The Heart and the Fist Part 2

"Earl. Earl and Derrick."

"Are they here?" I asked.

"No, they're training outside the gym now, but I think I got Derrick's phone number."

Bob walked into his office and came back with a torn corner of a piece of white paper-the back side of a carryout menu-and on it he had scratched in blue ink a phone number.

Derrick Humphrey was twenty-six years old. He stood six foot two, and he had the powerful build of a tall, fast fighter. He worked construction. He had a few marks on his record from an ill-disciplined youth, and a scar across the bridge of his nose. I a.s.sumed then that the scar was from boxing; he later told me that his mother had cracked him across the face with a wooden stick for acting up as a kid.

He lived in an apartment with a near-empty living room. Gray carpet lined the floor. A small table sat against the wall and on it was a lone framed photograph of Derrick's mother. A phone sat on the floor. When we met, Derrick was training for a fight just a few weeks away.

Months later Derrick told me that when I called him, he thought I was likely crazy. He said that at least once a week he had people tell him they wanted to box. They'd be full of questions and interest for two or three days and then they disappeared. Derrick told me that he could tell on the phone that I was white. Then, when I told him that I went to Duke University and that I'd been spending my time at the gym, he said, "I didn't think think you were crazy, I was you were crazy, I was sure sure you were a crazy white man. But I like to keep my life interesting, so I told you to come on down." you were a crazy white man. But I like to keep my life interesting, so I told you to come on down."

Derrick introduced me to Earl Blair, his trainer. When Earl was in the Army, he used to be called Bebop, because he walked with a bounce and a smile.

"How are you, how you doin'? So you're ready to fight?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Well all right then, all right."

Earl shook my hand hard. He was five foot six, sixty-six years old, and farm-boy strong. His smile filled his face, and he beamed with the joy of a man who was truly grateful for every day of his life.

We walked into the parking lot outside Derrick's apartment. Kids were home from school, and they weaved through the parking lot on their bicycles. Teenagers sat on the concrete sidewalk and talked. Mothers occasionally stuck their heads out the doors of their apartments and yelled for their children. I stood next to Derrick. This This is the gym? is the gym?

"OK, now, here we go. Derrick, and, and both of you all, gonna get those knees high. Ready. Time." Derrick and I started running in place in the parking lot, lifting our knees high and punching our fists every step. Earl watched his stopwatch. "Time," he said, and then Derrick walked a short circle around the parking lot and I did the same.

"Got a beautiful day for training here. A beautiful day," Earl said. We rested for what seemed to me about thirty seconds, and then we did the running in place and punching again. It seemed pretty easy to me. I started to wonder about Earl being a great trainer, and I wondered how in the world Derrick could train for a professional boxing match by jogging in place in his parking lot.

We did a few more rounds, then Earl said, "OK, warm-up's over, let's do it for real."

"Time," Earl said, and Derrick started pumping his knees and throwing his punches so fast that the kids on bicycles stopped riding and stood watching him with their mouths open. One boy got so excited watching Derrick that he started to imitate him there in the parking lot, throwing his fists as fast as he could. I tried to match Derrick's speed, and just as I started to feel the burn in my legs, Earl said, "Time." We paused. Then we started again. Knees pumping, fists flying. Earl said, "Time." We paused. Then we started again, and again, and again, and again, and again. Kids were bicycling around us, and when I leaned over during one pause and grabbed my knees, one of the kids said, "That white man 'bout to pa.s.s out."

We switched exercises and lay backs-down on the parking lot. We brought our heads off the ground and our feet six inches into the air. Earl said, "Hold it there," and while I held my feet in the air he walked over and punched me in the stomach. My feet collapsed to the ground, and I reached for my gut where he'd punched me.

"Get your feet back up. You can take it. Watch Derrick." Earl walked over to Derrick, who still had his feet six inches off the ground, and he started punching him in the stomach: bam with the right, bam with the left, bam, bam, bam, and with each blow I could hear Derrick exhale and then take another quick breath in through his nose. "Time," Earl said.

We worked through a whole series of exercises that day in the parking lot. We didn't touch a single piece of equipment, and when I sc.r.a.ped my body off the pavement and walked back to my car, I felt more beaten than I ever had after any practice, any race, any workout.

It would be wrong to say that Earl taught life lessons along with boxing, because for Earl, there was no distinction to be made between life and boxing. Every action was invested with significance. How we hung the heavy bag, G.o.d's mercy, the way a man should wrap his hands, the virtue of humility, the proper way to lace gloves, being on time, the way a teacher should love his students, the proper way to care for your equipment-these were all part of one solid and unbroken piece.

Earl refused to call himself a coach. As he put it, "A coach makes you more skilled, shows you how to be better at a certain activity-maybe it's running, maybe it's throwing, maybe it's boxing. But what's the point? The point is, after a coach coaches you, you can go and do whatever you want with your new skill. You learn to run, you can go rob a store. You learn to fight, you can go fight in the street. But that's not what I'm about. I am not a coach with players, but a teacher with students. I teach my boxers not just a set of skills, but a way of living."

I paid Earl $25 a week, and I paid him regardless of circ.u.mstance. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Still I paid. Earl had told me, "Twenty-five dollars a week. Paid on Monday. We talk money up front. Then there's no misunderstandings. No excuses. Twenty-five a week, whether you train five days or none at all. Twenty-five a week," Earl said.

Earl explained that paying for something made a man appreciate it more. He'd learned that lesson before. "Trained kids for free. But then the kids didn't have nothin' invested in it. Walk right on by the gym if they didn't feel like trainin'. I couldn't count on anythin'. I know it might seem like a lot. When I first told Derrick, Derrick didn't think he could pay. But have you missed one week, Derrick, in five years? No sir. Prays on it. Works hard, and he gets what he needs. I always say, you might not always get what you want, but you always get what you need. I know it's not a lot. I know my time is worth more than that. I'll get paid later. But it's important all the same."

Earl made us say a prayer before we started every practice. He would say, "Just go on and say whatever is right for you to say," and we would shut our eyes and say a silent prayer. I had-before boxing-never been someone who prayed on a daily basis, and it felt uncomfortable at first. But boxing is a violent discipline, and after a few days of getting cracked in the ribs, praying seemed like a sensible way to begin.

For Earl, the gym, or the parking lot, or the patch of mud behind North Carolina Central University where we would sometimes train-any location where men came to make themselves better-was his place of worship, and the tasks of boxing were his rituals. We wrapped our hands and tied our gloves with solemnity. When Derrick sat down to tape his fists before a fight, he held his right hand out for Earl, fingers spread as wide as he could. Earl poked a hole in the gauze with a scissors. He shoved his thumb through to open up the hole. He then took the gauze off his thumb and slipped it over and down Derrick's thumb. Earl rolled the gauze across the top of Derrick's wrist and around the bottom. Derrick watched his hand. Earl rolled the gauze around Derrick's wrist six times, tightly. He rolled a strip diagonally across Derrick's hand to the knuckles. He laid twelve lengths of gauze across Derrick's knuckles. He wrapped around and down, making four loops around Derrick's thumb. "Keep 'em spread," Earl said. Derrick spread his fingers wide. Earl didn't want Derrick's fingers wrapped too tightly-cutting off the flow of blood to Derrick's hand. Earl crisscrossed the gauze around Derrick's hand and wrist, then finished by wrapping the wrist three times. "Tape," Earl said, and I gave him a piece of tape. "Tape," and I gave him a piece of tape. "Tape," and I gave him a piece of tape. Earl pushed Derrick's fingers into a fist. "How's that feel, Derrick?"

It wasn't until years later-when I watched some men sharpen knives and clean rifles and pack their gear for a military operation-that I saw this same sanctified attention to preparation.

Learning at Duke and learning to box were very different endeavors. Duke was all about reading and talking. In the gym, we did did everything and talked about almost nothing. "Earl, how do I throw a jab?" everything and talked about almost nothing. "Earl, how do I throw a jab?"

"Watch Derrick. Do Do as he does." End of discussion. as he does." End of discussion.

And that's what I did. I watched as Derrick found an open spot and started to skip rope. The rope moved, faster to warm up, then slower, tick-tick, tick-tick, sliding under feet that seemed barely to leave the ground. A minute of work and then, knees high, higher, the rope tick-ticking faster, Derrick threw his hands across his body and back again-the rope crossing, dancing, ticking, gliding-working sharp and powerful. Then he slowed, watching the other fighters, the rope calm, his mind running. The rope flew furious again-over, under, left, right, flying, cutting, the gym in motion, the rope tick-ticking, enclosing the fighter in a clear cloud of movement-flying, ticking, sweeping, moving, bearing all the weight of a man now at work.

After two weeks, Earl put me on the heavy bag. For two weeks, I did nothing on the bag but learn to jab.

"Time," Earl said, and I stepped away from the bag as Derrick stepped to it. "There's your picture, Eric. Watch how Derrick works the bag."

It was Friday night, and I was sitting in the back seat of Earl's Olds-mobile. Earl and Derrick rode in the front. Earl always had a heavy foot-"I like to be able to get out the way"-and we were flying down the highway. Derrick had a fight at the Ritz in Raleigh that night, and I was on my way to help work the corner. My mind drifted to my friends at Duke who were out partying. I wondered if I was missing out.

Earl and Derrick were talking about how to make sure they got paid. Out of curiosity I asked from the back seat, "How much can a guy usually make in one of these fights?"

"Well," Earl said, "I imagine you could probably get four hundred dollars for a four-rounder. Don't you think, Derrick?"

And before I could say anything: "Shoot yeah, Earl. Bein' white an' all. Eric'd get four hundred easy."

"And plus, Derrick, you know, they might put in a little extra because it would be his debut and all. You know, fightin' for the first time after three weeks a trainin'."

"That's exactly right, Earl. Eric might walk out there with five hundred dollars in his pocket."

"Yeah, baby, you could probably make about five hundred for a four-rounder. Now that's just for starters. You get a few more fights under your belt, then you'll be in the big big money." money."

When they had finished laughing at the prospect of my debut after three weeks of training, they told me that most boxers could get about forty or fifty dollars a round.

After a few more weeks of training-when Earl knew that I was there to stay-he told me it was time to buy my own equipment. Earl wasn't going to let me use the equipment in the gym closet anymore. "We all work on this bag here. And when it finally break down, we each gonna put in to get a new one. Everything else, each one a my boxers has they own equipment. Own gloves, own rope, own hand wraps, own cup, own mouthpiece, own Vaseline. Why? Because I want to teach my babies to take care of what is theirs. Learn to 'preciate something. They take good care of those gloves, put Vaseline on 'em, put 'em out to dry when they get home, wash the strings. Compare that with them gloves and headgear they got in the closet there. n.o.body pays that equipment no respect, none. But look here, go on, look around, every piece of equipment we got we keep it like brand-new. Brand-new. We're separate, and we're gonna keep it separate."

Just after I said my prayer, he handed me a copy of a Ringside catalog. As I flipped through the pages of gloves, headgear, punching bags, and groin protectors, Earl pointed out each item he thought I should buy. "Those gloves are the best ones you can get. And that headgear, that's the same one Derrick uses and it takes care of him." Earl pulled an old calculator from his pocket and I wrote him a check for the order.

A few days later, Earl walked in carrying a cardboard box that read RINGSIDE BOXING RINGSIDE BOXING in black letters. He wore a big smile on his face, and he seemed to have even more pep in his step than usual. He pulled out all of my gear-headgear, gloves, mouthpiece, boxing boots-and as he handed me each piece, I felt like I had arrived. I wasn't a boxer yet, but I was now at least a real student. Because it was a big order, Ringside threw in a few free items, and when Earl pulled out a black ball cap that said in black letters. He wore a big smile on his face, and he seemed to have even more pep in his step than usual. He pulled out all of my gear-headgear, gloves, mouthpiece, boxing boots-and as he handed me each piece, I felt like I had arrived. I wasn't a boxer yet, but I was now at least a real student. Because it was a big order, Ringside threw in a few free items, and when Earl pulled out a black ball cap that said RINGSIDE RINGSIDE across the front, he took off his across the front, he took off his REAL MEN PRAY REAL MEN PRAY hat and pulled on the Ringside hat for himself. "Oh yeah," he said, grinning wide. "We got everything we need." hat and pulled on the Ringside hat for himself. "Oh yeah," he said, grinning wide. "We got everything we need."

When we finished our day's work, I went into the locker room and took off my new gloves and my new hand wraps. I held my hands splayed in front of me and looked at my knuckles. The skin was torn from punching on the heavy bag. Scar tissue would start to grow soon. But for now, I savored blood on my hands, the small cut in my lip, the soreness in my jaw. I had begun to earn the strength that comes from working through pain and it felt good. I filled the sink with hot water and sank my hands. When I pulled my dripping hands from the water, hints of fresh blood came to the surface of each knuckle. I looked in the mirror. I squeezed my jaw and my cheeks and my nose, checking for soreness. I stood there awhile looking at my face. I realize now that I had only taken the barest first step on a years-long journey. I was not particularly tough. I certainly was not any good. But I was becoming stronger and I liked it.

For Earl, every action, even something as simple as washing the strings of your gloves, had a moral component. If you didn't wash the strings of your gloves every week, it meant you didn't care about your equipment. If you didn't care about your equipment, you didn't care enough to train properly. If you didn't care enough to train properly, you shouldn't be here. If you shouldn't be here, you should leave right now. It was a vicious train of logic. But in the gym, it worked.

For many of the men, the boxing gym was their refuge from an outside world that was chaotic and unpredictable. The boxing gym was beautiful in that it provided order and discipline and silenced braggarts. There was no show, no trash talk, no puffed chests. "You got something to say? Say it in the ring."

Earl tried, but even with his strict discipline, he could not protect all of his boxers. He carried memories of casualties like ghosts in his mind. The most painful memory for Earl was of his first student, Beaver. Earl told me the story one day after practice as I stood leaning against the ring.

"Beaver had an older friend named Ernest. They grew up together, lived in the same neighborhood 'round Clark Street. When I first started training him, Beaver was in seventh grade and Ernest was in ninth. Beaver always felt he could never beat Ernest, because Ernest was bigger. But after several years of training Beaver, I told Ernest, 'I've trained Beaver. You can't beat him anymore.'

"But Ernest wouldn't take my word. He was gonna try Beaver anyway. Well, you know what happened. Beaver beat him up on the street. When I heard about it, I told Beaver, 'Why don't you leave Ernest alone? Stay away from him. You know he ain't no good. And why don't you stay off Clark Street.'"

"What was Clark Street?" I asked.

"Clark Street had all kinds of mess on it, kids makin' trouble, and I told Beaver to stay away from there. Well, Ernest was the type of young man for whom it was impossible for him to live down a beating. So the next day, Ernest went after him.

"Late in the afternoon, I was looking for Beaver to pick him up for practice. I saw a young man laying in the street, and I thought it was some random man who got drunk and was laying out. Then I looked closer. I looked at his feet. Those are Beaver's tennis shoes. Those are Beaver's tennis shoes. I jumped out my car. Ernest had shot him, and my baby's laying in the street dying. I heard one of the kids say, 'Here come Earl,' but just then I saw Ernest was spinnin' tires, gettin' away, and my mind was taken off my baby and I hopped in my car and I'm after Ernest, driving all over Henderson. He ran to the police station, but I think that I should have stayed there and held my baby. I sometimes think that when Beaver heard somebody say, 'Here come Earl,' he probably thought everything was going to be all right. But I ran off after Ernest, and Beaver died alone there in the street." I jumped out my car. Ernest had shot him, and my baby's laying in the street dying. I heard one of the kids say, 'Here come Earl,' but just then I saw Ernest was spinnin' tires, gettin' away, and my mind was taken off my baby and I hopped in my car and I'm after Ernest, driving all over Henderson. He ran to the police station, but I think that I should have stayed there and held my baby. I sometimes think that when Beaver heard somebody say, 'Here come Earl,' he probably thought everything was going to be all right. But I ran off after Ernest, and Beaver died alone there in the street."

Tears collected in the corners of Earl's eyes.

"That's my regret. I was hurt because Beaver was so disobedient. I just told him the day before, stay off of Clark Street. I just told him the day before, 'You know Ernest no d.a.m.n good. Leave Ernest alone.' He was only eighteen. I had 'im hardly five years. My first student, my first baby."

Earl's life had taught him hard lessons, and his focus on virtue admitted no exceptions: if you did not wash the strings on your boxing gloves, you were-so went the logic train-an unworthy man. Earl was incredibly demanding of us, and of everyone around him. A man who didn't take proper care of what was his was not a man.

And it was also true that a boxer who used his strength to inflict pain on the weak was less than a dog. "I wouldn't even call 'im a dog, 'cause I have known some good, beautiful dogs in my life, and any man that goes 'round and beats up on women, beats up on children, he ain't even as good as a dog, no sir." G.o.d, in Earl's view, had invested every person with strength, and it was our duty to develop that strength. "What did my Father give you muscles for? What did he give you brains for? Now look here, I may not be the strongest man on the block, not the smartest man on the street, but I know that my Father didn't give me what I have for me to waste it." The logic train went like this: every person had strength. Therefore, every person had a duty to develop their strength. Therefore, every person had a duty to use their strength in the service of G.o.d. Sometimes that meant skipping rope properly. Sometimes that meant helping a young kid lost in the world who'd been blown into the gym. Sometimes that meant calling me at five o'clock in the morning-I was a college student-and telling me to come over to his house to help him move a refrigerator.

Earl rarely used the word, but his whole system of teaching and his whole way of living was built around the concept of honor. You honored G.o.d by using your time wisely, and you honored your fellow man by treating him with respect. You honored your teacher by calling him "sir," and he honored his students by challenging them to face pain and become stronger. Earl had come to a.s.sociate charity with pain, and he believed that love did its deepest work when applied to a wound.

When our gym was shut by the city, Derrick and I trained on the track at North Carolina Central University instead. Often it rained, and when it rained we couldn't spar or work the bag because our equipment, much of it leather, would be ruined. The rain made our runs fresh-feeling and clean and difficult, but it also turned the dirt patch to mud, and so working the heavy bag became impossible for a day or two. We sparred, but without a ring it was harder to cut a man off and fewer punches were thrown. When it snowed we ran circles around the track, clearing away two paths of red track hidden under a blanket of white.

Usually, as Derrick and I ran in circles around the track, Earl would sprint back and forth across the football field, cheering us on. We were his focus-unless, of course, there were women walking the track. Earl would put a huge smile on his face. "Well h.e.l.lo, ladies, how you doin'?" Earl was sixty-six years old and the women often made the mistake of thinking he was harmless. He would say, "Yeah, these my babies, my boxers." By my junior year, Earl was dating a woman in her early thirties.

Derrick and I ran side by side around the track. We wore our gloves and we threw jabs and uppercuts and hooks and short shoulder punches as we ran. We bobbed our heads behind our hands.

A fence circled the track and guys from Central walked by, outside the fence, and yelled, "Adriaaaaaaane," doing a bad Rocky imitation. Or, "When you all gonna be ready for Tyson?" Or, to me, "Hey, white boy, I'll box witchya. You all need somebody to spar wit your white boy?"

Derrick said, "Don't worry 'bout them, Eric. We got work to do." We kept running.

We pa.s.sed Earl and Earl said, "There they go. What a team." We ran past and he yelled, "One professional world champion and one amateur about to make his mark." Then, as he sat down in the chair that the football coach often left out by the track, Earl said, "Yes sir, gonna get there. This is what we need."

For three years I trained with Derrick and Earl. I had wanted to box in the Golden Gloves tournament my junior year, but I fractured my leg playing football over Christmas break, and the tournament in February of my senior year offered a final chance to compete before graduation.

For weeks I ran in the early darkness of every morning, thought of boxing during the day, and slept hard at night. Before the drive to the tournament, I stepped on the scale and smiled to see that I had cut my weight to 156 pounds. As Earl and I drove through a storm to Charlotte, North Carolina, my stomach was empty and my eyes were clear.

Three years I'd spent sweating at the heavy bag, often until my knuckles bled. The fruit of all that labor was now to be realized in a few fights that-by the rules of amateur boxing-could not last longer than six minutes.

We entered the weigh-in room and saw a fat sweating man sitting behind a table piled with USA Boxing amateur fight booklets and scattered pieces of paper. The top of a pen poked out of his thick hand.

I walked to the man and introduced myself.

"Oh yeah, yeah, from up in Durham. You called me a few times, didn't you? Well, let's get you weighed in."

"One fifty-six." I had hit my weight exactly; 156 was the upper limit for light middleweight.

"Beautiful," Earl said.

"Oh, good. You're a novice." The Novice division of Golden Gloves is for fighters who have competed in no more than ten fights. "Well, we need somebody at Novice Light Middle. With this storm, we've had all kinds of guys cancel on us. We'll be lucky to have twelve fights. Half the card's going to be unopposed. Can't remember last time we had weather like this."

Earl said, "Who's our opponent?"

"Well, we don't have one right now in Novice."

"We want to fight," Earl said.

"Well, we want you to fight, too. But you need an opponent."