Do You Think This Is Strange? (16 page)

Jack stepped forward to within arm's reach and jabbed me in the cheek. He stepped forward again and jabbed me in the nose. I tried to step back, but my head was already leaning back, and I was off balance, so my foot went back slower than expected. I suspect this resulted in my feet no longer being the correct distance apart. When Jack Sweat hit me again, I lost my balance, falling to the canvas.

I lay on my back and processed what had just happened.

No threads.

“Well, I guess that's that,” said the Butcher and turned away.

I stood up. In fact, I leapt to my feet. It was twenty-two seconds into the round. I spit my mouthguard into my hand and said, “Best two out of three.”

The Butcher stopped. He paused before turning back to look at me.

“Best two out of three,” I said again.

The Butcher shook his head. “Kid, you ain't got it.”

I turned to Jack Sweat. “You can knock me down once, but you cannot knock me down two times before I can knock you down two times.” I understood this was the correct literal method of appealing a loss.

Jack shook his head and smiled. “Your funeral.”

The Butcher shrugged. “Back to your corners, then.”

I went to my corner and stood there, facing the centre of the ring. The Butcher, standing beside the bell, stared at me for a moment, scratched his nose, then came over to me.

“I was keeping my feet the correct distance apart,” I said.

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Worry about keeping your hands up. Don't let him hit you in the face. You got that?”

I nodded.

“Okay,” he said and began to step down from the ropes. He stopped and stood back up. He leaned over and said quietly, “When he jabs at you, you block both punches, 'cause there's gonna be two, got it?”

I nodded again.

“His hands are too low. After he punches twice, he'll pause just a second before stepping forward with his right. When he pauses, you jab. Got it?”

I nodded. “With which hand?”

“With this one.” He grabbed my right glove and shook it.

He stepped down and rang the bell again.

I stepped forward.

—

Jack and I met in the middle of the ring, and I stopped just out of his arm's reach. My feet were the correct distance apart, my gloves were in front of my face, close together. Jack jabbed. I blocked with my gloves. He jabbed again, and I blocked again. He slipped to my right. Leaning across, he tucked his shoulder and swung a left hook into my rib cage. I said something about it.

I said, “Oomph.”

My hand dropped to protect my rib; he straightened up and delivered a left hook to my jaw. The mouthguard flew out of my mouth, and I lost my balance again. He punched me straight in the nose and my knees no longer responded to orders. Toppling to the floor, I lay on my back, staring straight up.

“Okay,” said the Butcher, “that about wraps it up.”

I lay on my back. My eyes traced the ductwork that ran across the ceiling like subway tunnels.

“Best three out of five,” I said, grinning.

I try not to smile. It's better for all concerned.

I smiled the day my father told me that my mother would not be coming home again. He, on the other hand, wasn't smiling. I had heard him the night before, and deep into the morning, his banging around in the kitchen, his watching television in the living room.

His eyes were puffy and red, and I knew he needed to be comforted. I recalled relevant scenes in literature and concluded that a good way to comfort an unhappy person is to try to cheer them up. Relevant examples also included affirming the individual by overly praising them.

I smiled as broadly as I could. “Well, that's fantastic,” I said to my father and did not break the smile. “You should be very proud.”

Perhaps my smile was too wide—I couldn't tell.

I am, at the age of seventeen, a veteran of this war, this battle to communicate with the outside world before it communicates with me. I have lost many battles where I smiled when I shouldn't have smiled.

A neutral demeanour resonates with my character. It isn't hostile, so others aren't threatened. It isn't happy, so others aren't chatty. It's so perfect a display of no opinion, that few people think I have an opinion. As a result, few people ask for one.

When I don't offer an opinion, when I don't offer a response, when I don't display easily misinterpreted emotions, I don't get into trouble.

I used to think my solution to life was to understand how to talk to other people. In reality, the solution to my life is to understand how to
avoid
talking to other people.

And that's why I never smile.

Yet that day in the Butcher's Gym I lay on my back—my mouthguard on the canvas beside me, a sinew of spittle stretching back to my mouth—I lay there and I smiled.

“Best three out of five,” I said loudly, with gusto.

The Butcher looked at me and said, “Kid, you ain't got it.”

I sat up. Still smiling. My nose ached, and my left ribs ached, but I was suddenly and inexplicably happy. This sparked a thread that asked,
Why are you happy? You just got punched.

The thread didn't take long to close. I was happy because I was enjoying this.

But a new thread appeared.
What are you enjoying?

Shut up, silly thread, I thought.

I stood up. “Best three out of five,” I said, and the Butcher shook his head.

“Get out of the ring, kid,” he said. “Go take up power walking or something to get in shape.”

I walked to my corner and turned around to face the centre of the ring. “Best three out of five,” I repeated.

Jack snorted and smiled with one side of his mouth.

“Laugh it up, fuzzball,” I said to him.

His smile disappeared.

—

There is a scene in
The Empire Strikes Back
where Han Solo turns to his best friend Chewbacca, who is laughing at him, and says, “Laugh it up, fuzzball.” I said it to Jack because he was laughing at me and I was certain that Jack was my best friend.

Friends play games together. Boxing was a game. We agreed upon the rules and tested each other in friendly competition. Which is just what Excalibur House always told me would happen. I was playing a game with Jack, he was my friend, and because I had no other friends, he was
de facto
my best friend.

Jack, however, hadn't discovered this yet.

“What did you just call me?” Jack demanded and walked over. He stood inches from me and was not acting like my friend. All the evidence indicated that I had angered him.

“Best three out of five,” I said.

He pushed me back into the corner ropes and I bounced back up at him. “Stop grinning,” he said.

I stopped smiling. Looked to the side, away from his glare. And started grinning again.

“Best three out of five,” he agreed and went back to his corner.

“Kid, you're a frickin' stubborn idiot,” the Butcher said.

“He hit me in the ribs,” I said to the Butcher. “You didn't say he would hit me in the ribs.”

“Keep your elbows tucked in. They'll protect your rib cage. Make your punches come out quicker. You almost caught him. Keep your hands up.” He stepped down, then looked back up at me. “This is your last chance. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said.

He raised his hand to ring the bell, and I told him to wait a moment.

There were several threads in my head.

How do I stop him from hitting my face?

I can move my head.

How do I stop him from hitting my ribs?

Keep my elbows tucked in at my sides.

Where else can he hit me?

He can hit me on the side of my head.

How do I stop him from hitting me?

He can't hit me if I hit him first.

I reviewed the moments before he had hit me. Both times, he bobbed before he threw his right hand. Just before he slipped my punch to come in with a right hook, he moved his head to the right slightly, and then to the left.

He had tells. I just found two of his tells.

I turned to the Butcher. “I'm ready,” I said, staring straight into his eyes.

Let's do this thing
, the threads said and went silent.

I opened my eyes
and I was fourteen. Jack Sweat met me in the middle of the ring.

He jabbed and I blocked. I jabbed and he blocked. We circled, and he tested me, looking for the perfect opening. He stepped in, jabbed twice, paused, and bobbed his head. As he was throwing his right hand, I jabbed with my left. I caught him square in the jaw, and his punch pawed the air. He stepped back, his brow furrowed.

Jab, block. Jab, block.

I tucked my elbows in as he came at me with a hard right hook that hit me in the arm; he followed with a left hook that caught me high on the shoulder. But I stepped back as he shot out the left cross, the one that was supposed to knock me down. It missed me completely. I saw him about to come in with a right hook.

I threw one of my own.

I didn't aim for his face. I aimed for the spot where his head would be after he tried to slip my hook. I hit him hard on his forehead. Both of his feet came together and he was off balance as he tried to straighten up. He appeared to be uncertain of what was happening. His eyes were unfocused, and his hands waved slightly as if they were no longer under his control.

As he straightened, I followed with a right cross to his jaw and he spun to his right, staggered away from me, then tumbled face first onto the canvas.

It was a knockdown. I knocked him down.

—

When I sent Jack Sweat to the canvas, I thought I was going to be yelled at by the Butcher, but he didn't speak. He stood by the bell, not moving, watching his son, who was immediately back on his feet, brushing his gloves on the front of his shirt.

“I slipped,” said Jack. He looked earnestly at his father. “I slipped.”

“Of course you did, Nancy,” said the Butcher.

Jack Sweat grimaced. He raised his hands and faced me. “Let's go!” he said.

I stepped forward. I didn't step forward because he told me to. I didn't step forward because I was afraid of disobeying him. I didn't step forward because I was confused and uncertain about what to do.

I stepped forward because I wanted to fight some more.

We met at the centre of the ring.

Friendship gets forged by shared trauma. So it was that the second friend I ever made was a boxer, for we shared an experience that required no verbalization.

Because I was willing to let him hit me, and he was willing to let me hit him, we came to see each other as equals.

Because we endured being hit by each other without complaint, we came to respect each other.

People with autism often have a refined skill, such as a photographic memory, the ability to play music, or a talent at advanced math.

I have boxing.

From the first day I put on gloves, I knew boxing was something that I was good at. Within a few weeks of training at the Butcher's Gym every Tuesday and Thursday evening, I became Jack Sweat's sparring partner.

During the first few weeks after picking up gloves, I was consistently out-boxed and beaten by Jack, but I consistently gave him a challenge, and I improved with every match.

For his part, the Butcher was happy that he had a quiet, obedient, and even-tempered sparring partner for his son. In the evenings, Jack and I duelled for an hour. Most rounds were light, but sometimes they grew heated and competitive. On those occasions, I lost, but I held my ground enough that I saw a look on Jack's face that I had never seen before. At least not directed toward me.

It took me another few weeks to understand that the look was one of respect.

—

Because there was no need to talk about any of this, we enjoyed each other's company. Unlike the rest of humanity, Jack Sweat had no constant throbbing need to say something to fill empty spaces.

Jack preferred to avoid useless conversation. In his case, I think there was a secondary motivation: Jack Sweat truly didn't like people. He strove to be outside the centre of attention. When he spoke, he preferred to speak of things with purpose, with a point.

Our friendship began soon after the Butcher agreed to teach me to box. Two weeks into my training, he took me upstairs to his apartment and showed me
DVD
s of famous boxing matches.

The three of us sat in the living room while the Butcher played key rounds from Ali–Foreman, Leonard–Hagler, and Tyson–Lewis. Jack's father, and sometimes Jack, talked throughout, but it didn't bother me, because I knew no one expected a response from me. They were instructing me, and I liked being instructed. I could listen without having to construct responses.

This became a regular occurrence. We would review old fights, with the Butcher pointing out subtleties in the stances, the shifts of momentum, the ebbing moments. He talked throughout each round and even as he got up, walked to the kitchen, and took three Heinekens from the fridge. He talked as he came back and gave us each a bottle of beer.

The first time he did this, I held the beer in front of me and stared at it.

Jack noticed my reticence. “Have you ever had a beer before?” he asked. I shook my head. He reached over and twisted off the cap.

“Just sip it slowly,” he said. I did. It tasted terrible, but I said nothing, for it was apparent that drinking beer with Jack and the Butcher was a required activity.

I didn't mind. That day the Butcher sat on the couch, and both Jack and I remained silent, for over an hour, as he talked rapidly and non-stop about each fight.

He was like Oscar Tolstoy, except with less data and more visual aids.

I would sit in a sofa chair, and Jack would sit with his father on the couch, and we'd watch the fights, while Jack and the Butcher talked. To me. To the television. To each other.