A Fighter's Heart: One Man's Journey Through the World of Fighting (32 page)

Later we walked with Virgil and spoke a little about God, and Virgil was serious but not preachy, a very deft touch. He made it clear that you have to think for yourself; don’t fall under the persuasion of an eloquent preacher with his own agenda. Find it for yourself by reading John and Proverbs.

We had all done a careful dance around faith, Virgil careful not to ask me directly how I felt, and I careful not to say—because my feelings are complicated, and I don’t express them well. But here Virgil said, almost in passing, “You should learn more about God, Sam,” and Dre paid me the best compliment I’d ever heard: “God could use a man like you.”

Fight day arrived, and the tension started building early in the morning during breakfast. There was talk about the different types of gloves—a puncher’s glove (like Everlast) versus a boxer’s glove—and how a puncher’s glove with less padding can jack up your hands. At this level, every little advantage is exploited, every opening seized, reflective not so much of an actual advantage but rather a viewpoint, a method of thinking. Virgil and T (of Prince’s entourage) sat and talked to Dre and me, and T told a story of an opponent who came on and won a fight, and ended with, “You got to take these bums serious.” He wasn’t lecturing Dre but just speaking a thought that was hanging in the ether—there was no danger of Dre taking his opponent lightly. He said, “I don’t care if I’m fighting a guy who’s 0–12, I’m still going to bed early—nothing changes.”

Then T and Virg got up and I sat with Dre to keep him company while he finished his oatmeal and fruit. He was in a chatty mood and talked for a while about his dad, his white father, who had been superman to Dre—he could do anything. He would take no shit from big men. “Every year some big black dude in the neighborhood would give him some shit about his two black kids, and he would never back down.” He would get mad and protective. Dre felt the same way, ferociously protective of his children.

He spoke about his dad’s sudden death again, and how it had left him searching for answers. “I still am looking for answers, even though I know God has his purpose. He’s still with me—I am him and he is me. We will meet again, I believe that.” Dre looked at me with those sad eyes.

The day wore on interminably, and now I could feel the tension coming off Dre, not nervous about fighting but just wanting to get started. After a light lunch, Dre, Virg, and I walked across the steaming hot parking lot, under the brilliant sun, and talked about politics, oil, and the vast conspiracy that we all can just barely sense under the surface, that conspiracy theory being something I share with the African American community.

Finally, we left the hotel, with bags and gear and nice clothes. On the way out, a cleaning lady called to Dre, “Y’all come back victorious.” Dre smiled and said, “I got no choice.”

Underneath the FedEx Forum there was the same clean, impersonal corporate athletic feel that all these stadiums had. Dre’s dressing room was pretty small, and Virg took one look at it and told me it was too small for me to be in there watching, so I went and found my seat. I understood Virgil’s desire to keep the dressing room pure—I can appreciate the mind-set that refuses my entry, the maintenance of professionalism. Rachel and Dan Goossen had gotten me an excellent seat, out with the other reporters and journalists. I had my big laminated ringside media pass around my neck, warding off security with it like a cross against vampires. And I was just in time to witness the first of several executions.

The undercard held the worst mismatches I had ever seen anywhere. No one else was too amazed; it must be a pretty common occurrence. There was a spate of quick stoppages, and Virgil joined me to watch, as Dre didn’t need to be ready for a while yet. A trainer who knew Virgil, and whose fighter had just KO’d some slob, muttered as he went by, “I wish he’d put up a fight.”

The worst case was that of Anthony Peterson (maybe 14–0), a muscular black kid in against a short, hairy-backed, white balding dude without skills or grace, a guy from Arizona who was supposedly 3–0. It looked like a complete mismatch, and it was. In the first round Anthony moved around him and then caught him with his first punch, a deep swinging hook to the chin and the guy went down and flipped over like a sack of rice. There was a lot of razzing and catcalls, and he took a long time to get up, with the paramedics helping him out, but finally he did stand, smile shakily, and wave. Fans were taunting him, but Virgil called, “You awright, man” as the guy walked in front of us, and I looked at V and saw him purse his lips and shake his head.

Ann Wolfe was fighting a Canadian named Marsha Valley, whom she’d fought a few times before, and Ann was clobbering her, but Marsha was pretty game. Marsha was no threat to Ann; she was nearly part of Ann’s retinue (Pops, Ann’s trainer, had clapped for Marsha when she came out).

A famous promoter was sitting behind me, and I heard him say loudly, “If I put on this mismatch with men, the commission would have me in a lot of trouble,” and I thought,
Did you see the earlier fights?
Marsha couldn’t fight a lick and had no idea how to punch, but she moved around and had plenty of spirit and made Ann work and stalk her for six rounds in a contained, workmanlike fashion. Ann fought like a man and hit like a man; she started digging monster shots to the body and put Marsha down in the sixth. When Marsha got up, Ann came after her with another body shot in the exact same place and that ended it. Ann made seventy-five grand and Marsha made six. None of these undercard executions were on TV, and most people never get to see this stuff.

The crowd would mutter and chat, and the place wasn’t even close to full yet. The cheers would come when big shots landed, for displays of animosity or rage, and for showboating. I suddenly realized,
The crowd cheers the punch, not the fighter.
For the most part, they don’t really know who the guy is, or the narrative drive behind each and every fighter. They don’t care, but when they see a big punch, a great shot, there is a collective yell that escapes everyone’s lips. It’s the visceral thrill of impact—you
know
that one hurt—that charges the audience. It’s why pro wrestling is popular, it’s the spectacle of the big hit, the massive pile driver off the top ropes. A big punch does something to the crowd. It connects the crowd and turns it briefly into a single animal, reveling in awe and rejoicing in the physical power.

Eight o’clock and finally it is Andre’s fight. The ring announcer, Bruce Buffer, calls out “Ann-draayyy Ess-Oh-Gee Waaard,” and Andre enters to gospel music by Kirk Franklin.

There is tension out there for us in his entourage—anything can happen, this is a fight. We all know that Aragon shouldn’t be a challenege for Andre, but everyone also knows that he better not have any trouble, he better not screw up. The fights only get bigger from here out.

Andre is the bigger man at 160 and obviously enjoying it. Aragon is hopelessly outclassed from the opening bell. Andre is tight and under control—he doesn’t come out looking to kill, he just moves and pops crisp jabs through Aragon’s guard, knocking his head back each time. Tap. Tap. By the second round, it is obvious that Andre is in no danger; his control of the distance is complete, and Aragon has no way of addressing the issue, no tool that might allow him to mix things up.

Andre takes his time, and Aragon stops punching and starts trying to survive. Early in the third, Andre switches briefly, he steps into southpaw and catches Aragon moving with a straight left that rattles him, and the ref, looking for an excuse, jumps in and stops the fight. Aragon reveals how hurt he is when he takes a huge stumble and wobble on drunkard’s legs. It feels a little anticlimactic, but Aragon has nowhere to go, no chance of anything.

Andre took a few bows and thanked Aragon, and there was a sense of relief among us all at ringside: Andre had performed; he was on track and still anchored to his destiny.

Among the retinue backstage, the release from prefight tension had people talking nonstop. Virgil was going on about Andre’s need to be ruthless, though my sense of the fight was that Andre was so unchallenged that he had not been feeling too aggressive—he was so safe and secure that he could take his time and get the other guy out when he wanted. There was a very professional, old-school feel to what Dre had done; he had felt his opponent out, allowed him his two rounds, and then pressured him just slightly, just enough to get him to crack. It was beautiful in its restraint and control, the safety of his fight. Andre could have gone ten more rounds, just like that. The caliber of opponent that will bring out his best is going to be world class. He won’t come out guns blazing, swinging at trees and knocking down walls; it’s not his style. He had said to me, “I’m not fighting for nobody but God, my family, and myself. I hear people talk about me—oh, he can’t do this, he can’t hit, however it is—I know how to win. I’ve been winning a long time. If I can get out of a fight unscathed, without getting hit, and that displeases you, then so be it. I ain’t fighting for you. The brain wasn’t made to get hit.”

He’ll come out fast and tight and under complete control, and destroy you with speed and poise. “Not a superstar but a guy who consistently beats superstars—a shining star,” Virgil said.

Right after the fight, I stood with Andre in the hallway while he waited to take his piss test. He mentioned how, during the Olympics, he had been nervous about it because he had been taking multivitamins.

We all stood in a circle and held hands and prayed, thankful, and for the safety of Aragon and everyone else in the ring that night. Dre was still wired, praying, “Praise God for this team, and protect this team, vindicate yourself and us, make believers out of these commentators and not just in me but in you, oh Lord, love to all and thank you.”

While waiting, Andre could barely contain himself, leaping and pacing about, the Vaseline still gleaming on his face. He talked about how he could hear the ring commentators, Jim Lampley and Larry Merchant, clearly throughout the fight and how their disparaging comments (they thought he was matched too easy) had motivated him. I asked about the fight.

“He was on queer street,” Andre said. “I’m glad they stopped it because I was coming with another big left. I don’t believe that God’s blessings will take me anywhere that his grace won’t sustain me. You got to be ready for anything in this business, it’s an ice-cold business.” He laughed. “I’m telling you it is.”

The main event had packed the place to the rafters and charged the air. Virgil muttered to me that he thought Tarver might knock old Glencoffe out. Both fighters were versions of the truth, they both had their own stories—but only one version would survive the meeting.

“Tarver looks more
composed
than last time,” said Virgil. The fight started off going Tarver’s way and stayed there. Tarver had made the adjustment; he had the better game plan. He went high and low, he made Glen pay, he changed up the rhythms and threw Glen off. By round four, Virgil raised his eyebrows at me and said, “Tarver’s fighting a real smart fight.”

Tarver would step back and counter, even potshotting and having fun sometimes, tip-tap
-boom!
But Glen had a great chin, and he kept coming with his quick steps and his face shining with determination. His face gleamed like a ship at sea, and he was throwing big body shots that Tarver was rolling with. Glen was very hardheaded—he had a real set of whiskers, a steel chin—but that wasn’t going to be enough. Tarver outfought him, especially early—he confused him and kept him off balance with a series of pitty-pat punches and then a hard one in there, pit-pat-pit-pat-
bam
. He kept Glen out of his rhythm. Tarver tired, and in the last few rounds he did barely enough to survive and win, and Glen was still coming hard, but it was too late. Tarver won a unanimous decision, but I had the feeling that if the fight had been fifteen rounds, Glen would have had his lunch.

Memphis was done, and we all packed up and filtered out, back to Oakland. Just a day later, and I was back at King’s, hitting the heavy bag like we had never left, and Virgil was watching me with a mildly disgusted look on his face. He shook his head.

“We’re going to have to throw that right hand a lot, because that jab isn’t enough to keep him off, that pat-pat double jab ain’t nothing. I know it’s your shoulder and it hasn’t come on like it should have, but you are going to have to make him respect the right hand.” I tried to make that double jab stick and flung myself at the bag with everything, but the jab was still weak, a mincing love tap.

“I’ll be honest with you,” Virgil said. “If you were still hitting like this after a year, then boxing ain’t for you. For three months, you are doing good.”

After the workout, Virgil looked weary and said to me, “We have to focus on your fight now. Straight punches, keep everything in front of you. We’re going to utilize what we’ve got, and I’ve seen that right hand, so that’s going to be the main weapon. Make him respect the right, let him know that you can hurt him with that hand, and then win the fight from there. Three things. One: straight punches. Two: good defense, hands up and under control. Three: conditioning. And we’ll beat him.”

We fell back into our seamless, timeless routine, training and running. I would meet with Heather and work on my defense, and I would meet Virgil for coffee and walk or run the lake.

One typical sunny afternoon, Virgil and I were walking the lake, stepping carefully around goose shit and talking. I asked him about his family, his brothers, and how he was led into fighting. “When I was six or seven, I was the best slap-fighter in elementary school,” he said, and I thought back to my childhood memories of slap-fighting with my dad, his face serious (not that the blows were) and his hands as big as my head, knifing through the air. No one at my school would slap-fight with me. Virgil told stories of his uncles and their street-fighting days. How his grandfather had such fearsome hands that he used to keep them in his back pockets, to show peaceful intentions.