Pound for Pound Read Online Free PDF Page B

Grampa?” Tim Pat asked.
    Dan pointed. “Earl’s van.”
    “Didja see me, Earl, didja?”
    Earl said, “Boy, you made me proud to know the White Fox.”
    Tim Pat said, “You see my fast hands, Grampa? I didn’t get tired one bit.”
    “You’re the best, Timmy.”
    Dan nodded over to the van and Earl nodded back. He guided Tim Pat back to it and both got inside. Tim Pat was suddenly aware of his swollen left hand.
    “I forgot and hit him in his head bone, Earl.”
    Earl patted him. “Now you know why fighters wear gloves.”
    “Did I really do it okay, Earl, did I?”
    “Damn straight ya did,” said Earl.
    Dan helped Tiger up and wiped his face with a clean cloth from the van. The boy tried to keep from sobbing, but was unable to quiet his heart.
    Dan picked up Tim Pat’s split brown bag, wrapped the cloth around it, and turned back to Tiger. The kid was staring at the bag.
    “You want this?” Dan asked quietly.
    Tiger nodded, but didn’t speak. Dan handed Tim Pat’s lunch to him. Tiger looked inside.
    “Why have you been takin these little kids’ lunches, son?” Dan asked.
    Tiger looked up, didn’t blink. “‘Cause’m hungry.”
    Dan returned to the van. He had no feeling of victory, and knew Earl felt the same. At least Tim Pat had slain a dragon, and the odds were that he wouldn’t have to fight to keep what was his anymore. Dan used Earl’s car phone to call Sister at school. He told her the story. She was silent throughout.
    When Dan finished, Sister said, “Sometimes that’s what it takes. Our Lord told us to turn the other cheek—but we only have two.”
    Dan said, “I’m goin to put ice on my little guy, Sister, and if it’s all right, I’d like to give him the day off.”
    “He deserves it,” Sister said.
    Earl drove back to the shop and Dan iced Tim Pat’s hand and eye. The cut wasn’t big enough to be a problem but would leave a little scar Tim Pat would be proud of.
    “I whupped him, Earl. He ain’t takin my lunch no more—ever.”
    Earl said, “Ain’t nothin like winnin, baby.”
    Tim Pat asked, “Was I really good, Grampa?”
    “Like a champ!”
    Looking back, Dan thought, oh so many times, that it should have stopped there. But he was a trainer; he had a fighter to bring along. It was Tim (as he now insisted on being called, except by Earl and Dan) who said he wanted to fight in the next “kids’ tournament.”
    The idea scared Dan, but it also pleased him.
    “What do you think, Earl?” Dan asked.
    Earl turned and looked at Tim Pat. “It’s a hard row to hoe, boy.”
    “Not for me, Earl,” Tim said. “You and Grampa are gonna train me, and we’re all goin to the top.”
    Next day, ropes were whapping, bags were banging in the gym. The lights were up and the three-minute/one-minute timer was on. A dozen pro and amateur fighters were training. Five trainers, at one time or another, were yelling at them, either from outside the ropes during sparring sessions, or off in a corner trying to convert bad moves into good.
    Tim Pat had warmed up and was sweating. His gloves were laced, and he was up on the balls of his feet. Earl fed off the kid’s energy, and began to feel like a pup himself. He pulled the rolling chair over, slipped his hands into the punch mitts. Other fighters stopped to watch, some tosmile. Many wished they had Earl in their corner. He called shots to Tim Pat, and the kid fired them nonstop.
    “Jab. Jab. Double up. Do it again. Gimme three jabs. Jab. Three more. One-two. One-two. Three jabs. Again. Double up. Jab. One-two-hook.”
    Tim Pat got the one-two off, his shots quick and crisp, but he missed cranking the hook because his balance was off.
    “Damn!”
    “Don’t cuss. Jab. Jab. Two of ‘em. Jab. Three, do it quick,
bang-bang-bang.
Two more. Two of ‘em.”
    Tim Pat’s left shoulder was on fire.
    “One-two-hook!”
    Tim Pat missed the end of the combination again. He said, “What’s wrong with me, Earl?”
    Earl said, “Not a