the cuff of Marty’s pants. He was busy, talking to Darnell, using the End-Swell to bring down a mouse under his right eye, holding the water bottle for him, holding the spit bucket for him. If he was aware of Keisha he gave no sign, but when the warning buzzer sounded and he came down out of the ring he didn’t look surprised to see her there.
“You got to stop it,” she told him. “He didn’t know where he was, he couldn’t find his corner.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told her.
“Marty, his eyes aren’t right.”
“They looked fine to the doc. Keisha, he’s winning the fucking fight. The other guy’s got nothing left and Darnell’s prolly gonna take him out this round, and if he doesn’t that’s fine because we’re way ahead on points.”
“He was knocked down.”
“He swung and missed, and it was his momentum knocked him down more than anything else. Next round he came back and knocked the other guy down, and came this close to knocking him out. Another thirty seconds in the round and the fight’d be over and we could go home.”
“Marty, he’s hurt.”
“I don’t agree with you,” he said. “And if I did, which I don’t, and I tried to stop it? He’d kill me. He’s winning the fight, he’s winning impressively enough to get a title shot, and — Keisha, sit down, will you? I got work to do here, I got to concentrate.”
Toward the end of the ninth round, Darnell caught Molina with a big left hook and dropped him. Molina got through the round, but in the tenth Darnell got to him early, putting him down with a body shot, then flooring him a second time with a hard right to the temple. The referee didn’t even count but stopped it right there, and the place went wild.
On his way out of the ring, Darnell told the TV guy Molina was a tough kid, and no, he himself was never hurt, the knockdown was more of a slip than anything else. “He hit me a few shots,” he allowed, “but he never hurt me. Man punches like that, hit me in the head all day long. You don’t even feel it, you know what I’m sayin’?”
Later, when they replayed the interview, they pointed out that Darnell had slurred his words, that his speech was hard to make out.
In his dressing room, Darnell was grinning and laughing and hollering, along with everybody else. Until his eyes went glassy and he mumbled that he didn’t feel so good. He collapsed, and was rushed to the hospital, where he died three hours later without having regained consciousness.