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  I spar with Jake and Santos, meet Nina sometimes, have sex with Athena.

  Despite this all, a sense of unease, dark and heavy, settles in my gut. The restlessness which in the past used to creep up on me when I least expected it, now grips my body in a tight vise.

  It's the same type of feeling that used to alert me back at the children's home. When I'd see the janitor walking towards me, I'd fist my hands. It probably made him laugh. Me, a seven-year-old, balling his hands. As if I could have done a thing about it.

  I got in touch with those managers who had expressed an interest in me after the Koshkin fight. I wanted to at least hear them out. And I did, but nothing they said convinced me that they could do more for me than Lou is. Which stinks, because I don’t think Lou’s doing much. They made promises, but my gut tells me that they’re just feeding me a line.

  Lou lets me down, but better the devil you know. For now, I'll bide my time here. I need to get a fight or two with some of the bigger players first, though at the rate things are going, I might end up fat, bald and old before Lou considers me good enough.

  Jake and Santos agree with me. They don't know what the old man is holding out for, but Lou's got a good reputation, so for now, I'll stick with him.

  I'm taking a break from going at it with the punchbag early one morning when Jake comes over and announces that Montel Moore has been confirmed for Garrison's next fight.

  No surprise there, really.

  But still.

  I smack my fisted hand into the bench then yelp because it hurts, because I hit hard. Fuck.

  Wearily, I get up and head back towards the punchbag. It's easier to vent my anger on this instead, hitting punch after punch after punch. I see Lou come in and head towards his office, and my rage intensifies.

  I punch the crap out of the punchbag. I keep going. From the periphery of my vision, I see a few of the regulars stop to watch me.

  I keep going. Feel the sweat roll off like a waterfall. Feel my heart go cloppity clop. When I can't bear it any longer, I storm into Lou's office.

  He and Ernesto are laughing about something. Both have coffee cups in their hands. They look up at me, almost guiltily it seems, and I become suddenly paranoid.

  They've been talking about me. But, fuck, were they laughing about me as well?

  “We're joking about Moore,” Ernesto says, as if he can sense my paranoia, and he's afraid I'm going to blow up. “He's not in such great shape.”

  “Well, look at that. His manager still put him forward,” I say, hitting my gloves together. I slant a pissed off look at Lou. “I suppose you’re okay with the news?”

  “What news?” Lou asks calmly.

  “You know what fucking news,” I growl.

  He jabs a finger at me. “Mind your goddamn language.”

  “Oh-oh,” Ernesto says. “That news.”

  “Why does he get a chance with Garrison?” I ask, calmly.

  “Because Garrison’s people approached him. That’s how this works. The champion gets to pick. Not the other way around.”

  Ernesto eyes me, his demeanour soft, and I can sense him almost willing me to leave and not make a big deal about it.

  “When you’re ready, you might get approached, too.” Lou takes a noisy slurp from his coffee cup. The scent of instant coffee hits my nostrils, almost making me retch. It’s too strong, the way Ernesto makes it. Black coffee with two big spoons of coffee and no milk or sugar.

  “You’ll be ready, in time, Eli,” Ernesto says.

  “I'm sick of hearing the same old—” I stop myself from throwing out another curse word. “I’ll be old and dead by the time any of you think I’m ready.” I shuffle from one foot to the next, getting impatient. Once again, I consider giving it up. It’s the second time in recent weeks that I’ve had this thought, and a part of me feels like giving up. It’s weird, because this is not like me. Boxing has always been my life.

  Ernesto chuckles. “Come on, Eli. Less of the moping around. Sulking isn’t befitting of a boxer.”

  “You think I’m being unreasonable? Perez failed a drugs test, and now Moore has been confirmed, and you said he's not in great shape. It sucks. Sucks.”

  Lou sets down his coffee cup and sits back, as if he is completely fed up with me and this topic. “I’ve told you before, kid. You’re not ready.”

  “I was born ready.”

  He laughs. “That’s what you always say, but you have a temper on you that’s going to get you in trouble.”

  Ernesto sighs heavily. “You'll get your chance, Eli. You will, son. Things always work out.”

  “Not for me they don't.”

  I’m done with this today. I’m done. I have never, in all my years of boxing, ever thought I was done with it.

  I head for the locker room and sit on the bench, trying to pick through the debris of my feelings.

  I sit on the bench and lean back, feeling the cold wall against my back as I peel off my gloves.

  The door opens, and still I don't look up. I'm sitting forward, head down, wondering why, just like most of my life, nothing ever turns out the way I want.

  I know it's Ernesto way before his cough gives it away.

  “Must seem like everything is against you,” he says softly.

  “I’m sick of watching from the sidelines. I’m as good as any of these guys.”

  Ernesto breathes out slowly. “I can see where Lou's coming from, Eli. You’re not ready.”

  My fists clench and I’m so tempted to drive them through the wall. I breathe out. I don't agree and now I find myself second guessing Lou and his plans for me.

  “I’ve been watching you, son. I see you hurting. Lou sees your anger, but I see your hurt.”

  My jaw flexes. Every muscle in my body hardens. I'm not used to people caring or understanding. I'm not used to kindness, so when someone like Ernesto shows me it, I don't know how to take it. He’s like a Grandpa, someone else I never had in my life. An important person to guide me and mentor me. I have a soft spot for this old man, maybe because he’s been the only one who ever really listens to me. Makes time for me, man to man. Not often. But when I need him, he seems to know, without me telling him.

  “What’s going on, son?”

  “Fed up, is what’s going on,” I grunt out, hissing out the frustration that has built up inside me.

  A warm smile settles on Ernesto’s face. I can’t for the life of me figure out why this guy is smiling, when I feel like shit. “You want it all now.”

  I chuckle at that, not because we’re swapping happy stories around the campfire but because he doesn’t know the meaning of what he’s said. I want it all now because I’ve never had anything. Not only did we have nothing, but we weren’t wanted for a long time, Nina and me.

  So, yes, I want it all.

  “Take some time out,” he advises, standing up slowly, as if he's in pain.

  “You okay?” I glance up at him in concern.

  He straightens up and puts a hand on his thigh. “Old age,” he says, as if that explains everything. “The bones never stop hurting.”

  It gets me wondering what age I’ll be, if I’m ever lucky enough to have a shot at a title.

  Chapter Eight

  ELI

  * * *

  “Come over.” I call Athena and make a rare offer.

  “Where?”

  “Here, to my place, where else?”

  When she doesn’t jump on my offer immediately, I’m puzzled. I assumed she would.

  “I’m… I was uh…”

  I get it. She has other plans. “Are you seeing someone else?” I’ve been a lousy boyfriend, and if she’s got someone else I need to know, because we’ve been having sex without condoms, and that thought suddenly gets me worried.

  “No. Why would you think that?” She sounds outraged.

  “Calm down. It was just a question. You sound preoccupied.”

  “I can come over, it’s just that… well, Waquito’s has a tw
o for one deal. It’s happy hour from five to nine. A bunch of my friends are going so… why don’t you come along?”

  “Nah.” I used to work there as a security guard part-time and sometimes I still go back there on the rare nights out with the guys. It’s where I met Athena. But what else have I got to do instead?

  Screw everything. “What time are you going?”

  “Five o’clock, why waste time?”

  “I’ll meet you there at seven.”

  “You’re coming?” She sounds more than surprised.

  “You just asked me to.”

  “I’ve asked you before and you never have.”

  “I’m pissed.”

  “Pissed about what?”

  “A whole heap of stuff.”

  “You should have called me, Eli. You know I’m good at helping you let off steam.” She gives a breathless giggle, a cross between disbelief and happiness. When I don’t answer, she says, “We can forget Waquito’s. Why don’t you just come over to mine—”

  “Don’t change your plans for me.” I’m rummaging through my pile of old videos and I find the one I need. I put on a video of some old Muhammad Ali fights. Lou and I often watch these and pick apart the genius's technique.

  “I hate that you’re all worked up, babe. I know how to calm you down.”

  I sit back and turn up the sound. “A drink will help to calm me down. You go, and I’ll meet you there.” I hang up and start to watch Ali fight.

  As time goes on, I can't pull myself away. Hard to, because watching an Ali fight isn't like watching an ordinary boxing match. Footwork, speed and agility all come together in a hugely entertaining and theatrical performance that keeps the fans mesmerised.

  I certainly am.

  Athena calls again, and I tell her I'm coming, but I'm so spellbound watching the fights, that I decide not to go.

  I'll tell her next time she calls.

  It’s not until later, sometime around eight thirty, that I realize I’m late. Athena has shocked me. She hasn’t called back. I wonder if I should still make my way over, but I’ve lost the urge to go out. Even the lure of sex with Athena does nothing to entice me to go.

  I feel sorry for her. I’m not boyfriend material, I never have been, but it’s pathetic that she has let me use her the way I have for so long. It’s almost as if she has no self-esteem, and is happy to see me when I turn up at her door.

  Maybe the reason she hasn’t called me back is because she’s found someone else.

  I sure hope so.

  I sure hope she realized that she deserves to be treated better than I treat her.

  Chapter Nine

  ELI

  * * *

  Jake and Santos are skipping rope when I walk into the gym.

  Rumor is that I have a fight coming up soon. Lou won’t tell me who it is and says he needs to confirm first, but I'm not holding my breath.

  It will be another lame ass fight with another mediocre fighter.

  I tell myself that this is just a phase I'm going through, doubting myself, feeling jaded, bored even.

  Ever since I stood her up at Waquito's a few weeks ago, I've not heard back from Athena. My sex drive is suffering and has hit an all-time low. She’s met someone else, I conclude, and I resolve to forget her. All I can do is focus on this next supposed fight.

  I knocked out Koshkin in eight rounds and I want to see what I can do to the next victim.

  Ernesto beams at me. I wait for his words, hear none, and frown. I'm just about to ask him what he's smiling about, when Lou calls me over.

  Setting down my gym bag, I walk over to Lou’s office. “Yeah?”

  “Good mornin' to you, too,” Lou rasps, taking a fresh cup of coffee from Ernesto. “Sit down.”

  This is odd. He usually doesn't summon me first thing. I sit down, then cross an ankle over my knee. “Let me guess, you have a name.”

  “I was waiting for confirmation.”

  “I gotta know who I'm fighting, Lou. Hard to train without a face in mind.”

  “How about ‘The Tank’.”

  I sit up. My ears have deceived me. “What?”

  “Garrison.” Ernesto’s voice behind me sets my soul on fire.

  Trent ‘The Tank’ Garrison? I stand up from my chair slowly. “What the fuck?” Lou doesn't tell me off about my language this time. “Get out of it. Trent Garrison?”

  The fucking heavyweight champion of the world? “No way!” It feels as if a thousand butterflies suddenly took flight in my stomach.

  “Yes way,” Jake says. I turn to find him and Santos standing next to Ernesto.

  I stare at them all in turn, my eyes wide, my mouth open. “I have a shot at the title?”

  Lou's crinkly eyes twinkle. “That's what you wanted, wasn't it?”

  “The heavyweight champion?”

  “Yeah, that same guy. You did say you wanted a shot,” Ernesto reminds me.

  “You all knew?” I cry out in disbelief, only I'm not sure that I believe this, that this is real. Can it be? Or are they all in on some sick joke together?

  “What about Moore? What happened to him?” There's been no news about Moore being out of the running.

  Fuck.

  Maybe this is a joke.

  “Moore shattered his shoulder in a bungee jumping accident,” Ernesto announces.

  Santos chortles. “The idiot.”

  “That man's always breaking something or other,” Jake adds.

  “Why hasn't it been announced?” I ask Lou, because this is already so surreal. My dreams don't come true. My wishes never have. This can't be real.

  Ernesto's hand on my shoulder reassures me. “Garrison's team wanted to have a strong backup ready before they made the announcement about Moore.”

  “When did you do this?” I don't know who to look at. My brain is having a tough time believing the reality of the situation.

  “I picked up the phone a few days ago when we started to hear the rumors about Moore.”

  “They confirmed late last night. I had to sit on it for a few hours.”

  “Fuck,” I say out loud, the shock still reverberating around my ears as the weight of this announcement smashes into me like a wrecking ball. Again, Lou doesn't tell me off.

  “Congratulations, man.” Jake and Santos high five me.

  “Nothing to congratulate him about yet,” says Lou. “We've got a lot of work to do.”

  “Well done, son.” Ernesto beams at me again.

  This is it.

  What I wanted.

  A shot at the title.

  With the heavyweight champion of the world.

  Chapter Ten

  HARPER

  * * *

  My Prada bag catches in the elevator doors, and just as I manage to yank it out, my stiletto heel snaps. I hobble down the hallway.

  I have no idea why I keep coming back here when I hate it so much. I'm not cut out for this.

  “What happened?” Gerry asks me as I hobble to my desk.

  I take off my shoe and hold it up.

  He makes a sympathetic face.

  Luckily, I have a spare pair of Converse sneakers which I keep here, so I slip them on, even though they don't look so cool with my business skirt and jacket.

  “If you want to go and get that heel fixed now, you can.” Gerry taps away on his keyboard.

  “I just got here. I'll go in my lunchtime.” I don’t want him to go easy on me. I’ve just arrived at work and he's happy for me to go and get my heel fixed. He's not even hiding the fact that I'm lousy at this job. It's my foray into journalism, but I feel as if the people here hate me because of who I am.

  I want to prove myself, but they hate me because of my dad and because they must think I'm privileged.

  I can see why, but there's nothing I can do about it except prove myself, and I can't do that if Gerry is fine with me leaving to get my heel fixed first thing in the morning; as if this is the most important thing for me to do today.

&n
bsp; “Is there anything I can do? Anything you want me to read over?” I need to feel useful. I need to matter. I need to feel as if I fit.

  Gerry tosses me a folder. “Have a read through that.” I slip my coat off and open the folder to find cuttings from old articles. “My early pieces,” Gerry says. “I wrote them when I first started here.”

  I don't see the point of looking through something that he wrote decades ago. It leaves me feeling more paranoid than ever, that he doesn't give me anything worthwhile to do, but has fobbed me off for almost two months with silly little things. I'm not contributing anything of significant here.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Chicago's New Hope.” I hate that he is always somewhat vague.

  “What's that? A TV show?”

  Gerry snorts. “Not quite. Didn’t you hear the announcement?”

  “What announcement?”

  “About the guy who's going to fight Trent Garrison.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The guy they call ‘The Tank.’ The heavyweight champion of the world.”

  I shake my head because I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Boxing,” Gerry clarifies, looking at my confused face in amusement.

  “Boxing?”

  “Turns out that a kid from these streets, here in Chicago, is going to fight him.”

  I nod, not feeling the slightest level of elation at this news. Gerry seems pumped.

  “Elias Cardoza,” he says, as if that means something to me.

  “Right.”

  He senses my disinterest. “Just read those articles, Harper.” His patronizing tone scratches my insides. “How long are you going to have me reading articles, or going to lunch, or finishing early, or—”

  “Are you annoyed, Harper?”

  “I've been here for months, Gerry. You have to stop treating me like I'm useless.”

  “Who's useless?” asks Merv. He was passing by, but his ears have perked up and he’s decided to stop and stick his big fat nose into things.

  Gerry pipes up. “Harper wants something meaty.”