The Fallow Season of Hugo Hunter (26 page)

49

Lainie found me asleep in the foyer just after eight and gave me an egg sandwich and some coffee to help knock the sluggishness out of me. She was dressed for work, her hair done up in a little ponytail. What a mess I must have looked in comparison.

“So?” she said.

“Cuts to the face, lacerated spleen, broken ribs, repeated concussions.” I was making a laundry list that broke my wife down, and I pressed on in exhaustion, just wanting to get through it, same as I had with Raj. If I kept it to a simple list, maybe I could keep emotion in check for just a little while. “Broken ankle, broken wrist.”

“Brain damage?” She knew about what the doctor had told him months earlier. Tears fell on her work clothes.

“They’ll know more after the scan,” I said. “Likely. Some, at least. Question is, will he be him on the other side of this? They couldn’t tell me. They just don’t know.”

Lainie pulled me in, and I dropped my head atop her shoulder.

“A week or so here, and then rehab,” I said, answering the remaining unasked question. “And after that—”

“We’ll see what happens,” Lainie said.

Yes. That was it precisely. You can have all the data points you want, you can make strategies all day long, and it doesn’t matter.

For Hugo, the fix—however much of a fix there could be—would have to be an inside job.

Excerpt from the final chapter of
Hugo Hunter: My Good Life and Bad Times

The stories rarely end well for boxers.

For every Sugar Ray who has his money and his mental acuity long after he leaves the fight game, there’s a dozen guys who die penniless in a room without heat, their brains so addled and their lives so scrambled that there’s no saving them. This sport, it uses you up.

I know I’m a lot closer to those guys than I am to Sugar Ray, and I know that my future is full of unknowns.

How long before the physical toll starts to show in my personality, in my loss of memory, in my inability to function even on a simple scale?

How long can I keep staring down the devil of addiction?

What will I do if I fall all the way back down the hill I’ve worked so hard to climb?

I know the questions well. And the answers, it seems, are unknowable.

In the face of all this uncertainty, I try to stay focused on the things I can control. I go to work. I immerse myself in my studies. I lean on the friendships I have. I try to steel myself to reach out to the brother I have and don’t know.

I bend my life toward hope. That there’s some contribution I can make. That I’ll continue to learn. That somebody might love me again.

My friend Mark Westerly and I have an old joke, something that dates back to when I was just a kid and he was a sportswriter who covered me. Whenever I see him, I tell him to keep his chin tucked. It’s my way of saying that life will take a mighty rip at you and try to see how strong you can be. If you keep your chin tucked, it might ding you a bit, but it’ll never hit you square.

All this time I’ve been saying it, and I never stopped to think that I was giving him only half the game plan.

Yeah, you’ve got to keep your chin tucked.

But you also have to keep punching.

50

The first time I saw Hugo Hunter in rehab was tonight, the kind of late-winter Tuesday that makes you think maybe spring is coming after all.

H
e’d
put in his twenty-eight days of inpatient treatment and was moved to sober housing while he prepared himself to go home for good and try to find a way to move in rhythm with the world he was in now. Part of that world lies in his brain, and what the future might bring to it. Thanks to an emerging interest in the lives of those who’ve left blood sports behind, Hugo is going to get some top-notch care, once he’s ready. A team at UCLA wants to scan his brain and see if he shows signs of chronic traumatic encephalopathy, the affliction being uncovered in former NFL players by the score. Closer to home, he’s going to have the cost of his therapy picked up, too. He’s consented to being studied. It’s not exactly the mark he hoped to leave as a boxer, but it may be the biggest contribution he could make. Funny how things work out.

Tuesday is Family Night at the rehab center, a chance for loved ones to step inside the program and get an interior view.

We sat in plastic chairs arranged in a circle. Raj and I flanked Hugo, and Squeaky sat next to me. Lainie would have been there if not for Jo’s baby shower, and even then she vacillated until I told her that w
e’d
be well represented at Hugo’s session and that life should go on as normal for us, that we had to take care of ourselves in addition to supporting Hugo. It wasn’t the kind of thing
I’d
often been inclined to say—it sounded like counselor talk to me—but the truth is
I’d
been hitting some Al-Anon meetings for a few weeks.
I’d
had the time, and
I’d
begun to see the wisdom.

After w
e’d
introduced ourselves, the whole I’m-so-and-so-and-I-or-my-loved-one-has-a-disease thing, the counselor, a freshly minted college grad, asked if anyone wanted to start.

Hugo, thin pink lines crossing his face from the recently excised stitches, raised his hand. For the first time, he told his story. All of it. The truth.

The cocaine started a few months before we got to London, and it carried on as long as the money did. When Hugo got clean, he got back on track—right up to the days before the Qwai fight, when nerves overtook him and he began gorging on food to keep from seeking out a fix.

“Every bad thing that happened was because of a choice I made,” he said. The declaration bought Hugo a lot of goodwill from the other addicts in the room that night. They spoke directly to him, no punches pulled, and told him to keep owning his problem, that it was the only route to a lasting recovery. The night was his, but I got something out of it, too. I put my burden down.

After the session, I walked Hugo back to the house he shared with two other men trying to scramble back into the game. He hobbled on a cane, his right ankle in a cast. We lingered on the landing, just old friends catching up. It had been four weeks since
I’d
seen him. It felt like a hell of a lot longer than that.

“I’m proud of you,” I said.

“Thanks, Mark.” He smiled, but then it crumbled into a worrisome look. “Frank didn’t come. He’s mad at me, I guess.”

“Not your problem.”

“I wish he had, though.”

“Maybe he just needs time. You did. Anyway, like I said—”

“Not my problem.” He brightened. “Amber said sh
e’d
come next week.”

“That’s great.” I clapped him on the arm. “That’s really great, Hugo. Lainie and I will be there, too.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“Same old. Getting ready for our arrival. I’m painting a nursery, hanging some wallpaper, that kind of stuff. Working part-time at Costco as a stocker. I have lots of time.”

“You’re going to be a great dad.”

I probably smiled bigger than I wanted to. “I hope,” I said.

“I’m sorry about your job,” he said.

I waved him off. “Don’t be.”

I sure as hell wasn’t sorry. Trimear found me in the hospital cafeteria the second day Hugo was in. He sat down opposite me, head bobbing in double time, and said, “You had to know w
e’d
find out where he was eventually. You didn’t have to lie to Bobby.”

“I didn’t much care. Nothing personal.”

“You used to care. You were a damn good journalist once.”

“I’m trying to be a better friend. Anyway, I didn’t care about the job anymore, so I left. You ought to be glad about that.”

“I’m not,” he said.

“I can’t help you, then.”

He stood up and left, and I haven’t heard from him since.

“So, listen,” I said to Hugo, “you given any thought to what you’re going to do once you’re done here?”

Hugo’s face lit up. “Yeah, actually. I’m going back to school. Get my GED, then try college.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s what I want to do. These guys I’ve been talking to, they said the best thing I can do is keep my mind engaged. Seems like the place to do it. Raj said h
e’d
help with the cost.” Hugo may have been prone to squandering a fortune, but his son had gone to the bank with the money from nearly a decade earlier, the money Hugo didn’t want to release. I stood amazed at how the past kept revisiting us in new forms.

“I think it’s great, Hugo. Really great. Aurelia would be proud.”

“Thanks, man.”

I held him by the arm. I didn’t want him to go.

“Hugo, have you given any thought to what I told you about? You know—”

“My brother,” he finished. “Yeah. Sometimes, I don’t think about anything else, and then I remind myself that this is my fight right now. This is all I have time for. There’ll be time for other things later.”

“Yeah.”

“But I’m glad you told me,” he said. “Truly.”

I released my hold.

“Listen,” he said. “
I’d
better get in.”

He offered a handshake, and he should have known better than that. I grabbed him and pulled him into a hug. A bro hug. What brothers do.

I walked across the lawn toward the parking lot, through the brown weeds that had been choked out by winter. I checked my watch. Six o’clock. Lainie would be home soon, waiting for me and my report. I thought about grabbing some cheeseburgers, then discarded that notion. I was living for three now.

I opened the car door and slipped into the seat.

“Mark!”

Here came Hugo, easing his way down the hill, leaning into his cane.

I retracted the window and leaned out. “I forget something?” I asked.

“No, I did.” He rested his arms in the window opening and sucked down a few breaths.

“What?”

“You remember that time I told you about how I wasn’t self-aware? I’m working on it. One of my things is that I forget to inquire about other people.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, no. I’m asking. What about you, Mark? What are you going to do?”

“I’ve given it some thought.”

“I bet you have.” He had a smile like I was in on some kind of private joke.

“I’ve got a kid on the way. That’s the main thing,” I said. “But I’ve been thinking about your book idea. You still want to do that?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Did you ever do the writing I asked you to do?”

That sheepish look again. “Some,” he said. “It’s at the house.
I’d
like to take another shot at it.”

“Well, when you’re ready, start writing down what you want to say. I’ve made some notes, dredged up some memories. I think it would be fun to help you write about that.”

“The adventures we’ve had?” he said.

“Yeah, I guess so. The adventures you’ve had.”

He stood up and offered a handshake. I accepted.

“I think you’ve gotta help me, Mark. Nobody else can keep me honest like you can. We’ve got to make sure it’s the truth, OK? Stories are so much better when they’re true.”

With that, he turned away and started inching back up the hill. I watched as he moved away from me. Home, for now, lay just a few steps away. He was safe, for now. Beyond that, I could only hope. But that’s the future for all of us, when you think about it. No guarantees. Just preparation and hope. It’s all we have, and it has to be enough.

I backed the car out and made my way to Twenty-Seventh Street for the ride up the hill and along the backbone of the Rimrocks, here in the place that
I’d
always called my own. It seemed less familiar now, more imbued with possibility and discovery. For Hugo, everything was just getting started. For me, too. Damn. Wh
o’d
have guessed?

I crested the hill into dusk and turned right. The city twinkled below me, each light a sentry and a song. I gave it all a quick look, and then I got on with the business of getting home. I’ve found my happiness, and I know my friend is trying to find his.

I know this much, too: never again will we keep our hearts waiting.

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A lot goes into a book, more than I’ll probably remember to mention here. I’m fortunate enough to have a family that supports my dreams, always, and a team that makes my ideas come alive on the page (be it print or electronic).

To my family, near and far, thank you. Much love to all.

My early readers pull no punches: Jim Thomsen, Jill Munson, Jill Rupert, Michele McCormack, Cheryl Schamp, Steve Prosinski, you have my undying thanks.

Mollie Glick, my agent, looks out for my interests with great cheer and a tough mind.

The folks at Lake Union Publishing have gone around a few blocks with me now: Terry Goodman, my editor, sees the potential in what I do and, more important, the areas where I can improve; Charlotte Herscher, my developmental editor, makes everything she touches better; the copy editors and designers and marketers bring great skill to their work; and, of course, the inimitable Jessica Poore and the author support team keep everything moving. I’m grateful for you all.

Finally, none of this would mean much without the readers waiting on the other end. The tweets, the e-mails, the Facebook posts, the reviews provide great sustenance in what is often a lonely venture. For anyone who’s spent a few hours with my work, my gratitude knows no bounds. Thank you.