The Bullet Meant for Me 9781477306338

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The B u l l e t Meant f o r Me

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A L S O

B Y

T h e Improbable

J A N

Rise

R E I D

of Redneck

Rock

D e e r i n w a t e r (a novel)

Vain

Close

Boy

Genius:

K a r l Rove

Glory

C a l l s : J a n Reid's

Texas

(with L o u Dubose and C a r l M . Cannon)

T h e H a m m e r : Tom D e L a y (with L o u Dubose)

Rio Grande

Splendor

i n the Short

Grass: T h e Grover

Lewis

Reader

(edited w i t h W . K . Stratton)

U n i v e r s i t y o f Texas P r e s s Austin

The B u l l e t Meant For Me

JAN REID

C o p y r i g h t © 2 0 0 2 , 2 0 0 5 by Jan R e i d A l l rights reserved

First U n i v e r s i t y o f Texas Press p r i n t i n g , 2005

Requests for p e r m i s s i o n to reproduce material from this w o r k s h o u l d be sent to: Permissions U n i v e r s i t y o f Texas Press P.O. B o x

7819

Austin, T X 78713-7819 www.utexas.edu/utpress/about/bperrnission.html

The

paper used i n this b o o k meets the m i n i m u m requirements o f

A N S I / N I S O Z 3 9 . 4 8 - 1 9 9 2 ( R 1 9 9 7 ) (Permanence o f Paper).

L i b r a r y o f Congress C a t a l o g i n g - i n - P u b l i c a t i o n D a t a (from

t h e first p r i n t i n g )

R e i d , Jan. The

bullet meant for m e / Jan R e i d . — 1 s t ed. p.

cm.

1. R e i d , J a n — H e a l t h . 2. Paraplegics—Texas—Biography. I. T i t l e .

R C 4 0 6 . P 3 R 4 4 5 2002 362.4 3 092—dc21 ,

,

2001043193

D e s i g n e d by C l a i r e Vaccaro

ISBN 0-292-70973-0 (pbk.: . paper)

f o r D o r o t h y and L i l a

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Acknowledgment s

Some books y o u never mean to write. In June 1998,1 was finally out o f the hospitals and free to countenance the idea o f w o r k i n g again. I rolled m y wheelchair out to m y office w i t h m y dogs at the rear, and they circled and settled i n o n the sofa as i f n o t h i n g had changed. M y wheelchair made a snug fit against the desk; I turned o n the c o m puter. I had many years o f w o r k invested i n two half-finished novels, and m y slam dance w i t h mortality made me want to get them done at once. B u t for a day and then a week I couldn't finish a paragraph. T h e phone kept r i n g i n g : Well-wishers and scheduling w i t h m y n e w d o c tors and therapists and the friends w h o had volunteered to drive me about. I got n o t h i n g done. I couldn't walk and n o w I couldn't write. It scared me. T h e n an o l d friend and colleague called. E m i l y Yoffe told me she was w r i t i n g n o w for the on-line magazine Slate,

and its editors

wanted me to take a turn w i t h a feature called "Diary." I w o u l d w r i t e just three or four hundred words o f details and reflections o n m y n e w life for five consecutive days. I thought, W e l l , a g o o d way to k n o c k the rust off is to take o n daily deadlines. B y Tuesday's piece I was enjoying the exercise. O n l y one segment wore o n l o n g enough that I began

Acknowledgment s

(x)

to make m y editor, C y r u s K r o h n , nervous I wouldn't deliver. After reading the first couple o f those pieces, my friend R o y H a m r i c had e-mailed: " G o deeper, i f y o u can." I decided that before getting back to the books I wanted to write one essay about M e x i c o and m y friendship w i t h a deported fighter and h o w events converged i n a cab ride that laid waste to my life and almost finished it. M a r t i n Beiser at G Q was generous enough to take o n that piece. I really thought that w o u l d be the end o f it. T h e n from m y agent, J i m Hornfischer, I learned that a y o u n g editor at Broadway B o o k s , Suzanne Oaks, had seen and admired the Slate

diaries. J i m asked i f he

could show her the manuscript o f the G Q essay, and later he arranged a phone conversation between us. Suzanne told me she saw a b o o k i n this, but that I had to think hard about whether I wanted to write it. I did that, and concluded I needed to take it on. I had no idea h o w wrenching the w o r k w o u l d become. G o o d editing is often m o u r n e d as a lost art these days. That was not my experience here. A t times I thought Suzanne was r i d i n g an o l d horse hard. B u t she got me to focus, trim, and reconsider, and that produced a better b o o k than it w o u l d have been. I ' m indebted to Suzanne's able and energetic assistant, Claire Johnson. B i l l Hauptman, D a v i d M c C o r m i c k , M a r c y Garriott, and Texas M o n t h l y ' s editor, Evan Smith, gave me encouragement and valuable advice along the way. A n d D o r o t h y and Lila, m y valiant wife and daughter, stuck w i t h i t — w i t h me!—until it was finally done. I must thank some doctors: R o b e r t o Castañeda, Francisco R e villa, James " R e d " D u k e , G u y Clifton, W i l l i a m D o n o v a n , K e n n e t h Parsons, D a v i d Harris, D a v i d Phillips, and H o w a r d Marcus. Therapists Sherry Dunbar, Theresa Gregorio-Torres, K r i s t i n M u r p h y , M e l i n d a Longtain, and W e n d y Kamasaki have my enduring love and gratitude. I received compassionate and first-rate medical care i n M e x i c o . A n d for all the criticism one hears about managed care i n the U n i t e d States, the medical system worked for me. N o r m a n Chenven, our

Acknowledgment s

(xi)

longtime friend and once our family physician, was i n an administrative position to make sure that was the case, every step o f the way. I can't imagine h o w it w o u l d have gone w i t h o u t N o r m a n and his d e d i cated caseworkers, D i a n e H o s m e r and B o b b y Claussen. I w i l l never forget the remarkable gathering o f m e n w h o walked one by one into m y M e x i c o C i t y hospital r o o m w h e n I first came out o f the murk; the colleagues w h o took it u p o n themselves to get me back to Texas w h e n time was a critical factor i n m y rehabilitation and, as soon as I was able, put me back to w o r k ; the r i c h assortment o f friends whose c o m m o n b o n d is a h o m e l y b o x i n g g y m ; the writers and musicians w h o shared their talent to lighten the financial strain o n me and m y family, and o n those evenings brought m u c h g o o d rowdy cheer to Austin. I can't begin to name all the friends whose letters, calls, and gestures buoyed me w h e n the outlook was g r i m . A n uncle i n West Texas told me recently: " Y o u ought to come out and meet some o f the people w h o were praying for you." Indeed I should. T h e only way I can repay m y debts is to try to be as k i n d to people as they have been to me. Thanks to them, I can move o n now. I can turn the page.

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Let me not enter their let me not j o i n their for they have killed and hamstrung

council, assembly,

men in their

oxen as they

anger

pleased.

G E N E S I S

In boxing

we have this saying:

"I'm

gonna

put my head on your chest." M e a n s I' m take the best you got and come right all your defenses. In the first

fight

gonna

through against

M u h a m m a d , Joe F r a z i e r did that. To a m a n as great as M u h a m m a d A l i . After

that, Joe never was quite the

W h a t else did he have to

same.

prove?

G E O R G E

F O R E M A N

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Contents

Prologue

PART

1

ONE

13

PART TWO

137

Epilogue Postscript: Photographs

233

A Toast follow

page

241 112

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Prologue

Mexico C i t y A p r i l 20, 1998 In the lambent sprawl o f Plaza Garibaldi mariachis stood about w i t h slim hopes o f anyone h i r i n g them. It was a little after one a.m. B u t the roving beer hawkers were still busy yanking cans from ring-tops o f six-packs and offering singles for a few pesos. M i k e H a l l noticed that we were the only gringos anywhere i n sight. I was oblivious to that but I w i n c e d o n seeing J o h n Spong and D a v i d C o u r t n e y buy two more M o d e l o s . I was ready to call it a night. I was fifty-three, the only one among us w h o was married. M i k e , the next oldest at forty, was a thin, soft-spoken man w h o had tanked a small career as a rock songwriter and recording artist so he c o u l d make a better l i v i n g as a magazine editor and journalist. H i s laugh was b o t h soft and explosive, and d u r i n g the l o n g weekend we had gone from being colleagues to friends; w i t h fine w i t he had briefed me o n the ups and downs o f his life as a musician. T h e lark i n M e x i c o C i t y had been like that for all o f us, except that John and D a v i d were already close friends, best friends

Jan

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it seemed. T h e i r banter had that timing, the practiced k n o w i n g o f what the other was about to say. T h e younger o f the two, J o h n was a dropout lawyer breaking into magazine w o r k as a fact-checker. J o h n was six feet and slender, w i t h auburn hair and l o n g sideburns. People noticed h i m ; he had the air o f a wiseacre, a funnyman. D a v i d , a freelance writer w h o specialized i n music, was i n the second hour o f his thirty-second birthday. H e wore a ridiculous straw bowler he had bought o n the Z ó c a l o , the city's vast central square. D a v i d swigged from a fresh beer and pointed out a troupe o f norteños—musicians from northern M e x i c o w h o were distinguished from the black-clad mariachis by their b r o w n suits. H e and J o h n started to amble over and check them out. W e had come to M e x i c o C i t y to watch a prizefight. T h e night before, we had watched m y y o u n g friend Jesus Chavez stop a M e x i c o C i t y opponent. T h e arena where he made his M e x i c a n debut was i n a dark and dangerous barrio o n the periphery o f Plaza Garibaldi. I k n e w we were pushing our luck to come back here. B u t the others argued that one more night i n the Tenampa Bar w o u l d give our trip a symmetry—where it began, where it ended. I kept silent, went along, relaxed after d o w n i n g the first beer and shot o f tequila, and soon held up m y share o f the talk and laughter. B u t the w h o l e trip had been a bittersweet affair for me. Jesus had gained a number one w o r l d ranki n g the same m o n t h the U . S . government ordered h i m deported. In a few hours we were going home, and I had g r o w i n g doubts that Jesus ever could. Watching J o h n and D a v i d wander off toward the norteños, I said to M i k e : "Let's get these guys out o f here." H e told me later it was the first time he had ever heard me sound impatient, and it was the only time this trip I invoked whatever authority that came w i t h m y years. In A u s t i n I w o r k e d out i n the b o x i n g g y m where Jesus emerged as a contender. These days I d i d it just for exercise, sparring rarely, but I had sweated and banged myself into the best condition o f m y life.

The B u l l e t

Meant

f o r Me

(3)

A m o n g the y o u n g fighters, I was respected as one o f the o l d guys w h o could make the b i g bags pop. Jesus lived i n a dusty little r o o m at the g y m for several months, and it quickly became apparent that we were i n the company o f a real talent. W i t h undercards that showcased the novelty o f skilled w o m e n boxing, Jesus s frenetic m a i n events i n a converted rock music hall breathed raw excitement into a t o w n w i t h little history i n the sport, and for Jesus, w i t h it came the regional titles, then the television, and the climb up the rankings. B u t Jesus was more than just a star athlete to me, and to h i m I was more than an aging hanger-on. W h e n I walked i n the g y m he w o u l d call out "Zhannreeed," and at the end o f the days we often sat o n the r i n g apron talking about things far removed from b o x i n g . T h e n , suddenly, his dream and prospects were crushed by the Immigration and Naturalization Service and a massive n e w federal law. Lawyers and federal judges w o u l d be analyzing the n e w i m m i g r a t i o n guidelines for years, trying to determine exactly what they meant, but one aspect seemed certain: i f noncitizens had ever committed a felony i n the U n i t e d States, they not only could be deported—they had to be. T h e law allowed the I N S no discretion, leniency, or, it seemed to me, c o m m o n sense. M y friend was deported to a country he scarcely knew. H e hadn't lived i n M e x i c o since he was ten years old. A s the day o f his departure got closer, for a couple o f hours we could forget and escape it i n the g y m . Jesus used to train me, and I was fascinated by h o w m u c h the l i t tle guy k n e w O n e day I was trying to make m y left uppercut into more than a clumsy shove. " R e l a x your hand," he told me, "and raise your right heel just a little." T h e heavy bag popped loudly and danced o n the end o f the chain. E x p l a i n that. Jesus refused to patronize or h u m o r me, though. C a l l i n g and taking m y punches w i t h gloves that resemble catcher's mitts, he w o u l d pop them together loudly, as i f to wake me up, and poke me between m y heaving ribs and w h e e z i n g lungs.

Jan

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Reid

" H o w y o u gonna hit me standing way out there?" he ragged me for m y cemented footwork. "You've gotta step up i n the pocket, then throw that jab." Those words w o u l d come back to haunt me. I can't remember w h e n I first heard about the peril o f the green cabs. It was one o f those buzzes that suddenly pervade the conversation o f travelers b o u n d for a c o m m o n destination. In the M e x i can capital, drivers remove the passenger bucket seats o f old-style Volkswagen Beetles to make r o o m for more fares to pile inside, they paint the cars bright green w i t h white roofs, and hit the streets. Y o u see them by the thousands—unregulated gypsies and, lately, predators i n collusion w i t h armed robbers. Residents swore these urban bandits were cops or ex-cops. M y friends and I had discussed the hubbub about the green V W s . H o w m u c h was real, and h o w m u c h was gringo paranoia? Logistics had divided us and forced us into the green bugs a few times, and nothing had happened. W e spoke some Spanish and were veteran travelers. W e were b i g strong guys. W e figured we had strength i n numbers. W e were unaware that the U . S . State Department had just added M e x i c o C i t y to its list o f most dangerous foreign destinations. Finally all o f us were ready to call it a night. Despite m y b r o o d i n g about the i m m i g r a t i o n policy and m y w o r r y about Jesus, we had e n joyed a fine getaway i n the M e x i c a n capital. N o w it was time to go back to our apartment and sleep and, the next day, board a plane and resume our lives i n Texas. W i t h self-assurance J o h n Spong walked out to the line o f taxis that served Plaza Garibaldi. H e waved o n a couple o f V W s , then a mostly white Japanese compact pulled up. It l o o k e d fairly new and expensive, w h i c h made it seem reliable. B u t the lower fenders and doors were painted green. I never saw the driver' s face. I said hello to h i m as I slid across the backseat. H e stared straight ahead and offered nothing but a vague grunt. W e had already taken one cab ride from the plaza to our apart-

The

Bullet

Meant

f o r Me

(5)

ment, and I k n e w landmarks along the well-lighted way. S o o n after leaving the cabstand, this driver made a sharp turn and raced through the dark barrio. " T h i s doesn't l o o k right," I said. W h y didn't I lock the doors, i f my presentiment was so strong? O r just throw m y arms around his neck? I could have easily overpowered the guy. B u t y o u want it not to happen; y o u want to be w r o n g . A n d so y o u do nothing. W e reemerged o n the Paseo de la R e f o r m a and breathed easier. B u t i n the detour we had picked up a tail—one o f those green and white Volkswagen Beetle cabs. M i k e rode i n the front seat o f our Nissan; i n the back I was squeezed between J o h n and D a v i d . T h e taxi driver carried us almost to our apartment—then stopped abruptly i n the middle o f a block. M i k e had noticed the V W , and he l o o k e d back and saw a nightmare. In disbelief's slow m o t i o n , two m e n j u m p e d out and ran toward us h o l d i n g guns. " G o , go!" M i k e cried, t u r n i n g to the driver, but he was hunkered d o w n , stonefaced. T h e deliveryman. T h e pistoleros

threw open the doors and vaulted inside; w i t h a

lurch our taxi sped off. B o t h m e n appeared to be i n their thirties. T h e i r guns were old, scarred .38 revolvers. In an instant I went from drunk to sober. A gun i n your face does that to y o u . T h e robber i n the backseat was fat, doughy-faced, and nervous. H e forced d o w n the heads o f J o h n and D a v i d and tried to hide his o w n face by b u r r o w i n g into an absurd, rolling semblance o f a football pileup. In the middle, p i n n e d back by their weight, I sat face-to-face w i t h the h o n c h o i n front. H e had sharp, angular features and black hair c o m b e d Elvis-fashion. Possibly a ladies' man. "Shut up! G o to sleep!" he yelled. H e sat o n Mike's leg and stuck the gun's muzzle i n his ear. T h e last thing I needed was a lot o f eye contact w i t h this guy, but w i t h all the weight and bulk i n m y lap, forcing me back against the seat, I couldn't avoid it. R e s p o n d i n g to m y gaze, H o n c h o leaned over the seat and pistol-whipped me across the cheekbone. H e didn't hit

Jan

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Reid

me very hard. It was like he was asserting his dominance, controlling an animal. H i s English was pretty good. H e was used to handling a gun and ordering people around. E v e n odds the robber was a cop. B u t he was a bungling thief. H o n c h o took M i k e Hall's watch, then seemed to get distracted. O n and o n we rode w i t h the second gunman, this wordless, out-of-breath hooligan, i n our laps. T h e preposterousness magnified the terror. I watched M i k e lean over until his head touched the driver's shoulder. H i s expression was that o f someone patiently bent o n r i d i n g this out. F o r no reason I could determine, H o n c h o whacked me w i t h the gun again. I was astonished by m y calm. " W e l l , so m u c h for not taking the green cabs," reflected J o h n . In the hassle and backtalk o f telling H o n c h o that he had spent his last peso o n beer, he also got his m o u t h bloodied by the gun. "I don't know, man," he said i n h i g h register, to no one i n particular, "this has gone o n a l o n g time." O n m y right, D a v i d was twisted like a pretzel under the second gunman's weight, yet he clung to his dumb straw hat."I can't breathe, get h i m off me," D a v i d groaned at one point, sounding panicky. M o m e n t s later he announced: " I ' m gonna open the door and throw this fat fuck out o f here." That's a b o l d idea, the others o f us thought. W e wondered what we w o u l d do w i t h the driver and H o n c h o then, and the scenario d i d not l o o k promising. Watching the muzzle o f H o n c h o ' s gun, w h i c h was an i n c h away from Mike's temple, J o h n told D a v i d , " Y o u might h o l d up o n that." W e careened onto a hellish, lighted freeway that was black w i t h soot and shreds o f exploded truck tires. T h e n we were o n an upper deck o f the freeway and could see nothing. A s the ride carried us deeper into anxiety and u n k n o w n sections o f the city, our thoughts raced between fright, desperation, and trying to remain calm and think this through. J o h n and D a v i d discussed strategies o f escape w h i l e

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Meant

f o r Me

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I thought, Hasn't anybody noticed that one o f these guys knows some English? " G i v e us your money!" H o n c h o screamed at me. " W e l l , let me get m y hands free!" I yelled back. It was unfortunate and perhaps inevitable; he and I had a relationship now. I struggled and finally came out o f the pile w i t h m y wallet. H o n c h o snatched it and tore m y cheap watch off m y wrist. T h e i r take from all o f us was about $150 and one o f m y credit cards. I leaned forward and tried to reason w i t h the guy. " W e V e given y o u everything. Todo! N o tenemos más! W h a t more do y o u want? What's the point?" Dismissively, H o n c h o turned his gaze away. A s we came off the freeway into another barrio I heard h i m say they were going to separate us. I f I had been more familiar w i t h M e x i c o C i t y street crime, I might have thought they meant to take me and m y credit card to an A T M machine—where w i t h great displeasure they w o u l d have learned that I never set up P I N numbers for cash withdrawals. A bad situation was getting a lot worse. I thought they were going to k i l l us. T h e driver stopped the cab near an intersection. H o n c h o got out first and ordered the rest o f us to follow h i m . "Screw y o u , it's our cab," J o h n sassed h i m . M i k e c l i m b e d out o f the front seat, followed by the gunman i n back. B e h i n d me J o h n stepped out o n the driver's side. A s I emerged last from the car, H o n c h o grabbed m y left a r m roughly. B u t two m e n were trying to control four. D a v i d cried, " R u n , r u n , scatter!" T h e fat robber clubbed h i m o n the head w i t h the gun and ripped his clothes, trying to restrain h i m , but D a v i d broke free and sprinted out into the street. I saw or heard none o f that. I felt H o n c h o 's grip loosen o n m y arm, and i n reflex I threw his hand off me. After that it was all instinct and adrenaline. As I backed away, H o n c h o came after me w i t h a l o o k o f fury. I weighed 195 pounds, and i n the g y m I had learned to throw a hard straight left hand; I guess I meant to stagger the smaller man, then

Jan

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Reid

make m y escape. B u t I also felt the pleasure o f anger—of striking back at the only real enemy I had ever had. Yet all that sounds calculated and slow. In fact there was no time for any thought, and i n m y reacting I failed to heed m y friendJesus's advice: Step up i n the pocket, he said, then throw that jab. If I were going to throw a p u n c h at a man w i t h a gun, I damn sure needed to land it. A n d by inches it fell short. M y friends said H o n c h o fired once at the ground, as i f he were w o r k i n g up his courage or seeing i f the o l d gun worked. It's odd; I have no m e m o r y o f that. W i t h stone contempt and considered aim he l o o k e d me i n the eyes and pulled the trigger. In the air between us a wan flash o f lightning appeared, crackling from above his left shoulder to the ground. A s the bullet's force threw me backward, I swear I could feel its c h u r n i n g spin: the crude gouge o f a screwdriver, w i t h the force o f a train. Searing pain i n m y abd o m e n and spine was instantaneous and absolute. I cried out to m y friends a line that i n movies always made me cringe. " I ' m killed."

Houston some days l a t e r It was just an o d d coincidence, a tangle o f telephone wires and time. I lay i n a hospital bed diagnosed as a paraplegic. T h e M e x i c o C i t y neurosurgeons w h o removed the bullet from m y spinal c o l u m n had told m y wife and daughter I w o u l d never walk again, yet panic and despair never seized me i n those first days. I was glad just to be alive and removed from that terrible fear and supreme hurt. I had surrendered to the horror and k n o w n I was close to d y i n g but had come out the other side. I was i n Texas, I was safe. B u t m y life was b l o w n to pieces. H o w c o u l d this have happened to me? Was it r a n d o m fate, like the m a n w h o gets struck by lightning? O r should I have k n o w n better than to be standing out i n the rain? A l l m y adult life, m y judgment had walked shoulder to shoulder w i t h macho confidence. In m y w o r k and m y enjoyment I skirted risk. N o w I could n o longer walk at all, and I had to face the possibility that I had tempted fate one time too many. That I had brought this o n myself. I c o u l d move m y feet slightly—a hopeful sign, m y family and I

(10)

Jan

Reid

chose to believe. Also, I had pleaded w i t h the Texas doctors to give me something that w o u l d k n o c k d o w n the pain. Boy, had they come through. I was l u c i d at times and then off I'd go—friendless and helpless i n strange worlds that seemed to have no use o f me at all. I wouldn't recommend morphine as a recreational drug. M y nights were zonked but sleepless—hardly ideal for a human body trying to heal. Still, I cherished the fluid periodically allowed to drip d o w n a tube into m y arm. Doctors o f pain are always asking their patients to rate their discomfort o n a scale o f one to ten. That night w i t h m y back o n the pavement and then o n the emergency r o o m bed, m y pain on that scale was two hundred, ten thousand. A tidal wave of pain reduced m y proud manly bearing to that o f an inconsolable child. I begged for morphine i n M e x i c o City. A n d the torture o f that night was still a blazing red coal i n m y m i n d . I remember little about the features o f the H o u s t o n hospital r o o m . M a y b e it was the next stop after intensive care. There was a telephone beside m y bed, and Dorothy, m y wife, had written me i n structions o n h o w to make a call and charge it to our calling card. O n c e so easily memorized, that procedure was beyond m y mental reach now. B u t i n some conversation it had gotten through to me that the voice mail o n our line i n A u s t i n was full and it had been rejecting messages o f callers for several days. D o r o t h y and m y daughter, Lila, hadn't been home since their flight to m y bedside i n M e x i c o City, followed by a rescue flight to H o u s t o n two days later. D o r o t h y was overwhelmed by all the demands thrown u p o n her: h o w to make medical decisions for me and keep a refinance o f our house going and assure the care and feeding o f our dogs and cat. So w i t h notepad and pen o n the bed beside m y hip, I cradled the phone between m y shoulder and j a w and set out to dispose o f one small chore. There were seventeen calls; I remember just one. After I was shot and the taxi and the pistoleros

vanished, M i k e had

held m y head i n his lap w h i l e J o h n and D a v i d ran along the street c r y -

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i n g for help. T h e n M i k e rode i n the ambulance and gripped m y hand, trying to comfort me, as we sped through the streets and m y b l o o d soaked his shirt and jeans. " M i k e , " I told h i m , " I ' d rather die than take this pain, but I want to see D o r o t h y again." " W e l l , " he said gently, "there's your reason why." A t the hospital M i k e didn't even k n o w h o w to make a phone call, but at last he found someone w h o spoke English w e l l enough to tell h i m h o w to reach an operator w h o w o u l d accept his U . S . calling card. M i k e had met D o r o t h y once or twice but hardly k n e w her. H i s call to her went unanswered, and w h e n the voice mail turned o n m y d r a w l — " W e ' l l get back to y o u as soon as we can"—he left her the most upbeat message he c o u l d manage. Afterward he thought, O h m y god, what i f she 's not there? H e fought d o w n his emotions, k n o w i n g h o w close he was to panic. It's nearly three i n the m o r n i n g , he reasoned. She didn't hear it, she must have slept through the call. So he tried again, and this time D o r o t h y picked up the phone. I can see her rising o n an elbow, then l u r c h i n g up and turning o n the lamp. T h e n w h e n she had h u n g up and was alone w i t h dogs w h o were suddenly awake and nervous, pacing, she reached for her cigarettes, her heart slamming w i t h i n her, and disbelief began to give way to dread and shock. N o w I lay i n a hospital bed i n H o u s t o n , listening to Mike's first call from the emergency r o o m i n M e x i c o City. "Dorothy, this is M i k e H a l l , " he said, voice quavering. " S o m e t h i n g has happened to Jan. It's all right, he's going to be okay. B u t y o u need to call me right away. . . . " T h e tremors i n his voice belied h i m . N o t h i n g was all right, nothing was okay. It's a wonder M i k e had the composure to say anything coherent. In the receiver I held against m y ear, close b e h i n d h i m I c o u l d hear the desperation and the horror o f m y o w n screams.

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Part One

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I

believed I was a sane, mature, and peaceful man. It would be easy to attribute the sudden and drastic change i n m y life to

bad luck, to being i n "the w r o n g place at the w r o n g time." Yet

I have to wonder i f precepts o f manliness, ingrained almost from

birth, led me to insert myself i n a place and predicament I need never have k n o w n . H o w m u c h o f the fault was mine? A l l m y life, had I been r i d i n g a fools' train that wouldn't let me off? T h e courage o f a boy child b o r n i n Texas is equated w i t h his balls. It's a crude metaphor but it declines to go away. M a l e Texans are supposed to be rough, tough, and ready for whatever comes d o w n the pike. In the 1830s the makers o f this m y t h gave up the relative safety o f life i n the U n i t e d States and, following the lead o f M e x i c a n settlers, they risked all they had o n reports o f well-watered timberlands and prairies that billowed i n the w i n d like ocean waves. W h e n the M e x i c a n claimants to that wilderness turned out to be bullies and despots, why, Texans licked their army and k i c k e d them out w i t h o u t help from anybody. A n d then we beat back the ferocious Indians w h o had denied the Spaniards and M e x i c a n s real settlement o f their Texas province for a hundred fifty years. A t all costs we stood our ground.

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It's a rousing story, true enough, though i n the mythological version significant details get left out. A s a birthright it's dangerous, and as a code to live by, it's horseshit. B u t w h o w o u l d humans be without our myths?

I

grew up i n rolling mesquite savanna just south o f the R e d R i v e r .

A l o n g w i t h bare higher plains i n the Texas Panhandle, it was the

last stronghold o f the Comanches and Kiowas. Except for arrowheads, the nomadic buffalo hunters left few artifacts, no evidence o f having been there at all. In the summer, heat mirage spreads like lakes across the highways and makes the horizons i n that country shimmer and dance. I used to fancy that hordes o f Indians w o u l d come h o w l -

i n g and r i d i n g out o f the chimera like O m a r Sharif's bedouins i n Lawrence

of A r a b i a . W h e n I k n e w more o f what really occurred, I

could see a few vestiges o f that past. A l o n g R e d R i v e r the little towns o f N o c o n a and Q u a n a h bear the names o f famous C o m a n c h e war chiefs w h o were father and son. East o f Henrietta is a sloping w e l l kept pasture where mesquites have never been allowed to take root. I could imagine buffalo grazing there. Farther west, where the Pease R i v e r winds toward its m o u t h i n the R e d , the M e d i c i n e M o u n d s rise eerily from the plain. F r o m a distance the four conical hills l o o k m u c h bigger than they are—maybe that's part o f their magic. They're said to overlook an ancient trail w o r n i n the earth by migrating buffalo, and nearby is a bend o f the Pease where a spring-fed creek sweetens the brackish gypsum water. Comanches liked to b u i l d their camps there. Y o u n g m e n w o u l d go up o n the M e d i c i n e M o u n d s to learn their names and behold their visions—see their future, such as it was. I was b o r n and raised i n small Texas cities that sprouted up i n the conquered Indian country. T h e only Indians I ever saw were descendants o f the peoples w h o were chased off to O k l a h o m a reservations

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and the squalor that ensued. T h e climate is famous for tornadoes, u n godly heat, and c o l d fronts called northers. T h e w i n d never stops b l o w i n g . T h e rain is erratic, as cotton farmers soon found, and cattlem e n wore out the native grama and bluestem prairies by overstocki n g them. Gnarled mesquites filled up many pastures to the point that they couldn't be walked through. B u t r i c h o i l fields were discovered there i n the first half o f the twentieth century. Suddenly ranching and c o w b o y i n g were no longer the manliest pursuits. M a k i n g m o n e y was. Horsehead pumpjacks still rear and n o d i n the mesquite thickets, sucking out a few barrels a day for the o i l companies and landowners w h o hang o n to their mineral rights and hope there might yet be another b o o m . B u t no one really believes it. T h e o i l prospectors have gone off to the C h i n a Sea and South A m e r i c a . T h e towns and countryside o f m y youth l o o k used up, spent. M y dad, Charles C l e o n R e i d , was a red-haired man o f Scotch descent w h o i n his b o y h o o d lived for athletics. H e was best at baseball. H i s father, another Charles R e i d , was a W i c h i t a Falls car mechanic w h o i n his later years bought a spudder drilling r i g and tried to make a go o f it as a wildcatter. D a d d y started j u n i o r college i n the thirties and hoped to move o n somewhere and take a degree; he wanted to teach school and coach. B u t the Depression forced h i m to quit and find w o r k i n o i l refineries, w h i c h put food o n his table the rest o f his life. M y mother had it harder. Elsie Shelton was one o f six children o f a tenant cotton farmer. A s soon as they were able, every one o f them was out i n the fields. O n e fall they brought i n their o w n crop and then m o v e d to another place, where for a little pay they helped p i c k that farmer's cotton. Mother's home d u r i n g those weeks was an earthen dugout. She was the valedictorian o f her h i g h school class i n a village called Bluegrove, but she k n e w better than to set her marks and hopes too high. T h e Depression k n o c k e d the b o t t o m out o f the cotton market, and the programs o f the N e w D e a l helped l a n d owners, not tenants. B u t m y grandfather, D a d Shelton, blamed it all

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o n Herbert Hoover. A q u i c k - w i t t e d little man and expert whistler, he had to quit farming for a few years, offering himself as a barber i n W i c h i t a Falls. After m y mother finished school, she too moved to the b i g t o w n i n the area. She cared for an ailing grandmother and got a j o b as a dime-store salesclerk. M y parents met at a church outing and married i n 1940. D a d d y was rawboned and muscular, and y o u could tell by his choice o f hats and Chevrolets that he had some vanity and sense o f style. M o t h e r was small, pretty, and guided by the Bible. She defied her parents, w h o were strong Southern Baptists, w h e n she was baptized into another fundamentalist sect, the C h u r c h o f Christ. U n t i l late i n life D a d d y declined to j o i n her i n that faith; he was a proclaimed Baptist w h o seld o m went to church. T h e y ' d g r o w n up w o u n d e d by the Depression and n o w were starting a marriage and family k n o w i n g that war was just a matter o f time. M y sister Lana G a i l was b o r n July 14, 1 9 4 1 — Bastille D a y i n France, and what a bitter one that was, w i t h Paris o c cupied by the Germans. D a d d y had finished a hitch i n the N a t i o n a l Guard not l o n g before he met M o t h e r ; several m e n i n his unit w o u n d up i n the Bataan Death M a r c h . T h e walls i n D a d and Granny Shelton's farmhouses were filled w i t h portraits o f y o u n g w o m e n w i t h forties hairdos and their husbands i n uniform. Mother's brothers, cousins, and brothers-in-law fought i n nearly every major campaign o f the war. O n e drove a tank wrecker i n Patton's division. A n o t h e r helped liberate a N a z i death camp. A n o t h e r had to stand guard over a concentration camp o f Japanese-Americans i n O r e g o n . H i s brother came back from the Pacific w i t h such bitter remarks about the army that it wasn't till he died that relatives found two Bronze Stars and a sheaf o f battlefield commendations he'd stored i n an o l d boot box. T h e y all survived it somehow. O n those walls m y dad was the only one pictured i n a coat and tie. H e was the only one w h o didn't have to go. T h e draft board i n W i c h i t a Falls deferred h i m because he w o r k e d

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in a defense industry that w o u l d be scarcely recognizable today. D u r ing the war Daddy's employer, a Texas o i l company called Panhandle, sent h i m out to w o r k i n a tiny, undermanned plant i n a hamlet named Lueders that had been settled by Swedes. D a d d y carried a l u n c h pail and walked d o w n a short dirt road to the gates o f the refinery. T h e y lived i n a small rented house and planted a garden b e h i n d it every year. M o t h e r kept a hoe close at hand not only to chop weeds but in case she had to do battle w i t h a rattlesnake that slithered i n from the pastures. Abilene was just half an hour's drive away; saving ration stamps for butter and sugar, they shopped for groceries there and sometimes took i n a picture show Except for church, i n ,Lueders there was almost nothing to do. B u t to her surprise, M o t h e r sometimes felt like a g o l f widow. D a d d y and other workers at the refinery chopped, uprooted, and transformed mesquite and cactus o f a donated pasture into the fairways o f a nine-hole course. K n o w i n g they couldn't keep turf grass alive, they made their greens out o f a mixture o f sand and crude o i l that they raked smooth. Y o u had to hit your putts hard, D a d d y told me once, but it w o u l d sure grab the spin o f a g o o d chip shot.

I

was b o r n i n the A b i l e n e hospital the evening o f M a r c h 18,1945. D a d d y put a fair-sized c r i m p i n m y b o y h o o d w h i l e I still l o o k e d

scalded. A t least M o t h e r claimed the name was mostly his idea. H e

wanted a fourth-generation Charles i f I turned out to be a son, but that c o u l d be m y middle name. There are fads i n naming babies like fads i n choosing breeds o f dogs. Just after the war great numbers o f A m e r i c a n couples named their babies Jan. It was m y bad l u c k that about 99 percent o f them were daughters. M a n y people have since assumed that m y parents were sophisticates w h o gave me the E u r o pean name, pronounced Y a h n . It's c o m m o n throughout Scandinavia and Central Europe—there are C z e c h national heroes named Jan out

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the kazoo. B u t nope, D a d d y didn't k n o w beans about Europe. H e just thought it was a handsome name. I never really blamed h i m . It's not like all those parents o f the baby boomers got together and had a mass consultation. Still, I w o u l d be a grown man before I could shrug off some lout sneering," 'Jan!' That's a girl's My few.

name!"

memories o f Lueders, o f being a villager, are indistinct and

T h e images took o n sharpness and sequence w h e n D a d d y

hitched a trailer to his new black Chevrolet and we made the move back to W i c h i t a Falls. It was 1949. W e first lived i n an apartment house d o w n t o w n . T h e units opened onto a central hallway at the end of w h i c h was a single bathroom that all the tenants shared. M o t h e r and D a d d y hated that. D a d d y was consumed w i t h building us a home. H e bought a lot o n a new street called Keeler that was just four blocks from his dad's broad-porched house o n Collins. T h o u g h he a l ways voted w i t h labor and the Democrats, m y dad was a very conservative man. H e wanted Lana and me to grow up exactly the way he had. A n d before Granddaddy R e i d fell v i c t i m to heart attacks, it was almost that way for a while. Granddaddy took us for rides out through the o i l leases and i n his shaded backyard got us to help h i m pick up his cherished pecans. A t the Collins Street house we got to k n o w our

great-grandfather,

a tall, thin, blind man i n his nineties. In his youth that Charles R e i d was a Texas R a n g e r and had ridden o n one o f the cattle drives to New

M e x i c o Territory d u r i n g the time o f B i l l y the K i d and the

L i n c o l n C o u n t y War. Before a small-town bank failed that had most of his money i n it, i n central Texas he had a splendid farm and ranch that the C o l o r a d o R i v e r ran through. O n the porch swing at C o l l i n s Street he w o u l d regale us w i t h his stories, then abruptly he'd throw back his head and h o w l some song, usually a h y m n , like a night rider soothing an anxious herd. Lana and I loved that o l d man. My

fantasies ran to the past o f Texas—open country, cowboy

country. I longed for the vacations w h e n we went to see U n c l e

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R a y m o n d and A u n t B e a o n the Shelton side o f the family. Mother's brother had married one o f her best friends, and since the war they had lived and w o r k e d as hired hands o n b i g West Texas ranches. H e drove a mud-splattered pickup, rode horses like he was b o r n o n them, roped and doctored calves. She cooked three meals a day for the bunkhouse crew. I can see it n o w as hard, pitiless w o r k , but then it seemed like great romance. T h e quiver o f the horses' flanks w h e n they snorted, the smell o f the horseshit m i x e d w i t h straw—I w o u l d have liked to spend m y life i n those pastures, barns, and corrals. B u t that wasn't an escape I c o u l d ever make. I was a t o w n k i d , like it or not. W i t h o u t articulating it D a d d y tried to shield me from the town's measure o f manhood, getting r i c h . H e planned for us to go to grade school at A l a m o — b u i l t w i t h a b r i c k facade that resembled the iconic Texas fortress—-just like he had. O u r friends w o u l d come from families similar to ours. B u t D a d d y miscalculated: B y three blocks, he learned after b u y i n g the lot, Keeler was i n the district o f B e n Franklin, a n e w school built near the mansions o f the C o u n t r y C l u b . I started school w i t h kids whose dads were o i l millionaires. There was the problem o f m y name. I was skinny and had buck teeth. O t h e r kids at school m u m b l e d through a mouthful o f braces; I l o o k e d i n the m i r r o r and saw Bugs Bunny. I was unsteady o f e m o t i o n and thought I was ugly. W e were blue-collar middle class but I thought we were poor. O n c e I was p r o u d o f m y dad's '48 C h e v y ; n o w it embarrassed me. Every m o r n i n g i n front o f the school there was a line o f Cadillacs. I was uneasy w h e n m y mother took a j o b i n a l a u n dry. W h y was our o w n wash h u n g out o n clotheslines i n the backyard? W h y didn't we have a washer and dryer like everybody else? A t the refinery D a d d y wore thick one-piece cotton garments called coveralls. T h e y h u n g d r y i n g from the lines i n beheaded mannish forms, twisting their arms i n the constant breeze. A t night I w o u l d square off w i t h the coveralls and p o u n d them w i t h m y fists. M y mother and sister thought it was funny, and they took snapshots o f me

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d o i n g it. I wasn't pretending to get back at D a d d y for some w r o n g . I think it was more like m y first b o x i n g g y m . I was trying to w o r k out the anger and fear i n m y head and turn it into bravery and skill. F o r sure as sundown, I was going to have to fight. T h e fights took place after school i n vacant lots and were great fun unless y o u were one o f the fighters. F o r me they fell into a consistent pattern. I w o u l d back up w h i l e m y opponent walked forward w i t h his fists raised and flung insults and his friends laughed and jeered me. Finally I'd r u n forward spewing shrill jabber and throwing w i n d m i l l punches. I lost more fights than I w o n , but a couple o f times m y outbursts were so furious that bullies decided to leave me alone. I got i n trouble, I eventually noticed, w h e n I started the fights. O n e foe, D a n n y M u l l i g a n , was a dark-haired pretty boy w h o must have been b o r n w i t h a smirk, and he ran w i t h the real toughs. I could be pushed around by that bunch, but I was not afraid o f Danny. H i s scorn o f me pissed me off, and I called h i m out one day right beside the B e n Franklin flagpole. W e fought and fought until I staggered around blindly, feeling the blows w h a n g off m y head but just not believing the outcome. Finally D a n n y dropped his hands and said, "Boy, do y o u want me to make soup out o f y o u ? "

I

n a t o w n where athletics was everything, I was a nobody. I came

into m y teens w h e n W i c h i t a Falls was enjoying its r u n as the

state's kingpins o f high school football. O u r Coyotes reached the state

finals four years i n a row and w o n the title twice. I couldn't play football w o r t h a flip but I wasn't smart enough to walk away from it. I h u n g on, r i d i n g the bench i n the games and getting r u n over by b i g ger and tougher boys i n practice, until a broken collarbone relieved me from a second tour w i t h the B-team. I alienated an assistant coach w h o managed the baseball team i n the spring, so I didn't get the chance to show off m y real love and modest talent, playing the out-

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field. A n o t h e r coach's invitation to j o i n the track team ended badly; I hadn't the w i n d or the discipline to r u n the mile. I quit i n a particularly self-demeaning way—pretended to get tripped up by a competi n g runner, took a fall i n the hard sharp cinders, just to put an end to it. I heard the coaches' unsympathetic murmurs, about h o w I used to fake being hurt i n football. D a d d y tried to pass o n his love o f g o l f but it bored me. A l l right, bone up for the college entrance exam. D o something constructive. Learn to play the harmonica. B u t the winter before graduation two friends dared me to j o i n them i n a dramatic alternative—boxing. Joe H a i d was the poorest o f m y friends. H i s father had died w h e n he was little, and his sweet-natured mother, twice a w i d o w , provided for them by w o r k i n g i n a grocery store. B u t Joe was always first at something—reading Kerouac's O n the Road,

getting up at five i n the

m o r n i n g to throw newspapers i n the C o u n t r y C l u b so he c o u l d buy a C u s h m a n Eagle m o t o r scooter that he painted metallic chartreuse, m o v i n g o n to a p i n k '57 C h e v y that we drag-raced o n K e l l Boulevard to the limits o f its 283 horses and two-barrel carb. Joe found a black m a n o n the east side w h o w o u l d buy us our bottles o f Southern C o m f o r t and cherry sloe g i n . T h e parents o f Joe's girlfriends always hated h i m . Joe and his mother scraped together enough m o n e y for h i m to spend his seventeenth summer at the C u l v e r naval school i n Chicago, and he returned to us a boxer. H e was sort o f an effete boxer at first—the footwork they taught h i m resembled that o f f e n c i n g — but he was fast w i t h his hands and eager. Wayne Hudgens was a tall, strong, rawboned k i d w h o was game for anything. I was the nervous and g l u m one i n the backseat. I remember clearly m y first awareness o f boxing. It was 1953 and I was eight years o l d . I was playing o n the floor o f m y Shelton grandparents' farmhouse, and their console radio brought o n the heavyweight title bout between R o c k y M a r c i a n o and Jersey Joe Walcott. T h e exotic names gripped me, then i n the static the bell rang, soon

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the announcer started shrieking, and i n seconds it was over, a firstround knockout. Wow!

R o c k y Marciano. R a d i o was the perfect m e -

d i u m for boxing; imagining most fights was far more exciting than seeing them. Six years later I j u m p e d around m y b e d r o o m and w h o o p e d and danced out i n the backyard throwing punches w h e n Ingemar Johansson b o m b e d the senses out o f Floyd Patterson. M o t h e r came to the kitchen w i n d o w and stared, w o n d e r i n g what had come over me now. M o v i e theaters back then showed films o f the b i g fights along w i t h the cartoons and newsreels, and to learn the magic o f Ingo 's right—his "toonder

and lightning," his "hammer o f T h o r " — I

watched a K i m N o v a k picture repeatedly so I could study every move o f the fight o n the b i g screen. A n usher finally shooed me out. Johansson had little else but he made the straight right hand l o o k simple. W i t h a dip o f the right knee his shoulder, arm, and glove shot out i n a perfectly straight l i n e — d o w n the pipe, i n the jargon o f the game. W i t h a l o o k o f near b o r e d o m he k n o c k e d the heavyweight champ d o w n seven times i n one round, and like a robot Patterson kept getting up. B u t I had just a year o f hero worship for the d i m p l e d Swede. In their second fight Patterson k n o c k e d h i m so cold that for a dangerously l o n g time the only part o f Ingo m o v i n g was a quivering left foot. There is no rational defense o f boxing. It regularly maims and kills its contestants, and the professional business o f it is a sleazy, rotten mess. B u t I couldn't help myself. F r o m the start I loved it. D o i n g it, though, was another matter. In someone's yard we occasionally laced o n gloves and sparred. I found that m y only reliable defense was to keep sticking m y left hand i n the face o f the other guy. The jab came to me naturally. B u t throwing a straight right was not as easy as it looked, and hooks and uppercuts required pivots and t i m ing that were beyond me. To box y o u had to be i n tremendous shape. The

real mountain climb, though, was overcoming your fear. G o l d e n

Gloves tournaments were well-attended i n W i c h i t a Falls. T h e newspaper gave them g o o d sports-page coverage, and sometimes there

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were radio broadcasts. A m a t e u r fighters didn't wear headgears then, at least not i n Texas. Y o u c l i m b e d through those ropes almost naked: M o r e than injury, it was a fear o f very public h u m i l i a t i o n . Worse than any o f that was the torture o f the chairs.

To get ready

for a b o x i n g match y o u needed to be up m o v i n g , breaking a sweat, and maybe banging your o w n j a w a few times to get the adrenaline flowing.

B u t even at the state tournament i n Fort W o r t h , G o l d e n

Glove fighters had to sit quietly i n folding chairs beside their o p p o nents. Every time a fight ended, they stood up together and then sat d o w n i n the next folding chairs. D i d someone decide that instilled sportsmanship? W h a t c o u l d y o u possibly say? T h e n some man led the other fighter away, and y o u c l i m b e d through the ropes i n the red or blue corner, l o o k i n g at a boy w h o all at once was an enemy, and the light was as intense as that o f an August sun. A n d i f y o u weren't ready to go w h e n the bell rang, the noise w o u l d fade until the o n l y sound y o u c o u l d hear was the thump o f gloved fists o n your bare head. Joe H a i d researched the teams and declared that we should b o x for the Pan A m e r i c a n R e c r e a t i o n Center. T h e g y m was fashioned from the players' clubhouse o f an abandoned m i n o r league stadium called Spudder Park. T h e y had speed bags, a heavy bag, j u m p ropes, and not m u c h else. T h e coach was a laconic man w h o listened as Joe explained h o w the C u l v e r instructors had taught h i m to slide his right foot forward as he was throwing his right; that way he was poised to follow w i t h the sweeping left h o o k . "Sailor told y o u that, huh," the coach grunted. " G e t y o u k n o c k e d o n your can, that's what. You've gotta set your feet beneath y o u . " O n e day he passed out medical release forms for our parents to sign. It amazes me n o w that he was going to let me fight the next weekend. I didn't even k n o w h o w to wrap m y hands. A l l I had done was thump the bags a couple o f afternoons and r u n some laps around the o l d baseball park. I guess he was o f the school that y o u learn by being thrown i n the fire o f d o i n g it and that referees k n o w w h e n to

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j u m p i n and stop a mismatch. O r maybe he was trying to r u n me off. T h e challenge thrilled me. This wasn't really sport, it was a fistfight, and i f ever there was a way to stand m y ground and prove myself, this was it. B u t as the tournament approached I lay awake at night certain that m y fear and the ritual o f the chairs w o u l d freeze me. W h e n the bell rang I w o u l d just stand there skinny, pale, and rigid, broken out w i t h acne, as some boy ran across the r i n g to k n o c k me out. Yet I wasn't about to tell m y friends I couldn't go through w i t h it. T h e n one day m y dad stopped me i n the hall w h e n I came i n from school. H e had the release f o r m i n his hand. " Y o u r mother," he said gruffly, having lost the argument. "She doesn't want y o u boxing. F i n d something else to do." Saved! B u t secretly I was ashamed; I thought I was h i d i n g b e h i n d her skirts. Joe and Wayne ragged me about it but they k n e w m y m o t h e r — w h e n she said no she meant it. M o t h e r later said she put up w i t h the unpopularity i n the household because she'd cringed for years every time a fastball sailed near m y skull, she'd gone to get me out o f a hospital w h e n I'd suffered a broken bone playing football, and b o x i n g was just too m u c h . B u t I always thought her veto o f b o x i n g was more than simple fear that I might get hurt. It was a moral issue. She k n e w that violence stirred i n that guise easily spills into the street. Joe and Wayne forged ahead, and they had some success. Joe was a welterweight, Wayne a middleweight, and I was their entourage. Dressed like m y idea o f a streetfighter, i n loafers, jeans, and jacket, I stood before them i n the smoky arenas w i t h m y bare palms raised, catching light quick punches as they warmed up. T h e i r wins and close defeats thrilled me but made me feel small w i t h envy. In dramatic prose they got their names i n the paper. O n e tournament Wayne drew a more experienced C h i c a n o youth whose best p u n c h was a swift left hook. Wayne caught a rhythm and his jab turned into a spear. T h e C h i c a n o kid's hooks w i n g e d toward h i m but Wayne's l o n g straight a r m got there sooner. T h e fight brought the c r o w d to its feet

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and set up a bout i n the finals w i t h G a r y G o r h a m , w h o had been the star tailback that fall o n the C o y o t e football team. In that t o w n , that credential was the closest thing to royalty. A sportswriter played up the fight as the tourney's m a i n event: T h e l i t t l e - k n o w n Hudgens had a chance. Joe also had a fight that night, but he was always so cavalier that his bout was all but forgotten as we drove around i n the p i n k '57 C h e v y that Saturday. W e were intent o n psyching up Wayne. " G a r y l o o k e d lousy i n his fight! Y o u see him? H e was so tired he was about to gag o n his mouthpiece." " T h i s ain't football, Wayne, y o u can do it!" T h e n the time came to take their places i n the chairs. Joe's o p p o nent was an ugly, slouching boy i n red trunks. T r y i n g to make c o n versation, Joe asked h i m about school. T h e boy muttered that he was d o i n g the eighth grade over. Joe remarked lightly that he was a senior. " W h a t grade's that?" said the boy i n the red trunks. " W h a t grade?" said Joe. Whatever the senior class was, the boy k n e w he'd never get there. B u t half an h o u r later he came out b o b b i n g his head and shoulders and counterpunching; he w h i p p e d m y friend like he was an unwanted stray. Joe kept his feet and fought back enough that the referee didn't stop it. In the third r o u n d the boy nailed h i m w i t h a right and Joe was so tired he w o b b l e d and the right he had just let go turned into k i n d o f a lofty backhand wave, like he was shooing flies. W h e n he stomped d o w n the r i n g steps after the decision his face was puffy and fiery red, and he was i n no m o o d to stick around and cheer for Wayne. M o m e n t s later the bell rang and Wayne came right out to the football star, l o o k i n g not at all cowed. T h e y touched gloves and Wayne stepped about smartly, h o l d i n g his gloves h i g h against his t e m ples. Wayne threw out a brisk jab but missed. G o r h a m m o v e d his left shoulder—a feint—then dipped his knees and drove his right into Wayne's solar plexus. O h , the worst o f all woes: Wayne stood k n o c k kneed and defenseless, b o t h arms around his midriff, eyes bugged out,

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trying to breathe. T h e referee glanced at G o r h a m , w h o seemed astonished that his coach's strategy had w o r k e d w i t h just one punch, but he leapt forward and clubbed Wayne off his feet. T h e ref waved his arms and stopped it w i t h o u t a count. T h e n w h e n p o o r Wayne was standi n g i n the corner trying to get the gloves off and just go hide, his dad had to climb up o n the r i n g apron to see i f he was all right. That night I drove away from the arena w i t h m y hands clenched o n the w h e e l o f the p i n k Chevy. In the backseat Joe sobbed bitterly w i t h his head i n the lap o f his girlfriend. O h L o r d , thank y o u , M o m m a .

H I buggery's apt to find its way out, no matter h o w it's stirred. I was 1 engaged by history and English classes i n m y first year at the h o m e t o w n college, n o w called M i d w e s t e r n State, but m y parents didn't have the money to send me away to school, and I resented that. L i v i n g at home, I felt like I was missing the college experience. Impressed by the u n i f o r m and tan o f a friend w h o came h o m e o n leave, I enlisted o n a w h i m i n the M a r i n e C o r p s reserves. T h e recruiter was a tall, thin gunnery sergeant. H i s calculated indifference was effective. " I t ' l l make a m a n out o f you," he told me w i t h a shrug. Something w o u l d make a m a n out o f me. A t that I had so far failed, i n m y estimate. H o w d i d I measure this manhood? Sex and v i o lence were about as far as I had thought the concept through. A t nineteen I was a mortified virgin. I could hardly cop a feel, at least not from any girl I wanted. In Texas towns there was a simple fix to m y dilemma, even i f the communities lacked their o w n house o f i l l repute. A l l boys had to do was pile i n a car w i t h a b u n c h o f beer and drive a thousand miles or so; and i n a couple o f days, i f they didn't k i l l themselves and somebody else i n a head-on collision, they w o u l d come back from the M e x i c a n border towns hungover and laid. O u r nearest depot was C i u d a d A c u ñ a , across the R i o Grande from D e l

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the movie made from Larry M c M u r t r y ' s

novel, was shot i n his h o m e t o w n o f A r c h e r City, a burg i n the mesquites twenty-five miles from W i c h i t a Falls, and it devoted a scene to the tradition o f h o r n y gringo lads and condescending paeans to O l d M e x i c o . B u t to me that was just more o f the Texas horseshit I was trying to escape. I wanted some girl to fuck me because she liked me, not because she was p o o r and I paid her. So it seemed that all I c o u l d do was wait for the light to shine o n me some night and meanwhile w o n d e r what I was d o i n g w r o n g . O f the brute violence o f fistfights I really didn't want more. I desired a k n o w i n g and a bearing that w o u l d discourage that violence from turning its head o n me. Yet w h e n D a d d y was o n m y case one day, I muttered, " T i m e ' s c o m i n g w h e n you won't wanta talk to me that way." He

l o o k e d at me closely and wearily. "Is that w h y you're d o i n g

this?" O h , hell, not really. I wanted to get along w i t h h i m again. B u t i f I c o u l d make it as a M a r i n e , I c o u l d put all the past humiliations and failures o f courage b e h i n d me. A n d , w h o knows, the year was 1964. It was a plane ticket to California. T h e culture was ripe w i t h girls w h o had holes i n their jeans, sweet musky odors, and l o n g sunbleached hair. I might get lucky. Six months later I was back i n W i c h i t a Falls, no less a v i r g i n , but w i t h thirty more pounds and a hair-trigger temper I never possessed before. H a l f a year o f being harassed and brutalized w i l l do that. O f course, the M a r i n e s were i n the stated business o f tearing us d o w n and m a k i n g us into a certain k i n d o f m e n — m e n w h o w o u l d k i l l and risk getting killed i f ordered to. M i l i t a r y life fit me not at all, but ironically, my impulsive bolt into its ranks proved to be m y way out o f V i e t n a m . The

G u l f o f T o n k i n episode happened w h i l e I was i n boot camp, and

as the ensuing conflict raged, the warmakers decided it w o u l d cost t h e m less political capital to fill the divisions w i t h draftees than to call

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up the reserves. F o r six years all I had to do was show up at weekend drills once a m o n t h and two-week summer camps. A n d that's all I did—show up. T h e o i l had played out around W i c h i t a Falls, so the refineries shut d o w n . D a d d y l o o k e d for another j o b and couldn't find one, so he took a company transfer to M o u n t Pleasant, a small t o w n o n the edge o f the East Texas pines, and they made their home there for thirty years. L i v i n g i n the house where I had g r o w n up, I attended

the

h o m e t o w n college, w o r k e d at a seed and feed store, and slouched through the M a r i n e s ' requirements o f m y time. I doused too many nights w i t h booze, and sometimes I went l o o k i n g for trouble. O n e Saturday night I found it i n D e n t o n , where I was visiting m y b o x i n g pal Wayne Hudgens. Outside his apartment I slung m y leg over a motorcycle. I was just sitting o n it. B u t from a balcony a collegian yelled, "Hey, you! Get off that bike!" I glanced over m y shoulder and fit m y hands around the handlebar grips. "Sorry, Pazz," I m o c k e d h i m , whatever his name was. " I was just admiring it." "Get

your ass off."

" O h , now, Pazz." "I mean it. Get off, it's mine!" "Sure thing, Pazz. Fine bike you've got.

Roomba."

There was a thunder o f footsteps o n the walkway and stairs above. I wandered into Wayne's kitchen and grew aware of l o u d male voices at the door. " N o , no," someone said. " W e want 'Pazz'." On

the kitchen counter was a steel utensil that the brewing i n -

dustry's pop-top a l u m i n u m cans have made obsolete. L i q u o r stores used to give the beer openers away; we called them church keys. G r i p p e d inside a fist, the h o o k made a nasty weapon. T h e uproar out there wasn't Wayne's problem. I swept up the church key and lurched outside to deal w i t h these yahoos. I wouldn't have taken half the beating i f I'd gone out there

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empty-handed. A s the punishment continued I said some dreadfully stupid things. "I'd like to do this again w i t h the gloves on." " A r e y o u a K a p p a Sig?" I guess I wanted to slip h i m the grip. Some boys never get over the horseshit years. They're rednecks i n fact and toughs i n their minds the rest o f their lives. B u t i f you're l u c k y y o u become someone else. T h e m o r n i n g after that fight i n D e n t o n , w i t h a wretched hangover I gazed i n a m i r r o r and took l o n g stock o f myself. U n d e r one eye was a perfectly formed shiner. I wasn't just embarrassed that I w o u l d have to go to class and m y j o b l o o k i n g like that. I was horrified, disgusted. W i t h that church key I c o u l d have put that boy's eye out— disgraced m y family—gone to prison for m a i m i n g h i m . M a n , grow up, I told myself. A n d i n that regard I did. I didn't throw another p u n c h at a m a n i n anger for thirty-two years. B u t that w o u l d be a man w h o held a loaded .38.

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confirmed bachelor w o u l d have to be a scarred and bitter man. N o one i n his right m i n d looks longingly at the prospect o f a solitary o l d age. B u t as I passed thirty-five I thought the

statute o f limitations must have r u n out for me. A s i f to underscore this, one day a package arrived i n the mail. M y grandmother Shelton made beautiful patchwork quilts, stitching special ones as wedding gifts for her throng o f grandchildren. M y sister and most o f m y c o u sins were married, some o f them parents, by the time they were twenty. F o r years Granny waited, then w i t h an implied air o f disgust she gave up and sent me the quilt w i t h o u t a w o r d o f comment. I had to ask m y mother what this meant. N o t only was I unmarried; i n those years I had lived w i t h a w o m a n a grand total o f three months. It wasn't that I didn't seek and fall i n love. I just half-expected the affairs to end soon and sadly. W h e n I was twenty-four m y first love broke m y heart, ending the talk o f a Russian wedding i n a Kansas barn, and no doubt spared us a first divorce. I kept saying I wanted to be a writer, and she kept saying she was a practical person. After that, a procession o f well-read y o u n g

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w o m e n yanked knots i n m y brain. In the p r i m e o f m y y o u t h I went impotent for years that seemed like decades. It took a g o o d psychologist to steer me out o f that mess. Eventually I stopped being so hard o n myself. A n d though I still couldn't see why, l o o k i n g at a mirror, certain w o m e n liked having me around. I was no hermit; A u s t i n and San A n t o n i o , the Texas cities I had come to love, were each fifty miles away, and I had social lives i n both. B u t w i t h a cat and a collie, I lived o n a hill overlooking a valley that local folks called R o g u e s H o l l o w — o u t l a w s and Confederate deserters and draft-dodgers had once camped there. I had 125 acres to roam and a five-mile view. M y rented house consisted o f two replicated dogtrot cabins, o f the o l d settlers' style, that were set together i n a single structure. Beams o f light and c o l d drafts o f the northers came through spaces between the cedar logs. I chopped and chainsawed w o o d for a potbellied stove. W h e n the day's w o r k was done I went for runs o n a w i n d i n g , u p - a n d - d o w n county road. B u t I didn't think I was d o i n g enough for m y upper body. So I bought a heavy p u n c h i n g bag and h u n g it from a beam i n m y office. O n e day a friend w h o m I hadn't seen i n several years came out for a visit. I noticed her startled frown o n seeing the bag; I thought it was just the aversion to b o x i n g that is c o m m o n i n her gender. B u t later she told me that since we had last seen each other, she had been i n a mental hospital and the doctors and attendants had put her i n a straitjacket. T h e first thing they d i d w h e n they released her from those constraints was to put b o x i n g gloves o n her and l o c k her i n a r o o m w i t h a p u n c h i n g bag just like mine. I c o u l d understand that. T h e bag was therapeutic for me. I might spend half an h o u r w o r k i n g o n a single p u n c h , and I began to put together combinations I had never mastered before. T h e jab the right the h o o k . T h e jab the right the h o o k . M o n o t o n o u s information and reward, useful to no one but me i n the privacy o f that moment. B u t loneliness and hurt were gone, i f only for a while, w h e n the r o o m

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was still except for m y heavy breathing and the creak and swing o f the b i g bag's chain. A t night coyotes yipped and yodeled all around, to the aggravation o f m y collie. In the fall I w o u l d l o o k up from m y typewriter and admire the spiral and cruise o f migrating hawks. T h e sun m o v e d around so that i n winter it came up framed by the w i n d o w at the foot o f m y bed—a lovely way to wake up i n the m o r n i n g . In the garden I planted two or three marijuana plants, a year's supply, right beside m y tomatoes. T h e y liked the same soil, and I didn't m u c h care w h o k n e w about it. N e a r the garden I dug some horseshoe pits. A friend's d i vorce made a p o o l table available; I bought it and placed it i n the m i d dle o f the l i v i n g r o o m . I used m y dad's four-ten shotgun to hunt doves and k i l l rattlesnakes, w h i c h were plentiful. I compromised some p o litical principles and started keeping the gun loaded. I f a thief, lunatic, or rabid animal ran i n the house some night, it wouldn't do any g o o d to call 911. I had reconnected w i t h a rural Texas I remembered fondly as a child. I was as happy as I'd ever been. A n d as I accepted m y bachelorh o o d I recognized the advantages. There is m u c h to be said for carryi n g o n simultaneous romances w i t h o u t guilt. I could be a considerate, l o v i n g companion as l o n g as the going was good, but I had made up m y m i n d to r i d myself o f emotional conflict. W h e n it began I just walked out. M o r e than once a w o m a n woke up i n bed to find me gone. M a y b e it was a churlish thing to do, but driving away felt a lot better than the battle o f words and thoughts that had kept me awake all night. I don't need this, I w o u l d tell myself. I had m y w o r k , m y pets, m y place i n the country. T h e n one day the mail brought an i n v i tation to a birthday party i n San A n t o n i o w i t h a stylized graphic o f a w o m a n sticking her finger d o w n her throat. " B o o g i e ' T i l Y a P u k e " was the caption. September 27, 1980. I still have the piece o f cardboard, stained by the years. That was the night I met Dorothy.

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H I he invitation came from G e r r y and C h r i s Goldstein. G e r r y was a 1 top y o u n g criminal defense lawyer w h o had become m y friend w h i l e I was w o r k i n g o n a magazine article about a jailbreak o f Americans i n the bordertown o f Piedras Negras, M e x i c o . C h r i s , tall, blonde, elegant, and B r i t i s h - b o r n , was turning thirty. T h e party w o u l d begin i n their h o m e i n a showcase n e i g h b o r h o o d o f S o u t h west V i c t o r i a n architecture called the K i n g W i l l i a m District. After a couple o f hours it w o u l d move o n a few blocks to a little bar called the F r i e n d l y Spot. I went to the party alone, and beside the staircase I sipped w i n e and fell into conversation w i t h Pete Gent. Pete had been a h i g h school and college basketball star i n M i c h i g a n , then the Dallas C o w b o y s drafted h i m to r u n routes and catch footballs. H e played w e l l but took a horrific beating as a w i d e receiver for a few seasons in the sixties w h e n coach T o m L a n d r y was t u r n i n g an expansion franchise into a winner. Pete was best k n o w n , though, for his roman à clef and movie about the experience, N o r t h D a l l a s Forty.

H e c o u l d be

a difficult friend, but w h e n his m o o d was bright, I loved the guy. " L o o k what's about to happen," he said philosophically and it seemed happily as we gazed out the door at the street. " I n a minute everybody's going to walk out to that sidewalk and t u r n left, because that's the way to the bar. B u t I've gotta t u r n right because I left m y gun

i n the car, and I can't go off in some strange n e i g h b o r h o o d w i t h -

out m y gun. B u t the minute I turn right everybody's gonna think, Yep, l o o k , there he goes, he's gonna get his gun out o f the car. See what m y life is like? Y o u don't have to w o r r y about those kinds o f things, because you're not paranoid." T h e w o m a n w h o approached us wore tan pants and a fitted top that complemented short sun-tinged hair, dark lustrous eyes, and a forthright g r i n . Pete hugged her and they grazed cheeks, then he

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introduced her to me as D o r o t h y''Brammer."Browne," she corrected h i m . After two marriages and divorces she had taken back her family name. D o r o t h y had g r o w n up amid a family drenched i n Southern traditions, i n the northeastern Texas t o w n o f Tyler. She had come to A u s t i n and the University o f Texas as a sorority girl, but she quickly fell into the thrall o f classicists, archaeologists, liberal politicians, the magnificent o l d photographer Russell Lee, and a short, funny, recently divorced novelist named Billie Lee Brammer. H e was still aglow i n the praise for his 1961 novel T h e Gay Place, w h i c h was set i n A u s t i n and the ribald w o r l d o f Texas politics. T h e b o o k got rave reviews, and his characterization o f a Texas governor k n o w n as A r t h u r " G o d d a m " Fenstemaker had been called the most revealing portrait o f L y n d o n Johnson—for w h o m B i l l i e Lee had w o r k e d as a senate aide. D o r o t h y was twenty-three and B i l l i e Lee was thirty-five w h e n they married i n 1963. J o h n F. K e n n e d y had just been assassinated, and B i l l i e Lee had a contract to write a nonfiction b o o k about the new president, but w h e n he and D o r o t h y arrived i n Washington the new administration froze h i m out—nobody w o u l d talk to h i m . Some people attributed B i l l i e Lee's failure to produce another b o o k to this rejection by Johnson, but the L B J theory was nonsense; his w r i t i n g got lost i n his zest for the pleasures and excesses o f the sixties. D r o p p i n g acid and taking speed entertained h i m more than wrestling w i t h a stubborn chapter. B u t w h i l e he stopped producing, he never stopped giving. After their divorce Billie Lee had been m y friend and mentor. I was devastated w h e n he died o f an accidental overdose i n 1977. F r o m her subsequent marriage to a handsome, liberal Texas legislator named A r t h u r Vance, D o r o t h y had a child, Lila, w h o was n o w seven. B u t as she and I walked toward the San A n t o n i o bar that night I wasn't t h i n k i n g about w h o she had been married to. I was just glad she wasn't married to anyone now. D o r o t h y had come d o w n w i t h an A u s t i n group that included owners o f a popular bar and restaurant called the R a w Deal. Fletcher B o o n e and L o p e z S m i t h u m were older

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W i c h i t a Falls refugees, and i n time we w o u l d become close friends. B u t there was little opportunity to get to k n o w them this night because b o t h were feuding w i t h the w o m e n they lived w i t h . Fletcher's argument w i t h his wife, Libby, was especially volatile. N o one k n e w what fueled it except that Fletcher kept referring to w o m e n — a l l women—as " y o u people." L i b b y became distraught enough that Fletcher sent w o r d to D o r o t h y that they'd better leave. A s I trailed them back toward the Goldsteins' house L i b b y w o u l d step into a doorway or alley and w a i l and sob some more, her face i n her hands. San A n t o n i o has the l o o k o f an o l d M e x i c a n t o w n . T h e streetlight painted a tableau o f shadows and adobes, and someone i n our company dubbed the walk "the Trail o f Tears." A t a street corner D o r o t h y and I sat o n a curb and l o o k e d at one o f the few houses that hadn't been restored. W e talked about h o w it c o u l d be done, what colors it might be painted. I wasn't ready to let go o f her company, so I offered to take them to their hotel. L o p e z had been demanding a cab i n a neighborhood where they're not routinely hailed o n the street. W i t h a growl he c l i m b e d i n m y backseat and said, " D r i v e , what do y o u mean, drive? Y o u can't drive." " O f course I can," I said."I'm all right. I can drive." Several times that night I felt as though I were being auditioned— though for what, exactly, I couldn't say. A s the evening proceeded I thought surely the hotel w o u l d send someone from security or call the cops. Fletcher roared and clenched his fist at an employee he accused o f mismanaging some aspect o f the restaurant. L i b b y w o u l d brighten and smile at some story, then start sniffling and soon w o u l d be wailing i n her hands again. D o r o t h y and Fletcher got into a playful argument and then a tussle and as he bellowed she bit a blue spot i n his ample belly. T h e night was rowdy. A n image o f a cutting horse kept going through m y m i n d . I f I could just get her away from them. . . . T h e next m o r n i n g , as I heard it, L i b b y was over whatever had so

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upset her the night before. She seldom failed to wake up i n a gay m o o d . " W h a t d i d he say?" she giggled and hooted as they rode back to Austin. "That's so perfect." Later, another o f their friends crocheted my remark o n a c o u c h pillow."I really like y o u , Dorothy, but y o u sure have some quarrelsome friends."

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orothy w o r k e d for the Texas chapter o f the A m e r i c a n C i v i l L i b erties U n i o n . W h e n I called her at w o r k the following Monday,

she said, "I didn't k n o w i f I'd ever hear from y o u again." "Yeah, y o u did," I answered; and so the courtship began. I w o u l d w o r k through the week at m y country place and then

head for A u s t i n o n Friday. W e spent many evenings at the R a w Deal, where I caught up o n the noise and conviviality I had gone w i t h o u t during m y rural hiatus. In A u s t i n I could spend time w i t h writers— B u d Shrake, Gary Cartwright, B i l l Wittliff—and a recent acquaintance, A n n Richards, then a local county commissioner. O n Sunday the moveable feast settled o n Fletcher and L i b b y Boone's house for food, pro football d u r i n g that season, and a night o f what they called "gonzo bridge." B u t I was no bridge player and some nights I fidgeted, bored. There were significant differences between D o r o t h y and me. E a c h o f her marriages had lasted seven years, while m y experience i n l i v i n g w i t h a w o m a n amounted to one short summer. She was four years older than me, and most o f her focus was o n being a w o r k i n g single mother. D o r o t h y tried not to impose her lifestyle o n mine. O n occasion she came out to the cabin o n the hill. I loved this place and expected others to like it. O n e time a y o u n g history professor and his wife, a lawyer, came d o w n from Austin w i t h D o r o t h y ; we were g o i n g out for a night i n San A n t o n i o . T h e academic took i n the p u n c h i n g bag, the p o o l table, and the rest. " H m m , " he said. " A l l this needs is some m o u n t e d testicles."

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I j o i n e d i n the laughter, but the wisecrack stung. A n o t h e r time a norther was b l o w i n g through, and I had the stove crammed w i t h w o o d and ablaze. Still it was freezing. Served w i t h the red w i n e and fresh bread she brought from t o w n , I made a favorite winter soup called caldo verde—white

beans, stew beef, rounds o f sau-

sage, tomatoes, onions, and shreds o f spinach. "Seduction dinner," she m u r m u r e d later, as we snuggled i n the w a r m t h o f Granny's quilt, a cat curled against our feet. W i t h o u t w a r n i n g she c o u l d turn o n me, too. " L o o k , I ' m not into going steady," she said icily one night. " I need to k n o w i f this is g o i n g anywhere." I gaped at her, stunned, but she had nailed me. I was satisfied w i t h h o w it had been going, and I w o u l d have let it go o n that way indefinitely, I suppose. It was m y passive nature. A n o t h e r night she looked at me quizzically and said,"Are y o u gonna break m y heart?" T h e matter came to a head o n a trip to the M e x i c a n border. In those days it was still possible to catch a train from A u s t i n to Laredo. T h e extended R a w D e a l family b o o k e d several cars, piled i n books, kids, toys, and suitcases, and took off for another weekend o f raucous behavior. I told D o r o t h y I w o u l d pass up the train ride but w o u l d drive d o w n there. W e all stayed at a nice hotel i n Laredo. It had a g o o d s w i m m i n g p o o l for the kids, and late i n the afternoon a marimba band came out and played. B u t there was little else to do o n the Texas side o f the border, so we roamed back and forth across the R i o Grande bridge. " T a x i , taxi!" drivers tried to entice us o n the other side."Wanta see some pretty girls?" Cabrito—barbecued

k i d goat—is a

specialty o f northern M e x i c o cuisine. In w i n d o w s o f the restaurants, the grilled naked goats were presented like crucifixions. O n sidewalk pallets o f cardboard, dark-skinned w o m e n w i t h infants held up a hand begging. O u r gang included an attorney named H u g h L o w e and his wife Claudette. D o r o t h y and Claudette had been roommates their freshman year at the university. T h e y often went to the border as collegians.

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Prostitutes roamed the bars i n d o w n t o w n N u e v o Laredo. O n one o f these visits some Texas boy made a l e w d remark to dark-haired and dark-eyed Claudette, mistaking her for one o f the whores. Claudette s date j u m p e d up and set off an old-fashioned barroom brawl. D o r o t h y and Claudette ran for the tourist wagon o f their favorite driver, Shorty. H i s gaunt horse took off at a slow trot but a M e x i c a n cop fired a warning shot over their heads. T h e gringo collegians spent that night i n jail. F r o m the t o w n where I grew up, it was 390 miles to C i u d a d A c u ñ a and its set o f whorehouses. N e i t h e r I nor m y friends ever had a car that reliable, so I missed out o n the Texas horseshit o f going to "Boys T o w n , " as the red-light districts are called. A s an adult I was still uneasy o n the M e x i c a n side o f the border. H u g h L o w e spoke Spanish well, having g r o w n up around M e x i c a n laborers i n South Texas. W h e n we crossed the bridge i n m y car one night, I let H u g h drive. On

a gutted road that rocked w i l d l y he took us to N u e v o Laredo's

Boys T o w n . It proved to be a c o m p o u n d regulated by the government and patrolled by soldiers w i t h rifles slung across their shoulders. T h e putas

lined up for sad inspection i n front o f shacks that contained a

bed but l o o k e d like little more than two-hole privies. B o r d e r t o w n M e x i c o was as ugly as a dog p o u n d , I thought, but that weekend I explored it happily w i t h D o r o t h y and her friends. U n t i l the last night. W i t h the marimbas r i n g i n g beside the p o o l , she and I emerged from our r o o m abuzz w i t h tactile and emotional sensation. I thought I could feel every i n c h o f m y skin. A s the night wore on, one round o f margaritas was followed by another. Sometime that night she and I fell back from others w h i l e crossing the bridge. "Dorothy," I blurted, "let's get married." She gazed at the darkness and shook her head sadly. "You're too young," she said, "and y o u don't have any money." She had a child to consider, it was true that I lived i n self-imposed poverty, and m y prospects as a writer were far from certain. She had

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already been through that once w i t h B i l l i e Lee. A n d what were the odds o f this marriage I proposed? It w o u l d pair a w o m a n w h o had given marriage her best shot twice and a man w h o had been l i v i n g alone, essentially, since he left the care o f his mother. Still, one minute D o r o t h y had me feeling that I could vault to the stars. T h e next minute I wanted to j u m p off the R i o Grande bridge. A l l night I stayed awake or mostly awake, and I helped D o r o t h y and L i l a catch the five a.m. train. A s the coach pulled away D o r o t h y and I continued staring at each other, and, w i t h o u t saying anything, asked: W h a t were we going to do w i t h this? W i t h each other? I went back to the hotel and slept until late m o r n i n g , then threw m y bag i n the car and checked out. I was going back to m y country place where I belonged. I didn't need this. B u t the shell inside me cracked. O n the interstate highway I was about twenty miles out o f Laredo w h e n the tears started p o u r i n g , and I couldn't stop them. " O h , g o d damn, g o d damn," I said. U p ahead was the i m m i g r a t i o n checkpoint, and w a l k i n g out to greet me and study me rather closely was an agent o f the U . S . B o r d e r Patrol.

I

n Texas we walk o n ground that was t o r n from M e x i c o , and our

m y t h was b o r n i n those days. T h e nineteenth-century

adven-

tures are an epic that Texans have every right to be p r o u d of. A l l the

w i l d and violent history forged a togetherness and attachment to place that residents o f many A m e r i c a n states seem to lack, and perhaps that makes us richer. B u t i n the swagger and bluster important parts o f the story get left out. T h e tale that most embodies the Texas mythos is the stand and fall o f the A l a m o , a mission turned fortress where a large M e x i c a n army slaughtered all but a few rebels i n 1836. Weeks later, w h e n the Texans surprised the M e x i c a n soldiers i n a coastal wetland, their cries o f " R e m e m b e r the A l a m o ! " were about bloodlust and vengeance, not honor. Texas chauvinists like to boast

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about the success o f our revolution and our past as an independent nation, as b i g as Spain or France. B u t the R e p u b l i c o f Texas was bankrupt i n a decade, and most o f its citizens longed for annexation by the U n i t e d States, w h i c h came i n 1848. M e x i c o never recognized the sovereignty o f Texas, m u c h less a border at the R i o Grande. T h e U n i t e d States' calculated rescue o f Texas guaranteed the M e x i c a n War.

T h o u g h the war inflicted h o r r i d losses o n b o t h sides, it ended

quickly; uniformed gringos imposed martial law o n M e x i c o City. A l l Texans have heard o f the A l a m o . B u t few k n o w o f the M e x i c o C i t y schoolboys, martyrs i n their country, w h o fought as cadets against the norteamericano

invaders, and j u m p e d to their deaths from a citadel

rather than surrender. T h e spoils o f that war were not just the certification o f America's claim to Texas and a border at the R i o Grande. For fifteen m i l l i o n d o l lars and assumption o f some M e x i c a n debts, the U n i t e d States seized New

M e x i c o , A r i z o n a , California, U t a h , W y o m i n g , Nevada, and a part

of Colorado; A m e r i c a n d o m i n i o n was at last contiguous from the Atlantic to the Pacific. M e x i c o lost half its territory to the rampage that the Americans justified as their Manifest Destiny. Mexico's w o u n d was deep and bitter, and it festers still. In Texas the lore has infused a c o m m o n belief that we're t w i c e - b o r n Americans, heirs to two revolutionary wars, two declarations o f independence. W h e n we're i n M e x i c o , we often behave like we o w n it. T h e allure that M e x i c o holds for Texans is almost genetic. W e go d o w n there large i n stature, l o u d o f voice, flashy and arrogant w i t h our dollars. Danger real or imagined is part of the thrill. O f all the gringos, Texans are resented most. H o w e v e r high and mighty we perceive ourselves to be, to many Mexicans we are still bárbaros del norte. Barbarians of the north.

D

orothy and I weathered our crisis o f Laredo, and later that s u m -

mer I w o n a grant for the novel I was w o r k i n g o n . It was just a

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couple o f thousand dollars, but that was enough to float a vacation. Apart from a few crossings to M e x i c a n bordertowns, I had never traveled outside the U . S . It wasn't an aversion to other languages and cultures; I just thought penetrating them w o u l d be so complicated and hard. D o r o t h y took me i n hand, and soon we were o n a plane to the M e x i c a n resort o f Puerto Vallarta. Shrouded w i t h the rainy season's fog, lush green mountains rose sharply from the Pacific's sand and surf and the cobblestone streets and red-tiled roofs o f the t o w n strung along an estuary called the B a y o f Banderas. Puerto Vallarta caught o n w i t h A m e r i c a n tourists after the m u c h - p u b l i c i z e d filming o f 1964's T h e N i g h t of the I g u a n a , starring R i c h a r d B u r t o n and A v a Gardner. D i r e c t o r J o h n H u s t o n o w n e d a house a few kilometers d o w n the coast i n a hamlet called Mismaloya. T h e m o v i e m a k i n g set off a media frenzy because Elizabeth Taylor flew d o w n to carry o n an affair w i t h the still-married B u r t o n . T w o decades later, D o r o t h y and I sat o n Mismaloya's quiet beach eating delicate fish smoked o n sticks by a m a n w h o had put up a lean-to and built a fire i n the sand. T h e wonder, I thought, was that H u s t o n bought the rights to Tennessee W i l l i a m s ' play and brought all those people to so color-drenched a place and then shot the picture i n black and white. W e rented a Volkswagen Safari that was square and pokey and had no top. Past Mismaloya that day we climbed the narrow road to a bar called Chico's Paradise. It overlooked a waterfall and rapids that crashed over polished light gray stone. W e drove higher until night fell and we were enclosed i n fog. D o r o t h y wore shorts and a striped b o w - n e c k e d cotton shirt. She clasped her hands between her knees, threw back her head, and yelled, " I ' m so happy!" D o w n the beach from our hotel that night we rolled i n the surf, arms and legs e n twined, then lay gasping and laughing i n the sand and froth as the tide pulled the water back. A n o t h e r night I put o n m y r u m p l e d best and she wore sandals and

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a dress. W e went to a little cafe that had become our favorite. It had a balcony and v i e w o f the beachfront street, a plaza, and the ocean. T h e cafe was named for its owner, w h o styled himself T h e C h i c a g o K i d . T h e owner made it to G o l d e n Chicago, where jobs were so plentiful, then w i t h his small fortune had come back home. H e brought us w i n e and hard rolls and the best black bean soup I'd ever tasted. B e l o w us a large truck and trailer came i n c h i n g along the narrow street o n the water's edge. T h e driver fought the w h e e l frantically and swung his head back and forth to his mirrors, for his turn around the little plaza l o o k e d impossible. F r o m the truck rose a strange musical t i n kling. A s the driver swung his r i g around o n the cobblestone, we saw that the trailer was loaded w i t h countless crates o f C o c a - C o l a . A small troupe o f mariachis approached our table. D o r o t h y asked i f they k n e w " L a M a l a g u e ñ a . " T h e leader smiled and touched the b r i m o f his hat. T h e fiddler played a prelude and the guitarists set up a procession o f chopping chords. T h e singers rose to their toes to hit the high notes. T h o u g h I understood none o f the lyrics, it was one o f the prettiest songs I'd ever heard. I asked D o r o t h y what it was about. She laughed and said, " L o v e and death. T h e y all are." Toward the end o f our stay we boarded a large boat for a t w o hour ride across the mirrorlike bay. Every day the boat unloaded tourists into dugouts whose oarsmen paddled them ashore at a village called Yelapa. T h e bay water was clear enough for g o o d snorkling, and the tourists scattered through the village, b u y i n g what few keepsakes village artisans had for sale. M a n y came to a waterfall and s w i m m i n g hole r i m m e d w i t h ferns. T h e n at four o'clock the b i g boat b l e w a blast o f its h o r n , and most o f the tourists were oared back out for their return to the l u x u r y o f Puerto Vallarta. Boys from the village ran to the s w i m m i n g hole and dived to the bottom, c o m i n g up w i t h cigarette lighters, rings, and coins spilled from the pockets o f the tourists. In a hotel that consisted o f a few thatched-roof huts w i t h mosquito nets and cold-water showers, D o r o t h y and I spent the night. W e

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sat around the bar, w h i c h i n the evening was powered by a generator, and ate the fish, beans, and tortillas the kitchen provided. D i g g i n g our toes i n the sand, we sat at a table playing g i n until the bar closed. In our palapa

we lolled i n the same narrow bed for a while, then we

parted and set our pillows and arranged our mosquito nets just so. Bugs fluttered and mired themselves i n the tallow o f the candles. O v e r the constant gentle splashing o f the surf, quiet voices carried from the village. In M e x i c o every defense I had put up against D o r o t h y fell away. B e i n g i n love was not n e w to me, but trusting someone was. I found r o o m for sharing i n the masculine citadel I had so l o n g inhabited. A n d for years that followed, it enchanted us that we had found that happiness and hope i n M e x i c o . Dorothy, w h o had traveled far abroad, a l ways told me that M e x i c o was the most foreign place she had ever been. N o w it was our place, full o f r i c h secrets k n o w n only to us. M e x i c o is a blend o f the mysterious and surreal. A n d its exoticism was so close, so convenient: to shore up our love and break from the everyday, all we had to do was hop o n a plane. Let 's go to M e x i c o — despite the heritage o f enmity, for all manner o f Texans that has been pleasure 's call. That next m o r n i n g i n Yelapa, before the b i g boat carrying more tourists arrived, we rented horses from a stable near the beach. A river ran through the village and emptied into the bay. W e rode the horses along the river, passing the home o f a campesino n o w and then, gazi n g at the attempts o f slash-and-burn farming o n the steep slopes. T h e y hacked out the jungle, then w i t h o u t m u c h success tried to grow corn. H i g h e r up the river ran m u c h faster, and the trail led to a ford. T h e nags eyed the h i g h water, snorted, rattled their bridles, and refused to cross. B u t that was all right, because all around us, caressing our arms and necks and faces, was a storm o f purple, blue, and gold butterflies.

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ne m o r n i n g i n 1989, I sat i n the garage o f our rented house on

Possum Trot, waiting for a truck from the Salvation

A r m y . Dorothy, Lila, and I were m o v i n g to our new home o n

Eleventh Street, and we had separated the j u n k from discards that might have some value. I rubbed m y hand over the canvas o f the p u n c h i n g bag that had h u n g i n m y cabin at Rogues H o l l o w . T h e bag had sat i n storage so l o n g that it had g r o w n m o l d . I kept t h i n k i n g someday, somewhere, I might have a place to hang it. B u t I couldn't envision one at the new house. Actually I could, but D o r o t h y was not going to let me hang it under the r o o f o f a structure urbane enough to be called a loggia. Reluctantly and wistfully, I let the bag go. T h e charity w o u l d find a place where kids w o u l d use it. I thought I was through w i t h boxing. A n architectural stylist had built our n e w house i n stages, expanding it from its beginnings as a hunting cabin i n the woods after W o r l d War II. A u s t i n had g r o w n around and far beyond it, leaving a littlek n o w n c o m p o u n d , lovely but eccentric, prone to d o w n h i l l

flooding,

problematic to maintain. A t eleven L i l a was i n a state o f h i g h anxiety about the move; the little house o n Possum Trot was the only home

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she c o u l d remember clearly. B u t b u y i n g a house was a milestone for us. B o t h o f D o r o t h y s previous marriages had lasted seven years. Various friends spoke o f a seven-year marital j i n x as i f it were real. A couple o f months earlier we had celebrated our seventh anniversary, and i n taking o n the m i n d - b o g g l i n g mortgage, we were m a k i n g a statement o f confidence and faith i n ourselves. Saying b o o and begone to that spook. D o r o t h y was forty-one w h e n we married, and except for one false alarm, the height o f w h i c h was a tender, sunbright drive i n the country one Easter Sunday, we gave no thought to having children. M a y b e we should have. M a n y times we wished we had. I had never been one o f those m e n w h o thought he had to pass o n his family name and replicate himself w i t h a son. In fact I w o u l d have preferred a daughter; the little girls o f several w o m e n friends had charmed and taken to me along the way. W e l l , i n this marriage here was m y chance. I remember clearly the first time I saw Lila. In a darkened r o o m she was asleep o n a bed. She had o n jeans and a red pullover, and w i t h her m o u t h opened slightly she slept w i t h the intent and totality that only children have. She was blonde, and it was striking h o w m u c h she resembled b o t h her m o m and dad. I watched her a l o n g time before I backed away from the door. T r y i n g to w i n her over, I assigned myself the daily chore o f getting her off to school. I packed her l u n c h , made her favorite breakfast o f eggs scrambled w i t h cheese, and though I couldn't intrude o n her closeness w i t h her dad—and didn't want to, for A r t h u r became a g o o d friend—the practical task o f rearing her fell to me. I bought her a glove and played catch w i t h her i n the backyard the spring she decided to play Little League. She didn't really want to play baseball; it was because a lady i n the principal's office told her Little League was just for boys. She spent that night somewhere else. She called me and for the first time said the words, " I love y o u . " I h u n g up w i t h m y cheeks tingling. D o r o t h y burned out at the A C L U and took a year off, g r o w i n g a

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fine garden. T h e n she went to w o r k for her o l d friend A n n Richards, w h o was n o w Texas's state treasurer. A t the 1988 Democratic N a t i o n a l C o n v e n t i o n , A n n made her famous keynote speech l a m p o o n i n g the elder George Bush: " P o o r George, he can't help it—he was b o r n w i t h a silver foot

i n his mouth." T h e speech and exposure vaulted her past

rival Texas Democrats. Those were giddy times for us. D o r o t h y and I w o r k e d l o n g hours as volunteers i n her 1990 campaign for governor, w h i c h A n n w o n handily. H e r opponent was a West Texas oilman and rancher w h o refused to shake her hand, boasted i n rodeo slang that he was going "to head her and rope her," j o k e d that rape victims should "just lay back and enjoy it." Ann's election was a rebuke o f the t i m e w o r n Texas horseshit. She set about rattling the g o o d o l d boy networks that dominated government i n Texas, startling one b u n c h by naming Dorothy, w i t h her civil liberties past, to high posts i n the criminal justice division. Every Christmas Eve, Dorothy, Lila, and I had dinner at the governor's mansion. It was fun w h i l e it lasted. A n n was a popular figure, but the suburban electorate poised to dominate Texas politics was overwhelmingly R e p u b l i c a n , and George W . B u s h had mobilized to prove it. In 1994 he ran a focused, disciplined race, w h i l e from the start A n n displayed little o f the fire that had driven her against the b u m b l i n g cowboy. In her concession speech A n n l o o k e d almost relieved. T h e rest o f the nation perceived it as an upset, a backwash o f the a n t i - C l i n t o n tidal wave i n that year's congressional elections, but B u s h was smooth and hungry—he already had his eyes o n the presidency. A n d even o n the losing end it was hard to miss the irony. A n n had made her career w i t h a tongue-lashing o f one man and n o w that man's son had brought her d o w n . D o r o t h y scrambled to find another j o b i n government, and I went o n staff at Texas

M o n t h l y , t h i n k i n g we couldn't afford two free-

lancers i n the family. After a few months m y o l d friends laid me off i n a downsizing. It seemed it w o u l d always be like that for us. D o r o t h y w o u l d be up i n her work, I w o u l d be d o w n i n mine, then the situa-

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tion w o u l d reverse; hardly ever were we b o t h up at the same time. B u t our marriage maintained a fairly even keel. It was based o n an equal division o f labor. She bought the groceries and c o o k e d one week, I did it the next, and whoever didn't c o o k cleaned up the kitchen. Sometimes m y mopes and her temper got between us. "Passion" was Dorothy's favorite w o r d . H e r way o f saying it vexed me. I was w h o I was. I couldn't maintain the intensity and tinge o f craziness that drove us w h e n we were falling i n love, and the way I heard it, few couples could. I wasn't always easy to live w i t h . N e i t h e r was she. W h o is? Storms o f adolescence blew through our lives. F o r a time L i l a and I fell into stereotypical roles o f conflict—the raging teary child, the resented and resentful stepparent—and D o r o t h y didn't always help. In the middle o f some row I w o u l d make a pronouncement. "Forget that," D o r o t h y w o u l d say, then go o n w i t h her take o n the matter, asserting rights o f guidance to her o w n child. I w o u l d clamp m y jaws. O n e time i n the heat o f our strife L i l a yelled at me, " Y o u are ugly . . . you are stupid . . . and y o u are b o r i n g ! " Boring?

W h a t a well-aimed

thrust! A t the worst o f it an alarm clock sailed out o f her r o o m at m y head; one night I put her out o f the house barefoot and made her walk to a friend's home a few blocks away. Y o u are d o i n g this, I thought, about as badly as it could be done. " W a i t and see," said Dorothy. " T h e day w i l l come w h e n y o u and L i l a are very close." It was hard to believe. B u t d u r i n g one argument Lila shouted: " W e l l , I am your daughter!" It stopped me cold and shook me up. I didn't say another w o r d . D o r o t h y and I w o r k e d hard d u r i n g the week but guarded our weekends jealously, for then we pushed the w o r k and bill-paying aside and reclaimed our intimacy. H a v i n g been a bachelor so long, I w o n dered w h e n I repeated m y marriage v o w i f I w o u l d really be faithful. B u t I was faithful, i f not always attentive. T h e longer we lived t o gether, the more k n o w i n g and attuned we became i n the act o f love. W e laughed, and h o w we traveled. W i t h L i l a and a friend, we went o n

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a six-week ramble through England, France, and Italy. T h e n D o r o t h y and I went to the Pyrenees and Paris, another trip found us far off the beaten track i n Ecuador, and then she took me to her beloved Greece. W h e n the funds were tight, w i t h o u t hesitation we headed for Mexico.

etween foreign adventures, I was as stressed and vain as most o f JL/the forty-something m e n I met c l u m p i n g along the r u n n i n g trails i n Austin. M o r e than concerns about health and mortality, those t w i n spurs kept me w o r k i n g out. I lifted weights, and o n free afternoons I got reasonably h o o k e d o n pickup basketball games at the Y M C A . I enjoyed the guys w h o kept that going, but my lack o f skills embarrassed me; I couldn't dribble or shoot. I could rebound and feed passes to the shooters, though, so I had some value w h e n the sides were chosen. " M a n , y o u can really hack," complained one y o u t h after I fouled h i m o n an attempted layup. That was nothing to be proud of. " Y o u are hurting people, Jan," a graybeard reamed me out one day, "and people aren't l i k i n g it." I didn't like h i m m u c h , n o w that he brought it up, but I got the message. I scorned the guys w h o took the floor i n a macho huff; and n o w I stood accused o f that, w h e n i n fact I was just strong and clumsy. T h e n I got hurt. I pissed b l o o d for a year and underwent a scary battery o f tests i n search o f some cancer, before the bleeding abruptly stopped and the doctors came back to their first diagnosis—a hard whack i n the kidneys w h i l e playing hoops. "Basketball's the worst," said N o r m a n C h e n v e n , m y friend and doctor o f many years. " A n d softball. A l l these o l d farts r u n n i n g like they think they're still twenty." W h y persist at these pointless games? W h y not just grow o l d gracefully? Vanity and escape are part o f it. B u t g r o w i n g up o n playing fields gave me a drive that is hard to satisfy by sedentary games or w o r k . T h e challenge needs to involve some k i n d o f difficult physical

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activity. T h e w r i t e r and editor w h o first published m y w r i t i n g was a l i k e - m i n d e d man named G r e g Curtis. T h o u g h we had o u r periodic differences, G r e g had been m y friend since the b i r t h o f Texas

Monthly

i n 1973. Twenty-five years later he and his wife were hosting a Christmas party for the art and editorial staffs, favored freelancers, and w h o m e v e r else they wanted to see, and I ran into an o l d friend, B i l l y G a m m o n . B i l l y was a fight fan, and d u r i n g a visit out to m y cabin years before he and I had banged the bag a little, fooling around. N o w B i l l y pulled G r e g and me aside and told us he was d o i n g something that was about the most fun he'd ever had. H e was w o r k i n g out i n R i c h a r d Lord's b o x i n g g y m . I was aware o f R i c h a r d , though I never saw h i m fight. L i v i n g i n A u s t i n , he had r u n up a record o f 2 8 - 1 as a professional super featherweight i n the 1980s. T h e A u s t i n base no doubt hurt h i m . A u s t i n had no tradition and standing i n boxing; despite the city's size—about a m i l l i o n people counting the suburbs—it didn't even host a G o l d e n Gloves tournament. A l l sports i n A u s t i n were dwarfed by the p r o grams and teams o f the University o f Texas, w h i c h d i d not include boxing. L i k e many o f its residents, R i c h a r d had come to A u s t i n to get a degree from the university, and he d i d . H e hoped to compete i n the O l y m p i c s , but that dream didn't pan out, and he got off to a late start as a pro. R i c h a r d c o u l d p u n c h , but the hallmark o f his career was his outrageous conditioning. H e reached the top ten i n one w o r l d ranking, but he never caught o n w i t h the major promoters, he couldn't see a w o r l d title fight c o m i n g , so he h u n g it up w i t h his health and senses intact. N o w he was a terrific trainer, B i l l y said, and his g y m was the hottest w o r k o u t j o i n t i n t o w n . I c o u l d tell by the narrowing o f Greg's eyes that he was g o i n g to be out there the next week. It took me a little l o n g e r — i n fact more than a year. I still watched boxing. D u r i n g those years I seized o n certain fighters—Nicaragua's Alexis Arguello, Fort Worth's D o n a l d C u r r y — a n d celebrated their triumphs and lamented their downfalls. B u t d o i n g it myself seemed

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like an eon behind me. I had lost touch w i t h m y h i g h school b o x i n g friends Wayne Hudgens and Joe H a i d . I thought o f those solitary hours banging the bag i n m y cabin at Rogues H o l l o w and wondered i f I'd someday pay for it w i t h arthritis i n m y hands. Still, I had g r o w n bored w i t h m y w o r k o u t routines. Finally I made a date one summer afternoon at R i c h a r d Lord's G y m . B i l l y G a m m o n normally w o r k e d out i n the mornings, but he took off to introduce me and get me started. I was forty-five minutes late, and he gave me an irritated l o o k w h e n I appeared. H e thought I'd stiffed h i m . I had been driving around, nervous, t h i n k i n g this couldn't be the place, and i f it were, I might reconsider. Tucked off beside one o f the ugliest intersections i n t o w n , the g y m consisted o f a cramped, metal-sided b i n o n the back r o w o f units that other tenants used for storage and small manufacturing. It had a fourteen-foot r i n g w i t h some patches o f duct tape and b l o o d splatters, three heavy bags, several speed bags bolted to the walls, cracked mirrors for shadowboxing, a few dumbbells and barbells, a tiny dressing r o o m and toilet, and an office i n shambles. A hodgepodge o f fight posters and photographs filled the walls. R o c k and roll blared from a b o o m b o x . L o w e r i n g toward a nearby runway, jets roared and beat the air, their shadows flitting i n a skylight and slipping across the

floor.

Dust-caked insulation clung to the walls and ceiling, but a prominent thermometer registered 102 degrees. "Welcome," said R i c h a r d , w h o proved to be a small, muscular, bowlegged man w i t h short hair and a braided ponytail. " W e ' l l turn up the air-conditioning here i n a minute." I had missed the rounds o f skipping rope and stretching and abdominal exercises w h i c h R i c h a r d led at the start o f his group sessions. " Y o u k n o w h o w to wrap your hands?" he asked. " N o , not really," I said. H e showed me h o w to wrap rolls o f red cotton cloth around m y knuckles, m y thumbs, and the bones i n m y

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hands, tying them off w i t h Velcro around the wrists. I told h i m about my false start as a G o l d e n Glover and the little sparring I'd done i n the Marines. H e told me he had started fighting i n the G o l d e n Gloves w h e n he was five. H i s dad, he said, was a Dallas manager and trainer named D o u g L o r d ; he had a w o r l d welterweight c h a m p i o n named Curtis Cokes i n the sixties. Curtis Cokes! I had seen C o k e s k n o c k out some guy i n the m a i n event o f a b o x i n g card i n W i c h i t a Falls—the only pro fights I'd ever seen i n person. H e watched me paw at and miss the speed bags a couple o f rounds, then he put some tattered sixteen-ounce gloves o n m y hands and assigned me to one o f the heavy bags. M a y b e I impressed h i m some, but I started out t h r o w ing as hard as I could, and at the end o f just one three-minute r o u n d I was gasping and drenched w i t h sweat. After a couple more rounds R i c h a r d l o o k e d at m y r u n n i n g shoes and told me to take them off and climb i n the r i n g i n m y sock feet. W h e n I stepped through the ropes he picked up a medicine ball and held it against his shoulder. " A i m for the middle," he said, "and watch what you're doing. I ' m not wearing my mouthpiece. If you hit me I ' m gonna hit y o u back." I thought I was i n fair shape from the basketball, weights, and r u n ning, but i n less than an hour o f this I was stumbling and faint. R i c h a r d said the hand wraps cost five bucks and told me where I c o u l d buy some r i n g shoes. I l o o k e d inside m y bag to pay h i m for the wraps and cursed. " M y wallet's gone," I said, casting a bitter, accusing glance at the others i n the g y m . R i p off the o l d fool. " I should have k n o w n better. . . ." " W e l l , it's never happened here before," said R i c h a r d i n his slow, deliberate manner. " I ' l l get it back for y o u . Y o u got m y w o r d . " M o m e n t s later I trudged back i n the g y m and apologized. I'd left the damn wallet i n the car. D o r o t h y had a n o t i o n o f a "third place," where friends fell into an important c o m m u n a l order outside family and w o r k . It c o u l d be a church, a bar like T V ' s Cheers

and our expired

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and sorely missed R a w D e a l i n Austin, a plaza where people o f M e d i terranean tradition gathered for nightly paseo. O r it could be a g y m . I had just found mine.

Basketball

was forgotten; b o x i n g was m y n e w addiction. O n c e

more I fell under the spell o f its jargon and tall tales, the b o d y punchers and cut m e n and gloriously corrupt promoters. A n d I loved the unspoken noise, too. T h e pops o f the b i g bags, the snaps o f j u m p ropes striking the floor, the "ta-tun-ta-ta-tun-ta-ta" w h e n someone skilled was hitting the speed bag, the sharp, horsey snorts o f breath. R i c h a r d was always g r o o m i n g two or three pros, but it was mostly an amateur and w o r k o u t g y m . A b o u t a third o f his clients were y o u n g m e n w h o had some degree o f ability and ambition. A n o t h e r third were w o m e n , most o f w h o m were young, and to m y initial surprise, quite a few sparred. H a v i n g less power, they w o r k e d harder o n technique, and some were quite good. R i c h a r d was at the vanguard o f the emerging sport o f women's boxing, w h i c h made h i m unpopular w i t h some traditionalists. A m y M i l l e r o w n e d the city's most popular chain o f ice cream parlors. Before she gave it up to have a baby, she w o r k e d out w i t h stamina and skill that awed me, and she had one pro fight, w h i c h she lost by decision to the w o m a n R i c h a r d later married. L o r i L o r d was a nurse w h o retired from b o x i n g then got back i n shape and w o n a w o r l d title

after she had their baby. People were always surprised

by h o w feminine they were. Anissa "the Assassin" Zamarron was a shy y o u n g w o m a n w h o didn't k n o w h o w pretty she was. She l o o k e d better i n the g y m than all but two or three o f the men. I had a workout shirt that said,"I'm not ashamed to admit Anissa kicked m y ass." T h e other third o f Richard's clients were m y peers, the geezers. B i l l y G a m m o n , G r e g Curtis. A handsome C h i c a n o man whose name I never learned, for he was deaf and didn't speak. V i n c e O t t o , an F B I agent, was called into action at the siege o f the B r a n c h Davidians, but

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I k n e w h i m as a skilled light heavyweight w h o c o u l d coach me w h i l e sparring w i t h me, w h i c h is hard to do. N o b o d y liked the loudmouths and know-it-alls. M i k e Hanchard was a black political science professor, a star academic w h o w o u l d move o n from Texas to Harvard and Northwestern—but also a bruising 230-pounder w h o i n his first sparring session held his o w n w i t h a professional heavyweight. I p r o posed sparring to M i k e ; I thought I k n e w the secret o f fighting lefthanders. (Straight right hand every time he wiggles.) M i k e politely deflected those conversations. H e was twenty years younger and forty pounds heavier, and he didn't want to hurt me. A l l these people were m y friends, and b o x i n g was our contradictory b o n d . " G r e g d i d that to y o u ? " said D o r o t h y one Saturday w h e n I walked i n w i t h a swollen lip. I laughed, not expecting her to understand. W e hardly ever talked about our jobs or professions at the g y m . It broke an unspoken rule. F o r an hour or two we disappeared into our bodies and our concentration and release, finding pleasure i n a governed k i n d o f violence. T h i r t y years too late, I was learning h o w to fight. T h e M a r i n e s ' schooling had revolted me—gouge the other man's eyes and grab h i m by the balls—although o f course that wasn't meant to be sporting. F r o m Danny, a trainer and ex-pro w h o h u n g out at Richard's, I learned the trick o f giving m y jaws some clouts w h e n the gloves were laced o n , to get ready. I breathed i n deeply and w i t h a w h o o s h o f exhalation snapped m y gloves at the floor, u n l i m b e r i n g m y elbows and shoulders. It also drove m y heartbeat up, and paradoxically, w i t h that came the calm I was seeking. W h i c h is not to say I wasn't scared. M o r e than anything I dreaded the prospect o f stopping a hard b l o w w i t h m y nose. W h e n the bell rang and R i c h a r d stepped out o f the way, a force I couldn't begin to control barged straight at me and drove me to the ropes. "I like your style," one o f the other m e n said. "It's k i n d o f laid back." H e meant it as praise, but i n b o x i n g that's not m u c h

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commendation. O n c e I'd weathered the opening burst, I either tied the guy up or, as I learned more, fought m y way out o f the corner. Because it was hard to bend m y knees, I stood too straight. M y reflexes were too far gone to try slipping punches w i t h movements o f m y head. B u t I became pretty g o o d at parrying the blows, b l o c k i n g or deflecting them w i t h m y gloves and forearms. Still, m y best defense was the left jab. I remember the first hard jab I landed. T h e younger man w h o seconds earlier had bulled me to the ropes went marching backward w i t h thisconsternated/frowno n his face. I didn't spar as often as some o f my friends did. It was hard for me to j u m p out o f bed for Richard's Saturday m o r n i n g sessions—one o f the best o f our crowd, a heavyweight named Sean, likened it to w a k i n g up and d r i n k i n g a martini—and it meant I had to forgo a night o f the drinks and w i n e that were part o f the weekend set-asides D o r o t h y and I held i n reserve. Sparring w i t h a hangover was unthinkable. In size and age, G r e g was m y logical sparring partner. H e was more experienced and always i n better shape. I f someone had been scoring I think he w o u l d have w o n or drawn every time we stepped i n the ring. H e embarrassed me once, turning me around and leaving me trapped i n the tangle o f m y feet and the claustrophobic headgear, tryi n g to find out where the hell he was. A n d even i f it was just a freelance assignment, he was always, to some extent, m y boss. H o w w o u l d he take it i f I really went after him? I never found out. In the spring the g y m grew crowded for a few weeks. R i c h a r d padded his i n c o m e by tutoring college boys, most o f w h o m were i n fraternities, for an extramural Fight N i g h t that benefited a charity. I ignored most o f the youths because I disliked the banal talk. W i t h o u t being mean about it, G r e g preyed o n them. H e w o u l d leave the office early and come out i n the afternoons, k n o w i n g there might be, as he m u r m u r e d to me once, "some action." P h i Delts and K A s were shocked to find themselves being belted around the r i n g by this tall o l d guy. O n e time R i c h a r d told me to gear up and w o r k into the r o -

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tation. G r e g and I faced off, and though R i c h a r d had been drilling the college boys w i t h two-minute rounds, w i t h o u t telling us he let G r e g and me go three minutes. " L o o k at these o l d heavyweights!" he cried as we went toe-to-toe at the bell. Afterward we slapped gloves and I threw m y a r m around Greg's shoulders. It was the best r o u n d I ever fought. In

the pantheon o f boxing's heavyweights m y b o y h o o d hero

Ingemar Johansson had diminished to a cipher. K n o c k e d out i n two of his three fights w i t h F l o y d Patterson, he had finished his career q u i etly i n Europe, a one-fight champion lost i n the shadows o f subsequent greats and near-greats—Liston, A l i , Frazier, Foreman, H o l m e s , Tyson, H o l y f i e l d . B u t another nostalgist found Johansson painting a boat i n Florida and wrote a piece about h i m i n Esquire.

H e was still a

national hero i n Sweden, his son said, and that made it hard for h i m to live there. T h e o l d fighter had little to say until the w r i t e r asked h i m how

it felt to land one of those right hands. Johansson grinned, patted

his fist against his palm, and said, " A h . That's the best." One

afternoon w h e n G r e g and I sparred, I landed m y single hard-

est p u n c h . I threw the right w i t h o u t t h i n k i n g about it, and it landed where I w o u l d have wanted—in the middle o f his forehead, against the thickest padding of his headgear. T h e j o l t went through m y bones and joints all the way to m y jaw. "Whooo"

he said i n compliment,

stepping back w i t h a shake of his head. "Got

y o u w i t h it, didn't he?" said R i c h a r d . " Y o u ' d been watching

it, hanging out w i t h it, and y o u got complacent." I thought, the Swede's right, it is the best. Later that week I sent G r e g a note. I signed it Ingo.

I

n b o x i n g there's a sorry tradition called the smoker. Best described i n R a l p h Ellison's I n v i s i b l e M a n , kids from one ethnic u n -

derclass or another box for t o w n barons w h o smoke cigars and toss

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the fighters coins even as they laugh and jeer. I witnessed a variation o n this spectacle one spring night. R i c h a r d had a C h i c a n o pro whose career had stalled because he kept getting cut. T h e fighter was trying to make another go o f it, and R i c h a r d had put h i m o n the card o f an invitation-only affair at a hotel i n the posh northwest section o f town. R i c h a r d had some complimentary passes, and he said M u h a m mad A l i was supposed to be there. " O h , bullshit," I said. R i c h a r d shrugged. " W h a t they say. They're flying h i m i n . " A l l the n o n b o x i n g people were going to be wearing tuxedos, he added, so we needed to dress well. I put o n a suit that night and drove out to the hotel, where a d o o r m a n eyed m y pass and nodded me through. In a chandeliered r o o m a b o x i n g r i n g had been set up. W h a t we saw were real pro fights. T h e fighters had passed physicals and made weight, their bouts had been approved by the state b o x i n g c o m mission, and the outcomes w o u l d count o n their records. B u t there were no sportswriters, no photographers, and almost no real fans. In formal wear, m e n and w o m e n stood about d r i n k i n g cocktails. T h e m e n selected cigars from trays carried about by sleekly dressed y o u n g w o m e n , lit them, and puffed them w i t h the air o f b i g shots. A few studied the fights put o n for their pleasure, but most ignored them. T h e y were caught up i n their conversations, and I saw several m e n w h o pointedly kept their back turned to the ring. W h e n a fight ended and the referee raised a winner's hand, there was only a smattering o f applause. B u t damned i f it weren't true: Across the r o o m , seated at a table beside an A u s t i n city councilman, patiently signi n g autographs, was the most popular human o f m y generation, Muhammad Ali. O u r contingent from the g y m was strung along a wall, taking it i n . A s faces i n the crowd registered I realized what this was. Politics i n A u s t i n was ruled by one continual battle: environmentalists against the developers. T h e builders were having their way i n the d o i n g o f deals and granting o f permits, but they had been taking a beating i n

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public image and at the ballot box. T h e c o u n c i l m a n seated beside A l i wanted to be the mayor, and these folks decked out i n tuxes were his power base—the movers and shakers o f real estate. I f asked, they w o u l d have said they were just enjoying the company o f their friends, a night away from home. B u t they were raising m o n e y and psyching themselves up to take control o f the city, for once and for all. I was there just for the b o x i n g and the glimpse o f a hero. I stood watching the show w h e n a face appeared before me that I k n e w at once. Charles and I had been schoolmates i n W i c h i t a Falls, graduates o f the same h i g h school class. W e had never been friends exactly, but he k n e w o f m y w r i t i n g and had called me w h e n he m o v e d to A u s t i n , some years back. " W h a t are y o u d o i n g now, Charles?" I had asked h i m . " I ' m a real estate broker," he drawled. Great, j o i n the c r o w d . W e never had the l u n c h we proposed but we ran into each other cordially n o w and then. N o w Charles told me o f a c o m m o n friend w h o had recently dropped dead o f a heart attack w h i l e j o g g i n g . I w i n c e d and shook m y head. A s the h o m e t o w n chat continued I kept glancing bey o n d Charles at the fighters i n the ring. H e noticed the movement o f m y eyes and stepped so that his face remained i n front o f mine, b l o c k i n g the view. H e k n e w what he was doing, and it annoyed me. " A lot o f us don't think m u c h o f this," Charles said, m o v i n g his head toward the boxers i n the ring. " T h e n w h y do i t ? " H e smiled and didn't answer. "Yeah," he reminisced, "I remember the time C o a c h M e r c e r made y o u and me put o n the gloves i n g y m class at Z u n d y J u n i o r H i g h . I busted y o u i n that b i g o l d nose and y o u yanked the gloves off and said,'Boy, I don't want any more o f this.' " "I don't remember that, Charles," I said truthfully. A n d added, " Y o u wouldn't want to do that now." "Pugs," he said w i t h a curl o f his lip, and m o v e d o n . Richard's fighter w o n or lost, I can't remember. It didn't matter, because that was his last fight. R i c h a r d squirmed to the head o f the

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line and got his picture taken w i t h M u h a m m a d A l i . I leaned against the wall near the exit w i t h B i l l y G a m m o n and V i n c e , the F B I agent. I was about to leave w h e n the councilman took the mike and voiced a b r i e f tribute to A l i . There was a round o f applause, then A l i came walking slowly and carefully around the ring. A y o u n g man i n a suit walked close beside h i m , poised to catch his elbow i f he stumbled. T h e builders and realtors made way for h i m as they w o u l d for any cripple, some staring, some smiling, others d u c k i n g their heads and l o o k i n g away. " A a a l i i ! A a a l i i ! " I raised the shout he had heard the w o r l d around, and others i n our b u n c h j o i n e d i n . A l i veered sharply and walked right to us. A s he nodded w o o d enly his gaze roved from face to face. Parkinson's allowed his smile to barely move his lips, but light and h u m o r still danced i n his eyes. H i s hand tremored as he held it out to me. It was a very soft handshake, but w h e n I presumed to grip his bicep it felt a lot firmer than mine. B i l l y G a m m o n clapped h i m o n the shoulder and said, " G o get 'em, Champ."

1 man named J i m Brewer w o r k e d out at the g y m o n occasion. In A

his sixties, J i m lived i n Los Angeles and came to A u s t i n to visit

his mother. H e had a boxer's flattened nose and w o r k e d the bags w i t h obvious skill, though he took it easy o n his hands. J i m and I struck up conversations and a casual friendship as we took breathers. H e told me that he couldn't get anywhere fighting out o f Austin, so he had moved to Las Vegas and fought fifty-odd pro fights, then he gave it up to be an actor; he said he w o r k e d out n o w at a great g y m o n one o f the studio lots. O n Richard's wall was a photograph o f a younger J i m i n bandana and boots, standing beside J o h n Wayne i n similar attire. I asked around and found out his stories were true. In A u s t i n he had been k n o w n as "Gentleman J i m . " H e moved around t o w n w i t h a

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b i g entourage and often got the starring roles i n local theater. T h e photo w i t h J o h n Wayne was taken o n the set o f T h e A l a m o . I always liked to see J i m c o m i n g ; he was m y biggest b o x i n g fan. " M a n , y o u had it," he told me once. " Y o u were a little slow, but y o u had power i n both hands, every p u n c h . Y o u could have been a g o o d small heavyweight." T h e first summer I started w o r k i n g out at Richard's, A b e l Davila was another beginner. H e had been a h i g h school football player, and he weighed about 170 pounds w h e n we started. B u t w h i l e m y weight stayed the same as I hardened into this k i n d o f shape, pounds fell off A b e l . W e often w o r k e d out w i t h each other i n the early days, circling the r i n g and h o l d i n g the medicine ball against our shoulder as the other whaled away. A b e l started competing i n tournaments, and n o b o d y could stay w i t h h i m . A t his peak, as a 145-pound welterweight i n 1995, A b e l beat everybody he faced i n the very competitive San A n t o n i o regional G o l d e n Gloves, and at the state tournament i n Fort W o r t h he didn't lose until the finals. H e was a first-class amateur boxer. A b e l hadn't quite reached that level o f skill the Saturday m o r n i n g we sparred. I had about forty pounds o n h i m and considerable reach. W e b o t h k n e w the other's power and we were wary. A b e l circled me, slapping m y jab away like it was something contemptible, then dropped his hands, stooped, and dared me to hit h i m w i t h j u k i n g movements o f his head. B u t m y left kept h i m distant. T h e n Abel's eyes w o u l d narrow, and w h e n I saw his grimace I k n e w he was c o m i n g i n after me. I survived the attacks and held m y o w n until the bell rang at the end o f the second round. T h e g y m rule was to fight through the bell, w h i c h rang for about fifteen seconds. Still I thought I'd made it, and I relaxed. Abel's right z o o m e d through m y hands and caught me o n the j a w halfway between m y ear and chin. O n the money, as they say i n the game. A b e l , a corner post, and the background wavered like the heat

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mirages that used to fascinate me i n N o r t h Texas. " O h , wow, you're hurt, aren't y o u ? " said R i c h a r d , putting a hand i n the small o f m y back. "Sorry, Jan," muttered A b e l , dropping his eyes. If it had happened d u r i n g a r o u n d R i c h a r d w o u l d have given me a standing eight-count. A s it was, I had sixty seconds to recover, and w h e n he asked me i f I wanted the last round, I said, "Yeah." It ended w i t h A b e l backed into the corner that four minutes earlier had almost eased out o f m y vision. A t the bell we both had our feet planted and were throwing hard. This time I didn't stop till R i c h a r d called, " G o o d finish, b o t h o f you." That night w h e n D o r o t h y and I went out to a restaurant, it hurt m y w h o l e face to chew. M y j a w ached for nearly a week, and at times I felt unaccountably angry at A b e l . After all, that was what we were i n there to do. I sparred o n rare impulse after that. M y y o u n g friend had done me the favor o f retiring me, just shy o f fifty. B o x i n g at m y age— it was pure hubris. H o w was I going to go home and tell m y wife, Honey, I can't make m y half o f the house payment this m o n t h because I was out there i n the r i n g and n o w I ' m dopey from pain pills and m y jaw's w i r e d shut?

(4)

I

never had the temperament

and nerve o f an outlaw. I've

spent one night i n j a i l — d r u n k i n public, Graham, Texas, age

nineteen—and w h e n m y jailers let me out I swore that m u g

shot w o u l d be m y last. I f such a thing had happened to L i l a , I w o u l d

have w o r r i e d about her and followed Dorothy's lead, but I wouldn't have held it against her. Easily coaxed by friends and compelled by the rush o f half-grownup hormones, teenagers ache to stretch the bonds o f acceptability and get i n some k i n d o f trouble. T h e y need to rebel but they also want to get away w i t h it. A s parents y o u hope it isn't trouble w i t h the law, and that w h e n the trouble comes it doesn't i n jure them or someone else, and that it doesn't damage them the rest o f their lives. B u t y o u also remember h o w easily y o u thought y o u r o w n parents were conned. O n e spring day i n 1994, R i c h a r d L o r d saw me walk i n the g y m and, from his office, he gave me a shout. "I just got off the phone w i t h a trainer i n Chicago," he told me. "Irish guy, runs a first-class program for amateurs up there. H e says one o f their best fighters is l i v i n g i n A u s t i n now, and he may come around to see us. T h i s k i d w o n nearly a hundred fights. H e got i n some trouble up there and went to jail, but

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the trainer swears he's a g o o d k i d , and he's just l o o k i n g for someone to give h i m another chance." T h e C h i c a g o K i d , I thought at once, remembering the cafe o f that name D o r o t h y and I had found during our runaway to Puerto Vallarta. But

unlike R i c h a r d , I was wary o f boxing's oldest story. Paul

N e w m a n overdoing the accent o f R o c k y Graziano i n Somebody There

Likes

Up

M e . Somebody no doubt liked Sonny Liston, too, but b o x -

ing didn't change h i m ; he was still a cheap h o o d w h e n he was heavyweight champion o f the w o r l d . A penitentiary and a b o x i n g r i n g are hard places to find redemption, and nobody, I had found through varied experience, can play a c o n like a convict or ex-con. In our little gym

i n Austin, we already had a C h i c a n o bantamweight headed the

w r o n g way d o w n that storyline. A local cable channel had shown h i m wearing a suit and m a k i n g a speech one night at the banquet o f a civic organization that honored h i m for his antigang leadership. H i s first dozen fights got h i m an audition o n E S P N , and he scored a resounding one-punch knockout. Suddenly the phone was r i n g i n g nonstop i n Richard's office; someone from D o n King's operation said they wanted to sign h i m up. O u r bantamweight couldn't handle even that glimpse o f success. H e disappeared from the g y m and went right back to the street. Before we hardly blinked, his face was o n a lineup o f m u g shots i n the Austin newspaper—the breakup o f a b i g d r u g dealing operation, according to the cops. O u r fighter made b o n d and h u n g around the g y m for a while, l o o k i n g doleful. There were e m barrassed nods o f good-bye as he went off to his n e w home i n the Texas department o f corrections. Despite m y skepticism, at the g y m I found myself eyeing every newcomer o f M e x i c a n heritage, trying to judge from his skills i f this might be the C h i c a g o K i d . R i c h a r d needed another headliner. H e had begun to produce some shows i n Austin, but the most successful

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so far had been an a l l - w o m e n affair w i t h the profits donated to a rape crisis center. A n d n o w our brightest light was off to prison. W h e n the new fighter at last came to m y attention, he carried his b o x i n g gear i n a cloth sack and wore jeans and w o r k boots splattered w i t h m u d and concrete. H e was twenty-two then, hardly a k i d . A b e l Davila and other youths i n the g y m called h i m Gabriel. H e was short, just fivesix, and weighed 160 pounds. B u t he was solid; even at that weight he didn't l o o k pudgy. H e had short, thick black hair, an olive c o m p l e x i o n , muscular jaws, and a dimple i n his chin. H e had a tic, a habit o f quickly b l i n k i n g his left eye w h e n he frowned i n concentration, but n o t h i n g else about his appearance or manner marked h i m as a fighter. W h e n he laughed his eyebrows shot up, and his lips parted over a set o f slightly gapped, small, pearly white teeth. I was i n the g y m sporadically d u r i n g those weeks, and didn't see the workouts and sparring sessions that prompted R i c h a r d to put h i m o n a crash training schedule. Gabriel had two amateur fights and slimmed d o w n to 135 pounds, then R i c h a r d told me one afternoon that they were going d o w n to H o u s t o n to turn h i m pro. H e m e n tioned that Gabriel n o w wanted to go by his other family names, Jesus Chavez. G o o d choice, I thought, for a C h i c a n o fighter trying to turn his life around i n Texas. T h e name c o u l d be said to h o n o r Cesar Chavez, the farmworkers' organizer and freedom fighter, and certainly Julio Cesar Chavez, the M e x i c a n lightweight champion and national hero, w h o had a large following i n the A m e r i c a n Southwest. B u t those were m y gringo musings. T h e truth was more c o m plicated than that. R i c h a r d took the four-round fight o n two days' notice. F o r a $350 purse, Jesus w o u l d be the opponent i n the fourround professional debut o f Lewis W o o d , a national amateur c h a m p i o n w h o had been a rival o f Oscar de la H o y a . Wood's manager had no i n k l i n g that the u n k n o w n from A u s t i n had r u n up an amateur record o f 90—5-5 w h i l e fighting out o f Chicago. " G a b r i e l Sandoval,

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they w o u l d have found out about," R i c h a r d told me later, chortling over his bait-and-switch. " B u t Jesus Chavez? He's got no record, he's from Austin—sure, b r i n g h i m on." Despite the short notice, Jesus's parents came d o w n to H o u s t o n to watch their son fight. H e was so overwhelmed by his need to w i n that tears spilled d o w n his cheeks as he walked toward the ring. T h e action was frantic and nonstop. A t the end o f the first r o u n d Jesus told R i c h a r d , " I ' m having trouble getting m y angles. This guy's a left-hander, isn't he?" R i c h a r d answered, " W e l l , yeah." H e thought a fighter w i t h his experience w o u l d have noticed that at once. B u t Jesus didn't answer the bell i n confusion. H e turned around and fought left-handed himself, w h i c h bewildered W o o d . T h e furious bout ended w i t h the crowd o n its feet. A m i d the whoops and applause the referee gathered them at the center o f the ring, then raised the a r m and glove o f Jesus, awarding h i m the judges' split decision. Wood's handlers couldn't believe they had been suckered, and their heralded prospect had lost his first pro fight. T w o weeks later R i c h a r d made a similar match for Jesus. P r o m inent i n Texas b o x i n g circles was an A F L - C I O official w h o often w o r k e d as a ringside judge. H e lived i n A u s t i n and quickly became one o f Jesus's biggest fans. " I w o r k e d his second fight i n a m i n o r league baseball park i n San A n t o n i o , " the u n i o n man told me. " R u d y Hernandez had been a Texas and national G o l d e n Gloves champion, and this was his first pro fight. It was R u d y Hernandez N i g h t . A b i g crowd came out. H i s people were handing out flyers, brought h i m into the r i n g w i t h a mariachi band. This other k i d comes out w i t h t o r n trunks, o l d shoes, a towel over his head—and just destroys h i m . " Always a little w i l d i n the first round, Jesus fought w i t h unrelenti n g pressure, continually m o v i n g forward. Watching h i m was like seei n g a second c o m i n g o f y o u n g R o b e r t o D u r a n , except Jesus brought to the r i n g none o f the Panamanian's surliness and macho thuggery.

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There was no malice i n the way he tore into opponents. Jesus fought like b o x i n g was fun—like he w o u l d just as soon do it for free. B u t b o x i n g was just one factor i n Jesus 's name change. I f he had failed i n the ring, i f he had gone o n i n the anonymity o f construction gangs, he might still be slogging around i n m u d and concrete, spendi n g his paychecks o n cigarettes and beer. B u t he had laid out tracks for himself—one public, the other one covert—that success c o u l d only bend into a collision course. T h e boxer's name was Jesus Gabriel Chavez Sandoval. W h e n he abandoned his past as Gabriel Sandoval and began anew as Jesus Chavez, he wasn't l y i n g to any authorities— those were his real names. B u t that is a c o m m o n evasion by M e x i can immigrants and other Latinos w h o have reason to fear the U . S . Immigration and Naturalization Service. T h e agency's computers are thrown off by multiple surnames. Jesus came to us a p r o u d son o f Chicago, but to the I N S he was just another illegal alien.

I

didn't k n o w Jesus w e l l enough to make judgments about his

character, but it was exciting to be around an athlete w i t h so

m u c h talent. Jesus had lost only one fight by the time we began to

be friends—a disputed eight-round split decision to a Puerto R i c a n named Carlos Gerena w h o m promoters had put o n a fast track to his w o r l d title shots. R i c h a r d wasn't b r i n g i n g our guy along slowly. In San A n t o n i o , Fort W o r t h , and the R i o Grande Valley, every couple o f weeks he matched the k i d against the toughest Texas, M e x i c o , and Louisiana fighters he c o u l d find. W o r d about Jesus was getting around i n boxing, but he wasn't m a k i n g any m o n e y yet. Fighters k n o w they're getting somewhere w h e n they're no longer getting paid a hundred bucks a round; it's a hard way to make a living. O n one end o f the g y m , adjoining the toilet and shower stall, was a cramped r o o m where R i c h a r d let h i m live for more than a year. H e

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had a stereo, a T V that seldom worked, a clothes rack, a beanbag chair, a mattress o n the floor, and not m u c h else. Jesus had been l i v i n g w i t h relatives o n Austin's east side; m o v i n g into the g y m enabled h i m to quit construction w o r k and train for his b o x i n g career full-time. B u t he k n e w he was illegal and that anytime authorities might come for h i m . H e didn't want his y o u n g nieces and nephews to see h i m hauled off from that house i n handcuffs. A condition o f being allowed to live rent-free i n the g y m was that Jesus help others w i t h their workouts. Every afternoon he directed the routine o f abdominal and stretching exercises that R i c h a r d had devised. T h e sessions were a torment for me; I couldn't touch m y toes standing up or sitting d o w n . B u t I k n e w that m y lack o f flexibility was going to catch up w i t h me. T r y i n g to correct that and take some flab off m y waistline, I w i n c e d and groaned alongside about a dozen others sprawled o n towels i n the gym's canvas ring, chatting w i t h Jesus as he led the exercises and corrected our form. T h e n we split up, wrapped our hands, and started our circuits around the light and heavy bags. For several months R i c h a r d had been w o r k i n g me w i t h the gloves that resemble catchers' mitts; by numbers he called out punches and combinations for me to throw and h i m to catch. " O n e , t w o ! " — the left jab then the straight right. " O n e , two, two, hook!"—the same combination, then rocking back quickly for a second right and the twist into the left hook. Pros and trainers use the gloves to w a r m up before a fight, and I thought I had gotten reasonably g o o d at the drill. Sometimes I threw a p u n c h sharply enough that I k n o c k e d a glove flying off Richard's hand. B u t it never happened w i t h Jesus; he c o n stantly reminded me o f m y failures and limitations. " Y o u gotta move those feet, J a n R e i d . " H e always referred to me that way, the two names r u n together. " T o o slow, J a n R e i d . A little baby could get outta the way o f that." H e stopped me and said, " N o , no, that's not a hook. It's a hard punch, but it's not a hook." H e set m y feet w i d e and showed me the mechanics o f pivoting m y hips and knees. " W h i l e you're m a k -

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i n g that pivot, y o u throw the p u n c h like a slap. See? Exactly like you're slapping somebody. O n l y it lands w i t h a fist o n the end o f it, not an open hand." T h e bell rang and I dropped m y hands, gasping, but he p o k e d me i n the chest and made me continue, o n through the rest break and yet another three-minute round. A couple o f times he pushed me too hard and goaded too m u c h . I wanted to slap h i m . Probably he was taking out his loneliness and weariness o n w h o m e v e r was i n front o f h i m . B u t it made me feel like a sulking boy. N o t h i n g I c o u l d do w o u l d please h i m . I was too o l d . I wasn't going to play anymore. Yet I could never stay mad at h i m for long. H i s cheer was too infectious. O n Fridays, w h e n the g y m closed early, we sat o n the r i n g apron at the end o f the day and stretched out our legs. T h e subject o f our talk might be music, or scenes from a movie, or the stroll o f a y o u n g w o m a n c o m i n g toward the gym. H e told me about his decision to leave Chicago and try to start a new life. A n d though the circumstance o f our lives was vastly different, it reminded me o f my desperation to break out o f a m o l d and do better w h e n I was a y o u n g man. " W h e n I got back to C h i c a g o I was l i v i n g at home," Jesus told me. "I loved m y family, but it was the same house, the same neighborh o o d , the same guys hanging out o n the street corner. N o w they were l o o k i n g up to me because I'd been i n prison. I didn't k n o w n o t h i n g about life, but they were l o o k i n g up to me. I'd see those guys and stop to talk, and they'd want me to hang out. Some o f them were either going to prison or they were g o i n g to w i n d up dead. A n d I'd lie awake at night and could just see where it was g o i n g to go for me, i f I stayed i n Chicago. M a n , I already k n e w what jail was like. After a w h i l e I told m y parents,'I can't do this. I can't be here. I've got to go.' "

n i e x a n s are accustomed to the presence o f M e x i c a n immigrants. 1 T h e i r official status often reveals itself i n their dress, their ability

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to speak English, and their unease w i t h A m e r i c a n customs and c u l ture. B u t M e x i c a n braceros, laborers, have so l o n g been a foundation o f the economy—harvesting crops, cleaning up hotel rooms, w i e l d i n g shovels and picks o n construction sites—that questions about their status w i t h the I N S are seldom asked. If you're a U.S. citizen, the federal law governing that is a thick wall o f intricacies and murk, and only zealots, a few o f them i n Congress, are inclined to raise m u c h fuss about the aliens i n our midst. So it was w i t h the fighter i n our gym. "I k n e w Jesus was illegal," R i c h a r d told me later. " I just didn't k n o w h o w illegal he was." Jesus s path to A u s t i n was unusual only i n its circuitousness. H e was b o r n i n 1972 i n H i d a l g o del Parral, C h i h u a h u a . A h o w l i n g force o f three hundred Comanches once rode off the Texas plains and sacked the town. A 1916 invasion led by U . S . general J o h n Pershing chased Pancho V i l l a as far as Parral, and there, seven years later, the M e x i c a n revolutionary was assassinated by a rival gang. C h i h u a h u a and Texas have a great deal i n c o m m o n ; they share m u c h history, a l o n g border o n the R i o Grande, and a large part o f West Texas sprawls across the same desert. K n o w n i n M e x i c o for the quality o f its beef and a distinctive style o f straw cowboy hat, C h i h u a h u a is ranching

country, but m u c h o f its wealth has been extracted from coal,

gold, silver, and copper mines. Jesus s dad, also named Jesus, rebelled at that dark future and took his only other o p t i o n — g o i n g n o r t h to find w o r k . First he labored i n southern California, and then he reached the cold C i b o l a o f C h i c a g o — " G o l d e n Chicago," they called it—where few questions were asked and anyone from any country c o u l d find a j o b . T h e elder Jesus sent for his family w h e n his son was seven. "Wetback" is a Southwestern w o r d that not too many years ago c o u l d be found i n the titles o f official U.S. i m m i g r a t i o n statutes, but now, like "nigger," it has been assigned a meaning o f bigotry. Yet that was h o w Jesus s family initially tried to come to this c o u n t r y — w i t h him

clinging to an uncle's shoulders as they waded the shallow R i o

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Grande near E l Paso and C i u d a d Juárez. That time the B o r d e r Patrol caught them and sent t h e m back. H i s dad began his A m e r i c a n j o u r n e y as an illegal alien employed by the city o f C h i c a g o — h e was sent out o n maintenance crews to some o f the most notorious and murderous public housing projects i n the country. W h e n Jesus was ten, his mother, w h o had been a nurse, came d o w n w i t h the heart trouble that w o u l d afflict her the rest o f her life. Jesus and his sister L i d i a were sent to live w i t h their grandparents, and they attended school i n C h i h u a h u a that year. Jesus e n joyed taking karate lessons; w h e n they returned to C h i c a g o he pestered his dad to find h i m another g y m and teacher. Karate was expensive, so the father dropped his boy off at a city recreation center one summer day, to take s w i m m i n g lessons. D o w n a hall Jesus heard a bell ringing. H e followed the bell to a g y m , and there he found his gift. H e w o n his first fight by technical k n o c k o u t as a 105-pounder. H e fell under the spell o f three veteran trainers, all o f w h o m were sons o f Irish w h o spoke w i t h the accents and told the stories o f their o l d country. " T o m O ' S h e a was a h i g h school English teacher," Jesus told me. "After I met h i m he opened a g y m that was part o f a settlement house supported by alumni o f N o r t h w e s t e r n University. T o m didn't like professional boxing. H e got mad at us i f anyone talked about t u r n i n g pro. B u t he loved amateur boxing. H e w o n a middleweight G o l d e n Gloves title i n C h i c a g o w h e n he was a y o u n g guy—beat one o f m y other trainers, Sean C u r t i n , i n the finals. N o w they're best friends. T o m used to read us stuff by Ernest Hemingway—stories about b u l l fighting

and courage, things like that. O n e day this k i d said,'Wow, we

must be matadors.' A n d that became the name o f the team and g y m . " W h e n Jesus was fifteen his dad registered the family i n a federal amnesty program for illegal aliens, and he bought a small two-story house i n a n o r t h C h i c a g o neighborhood o f Latino, black, and Polish families. Jesus—whom everyone k n e w then as Gabriel Sandoval—

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rode buses all over the vast city to w o r k w i t h his trainers and make sparring sessions. W h e n Jesus was seventeen he was voted—as Gabriel Sandoval—Chicago's amateur boxer o f the year. H e couldn't aspire to the O l y m p i c s because he wasn't a U.S. citizen, but O ' S h e a already had h i m i n line for a scholarship to N o r t h e r n M i c h i g a n University, where other b o x i n g teams that compete internationally are based. Jesus was sure enough about his future that he announced a college major— criminal justice. O ' S h e a taught at a public high school a few blocks from the Matador G y m , and to spare his protege so many hours o n buses he arranged a transfer for Jesus. It was a favor and a mistake. "I was a busy kid,"Jesus told me one day as we had lunch. "I had school, I had boxing, and I had a j o b at a M c D o n a l d ' s . O n weekends my

dad catered M e x i c a n food, and I helped h i m w i t h that. B u t at

school there was a gang called the H a r r i s o n Gents. O l d e r guys i n that gang, they were into professional crime—burglary and stealing cars and worse, I guess. B u t the ones I k n e w were just smoking dope, dealing a little, and trying real hard to be cool. In the neighborhood they'd help o l d ladies across the street, t r i m their lawns for them, stuff like that—so they wouldn't call the cops. I was new to this. I thought, Wow, these guys got clothes, they got money, and they got all the girls. I was k i n d o f o n the edges o f that scene, still checking it out. After I got one o f their guys out o f trouble i n a streetfight, they wanted me, though. T h e y called me Boxer." Jesus shook his head. "I was seventeen. I had everything going for me. O n e day I got out o f school and this k i d said, 'Hey, Boxer, we got this thing to do. Y o u want in?' I listened to them and thought, Yeah, then they'll really like me. It was just dumb, J a n R e i d . There were three o f us. W e had a sawed-off shotgun and a van, because one k i d had a delivery j o b . I was thinking, W h a t k i n d o f getaway car is this? It smells like a bakery.

W e put o n hooded sweatshirts and went i n

this supermarket. O n e o f the guys stuffed the shotgun i n an umbrella; I was backing h i m up. W e went i n the office and told this lady to

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empty a safe, then we ran out and got away. O n e minute I ' m c o m i n g out o f school w i t h h o m e w o r k i n m y hands, and the next I ' m g o i n g off to rob somebody? I had five hundred dollars i n m y pocket—a M c D o n a l d ' s paycheck I hadn't cashed. I didn't have no business g o i n g off to rob a store. I threw away m y friends. I threw away m y family. I threw away living i n the U n i t e d States."

I

t was a boneheaded stunt that could cripple h i m the rest o f his

life. T h e y robbed a nearby supermarket where people saw Wells

H i g h S c h o o l students and kids from the M a t a d o r G y m all the time.

Appropriately enough, Jesus was i n his criminal justice class w h e n the police came to the h i g h school. H i s dad talked to a family member and friends and arranged to b o r r o w the seven thousand dollars needed to make his bail. Jesus had n o record of juvenile delinquency, yet there was never any talk o f probation; from the start, police and prosecutors said he was facing at least twenty years. "That's too m u c h time, m i h i j o " , said the elder Jesus. Jesus Sr. suggested that maybe the best way out o f this was to j u m p b o n d , forfeit the seven grand, and run

to their family i n M e x i c o . Jesus refused; he said he'd gotten h i m -

self into the mess, and he w o u l d get himself out. B e a man. H e spent the next eighteen months i n a savage C o o k C o u n t y Jail w i n g k n o w n as the "gladiator school." It was where the youngest and most violent offenders were locked up. B r u t a l fights broke out constantly. Just before the trial, Jesus's court-appointed attorney told h i m that he might be l o o k i n g at a j u r y sentence o f thirty years, so they copped a plea for seven and a h a l f A t a medium-security prison he got caught s m o k ing

pot i n his cell. H e spent three months i n solitary confinement.

"Guards w o u l d make fun o f me; they'd say, 'Hey, w h y is it they call you

Boxer?' I'd be shadow-boxing and crying i n the dark. T h i n k i n g ,

Someday y o u ' l l see. Someday I ' m gonna be champion o f the w o r l d . " His next stop was Stateville, the maximum-security prison where

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O l i v e r Stone filmed m u c h o f N a t u r a l B o r n K i l l e r s . In the company o f murderers and rapists, he was bait—a small, pretty boy. T h e H a r r i s o n Gents d i d one thing for h i m ; they sent w o r d to members o n the i n side to l o o k out for h i m . " T h e y brought me clothes and food and cigarettes. T h e n one o f them handed me a b i g knife. H e said, ' H e r e you

go, y o u guard that w i t h your life.' I never had to use it, thank

God."

H e met m y gaze for a moment. " B u t at the time I ' m sure I

w o u l d have." Because o f the year spent i n M e x i c o w i t h his grandparents, w h e n his mother was i l l , Jesus could not claim ten consecutive years as a l e gal resident. That gave the I N S the legal excuse to deport h i m . H e had no money, so he had no lawyer to fight the proceedings. In A p r i l 1994, w h e n he got out o f Stateville, the i m m i g r a t i o n authorities took him

straight to a plane b o u n d for M e x i c o City. H e was put off i n the

M e x i c o C i t y airport w i t h the clothes o n his back and the fifty dollars given all discharged convicts by the State of Illinois. "How

was your Spanish?" I asked.

"It was all right. G o o d enough. M y family spoke it a lot at home." " W h a t d i d y o u do?" "I k n e w this was c o m i n g , so I'd had some time to think. M y grandparents were i n Chihuahua. I k n e w I'd be safe i f I could get to them. B u t that's a big, mean airport i n M e x i c o City. I smoked cigarettes and h u n g out for a while, just watching, checking everything out. T h e n I went to the cabstand and found out it w o u l d take about all the money I had just to get to the bus depot. A cabbie took pity on me, let me ride w i t h another fare. B u t I still didn't have enough money for a bus ticket. I h u n g out some more, and saw a bus driver who

l o o k e d like a nice man. I talked to h i m about m y problem, and

he let me get o n board." I couldn't imagine h o w I w o u l d have fared i n that circumstance. " H o w ' d y o u get back to the States?" " W h e n I got to m y grandparents' house, m y dad w i r e d me the

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money for a plane ticket. I went to Juarez and just walked across the bridge to E l Paso. T h e y asked me a couple o f questions, and I talked like an A m e r i c a n , so they waved me through." B y going home to his parents he was behaving like any k i d i n trouble. B u t he k n e w he was breaking the law, and the case against h i m was steadily getting worse. N o t only was he an ex-convict and i l legal alien; n o w he was a deportee w h o had come back into the U n i t e d States w i t h o u t authorization. " T h e flight to C h i c a g o went through Austin," he continued that day at l u n c h . "It was just a landing, I didn't get off the plane. B u t as the plane came d o w n , I stared out the w i n d o w . There were pretty green hills and a narrow w i n d i n g lake. T h e n the lake got broader and I c o u l d see sailboats d o w n there. People waterskiing. I l o o k e d d o w n and thought, W h a t a pretty t o w n . I f I c o u l d just start m y life over, it w o u l d be someplace like that." B u t his reality was back i n Chicago. H i s parents watched h i m and w o r r i e d ; finally they had the conversation i n w h i c h Jesus decided he had to leave. " W e talked about where we had family, where I c o u l d go. 'Texas,' I said. 'I think I'd like Texas.' T h e y said we had family i n Austin, and I remembered h o w m u c h I liked the l o o k o f that place, staring out at the sunshine from that plane." Jesus said that w h e n he came to A u s t i n , his dreams o f fighting for a w o r l d title were all but forgotten. H e was just l o o k i n g for a place to w o r k out and get back i n shape. B u t people at an eastside g y m told him

he was too g o o d to be sparring w i t h their kids. Jesus thought

they didn't like h i m , that they were just trying to get r i d o f him.

He

had no i n k l i n g he was about to turn pro. " B u t , man," he said, laughing, " i f y o u ' d told me I was going to be a professional painter o f houses, I w o u l d have done it. Just to be able to say I was Tom

something."

O ' S h e a made some calls for h i m , and a few weeks later he

walked into R i c h a r d Lord's G y m . Jesus never denied or tried to justify the mistakes he made. In the

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same predicament I could have seen myself making the same w r o n g turns. A n d I k n e w Jesus wasn't that person anymore. H e not only could teach me h o w to throw a better left h o o k — w h y I needed that at fifty, I can't say—but I also thought I could learn a great deal from h i m about courage. M o r e than ever, I looked forward to going to the gym. I wanted h i m to succeed as a fighter and be able to watch h i m do it. B u t i n every way I considered h i m m y friend.

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I

often w o r k e d out o n weekend afternoons, w h e n the g y m was

mostly empty. O n e Saturday I was trudging o n a stair climber

w h e n Jesus came i n w i t h a pretty y o u n g w o m a n w h o had

short dark hair. H e introduced me to Terri Glanger w i t h such pride and formality that she and I laughed as I fumbled for a towel, dried off sweat, then shook her hand. That was the m o m e n t I realized Jesus val-

ued our friendship as m u c h as I did. Terri studied photography at the university. She had w o r k e d out at the g y m a few times, and one day they shared a ride to a San A n t o n i o G o l d e n Gloves tournament, where she wanted to take p i c tures. D r i v i n g d o w n , he told her about himself, and his prison background startled her. Terri 's origins were upper middle class; her Jewish parents, immigrants from South Africa, o w n e d several fitness stores i n Texas. B u t Jesus and Terri started dating. She p i c k e d h i m up at the g y m at night as he didn't have a car. She called h i m Gabriel. " W e ' d go out to a restaurant," he told me later, "and I'd ask her to order for m e . ' W e l l , Gabriel, do it y o u r s e l f B u t that's what prison does to y o u , man. I was too scared to tell a waitress what I wanted to eat. Terri told me I'd better start to think beyond boxing, and she really

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stayed after me to get m y G E D " — t h e high school diploma equivalency. "She helped me study for it, and it was okay that w h i l e she was w r i t i n g papers for college I was doing stuff at an eighth grade level. She introduced me to a w o r l d I'd never k n o w n before. H e r friends w o u l d say, ' W o w , you're a b o x e r ? ' B u t they were c o o l about it—they were just interested. Terri and I got to be very close. I went to meet her parents, and d r i v i n g up she said she'd told them everything." Jesus laughed, i m a g i n i n g their reaction." 'Let's see now. He's Catholic, he's M e x i c a n , he's been i n jail, and he lives i n a b o x i n g g y m . Way to go, Terri. Y o u can really p i c k 'em.' " In August 1995, R i c h a r d started promoting fights i n the d o w n t o w n A u s t i n M u s i c H a l l . T h e "Brawls i n the H a l l " had two attractions: the novelty o f skilled w o m e n b o x i n g and the furious pace o f Jesus's main events. Jesus stopped an increasing number o f opponents w i t h body shots; the left h o o k to the ribs and tender organs beneath had become his best punch. I was afraid R i c h a r d was going to b u r n h i m out w i t h his endless conditioning demands. E v e r y Sunday found them r u n n i n g up and d o w n the seats o f the University o f Texas football stadium. A n d I k n e w Jesus couldn't get the skilled sparring partners he needed i n Austin. R i c h a r d arranged sessions w i t h ranked fighters from Fort W o r t h , San A n t o n i o , and the army t o w n o f K i l l e e n . If R i c h a r d had no one else, he himself w o u l d put o n headgear and a padded jacket that protected his midsection, then take a beating by his o w n fighter. O n e day I came out o f m y proclaimed retirement and sparred a couple o f rounds. Jesus liked to w o r k w i t h heavyweights, and I stepped out o f the r i n g as he was c o m i n g i n . H e said "JanReid," and w i t h a g r i n m o t i o n e d me back i n . I was p u m p e d up enough to do it, but R i c h a r d caught m y gaze and shook his head firmly. H e didn't want m y broken ribs o n his conscience. In August 1996, Jesus fought the M e x i c a n featherweight c h a m p i o n . "Javier Jauregui came i n like a really cocky guy," Jesus recalled. "He

had some gold glasses, R a y Bans, gold here and gold there, and

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he just thought he was Superman for some reason." T h e M e x i c a n fighter was i n line for a w o r l d title shot, and his C h i c a n o promoters from South Texas came i n confident he w o u l d take care o f this k i d and

they w o u l d make off w i t h his b i g A u s t i n gate. T h e night o f the

fight they swaggered into the music hall and ordered paying customers out of the seats they wanted. A n d Jauregui could fight. Jesus started fast but after six rounds the scorecards were even. T h e slender Mexican's left hooks and uppercuts were so fast and came i n such a w i d e arc that Jesus couldn't see them until they landed. " D a m n , that hurt," he said o n the stool after Jauregui's uppercut nailed h i m square i n the nose. " W e l l , stop letting him

hit y o u w i t h it," R i c h a r d replied i n his laconic and helpful way.

At

midfight, w i t h the judge's cards t u r n i n g away from h i m , Jesus

reached deep and found the courage there. E v e n through the bedlam o f the h o m e t o w n crowd, his hooks to Jauregui's b o d y sounded like whomps

of artillery. T h e M e x i c a n began to sag and wobble. A t the end

of the tenth Jesus had Jauregui backed up i n his corner; as the bell rang Jesus threw a volley o f head shots and buckled the Mexican's knees. W i t h admirable reflexes o f his o w n , a c o r n e r m a n shoved a stool under Jauregui and broke his fall, sparing h i m a k n o c k d o w n and its ruinous effect o n the scoring. It didn't matter. T h e bridge of Jesus's nose w o u l d ache for months, but he w o n the unanimous decision g o ing away. T h e C h i c a n o promoters managed a sickly g r i n as they gave Jesus a N o r t h A m e r i c a n championship belt o f the W o r l d B o x i n g C o u n c i l . Four months later, R i n g magazine ran a story about the fight and

proclaimed Jesus a contender for a w o r l d title. In A u s t i n , local

politicians hustled to be seen w i t h h i m , and law enforcement officials started b r i n g i n g h i m kids i n gangs. T h e y were amazed at h o w he seemed to get through to them. T h e mayor and city c o u n c i l had a ceremony for h i m at city hall and c o m m e n d e d h i m for his value to the community. H e had recreated himself. In M a r c h 1997,

Jesus debuted o n the F o x T V network against a

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smooth and gifted puncher, San Antonio's L o u i e Leija, the cousin o f "Jesse" James Leija. T h e e x - w o r l d champion k n e w Jesus well from sparring sessions, and he helped his cousin prepare for the fight. Jesus was going up a few pounds to super featherweight; another title o f the N o r t h A m e r i c a n B o x i n g Federation was o n the line. B u t i n Richard's g y m we k n e w that for the first time Jesus had not trained hard. A n ancient b o x i n g spook had arisen—conflict between the w o m a n at home and the man i n his corner. Jesus moved out o f his r o o m i n the gym, and one guy heard h i m raise his voice i n Richard's office: " I ' m just a puppet o n the end o f your string." N o b o d y thought that sounded like Jesus's usual way o f expressing himself. "Twenty-three years old," R i c h a r d muttered about Terri, "and she thinks she knows everything about b o x i n g promotion." I went to that fight w i t h m u c h foreboding. Jesus mauled Leija i n the first round, but i n the third he walked into an uppercut and almost got k n o c k e d out. " A b i g 'ah' went through the w h o l e arena," Jesus described the crowd reaction. " ' O u r guy's hurt and we can't do one thing to help him.' B u t Leija didn't k n o w h o w bad off I was." Jesus staggered like an alley drunk and h u n g o n to Leija, yet he was d o m i nant again by the bell. In the sixth he unleashed a furious barrage and k n o c k e d Leija d o w n twice. W h e n Leija fell the second time the referee stopped it. T h e Fox commentator yelled: "Jesus Chavez has w o n the N A B F super featherweight championship and a w o r l d title very likely w i l l be next. Great finish by Chavez. Jesus Chavez, remember the name, remember the face, y o u ' l l probably be seeing both again soon." After the fight Jesus was interviewed by the ex-heavyweightcontender T o m m y M o r r i s o n . " R i g h t here i n Austin, Texas," Jesus e n thused, "we're ready to rock and roll. W e ' l l take o n anybody." F o x aired replays o f the Leija fight for weeks. T h e performance sent Jesus soaring i n the rankings and w o n h i m a contract w i t h a major p r o -

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moter, M a i n Events. B y then Terri had graduated from the university and moved to N e w Y o r k , where she w o r k e d for a prominent fashion photographer. Jesus flew up after each o f his fights and Terri took h i m to Broadway plays, art shows i n S o H o . People hailed h i m o n the street. H e couldn't believe it. H e walked i n Central Park and gaped at the skyscrapers and splendor o f this country. I thought he was an A m e r i c a n success story.

B

ut i m m i g r a t i o n officials were having none o f that. Jesus drove an

LJ o l d black p i c k u p that R i c h a r d had loaned h i m . H e got back o n the I N S radar screen w h e n , at Richard's insistence, he applied for a Texas driver's license and his papers weren't i n order. H e was i n a h o l d i n g cell and w o u l d have been d u m p e d across the R i o Grande that day i f R i c h a r d hadn't k n o w n someone i n the system w h o was a b o x i n g fan. Released o n his o w n recognizance, Jesus hired an eastside lawyer w h o pursued a strategy o f continuance and delay. That c o u l d only w o r k so long. Jesus's friends and advocates c o u l d argue that the dad w h o brought h i m here as a child was n o w a naturalized U . S . c i t i zen, that Jesus admitted his guilt, that he paid for his crime, that he was deported w i t h o u t legal representation, and that he had since demonstrated abundant signs o f being a responsible adult o f some value. N o n e o f the human nuance mattered. Immigrants from Ireland, Italy, Eastern Europe, Japan, and V i e t n a m had come into this country and felt the stinging backlash o f resentment; n o w it was the t u r n o f Latin Americans, especially Mexicans. T w o massive revisions o f U . S . i m m i g r a t i o n law passed Congress i n 1996, and w i t h little news, c o n troversy, or ballyhoo B i l l C l i n t o n signed them. Deportations abruptly shot up by half. Three-fourths o f them were being sent to M e x i c o . T w o weeks after Jesus k n o c k e d out L o u i e Leija, the first provisions o f the new laws went into effect. Jesus was n o w classified as an aggravated

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felon, and that provision i n the law was applied retroactively; it explicitly forbade judicial review and any discretion or leniency by the I N S . M o s t i m m i g r a t i o n lawyers refused to represent any aliens w h o had been convicted o f a felony. T h e summer o f 1997, the A u s t i n lawyer w h o had been representi n g Jesus called h i m and said the I N S had summoned h i m to San A n t o n i o for an "interview." I made some calls to some political friends and was stunned; he w o u l d likely be handcuffed and deported o n the spot. Jesus had planned to take his little brother along, t h i n k i n g that might help. " Y o u ' d better make plans for getting J i m m y home," I told h i m i n Richard's office at the gym. "Because they're dead serious." A u s t i n officials made enough calls that Jesus was granted a few weeks to prepare for his deportation. A t the same time, he was trying to get ready for a b i g fight o n national T V . H i s opponent, a Puerto R i c a n named Wilfredo N e g r o n , was not as experienced, but twelve o f his fifteen wins were by knockout. T h e Austin lawyer w i t h d r e w from the case and told Jesus he needed an attorney w h o was licensed to practice i n federal appeals court. T r y i n g to help find Jesus a lawyer, I w o u n d up talking almost daily to Terri danger's mother, Karen. T h e d a n g e r s had been psychologically bruised by the I N S w h e n they immigrated from South Africa, and they were outraged that this could happen to the nice y o u n g man they k n e w as Gabriel. B u t his case seemed hopeless. O n e lawyer demanded ten thousand dollars up front but was vague about what that w o u l d buy. A n o t h e r warned that i f Jesus even questioned the deportation, he could go back to prison for that illegal walk across the E l Paso-Juárez bridge. A n o t h e r told Jesus h o w families were being separated, people w h o only came here to w o r k . T h e y were being shackled and hauled off w i t h weeping c h i l dren clinging to their legs. H e asked Jesus: " W h e r e is your tragedy?" H e had no answer.

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esus was i n the g y m one day, o n the highway to a lawyer 's office the next. In sparring sessions he was distracted and got belted. F i -

nally he broke the news o f his problem to M a i n Events. T h e N e w

Jersey promoters steered h i m to a law firm i n Washington, D . C . In a deal struck w i t h the I N S , he could stay i n the U . S . for two more months and make a debut i n Atlantic C i t y o n pay-for-view T V , then he w o u l d voluntarily leave the country. H i s lawyer hoped he might qualify for a skilled w o r k visa that w o u l d allow h i m to train i n the U . S . and pursue his b o x i n g career. B u t there was no guarantee o f that, his b i g night i n Atlantic C i t y was contingent o n his beating N e g r o n , and the deal wasn't finalized until the Friday before they stepped through the ropes o f the A u s t i n convention center o n Tuesday. " A l l that m o n t h I wanted to quit," Jesus told me. " B u t I had to have the money i f I was g o i n g to be l i v i n g i n M e x i c o . I couldn't sleep. I was getting up dead, going h o m e dead. A n d they had me i n against this gunner w h o was k n o c k i n g everybody out. I was scared. B u t that night i n the dressing r o o m a heavyweight o n the card let me use his C D player. I put o n the headphones and listened to the Gipsy K i n g s — good music, and I got into the rhythm. T h e n I greased up and wrapped up, and before I k n e w it they brought i n m y gloves. I l o o k e d out and saw the r i n g and chairs and all those people, still c o m i n g i n . There it is, man. Let's do it. A n d then there was n o t h i n g left to do but to do it." Jesus's c o r n e r m e n n o w wore shirts that proclaimed h i m " E l M a t a d o r " — h o n o r i n g his C h i c a g o g y m and the h i g h school teacher w h o once read h i m stories by Hemingway. B u t i n this fight he came out more like a terrier trying to dismember a stork. T h e crewcut Puerto R i c a n was five inches taller than Jesus and had a n i n e - i n c h reach advantage. Jesus missed often and sometimes badly, but the fight was electrifying. In the second r o u n d Jesus threw 108 punches, about forty o f them haymakers that landed. H o o k s to the ribs, swooping right uppercuts to the chin, and midway through the r o u n d he led

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w i t h a left h o o k — a risky move against a long-armed right-handed puncher—that momentarily poised N e g r o n o n his heels, then surrendered h i m to tangled legs, gravity, and the seat o f his trunks. N o w Jesus could spin off w i t h a r m upraised i n the strut o f the matador. N e g r o n survived the round somehow. In the corner R i c h a r d and L o u D u v a , the bulldog-faced patriarch o f M a i n Events, yelled at Jesus to settle d o w n . H e slowed the pace as instructed, but two rounds later the Puerto R i c a n again wobbled to his stool. N e g r o n was i n such pain his seconds had to wrestle h i m to get his mouthpiece out, and he kept pitching his head and shoulders between his knees, gasping for air. H e couldn't breathe, sit up straight, or answer another bell because one o f Jesus's rights had fractured his sternum. It's a cruel game, boxing. " I f I don't w i n the fight," Jesus reflected, "that b i g promoter's not going to be so interested. If I ' m a losing boxer, h o w m u c h chance do I have to get that visa?" In his m i n d , he was fighting for his life.

A fter the N e g r o n bout, M a i n Events got h i m a fight w i t h Troy Dorsey o f Dallas o n the undercard o f the L e n n o x L e w i s - A n d r e w G o l o t a heavyweight title fight i n Atlantic City. A Polish immigrant w h o lived i n Chicago, Golota owed his fame and title shot to two brawls against R i d d i c k B o w e i n w h i c h he was disqualified for flagrant punches to the groin. T h e second fight ignited the ugliest riot ever seen i n M a d i s o n Square Garden. O n the way to the Atlantic C i t y fights I passed through Golota s adopted C h i c a g o to get some background o n Jesus. I had l u n c h one day w i t h Sean C u r t i n at a little Italian cafe that had autographed b o x i n g photos o n the walls. C u r t i n , w h o refereed fights and was then i n t e r i m director o f the agency that licenses b o x i n g i n Illinois, had short curly hair, a bent nose, and a twinkle i n his eyes. H e reminisced about his o w n pro career; for several years he fought and drove a cab i n Chicago, so he could spend six months o f the year enjoying the life o f a bohemian i n a Barcelona

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l o o k e d up at the waitress and said, "You're Polish,

right?" "Yass." "Who

y o u like i n the b i g fight this weekend?"

" A h , Golota," she said w i t h a dreamy sigh, casting the twistednosed brute as an erotic hunk. " Y o u may be right," said C u r t i n , w i n k i n g at me. The b o x i n g administrator talked about his early days w i t h Jesus. " I kept hearing about h i m , " he remembered. " A n d I thought, H e l l , there's lots o f tough Mexicans i n this t o w n . B u t I went to see h i m , and he was everything they said he was. A little Marciano." Jesus's mentor had flown to A u s t i n to watch the N e g r o n fight, and I asked h i m what he thought o f that performance. " W e l l , he might try a little defense," C u r t i n replied. "Jesus is not a devastating puncher—he gets it done w i t h accumulated punches, not one shot— and he's letting himself get hit too m u c h . Guys his weight are the best i n the game right now. He's l o o k i n g at about twelve w h o are basically as g o o d as he is. He's gotta fight smart. B u t that's a g o o d place for h i m , Texas. I like the way Lord's b r i n g i n g h i m along." Jesus Sandoval picked me up at the hotel another day. In his m i d forties, he had a black beard and smiled as easily as his son. H e wore jeans and a pair o f C h i h u a h u a n c o w b o y boots. W e drove far n o r t h through a section called the U k r a i n i a n Village that abruptly changed into a street o f store signs offering comida

de Jalisco

zxidjugo

de

papaya.

We talked about the years w h e n he had risked his life m a k i n g repairs i n the housing projects. I asked h i m w h y he had come to C h i c a g o i n the first place. " H e r e there is always work," he said. " Y o u

can w o r k

two, three jobs i f you're w i l l i n g . A n d C h i c a g o is a l o n g way from that border. T h e authorities here, they don't l o o k so hard." The

Sandovals' small two-story house sat i n a block of neatly kept

homes facing a mattress factory. T h e l i v i n g r o o m was decorated w i t h family photos and shelves filled w i t h the amateur b o x i n g trophies o f

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Gabriel Sandoval. T h e y insisted o n feeding me; R o s a r i o had cooked her son's favorite dish, chile relleno.

T h e elder Jesus led me to a storage

building i n the backyard and showed me " M a t a d o r " painted o n a door frame i n a little boy's hand. H e told me that w h e n his son was locked up, he used to come out here, so the rest of the family wouldn't see h i m crying. W e walked into the front yard as he smoked a cigarette. H e asked me i f I thought a m a n his age could find w o r k i n Austin. I said I was sure he could; our city was b o o m i n g . There was a realtor's sign at the curb and a for-sale notice i n his van: hopes and plans reliant o n a son w h o was about to be deported. O p t i m i s m , I thought, must r u n i n the family. A s i f to underscore his reasons for wanting to move to Austin, his son J i m m y left a group o f friends d o w n the block and pedaled toward us o n his bike. Seconds later a police car rolled up, and soon the cops had the other youths propped against a car, patting them d o w n . Eventually they let the kids go. Jesus Sandoval recalled his reaction to that phone call i n 1990. " 'He's accused o i w h a t T H i s mother was crying, and we couldn't find him. W e couldn't find out w h i c h j a i l he was in." H e l o o k e d at me and said w i t h o u t a trace o f resentment: " W e d i d what any parents w o u l d . W h e n he was i n prison, I'd get off w o r k o n Christmas Eve and we'd drive all night i n ice and snow, then sleep i n the car a couple o f hours because we only had the money for one night's motel. W e didn't want h i m to be alone i n that place o n Christmas."

I

n Atlantic City, Jesus l o o k e d fit and ready, but everyone else seemed to have prefight jitters. H e had been i n Atlantic C i t y

once before, stopping a respected ex-champion, Luis Espinosa, but

that bout had taken place i n a small casino r o o m where gamblers wandered i n to take a break. M u c h more important to Jesus's career, this fight was something o f a family affair. D o u g L o r d was there to

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help w o r k the corner, as he had w h e n his son R i c h a r d was fighting, and his great champion, Curtis Cokes, n o w trained Jesus's opponent, Troy Dorsey. A t thirty-four, Dorsey l o o k e d like his pleasure was r u n n i n g headfirst into walls. H e had been a w o r l d champion kickboxer, and i n one fight some years earlier he had pulled off an upset and w o n a w o r l d b o x i n g title. B u t he had a stony ridge o f b r o w and so m u c h scar tissue over his eyes that he started losing fights o n cuts. So he underwent surgery i n w h i c h the j u t t i n g ridge o f skull was smoothed off w i t h a file. H i s b o x i n g record had slipped to 1 5 - 9 - 4 , but he was a bigger name than Jesus by far. H e was supremely confident. A t the w e i g h - i n they raised their fists and faced off i n the ritual pose. Dorsey glared and played the m o m e n t for all the advantage it might be w o r t h . Jesus's m o u t h started w o r k i n g , his eyebrows shot up, and he broke into that innocent's g r i n . T h e n he pulled o n his clothes and raced through the casino until he reached a pasta restaurant. "Hate being hungry," he said, busy w i t h his fork. H e giggled at the thought o f the macho staring match. "I try to do it, but I never can." That afternoon he loosened up i n a makeshift g y m , then had to do some radio interviews. A s I waited for h i m I listened to L o u D u v a , w h o was i n t o w n p r i m a r i l y to steady his headliner A n d r e w G o l o t a . " O n e rule y o u never break i n boxing," D u v a expounded. " Y o u never fall i n love w i t h your fighter. They're all crazy. T h e y all w i l l break your heart. A n d then there's the matter o f what the hell you're talking about. I say to m y wife, ' D a m n it, I've done it again.' She says, ' W h a t do y o u mean you've fallen i n love w i t h your fighter?' " Darkness gathered as Jesus and I walked to the hotel. E m e r g i n g from a casino, a man w i t h a beard and ball cap recognized Jesus and jogged to us. W i t h a burst o f Spanish he took Jesus through the c o m plicated handshake ritual o f C h i c a n o brotherhood. " V i v a M e x i c o , " said the fan, saluting their madre p a t r i a .

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" S i , " m y friend replied. " V i v a M é x i c o . " T h e n the fan was dancing around us, showing off his o w n hand speed, turning over his wrists i n the hooks, uppercuts, and crosses Jesus w o u l d need to take care o f Dorsey. " B i p ! Bip! B i p ! " he cried. I l o o k e d at Jesus. H e rocked back o n his heels, gripped the handle o f his bag,

and laughed quietly, his eyes narrowed to slits. H e raised two

thumbs to his admirer, then they went through the handshake again, and we walked o n . Farther d o w n the boardwalk, Jesus noticed a sparrow that had strayed inside a yogurt shop and n o w was fluttering against the glass, panic-stricken. H e opened the doors and started trying to shoo the bird out. A youth at the cash register told h i m the place was closed. " N o , we've got to get this out o f here," said Jesus, walking around the store and flapping his hand until the sparrow escaped. T h e k i d stared at h i m , then rolled his eyes. I sensed that it wasn't just that Jesus cared about a small, plain b r o w n bird. H e k n e w what it was like to be trapped i n a place where nobody w o u l d let h i m out. Terri arrived from N e w Y o r k the afternoon o f the fight. R i c h a r d saw them o n the boardwalk and couldn't believe it. H e grasped his temples as he told me the story. "I said, 'Jesus, what are y o u doing? You

need to rest. Eat a steak.' 'Well, Terri wants to go shopping.'

'Shopping! W h a t have y o u had to eat?' 'Tuna sandwich I had i n m y room."Tuna sandwich!' So he clenches that jaw like he does, and says, 'I'm

going shopping w i t h Terri. I ' l l see y o u there at seven.' " That

night, as we made our way through the b i g convention hall, R i c h ard said gloomily, "First time I've ever gone to a fight w i t h o u t m y fighter." T h e n Jesus was late. This d i d not bode well. But at seven-fifteen he walked i n the dressing r o o m , dropped his bag o f gear, and flung out his arms like Gene Kelly. " G o n n a be a great night, bro's. I am pumped,

and I just got here!"

The structure was famous as the site of the Miss A m e r i c a pageants.

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It filled up this night because o f Jesus's M a i n Events stablemate, A n d r e w Golota. Britain's L e n n o x Lewis was a narrow favorite i n the heavyweight title fight, but the blacks i n the c r o w d were p u l l i n g for h i m quietly. It was Polish Pride N i g h t i n Atlantic City. I wandered into the c o r r i d o r o f a balcony i n search o f the press section, took one l o o k at vodka-soaked y o u n g m e n w h o considered me, and quickly turned o n m y heel. T h e balconies were full o f rowdies w h o waved red and white Polish flags, wore red and white face paint, and brought the c r o w d roaring to its feet as they brawled among themselves. O n e guy took the worst o f a p u m m e l i n g and lashed out w i t h his boots. Bare-chested and painted to their waists, some m e n raised h i m and tried to dump h i m over the rail. " L O W B L O W ! L O W B L O W ! " the Poles raised a m e r r y cry. Lewis's first-round k n o c k o u t o f G o l o t a w o u l d t u r n them into u n happy drunks stumbling meekly i n the night. M a k i n g matters worse, w h e n G o l o t a left the r i n g he set out r u n n i n g and staggering; i n the locker r o o m he screamed w i t h such anguish that an ambulance crew was summoned. B y the time they arrived there was n o t h i n g i n the balconies but abandoned red and white flags. B u t w h i l e they were still i n full cry, Jesus stepped through the ropes i n a n e w robe and trunks t r i m m e d i n M e x i c o ' s colors—red, green, and white. H e embraced his dad and stepped around the r i n g throwing punches, loosening up. "Tonight I ' m showing m y stuff," Jesus had told me. "Tonight I ' m gonna dance." A t the bell Troy Dorsey charged forward, scarcely m o v i n g his head, punctuating his punches w i t h karate-like grunts. Jesus skirted Dorsey s rushes, w o r k i n g off his jab and throwing quick, fluid combinations. O n e o f the T V announcers was light heavyweight champion R o y Jones, one o f the two or three best fighters then active i n the sport. " C h a v e z does throw some pretty punches," Jones said i n the second round. " T e x t b o o k punches. Excellent form."

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Dorsey buckled Jesus's knees w i t h a b o o m i n g right i n the third, but Jesus was landing three punches to Dorsey 's one. H e hurt his left hand i n the target practice, so instead o f the h o o k he showcased the right uppercut. S o o n R o y Jones was comparing Jesus favorably to himself. F r o m the third round on, a doctor stuck his head through the ropes to check o n Dorsey. " D o i n g fine!" the game fighter barked. "Thank you!" Dorsey had awed publicists o f the fights w i t h his workouts, and he seemed so ferocious that I was dry-mouthed and tight w i t h tension, even as I scribbled notes about the action. I was, as D u v a put it, i n love w i t h a fighter. There was nothing sexual about it: I didn't want to see Jesus lose; I didn't want to see h i m hurt. B u t it soon became apparent that only a l u c k y p u n c h by Dorsey w o u l d derail h i m this night. Dorsey' s surgical reconstruction held up, but he suffered a small cut high o n his cheek and both eyes were closing. Jesus didn't go after the damage viciously, as many boxers w o u l d . H e peppered the cuts, stepped aside, showed off his footwork. H e stuck out his tongue, m u g ging for a friend taking pictures o n the r i n g apron. After the seventh round the doctor stopped it. I heaved a sigh o f happiness and relief. It was less a contest than a prime-time recital. A s Jesus hugged and kissed Terri, his performance was greeted at ringside w i t h an approvi n g h u m . I had written once about George Foreman, and b e h i n d me I noticed that George's brother, the promoter R o y Foreman, sat beside Bert Sugar—the legendary former editor o f R i n g magazine. Sugar's signature is an oversized fedora, an unlit cigar, and an air o f having seen it all, often to his regret. Foreman asked Sugar what he thought o f Jesus. M a y b e he k n e w something about Jesus's past, or maybe he saw that Jesus chose not to scar and torture the defenseless Dorsey. Sugar removed his cigar and said:"Too nice a k i d . "

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I

n O c t o b e r 1997, Jesus left the U n i t e d States, taking little but clothes, his b o x i n g gear, and his Dalmatian. H e went to live w i t h

his grandparents i n Delicias, C h i h u a h u a . It s a quiet t o w n . Nearby are

pecan orchards, impressive stone mountains, and a pretty lake o n the R i o C o n c h o s , M e x i c o ' s great tributary o f the R i o Grande. O n e day he returned to his birthplace, H i d a l g o del Parral. H e saw his ninetysix-year-old great-grandmother

and checked out the Pancho V i l l a

tourist attractions. "I think I ' l l be happy," he had said before he left. "Finally I get a chance to rest. Finally I get to k i c k back and, hell, e n j o y a cold C o r o n a . " I thought often o f the afternoon I had spent i n C h i c a g o w i t h his trainer T o m O ' S h e a . Sean C u r t i n had dropped me off at the M a t a d o r G y m o n his way home from the office. C u r t i n h u n g around for a while; his friend was late for our appointment. "Tom's getting a little forgetful," he said w i t h a sly smile and a slow right cross. " I hit h i m pretty g o o d that time we fought i n the G o l d e n Gloves." W i t h two b o x i n g rings and matched bright red leather bags, the M a t a d o r G y m was gleaming and spotless—nothing like R i c h a r d Lord's G y m i n Austin. In the trophy case was a small exhibit devoted to Jesus. O ' S h e a walked i n peeling off a windbreaker and, after getting some grade school boys organized and started, he walked to me and apologized. W e pulled up chairs and talked. R e t i r e d from teaching now, O ' S h e a had salt-and-pepper hair and spoke like an Irish tenor about to break into song. " A t the end o f his career, I wonder where h e ' l l be?" he said o f Jesus, w h o m he still called Gabriel. "Five percent o f the boxers make eighty-five percent o f the money i n the pros. Those are lousy numbers, especially for the little guys. B o x i n g is experiencing its last gasp. A l l the grand heroes are gone. A h , but Gabriel, m y wife and I talk o f h i m still. Everyone is fearful, but he went i n the r i n g w i t h such alacrity. H e had this j o y — t h e j o y o f the warrior. I read about great generals and battles and see ones like h i m marching i n the ranks." As m u c h as D o r o t h y had helped me escape myself and place faith

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i n others, Jesus had coaxed from me feelings o f both awe and care. I called m y o l d friend G e r r y Goldstein, at whose San A n t o n i o party I had first met Dorothy. G e r r y was a criminal defense lawyer, but I thought he might have some good advice. As he listened he said, " Y o u really like this k i d , don't y o u ? " " H e l l , I'd adopt h i m i f it w o u l d do any good." E v e n as I blurted that, it struck me h o w important Jesus had become to me emotionally. That was one hell o f a presumption, considering that he had real and loving parents i n Chicago. Jesus represented everything I wished I had been as an athlete. H e had youth, g o o d looks, ebullience, and more important, he seemed to go through life w i t h an absolute lack o f fear. To me the balance and striving he m a i n tained were heroic. O u r relationship w o u l d extend far beyond b o x ing. In m y devotion to this fighter and the helpless panic I felt w h e n he was being deported, I realized that I had made h i m into the son I never had.

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W

hen D o r o t h y was away overnight I turned up rock and roll and shadowboxed i n the dark. T h e dogs barked and leaped, over-

j o y e d by our game. M y devotion to b o x i n g was no more ag-

gressive than that. It was hard to go o n fancying myself a heavyweight

fighter w h e n the mail besieged me w i t h advice o n h o w to pay for m y l o n g - t e r m nursing h o m e care. I had a firm grip o n m y temper and a g o o d eye for situations that might get out o f hand. I never dreamed that real violence c o u l d come m y way again. I hardly ever watched the major fights because they were scheduled o n Saturday nights, and D o r o t h y and I reserved that time for each other. B u t she understood the mental release and camaraderie that can come w i t h a routine o f exercise; she enjoyed that herself. She didn't m i n d what the b o x i n g workouts had done for m y body. A n d for years, b o t h inside and outside government, her w o r k i n g life had revolved around social justice. She didn't have to be a b o x i n g fan to understand m y anguish over what had happened to Jesus. Six months passed before the magazine piece I had decided to do o n Jesus w o r k e d into the lineup o f Texas

M o n t h l y . M y editor was

M i k e H a l l , a soft-spoken m a n w h o m I liked at once. In the eighties

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M i k e had written a magazine profile o f R i c h a r d L o r d w h e n he was a world-ranked pro fighter. B u t then he went off into his rock and roll career. L i k e many A m e r i c a n musicians, he enjoyed m u c h o f his success i n Europe, but i n A u s t i n he still had a cult following. M i k e had sharp features, an almost delicate nose and chin, w i t h a spray o f freckles across his cheeks. H e told me w i t h a laugh that i n his days as a p u n k rocker he accused Lyle Lovett o f stealing his haircut. J o h n Spong d i d the fact-checking for m y story about Jesus. J o h n was six feet tall and slender, w i t h curly auburn hair and sideburns. F o r some reason I imagined h i m as a frontier preacher i n a dusty black frock. H e came from a family o f Episcopalian clerics. H i s father W i l l taught at a local seminary and i n the pulpit was renowned as a raconteur and showman. O n the subject o f his brother, though, W i l l was careful about what he said. J o h n 's U n c l e Jack had been a controversial bishop o f N e w a r k ; retired but still outspoken, the elder J o h n Spong had championed w o m e n and gays as officiaries o f the faith. " F o r D a d it's either 'Your brother's famous' or ' Y o u r brother's a cockroach,' " said J o h n , chuckling. J o h n practiced law for only a few months. H e took ironic satisfaction i n having his name attached to the largest losing judgment ever awarded i n the county. J o h n wanted to write, and despite the l o n g hours and l o w pay, his j o b as a fact-checker was a g o o d way to get his foot i n the door. E v e r y story he checked for accuracy fed h i m new material. A n o t h e r writer starting to make headway was his friend D a v i d Courtney. Before he finished his degree i n psychology, D a v i d took a l o n g break i n Austin "flipping burgers," as he put it w i t h a g r i n . H i s drawl was so slow it c o u l d sound like a record played at the w r o n g speed. H e was the only intern I ever saw at Texas

M o n t h l y wearing a

cowboy hat. T h e issue containing m y story about Jesus was at the printer w h e n M i k e H a l l called. "Hey," he said. " Y o u want to go to M e x i c o ? " For Texans, m u c h devilment and danger are contained i n those

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words. F r o m the heritage o f boys roaming bordertown red-light districts to the J o h n H u s t o n - H u m p h r e y Bogart movie Treasure

of the

Sierra

M a d r e to the droll thrill-seeking cowpokes i n the fiction o f C o r m a c M c C a r t h y , the culture can be found i n countless songs, books, and movies; and it is a particularly male tradition. " W h y ? " I asked M i k e . " W h e r e ? What's going o n ? " " M e x i c o City," he answered. " Y o u r guy 's got a fight."

I

n Chihuahua,Jesus was i n a quandary and funk. H e enjoyed his grandparents' company, but his lifeline was the telephone. H e

thought his romance w i t h Terri Glanger was over, that they were just

friends now, but they had trouble acting like the fire was really out. It was an impossible situation for any relationship. Jesus had gone d o w n there t h i n k i n g he might be back i n Texas i n a couple o f months, but n o w his Washington lawyer held out little hope o f getting h i m h o m e anytime soon. A t first Jesus flatly refused to fight i n M e x i c o . H e had grossed fifty thousand dollars against Troy Dorsey i n Atlantic C i t y ; n o w his p r o moters wanted h i m to fight for just fifteen hundred. M a i n Events had been blindsided by Jesus's deportation. W h e n they signed h i m they had envisioned a series o f televised fights that w o u l d showcase h i m a m i d his rowdy following i n A u s t i n . N o w his w h o l e career was entangled i n i m m i g r a t i o n statutes and policies, and all they k n e w o f that was what the law firm told them. T h e i r investment i n Jesus had turned into billable hours. Still his manager and trainer, R i c h a r d L o r d didn't k n o w h o w to advise h i m either. Jesus was ranked

number

one i n the super featherweight class by the W o r l d B o x i n g C o u n c i l — one o f the fractured sport's three major governing authorities—and he had the W B C ' s N o r t h A m e r i c a n title, so he couldn't be w r i t t e n off completely. B u t to keep that ranking he had to stay busy, and o n occasion he had to defend his regional title. Jesus c o u l d travel o n a

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M e x i c a n passport. M a i n Events could have kept h i m busy fighting i n Canada, the Caribbean, and Europe. B u t except for one fight i n Poland, o n the undercard o f a h o m e c o m i n g by M a i n Events' problem child A n d r e w Golota, those matches were never made. T h e best Jesus could get n o w was a fight i n M e x i c o C i t y against a local j o u r n e y m a n named Moises R o d r i g u e z . In theory a number one ranking guaranteed that Jesus w o u l d someday get his shot at a w o r l d title. B u t his ranking was really meaningless. N o champion w o u l d be forced to fight h i m because the money i n b o x i n g relied o n A m e r i c a n television, and no U . S . network w o u l d produce a championship fight i n M e x i c o . That wasn't just because o f ratings. It was fear. In M a r c h 1998 the flamboyant b o x i n g promoter D o n K i n g had gone to M e x i c o C i t y for a w o r l d title fight involving the M e x i c a n national hero Julio Cesar Chavez. A robber stuck a gun i n King's face and relieved h i m o f a diamond-studded R o l e x watch w o r t h , he said, one hundred thousand dollars. " A shiny little doodad," K i n g showboated afterward for the press. " A gaudy l i t tle thing that sparkles—nothing o f significance." B u t a m o n t h later, as our Jesus was training for the R o d r i g u e z fight, a C N N crew went to Tlatelolco, a M e x i c o C i t y suburb, to cover a conference o n the U . S . M e x i c o drug war. W h i l e M e x i c a n police watched, robbers got off w i t h a van full o f cameras and other costly equipment. Confronted by reporters, the cops shrugged and explained that the robbers had them outgunned. T h e same m o n t h the U . S . State Department added M e x i c o C i t y to its list o f most dangerous foreign destinations. Street crime i n the capital seemed out o f control. "Express" kidnappings were the latest rage; people were snatched by m e n w h o had researched their finances and demanded their l i q u i d assets by the end o f the day. O n e gang, r u n by an ex-cop, had a modus operandi o f cutting off victims' fingers and ears and sending them to families to speed up the transactions.

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B u t n o t h i n g i n f o r m e d Americans more about M e x i c o C i t y than the D e c e m b e r 1997 shooting o f a m a n named Peter Zarate. A n e x - N a v y S E A L , Zarate w o r k e d for an A m e r i c a n corporation. H e and his family had

made M e x i c o C i t y their home for four years. In his wealthy

neighborhood Zarate caught a ride w i t h a cabdriver w o r k i n g w i t h pistoleros—one

o f the most c o m m o n scams. E m b o l d e n e d by his c o m -

mando training, Zarate unwisely tried to fight his robbers. T h e y shot and killed h i m and d u m p e d his body i n the street. Five m e n confessed to the police, but after two weeks a judge said they were coerced by police torture, released them, and called the gang's leader a " m o d e r n day R o b i n H o o d . " M y colleagues and I—all reporters—could have easily discovered all o f this and more. B u t i f we had bothered to find out, I doubt that w o u l d have stopped us. W e w o u l d have thought we c o u l d handle it. W e had a cheap airfare, and a friend o f J o h n was g o i n g to let us use his apartment i n the Polanco, one o f the prettiest parts o f the city. W h a t the hell? W h y not? H e a d i n g d o w n to M e x i c o is a ritual that A m e r i c a n men—especially Texans—are b o r n to. It goes back to the Texas R e v o l u t i o n , the M e x i c a n War, and the M e x i c a n revolution o f the early twentieth century. J o h n R e e d and Ambrose Bierce chasing after the hijinks o f Pancho V i l l a . Bierce, recall, d i d not make it back. O u r nonchalance about entering an unsafe area wasn't exactly racist, but implicit i n the ritual was an assumption that we were a bit superior. W i t h i n me there was a residue o f foolish, youthful arrogance: W e weren't bulletproof, but by our size and wits and numbers we were confident we c o u l d take o n anything. O f course M e x i c o was full o f danger. That was part o f the appeal. " O h , I want to go," said Dorothy. Just two years earlier we had gone to M e x i c o C i t y w i t h our friends G a r y and Phyllis C a r t w r i g h t , and we had a great time roaming the vast o l d city. B u t this time I hedged. Jesus's fight was to be i n the Arena Coliseo, the M a d i s o n

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Square Garden o f M e x i c a n boxing. O f this place our travel guide said: " T h e atmosphere is rough. D o n ' t be surprised i f a lit cigarette lands i n your lap or a firecracker goes off over your head." " Y o u don't want me to go," D o r o t h y chided me. " N o , no, we'd have fun. B u t , y o u know, i n the middle o f it there'd be a day o f boxing. W h i c h y o u don't like too m u c h . W e ' d have Friday night and then all day Sunday to do whatever we want. W e ' d have fun." T h e n I had to add: " B u t this place where he's fighting is supposed to be, u m , rowdy." A day or so later she said, " O h , go o n . I shouldn't spend the money. A n d this sounds like a guy

O

n the

flight

from

thing!'

San A n t o n i o I put a magazine aside and

thought o f M e x i c o City. In the fifties two friends, Fletcher

B o o n e and L o p e z S m i t h u m , had connived a way to live i n the M e x i can capital, w h i c h they considered one o f the world's great bohemian enclaves. L i v i n g off their G I B i l l payments, they went to college and danced the nights away i n jazz clubs—reviving the Charleston, showi n g off the dirty bop. Fletcher described one j o i n t whose patrons filled

a table six inches deep i n voluntarily surrendered knives and

guns, but even there they never felt endangered. It snowed one time, he said, and for three days the ancient lakebed lay cloaked i n sootless white. I never expected to see that M e x i c o City. T h e first m o r n i n g I ever awoke there, people walked to w o r k w i t h handkerchiefs pressed to their watering eyes because o f the h o r r i d air pollution. B u t one afternoon a front blew through, and it was as i f the heel o f a giant hand pushed the m u c k away. For just one c o o l day I could see what a glorious place it once must have been. A t the airport i n M e x i c o C i t y we got our bags and cleared customs. T h e first greeting o f M e x i c o is the smell—mingled odors o f smoke, sewage, things fried i n lard. W e took one o f the airport's sane-

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tioned cabs and alternated between excited jabber and just staring. It's a beautiful city at night. T h e driver left us o n the curb i n the Polanco. T h e apartment was small but functional—the place o f a well-heeled bachelor w h o came i n and out o f the city i n his w o r k . It was still early, about nine o'clock, and we hit the streets. In the valley o f the Aztecs it was a w a r m spring night. T h e streets were broad and well lighted, the sidewalks lined w i t h poplars, but the Polanco was a neighborhood concealed by gates and walls. N o t h i n g was going o n . W e walked about a dozen blocks, u n w i n d i n g and getting our bearings. Several drivers o f the green and white Volkswagen cabs slowed d o w n for us. These were the gypsy cabs that were causing such a furor. Stay out o f the green and white Beetles, we had been warned repeatedly. H e l l , the four o f us couldn't have gotten our legs i n one o f those things. A t m y ambling pace I lagged along behind. J o h n stepped out and spoke to the driver o f one o f the Beetles, trying to get some directions. W h e n the cab pulled away, a F o r d E x p l o r e r made a sharp U - t u r n and pulled up to us. In it was an attractive y o u n g couple, a bearded man and dark-haired w o m a n . " W h a t are y o u doing?" the w o m a n chewed us out i n English. " Y o u can't make y o u r selves targets like that. Y o u have to understand—this

can be a very

dangerous place for you." I l o o k e d around i n bafflement. T h e Polanco is a virtual country club. J o h n told them we were t h i n k i n g about going to Plaza Garibaldi and hear some music. In chorus they said it was too dangerous; they were animated and vehement. T h e w o m a n gave us directions to a H a r d R o c k Cafe. Across the street, she said, was a hotel w i t h the best mariachis we c o u l d ever hope to hear. I thanked them for their advice, and w i t h smiles and waves they drove o n . Before our trip I had never heard o f Plaza Garibaldi. In M e x i c o it's the equivalent o f B o u r b o n Street, and J o h n and M i k e had their minds made up to go. W e found the H a r d R o c k Cafe and the hotel

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across the street. L i n e d up i n front o f the hotel were cabs w i t h red paint. These were licensed and regulated cabs and were supposed to be safe. J o h n asked one driver i f Plaza Garibaldi was too dangerous to go there. N o , no, the driver scoffed. B u t he was just as vehement. W e had to listen to h i m , he said. H e w o u l d take us to one place, where we w o u l d stay all evening, and he w o u l d return for us at exactly one a.m. As advertised, Plaza Garibaldi was full o f mariachis. T h e driver walked us past them to the d o o r m a n o f the plaza'smost famous bar, the Tenampa. " A las uno," the driver said again, h o l d i n g an index finger i n the air. W e smiled and said, "Sí. A las uno," and raised our fingers. T h e bar was crowded and noisy, and the mariachis lived up to their billing. W e told stories and chased tequila w i t h beer. N e a r our table was a b o o t h occupied by two y o u n g M e x i c a n couples. Seated o n the outside, the m e n were drinking, gesturing w i t h sweeps o f their arms, and smoking cigars. Suddenly one man turned his head, leaned over, and vomited o n the floor. H i s wife or date and the other couple d i d not react at all. T h e sick man sat still for a moment, then inhaled from his cigar and turned back to their conversation. A n attendant strolled over and, w i t h o u t a w o r d to the customers, tossed some j a n i torial absorbent o n the puke, swept it brusquely into a long-handled dustpan, and that was that. A t one o'clock we spilled out o f the Tenampa like puppies released from a basket. O u r driver ran across the plaza, rounded us up, steered us to the red cab, and as we m u m b l e d happily, he took us safely home. A man o f honor. W e thanked h i m profusely.

H i he next m o r n i n g the phone rang exactly at eleven a.m.—our 1 driver o f the red cab. H e took us to a different part o f the city, a commercial district w i t h little commerce, and unfortunately that was the last we saw o f h i m . T h e buildings were squat and grimy. S o l i tary people h u r r i e d along sidewalks beside vacant lots where walls o f

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boards had been put up; the boards were cluttered w i t h handbills and graffiti. T h e small hotel where Jesus had been staying sat back from the street. W i t h a tiled and gurgling fountain, it was a hotel for the M e x i c a n middle class—hardly a flophouse. In the coffee shop Jesus beamed o n seeing me, we embraced, then I introduced h i m to m y friends. After reading about h i m and talking to h i m o n the phone, they were all stunned to see h o w small he was. Everybody i n the coffee shop but the c o o k and waiter had some connection to the fight. R o b e r t and M a r c y Garriott had

flown

d o w n i n their plane from A u s t i n . Sons o f an astronaut, R o b e r t and his brother R i c h a r d were founders o f a video game company called O r i g i n Systems Inc. R o b e r t had cashed out o f the company i n recent years; he spent his time learning Spanish, flying his plane, and d o i n g anything else he wanted to do. M a r c y had spent several years w o r k i n g as an executive w i t h a telecommunications company. N o w , after m a k i n g a couple o f short educational videos, she had announced she was going to make a documentary about Jesus, his past, and his predicament. M a r c y had a smile that glowed w i t h even white teeth. R o b e r t wore his hair i n a crewcut and spoke w i t h the self-assurance o f someone w h o had gone to M I T and made a fortune. T h e y were very nice and very straight. Parked outside was a l u x u r y A m e r i c a n sedan they had rented and a driver hired to escort them whenever they left their hotel. M a r c y s documentary, "Split Decision," w o u l d ultimately do far more for Jesus than m y magazine piece ever could, and i n time she and I became close friends and allies. B u t o n first impression I pegged her w r o n g l y as a dilettante. M a i n Events had no real presence i n Latin A m e r i c a , despite all its great b o x i n g champions. T h e promoters assigned a man named L o u Mesorana to l o o k out for Jesus and protect their investment w h i l e he was i n M e x i c o . L o u offered himself as a friend to Jesus w h e n the boxer was going through a discouraging, lonely time. A N e w Jersey guy w h o had w o u n d up i n C o r p u s C h r i s t i , Texas, L o u was an o l d

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hand i n boxing; he had managed a little, carried the bags a lot, and he was angling for a piece o f this action. H e and R i c h a r d L o r d had no use for each other. R i c h a r d anguished over what had happened to Jesus, but their professional relationship was o n the rocks. After the Leija and N e g r o n fights a cable company had proposed a series o f p r i m e - t i m e fights that w o u l d showcase Jesus, his presumed w o r l d t i tle, and the boisterous A u s t i n crowds. " W e were this close, this close," R i c h a r d told me, h o l d i n g his thumb and forefinger an i n c h apart, from a r u n i n b o x i n g that could have made them both r i c h . B u t it hadn't happened. R i c h a r d had a thriving business i n his Austin gym, and he also had a wife and infant son. H e couldn't be d o w n i n M e x i c o trying to manage Jesus's career. However, L o u Mesorana had arranged his life so he could. Jesus was angry at R i c h a r d for never calling h i m . R i c h a r d claimed he had a handful o f telephone b i l l receipts that w o u l d prove h o w often he had called and had been told Jesus wasn't i n his r o o m . R i c h a r d believed that L o u and some M e x i c o C i t y promoters were trying to drive a wedge between h i m and his fighter, and deal h i m out. It was a b o x i n g soap opera. A n o t h e r figure o n hand was a dark-haired y o u n g man I had k n o w n since I started w o r k i n g out at Richard's g y m . Wayne H a r r i s o n had average talent and zeal i n the ring, but his eyes were always darting, a half-smile o n his lips. N o t your ordinary business major. After l o o k i n g around Thailand and volunteering i n George Bush's c a m paign against B i l l C l i n t o n , Wayne had found a M e x i c o C i t y couple w h o were skilled at making p u n c h i n g bags and other equipment. N o w he lived there and marketed their products. H e met a M e x i c a n girl named Patty o n the subway and they moved i n together. H e also watched the M e x i c o C i t y fights w i t h a keen eye. S o n o f a Fort W o r t h b o x i n g promoter, Wayne had g r o w n up around the sport. N o w he supplied R i c h a r d w i t h M e x i c a n fighters for his cards at the music hall i n Austin. T h e y were hungry and tough guys w h o w o u l d , as R i c h a r d put it, take a beating for a hundred bucks.

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It was time to go to the w e i g h - i n ; everybody started arranging rides. Wayne nodded at me, and o n the street outside he raised his hand at one o f the green and white Volkswagens. D a v i d C o u r t n e y hollered and trotted up to j o i n us. A t almost our first opportunity we were breaking our v o w to stay out o f the Beetles. B u t Wayne lived i n M e x i c o City, and he got i n the cab as casually as he crossed the street. As the cab b u m p e d along, D a v i d filled me i n o n O r i g i n ' s pioneering o f the video game industry. Wayne listened w i t h his pensive smile and watched the Garriotts' driver, w h o soon got lost. Wayne spoke to our driver i n Spanish and had h i m p u l l around the b i g sedan, w h i c h he signaled to a halt. Wayne told the driver to follow us, and eventually we pulled up to a gray structure that l o o k e d like it had been inspired by a cubist painting. Inside we encountered none o f the posturing and gibberish that afflicts b o x i n g weigh-ins i n the States. Waiting to be called into an office by a doctor, the fighters sat o n sofas l o o k i n g very y o u n g and t r i m . M o s t wore slacks and cheap long-sleeved shirts. U n l i k e A m e r i c a n boxers, none o f the M e x i c a n s l o o k e d like they spent any time training w i t h weights. Speaking quietly, Wayne pointed out two or three w h o he thought c o u l d fight. Jesus's opponent, " M o y " R o d r i g u e z , was tall and curly-haired. H i s slumping posture gave h i m the appearance o f having a concave chest. Wayne said he might be fourth or fifth best at his weight i n the city, but not all o f M e x i c o . Still, he was capable. In his underwear Jesus made weight—132 pounds—but he didn't l o o k as solid as he had i n Atlantic City. H e took the doctor's cursory physical and answered his questions, slipped back into his jeans, shirt, and r u n n i n g shoes, then spoke w i t h a M e x i c a n sportswriter. T h e other fighters watched Jesus w i t h curiosity but no apparent resentment that the reporter ignored them. T h e writer asked Jesus i f he thought his troubles w i t h A m e r i c a n i m m i g r a t i o n authorities c o u l d be resolved. "Pues, no sé," he began. H e didn't know. After listening to the interview, M o y R o d r i g u e z , the j o u r n e y m a n opponent, cornered

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Jesus and lectured h i m . "Listen, y o u can't say that. Y o u must l o o k at things i n a positive way. Y o u have to believe that G o d is w i t h y o u , and that y o u ' l l get to go back to Texas and have the life y o u want." W h a t a nice guy, Jesus thought. In seven hours they w o u l d be trying to take each other's head off.

A fter the weigh-in, Wayne led us d o w n to a subway station. W e rode the car for a few stops, then got off and followed h i m to a sidewalk cafe i n the Z o n a R o s a . H e hadn't seen m y story about Jesus yet, and I told h i m I'd send h i m a copy. L i k e many Americans l i v i n g i n M e x i c o , Wayne had an air o f streetwise bravado. H e mentioned that this place tonight, the Arena Coliseo, was i n a rough part o f town. T h e last four times he and his girlfriend had gone there, they had been attacked. I blinked. " D a m n , Wayne. W h a t d i d y o u do?" "Ran

from them twice. A n o t h e r time I had some M a c e . O t h e r

time I had some scissors"—with a spoon he demonstrated h o w they fit between the fingers of his fist—"and I, u h , popped a guy one." I made a mental note to address the magazine to "Scissorhands" H a r r i s o n . B u t I thought i f I couldn't find a safer place to watch the fights, I'd check out the fútbol or jai alai. Back at the apartment, w h e n it was time to go we called a taxi service i n the phone b o o k — a recommended way to get around safely. O n c e more the rendezvous was at Jesus's hotel, and Wayne again took c o m m a n d o f our transit. I rode from there to the Arena Coliseo i n the backseat o f another green bug, chatting i n Spanish w i t h his girlfriend Patty. She said she couldn't visit Texas w i t h Wayne because the U . S . migras

w o u l d not grant her a visa. In rush hour we

arrived at the arena, w h i c h l o o k e d like a r u n - d o w n movie house. Cars were backed up, their drivers h o n k i n g i n boredom. In the bright afternoon light nothing about the street l o o k e d sinister. Jesus,

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R i c h a r d , his dad, and other members o f the fighter s team emerged from a van. T h e Garriotts unloaded camera gear from their sedan, w h i c h i n that traffic stood out like an aircraft carrier. Across the street from the Coliseo, m y friends descended o n a street vendor o f tacos, w h i c h he cooked over a charcoal brazier. D a v i d carried a camera, and he lined up M i k e , J o h n , and me w i t h the storied o l d Texas trainer, D o u g L o r d . I think a lot o f that photograph—keep it framed i n m y office. W e a r i n g a cap w i t h a b i l l pulled to his nose, J o h n raises his sideburns and c h i n w i t h his usual insouciance, M i k e drapes his arms across Doug's and m y shoulders i n a Kerouac-like slouch, D o u g offers his d i m p l e d c h i n and o l d charmer s g r i n . It's the last picture I have o f myself standing easily, hands i n m y khaki pockets, unconscious o f the act o f standing up.

L

et 's go! N o w ! " R i c h a r d barked. W e followed h i m through a door

held open by a dark-skinned mestizo w h o inspected us w i t h o u t

ever l o o k i n g us i n the eyes. "Periodistas," journalists, R i c h a r d ex-

plained to us all. Inside, the seats o n the first floor were metal chairs painted yellow, purple, red, aqua. T h e arena was arranged conically; the first and second balconies were built so that spectators c o u l d l o o k almost straight d o w n at the ring. T h e balconies were sealed off w i t h chicken wire to keep spectators from throwing objects at the fighters. It l o o k e d like an elaborate pit for cockfights. T h e bouts went off at a rapid clip; the referees were m u c h quicker to stop a fight than they were i n the States. B e t w e e n rounds music blared a sort o f M e x i c a n rap. W e a r i n g blue cotton stretch garments advertising C o r o n a beer, girls i n high heels prissed and strutted around the r i n g w i t h the round cards, each o f them pulling at hems o f skirts that d i d not quite reach the clefts o f their buttocks. T h e c r o w d whistled and stomped. A formidable dama

waited at the foot o f the

stairs. A s the card girls came d o w n , she raised their hands like they

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were ballerinas, and walked them past anyone w h o might doubt their virtue. Jesus told me later that this w o m a n was one o f the foremost p o w ers i n M e x i c o boxing. Fighters prospered and were protected i f they caught her eye and w o n her favor. T h e y called her la M a d r e . M o v i n g around the r i n g aprons as the fights proceeded, R o b e r t and M a r c y Garriott shot w i t h video cameras w o r t h about five t h o u sand dollars each. Wearing a blouse and khakis, M a r c y was game—I had to give her that. N o protocol or annoyed r i n g official c o u l d keep her from c l i m b i n g anywhere she wanted. Jesus's fight, the main event, came up fairly quickly. Jesus, R i c h a r d , a M e x i c a n trainer, and Jesus's U n c l e Julio from Delicias walked d o w n the short aisle. Jesus's left eye blinked i n his nervous tic. H e wore his familiar red and blue shoes, a T-shirt, his N o r t h A m e r i c a n B o x i n g Federation championship belt, and a pair o f white trunks stitched w i t h tributes to his new home, Chihuahua. W h e n the bell rang Jesus l o o k e d sluggish. H e had been told that R o d r i g u e z had a weak chin, and he tried too hard to finish the fight early. Rodriguez's arsenal was a jab followed by the straight right and occasional uppercut. W i t h longer arms, he popped Jesus often w i t h his jab. Jesus missed w i l d l y w i t h a left h o o k aimed at the body, and paid for i t — R o d r i g u e z whacked h i m w i t h a g o o d right cross. T h e j o u r n e y m a n probably w o n the first round o n the cards. In the corner R i c h a r d told Jesus to settle d o w n , relax. In the second round Jesus began to get his rhythm back. H e rose up o n his toes and pressed forward w i t h combinations o f body shots. R o d r i g u e z grunted a couple o f times; Jesus was getting to h i m . M i k e H a l l and I slouched beside each other o n the first row. A longhaired A m e r i c a n expatriate shouted beerily i n m y ear. "I've been watching b o x i n g a l o n g time! This guy's got it! This guy's a Hagler!" Shouts popped out o f the crowd: "Matador! Matador!" T h e nickname b o r n i n a C h i c a g o g y m had found a receptive audience.

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"Sharpen up your punches a little," R i c h a r d told Jesus o n the stool after the second round. "Let's get this guy out o f here." Jesus nodded and grinned, watching a card girl prancing and pulling at her skirt. H e came out i n c o m m a n d and was just beginning to get w a r m e d up. A minute into the r o u n d he landed a hard left h o o k to the ribs, w h i c h brought Rodriguez's hands d o w n , then blasted the M e x i c a n w i t h a straight right that turned his head almost all the way around. R o d r i g u e z touched his gloves to the canvas to stay up, then w a n dered off i n a tangle-legged stagger. T h e touch o f the gloves counted as a k n o c k d o w n , and as the referee called out the standing eightcount, he didn't like what he saw i n Rodriguez's eyes. H e stopped the fight. Jesus walked around the r i n g w i t h his arms raised, his first w i n i n M e x i c o under his belt. Afterward Jesus was m o b b e d by children, autograph seekers. T h e b o x i n g card came to an end after another couple o f fights, and the arena emptied quickly. W e h u n g around the small dressing rooms w i t h Jesus and w i t h M o y R o d r i g u e z , a pleasant man and gracious loser. " H o w y o u doing, J a n R e i d ? " said Jesus w i t h his hand o n m y shoulder. " W h a t d i d y o u t h i n k ? " " Y o u l o o k e d a little rusty, but y o u took care o f h i m , " I said, p u l l i n g h i m close and hugging h i m . " M a n , it's g o o d to see y o u . " "I've missed y o u , J a n R e i d . T h a n k y o u guys for c o m i n g d o w n here. It means a lot to me." " I ' m going to come see y o u i n Chihuahua." " Y o u better do that, m y man." M e a n w h i l e R i c h a r d grimly waited for payment from the promoter, and M a r c y and R o b e r t Garriott sudddenly realized the predicament they were i n . T h e i r video cameras and gear were laid out i n large, conspicuous cases. T h e street that had been so bright and m e r r y at five i n the afternoon had a harshly different l o o k at eleven p . m . T h e y had to call their sedan driver and had just assumed there w o u l d be a public pay phone at the coliseum, i f one were not available i n the

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business office. B u t this was M e x i c o . In a panic M a r c y started stuffing tapes o f footage i n her clothing. T h e n she saw someone o n the street w i t h a cell phone. " S e ñ o r , por favor," M a r c y cried. " P o d r í a usar su teléfono?" As she busily punched i n the number o f their driver, Pdchard h u r r i e d through the arena, waving for all o f us to come o n . H e had finally gotten Jesus paid, and though the cash purse was pathetic, he didn't want to stick around. A party after the fight was scheduled at a restaurant i n the Z o n a R o s a . T h e only vehicles this time were the van and the Garriotts' sedan, w h i c h filled up quickly. J o h n climbed i n the van w i t h Jesus and his cornermen, M i k e i n the sedan w i t h the Garriotts. I stood o n the sidewalk feeling large and stupid. H o l d i n g Patty's hand, Wayne shot glances at the darkness and told D a v i d and me that it was a bad idea to hail a cab. E v e n i f the driver was all right, the one-way street w o u l d force h i m to turn back through places we d i d not want to visit. Anticipating that we might need an extra hand, R i c h a r d had asked a y o u n g man named M a t t R o d r i g u e z to come to M e x i c o City. M a t t had been a university student w h e n he started c o m i n g to Richard's g y m . T h e light heavyweight was so mild-mannered that opponents were often badly startled w h e n they got i n the r i n g w i t h h i m . A s a teenager M a t t had been schooled by R o y Harris, w h o enjoyed his b r i e f fame more for his h o m e t o w n o f C u t and Shoot, Texas, than for his losing performance i n a 1958 heavyweight title fight against F l o y d Patterson. R i c h a r d had asked M a t t to come along for one reason— muscle—and he asked h i m to walk w i t h us. M a t t sauntered toward us, broad-shouldered and grinning. "It's four blocks," said Wayne. " W h e n we get to the lights we're okay. Stay together i n one line. Keep walking." H i s stories about havi n g to fight his way out o f the Arena Coliseo echoed i n m y m i n d . I took the other end o f the line from M a t t . F r o m a doorway I saw some m e n eyeing us, and for a moment thought I heard mutters and the

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scrape o f shoes b e h i n d us. I remembered our guidebook'scheerful description o f our destination: " A s evening falls lots o f people come to stroll or sit, catching some o f the music or trying their hands at one o f the stands where they can bust a balloon. . . ." Bust a balloon and put a knife i n m y spleen! H o w many were we g o i n g to have to fight? H o w w o u l d they be armed? It was the scariest short fast walk o f m y life. Finally we burst into the glare o f light. Across the busy street was Wayne'ssafe haven—Plaza Garibaldi.

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hen we woke the next m o r n i n g Jesus, the Garriotts, and all the b o x i n g people were gone. It was our day just to be tourists. O u r apartment wasn't far from the sprawling Chapultepec

Park, and M i k e wanted to go there and tour the anthropology m u seum. W e stopped at a stand i n the park and bought soft drinks. T h e smog had closed i n early. Leaves h u n g l i m p l y from the park's towering trees, as i f stricken by the lack o f oxygen. A b o v e the trees was a steel

pole w i t h a set o f leather loops attached near the top. F o u r Indians i n tribal dress shimmied up the pole, set the loops around their heads and necks, stretched out their arms, and as the pole revolved, the centrifugal force h u n g them feet outward i n the sky. T h e pole swung around so slowly the sight was incongruous—four Indians d o i n g bored laps i n the gray sky. A s we watched them a y o u n g w o m a n approached me. She asked i f we were Americans, and I said we were. In slow, careful English she told me she was a student at a business college, and she had an assignment to interview someone i n English. W o u l d I do that for her? "Sure, claro," I said. M i k e sat nearby, listening. T h e y o u n g w o m a n wore a plain navy

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blue dress and seemed self-conscious. O n lined paper she had a handwritten script o f questions, and she held a minicassette recorder near m y face. W h e r e d i d I live? Was I married? W h a t were the names o f m y wife and children? M y dog and cat? She read from the page, " W h a t is your religion?" "None." She l o o k e d at me as i f that were an o d d or inappropriate answer. " L o siento," I apologized. "I have none. I ' m not religious." I shrugged. I kept answering her questions partly or w h o l l y i n Spanish, w h i c h frustrated her. I tried to stop d o i n g it. " W h a t is your favorite baseball team?" " T h e Cleveland Indians." " W h a t is your o p i n i o n o f M e x i c o C i t y ? " " W e l l , it's one o f the w o r l d s great cities, or it was. B u t it's so p o l luted now. A n d all the crime. It's a shame. I hope your government can turn it around—that it's not too late." She frowned and stared at me. I couldn't tell i f she had not understood m y English or i f she was offended. " D o n ' t y o u t h i n k ? " I said. " D o n ' t y o u agree?" T h e y o u n g w o m a n turned off the recorder, gathered up her things, m u r m u r e d her thanks, and walked away. I l o o k e d at M i k e and s a i d , " A m I w r o n g , or was that weird?" "Definitely weird," he said. " L i k e she was going to w i g out i n some way, at any moment." T h e strange interview stirred i n me a vague unease; it was one o f those surreal, fleeting encounters that abound i n M e x i c o .

W

e spent over an hour i n the N a t i o n a l M u s e u m o f Anthropology.

Afterward, w h i l e waiting for the others I sat o n a stone wall u n -

der a fragrant shade tree covered w i t h gorgeous, deep purple wisteria.

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Thin-legge d little girls paraded back and forth i n Sunday finery— white dresses w i t h flared skirts and crocheted embellishments. T h e y wore patent leather shoes and carried purses or baskets, w h i c h they filled

w i t h the flowers. T h e little girls were very pretty, i n that

ephemeral prepubescent

way, and they k n e w it. After admiring

them awhile I realized what this show was about. In essence, they had been sent out by their parents to beg. I gestured at the one w h o had been flirting the most w i t h me. She walked toward me swinging her basket. I laid some pesos i n it. She spun o n her heel and walked off w i t h o u t giving me another glance. W e walked and walked that afternoon. W e crossed under a freeway and doubled back to Chapultepec Castle. B u t l o n g lines w o u n d from the castle doors to the sculpture o f torches h o n o r i n g E l

Niños,

the cadets w h o j u m p e d to their deaths rather than surrender to U . S . Marines i n the M e x i c a n War. W h a t d i d they call that war? I w o n dered. F o r a few moments we watched a m i m e perform, then headed back d o w n the hillside. M i k e had taken a special interest i n a painter at an art show i n a park during a recent trip to M e x i c o City. H e k n e w the art show reassembled every Sunday; he wanted to go back and, i f possible, buy a painting he had seen the first time. W e wandered across l o n g blocks d o w n t o w n , and because it was Sunday, absolutely nothing was open. Except for passing cars we saw almost no one. T h o u g h M i k e grew frustrated and embarrassed, we didn't give h i m too m u c h grief. W e encountered a man w i t h a newspaper rolled under his arm. H e walked w i t h a limp. M i k e stopped h i m and asked h i m i f he k n e w about the art show. T h e man thought a moment then pointed and told us to keep walking. In time we should see the park o n the left. W e walked o n a hundred yards, then heard the man call out to us. In his uneven gait he h u r r i e d back to us. H e pointed d o w n the street to our immediate left, and w i t h a sweeping m o t i o n o f his arm, he i n d i cated a section o f the city.

Jan with his mother, Elsie Reid, in West Texas, late 1940s.

Jan with his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, all named Charles Reid. The latter was a Texas Ranger and trail driver. Photo taken about 1947.

A B-team football player in Wichita Falls, 1960, Jan is in the second row, fourth from the right (number 39).

Jan with his roommates while a fellow at J. Frank Dobie's Paisano Ranch, 1978. Photo by Si Dunn.

Dorothy in Austin, early 1960s. Photo by Bruce Jackson.

Bachelor cabin office with punching bag, rural Central Texas, 1980.

Jan and Dorothy, newlyweds, at an Austin party, early 1980s.

Jan holding forth at a Bastille Day party, Austin, 1986. Photo by Larry Murphy.

A favorite snapshot of Dorothy in Pamplona, Spain, 1988.

Hours before the shooting, with (from left): Jan, Mike Hall, boxing trainer Doug Lord, and John Spong. Mexico City boxing arena, 1998. Photo by David Courtney.

Jan being fitted with a microphone for a T V interview during an early rehab session at the T L R R Hospital. The T-shirt became a uniform.

Jan with a friends mule, Bastrop, 2000. This photo was used for the cover of Close Jan Reid's Texas. Photo by Earl Nottingham.

Calls:

Jan dancing with his daughter Lila at her wedding in 1999, just after having graduated from a crutch to a cane. Photo by R o y Hamric.

Jan with Jesus Chavez in Delicias, Mexico, during convalescence.

Jan in his office, 2003.

P h o t o f r o m a Texas Monthly

p h o t o s h o o t , 2001.

Photo by Kenny Braun.

Jan and D o r o t h y o n their twentieth w e d d i n g anniversary vacation, W y o m i n g ,

2002.

Jesus staggers Thai champion Sirimongkol Singmanassuk (in white trunks) on his way to redeeming his dream of winning a world title, Austin, 2003. Photo by Richard Garriott.

Jesus getting advice in two languages from his trainers Richard Lord and Flaco Castrejón during his title fight in Austin, 2003. Photo by Richard Garriott.

Jesus's wife, Aunissa Strokland, serving as a U.S. Army lieutenant, Iraq, 2005.

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vayas alii," he said."Es peligroso."

D o n ' t go there, it's dangerous.

W

e found the art show but the painter w h o appealed to M i k e had moved o n . A s the show shut d o w n we caught a cab to the

Z ó c a l o . Political groups and artisans were spread across the vast plaza.

A b i g M e x i c a n flag popped and rang its chain i n the breeze, and periodically some anthem burst from the recording system. Indians pounded drums and kept up a daylong dance. J o h n wanted to find a painting o f the Zapatistas' Subcomandante

Marcos o n black velvet.

Peculiar to the culture along the R i o Grande, the usual subjects o f the folk art o n velvet are bullfights, raging stallions, and Elvis i n his rotund Vegas phase. W e rummaged through the Zapatista stuff at length. There were choleric pamphlets, also a band, standing i n somewhat military formation, that was pitiful—one o f the players tried to b l o w notes out o f a trombone w i t h o u t a slide. J o h n bought some T-shirts, then we drifted o n , l o o k i n g at c o w boy

hats, colorful blankets, silver jewelry. D a v i d spied the ridiculous

hat, the b r o w n straw bowler, and couldn't live w i t h o u t it. Leaving them to their shopping, M i k e and I walked through the cathedral. The

elaborate exterior o f the sixteenth-century church wears a per-

manent smudge o f dark smoke stain, and inside, because the weight o f the structure has sunk it into the o l d lakebed, every c o l u m n is n o w enclosed by a supporting brace o f steel. Glass cabinets contained the usual likenesses o f Christ, the V i r g i n , and the saints, and toward the front a mass was i n progress, but to me the M e x i c o C i t y church captured everything about that faith that is dark and forbidding. We all reconvened and climbed stairs to the r o o f o f the Majestic H o t e l . A t first there were no tables available out o n the patio. W e settled happily i n the bar, alone w i t h a soccer game o n T V and an

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attentive bartender. A t sundown we were called out to a table i n the rooftop cafe, and w i t h the national anthem blaring we watched a detail o f soldiers b r i n g d o w n and fold the flag. W e had dinner and more drinks o n the rooftop cafe. T h e sky above the Z ó c a l o was a lovely mauve dusk. I was the only one, I discovered later, w h o had any qualms about going back to Plaza Garibaldi. I was tired from all the walking, and the night before, the experience outside the b o x i n g arena had set off l o u d alarms i n m y head. I wanted to go back to our apartment, have a d r i n k o n our o w n patio, and get i n bed w i t h a book. B u t I said nothing about i t — I didn't want to be the o l d grump. A n d it felt like some force was pulling us along, keeping us out i n the city. I d i d speak up w h e n they started talking about h o w to get to the plaza. J o h n noticed that below us a street sign pointed to it. B u t I k n e w that following that path w o u l d take us back into the unlighted streets around the Arena Coliseo. I got out a map, and said we had to follow the Avenida 16th de Septiembre to its end, where o n turning right we w o u l d see a park called the Alameda. O n a major street, San Juan de Letran, i n a few blocks we w o u l d arrive at the plaza. It was fully dark w h e n we set out. W h e n we reached San Juan de Letran we set out north, and suddenly we plunged into a sidewalk bazaar. W e weaved around racks o f clothing and pots o f soup cooked o n charcoal fires. Smells o f c u m i n , peppers, smoke, and sweat. It was claustrophobic and frightening. I told the others I had to cross the street, where there were bus stops and storefronts. T h e n we saw lights and open space and once more we heaved sighs and walked through the plaza. Away from the street, it was encircled by bars w i t h large neon signs proclaiming their names and M e x i c a n labels o f beer. Before each one a hawker claimed their mariachis were the best. B u t m a r i achis were everywhere o n the plaza. Some w i t h elaborate sombreros

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strapped around their necks, resting o n their shoulders, the black-clad musicians stood, strolled, and played, h o p i n g something about their looks or their skill w i t h a guitar w o u l d prompt the tourists or locals to hire them o n the spot. It was a pleasant bedlam o f singing and strumming. T h e n like a school offish some i n the c r o w d suddenly veered off i n pursuit o f what we determined was a r u n n i n g fight. W e jogged along w i t h the others and watched the show. A mariachi fled from a dark-haired w o m a n w h o screeched at h i m . H e was panicky, desperate to escape her shrieks. H e made a mistake and stopped i n a gazebo; the c r o w d cut off his escape. N o w along w i t h the tongue-lashing she flailed

at h i m w i t h her fists and tried to claw h i m w i t h her nails.

E n c i r c l e d by the g r i n n i n g crowd, he fended her off as best he could. I half expected h i m to coldcock her, just to shut her up. B u t his machismo was already i n shreds and puddles. There was no way out. W e c o u l d still hear her screeches w h e n we greeted the Tenampa 's d o o r m a n . T h e bar was not as crowded and lively as it had been o n Friday night, yet despite m y initial reluctance to brave the plaza, this evening was m a k i n g us all laugh and enjoy ourselves. W e started d r i n k i n g about ten o ' c l o c k and at least three times agreed this was the last round, only to order another. M i k e was still a w o r k i n g musician, I had w r i t t e n a b o o k about the A u s t i n music scene o f the 1970s, and J o h n and D a v i d were friends o f y o u n g Texas musicians w h o were having some success, so the talk soon turned to music, its nightlife and casualties. W e drank to songs and memories o f B . W . Stevenson, Townes V a n Zandt. T h e n I got off o n regaling everyone w i t h m y great underreported Texas stories. I told them about the convict w h o murdered his warden, drowned h i m w i t h his bare hands, but the j u r y acquitted h i m . T h e y couldn't believe it. In Texas? W h a t c o u l d that warden have possibly done? I told them about the h i g h school football coach whose teams w o n a state championship. H e became a pillar

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o f his community, then was charged w i t h using cheerleaders i n a call girl ring. T h e coach quickly disappeared, and so d i d the story. C o m e on, the others joshed. " I was there, I remember it," I said. " O r maybe I dreamed it." A t midnight D a v i d l o o k e d at his watch and announced it was n o w his thirty-second birthday. W e w h o o p e d i n surprise, clapped h i m o n the back, and ordered another round. H a i f a dozen groups o f m a r i achis stood around the half-empty bar, and we started putting them to w o r k . " L a N e g r a " and "Las M a ñ a n i t a s " and " C u c u r r u c u c u , " the o n o matopoeic cry o f a lovelorn dove. I told m y y o u n g bachelor friends the story about h o w I fell i n love w i t h D o r o t h y o n the trip to Puerto Vallarta: the horseback ride through the storm o f butterflies and the intimate cafe called the C h i c a g o K i d . A couple o f groups shook their heads w h e n I requested our love song, " L a M a l a g u e ñ a . " N o t because they didn't k n o w it; the song was too hard to sing. T h e most numerous and fastidiously attired group gathered around us w i t h antique guitars, violins, and trumpets. A t m y request their leader said, " C l a r o que si," and bowed. T h e guitarists kept up a rhythmic strumming o f chords, the t r u m peters came i n w i t h blasts o f emphasis, w h i l e the fiddlers roamed over and under the man's voice. T h e girl's given name implies an o r i g i n i n the Spanish province o f Malaga, and she's a dancer, alive to music. T h e p o o r boy has nothing to offer her but his corazón, his heart. T h e singer had to start l o w and i n the chorus, range high—almost rolling the highest note and the boy's plea into a yodel.

Malagueña

salerosa

Besar tus labios quisiera

I w o u l d love to kiss your Hps

Besar tus labios quisiera

I w o u l d love to kiss your lips

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salerosa

Y decir que n i ñ a hermosa

A n d to say what a beautiful girl

Eres linda y hechisera

You're pretty and enchanting

Eres linda y hechisera

You're pretty and enchanting

C o m o el calor de una rosa

L i k e the passion o f a rose

Outside we again walked among the crowd. In one o f the stalls o f the flea market a fight erupted; a m a n tore off his shirt and stormed after a rival, but somehow the violence seemed to spill toward and f o cus o n us. M i k e and I skipped out o f the way and l o o k e d around for J o h n and D a v i d . I saw they had bought more beers. D a v i d announced that he had seen a group o f norteño musicians w h o were set apart from the mariachis by their b r o w n suits. H e and J o h n ambled off i n that direction. I l o o k e d at M i k e and said, "Let's get these guys out o f here." T h e y had no objections; all o f us had drunk enough. J o h n walked out to the cabstand and waved o n the green V W . T h e n the Japanese compact pulled up. W e saw the stripe o f green paint, but the car l o o k e d n e w and substantial enough that it seemed the driver w o u l d be reliable. H e offered a cheaper fare, fifty pesos, than we had paid before. I spoke to the driver, w h o kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, and I slid into the cab's backseat.

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hen the driver took his dark fast detour I fueled the others' fears

by saying, " T h i s doesn't l o o k right." B u t then we seemed to be

back o n the right street, w h i c h was broad and brightly lit, and the driver took us into the Polanco, d o w n our now-familiar street, and I said no more. T h e n the driver j a m m e d o n the brakes. M i k e l o o k e d

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around and saw the pistoleros

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c o m i n g . F o r about ten minutes after

H o n c h o vaulted into the front seat, he kept the muzzle o f his g u n i n M i k e s ear. D o n ' t do anything stupid, M i k e was thinking. B u t this tough guy i n the bright red shirt sat i n his lap and issued inane orders: "Shut up! Close your eyes! G o to sleep!" W h a t a b u n c h o f losers, M i k e thought. Amateurs. H e bet the guns weren't even loaded. N o n e o f the rest o f us even considered that. There was nothing to do about the pistol-whipping but sit still and take it. This is going to be unpleasant for a little while, J o h n thought—then

w e ' l l be all right. " W e l l , so m u c h for not taking

the green cabs," he said, affecting a droll sigh. B u t w h e n the cab sped onto the hideous freeway, tension began to swell like heat i n a balloon. "I don't know, man," J o h n said now. " T h i s has gone o n a l o n g time." W h e n D a v i d said he was going to open the door and throw the fat one out, he meant it. Yeah, right, thought M i k e . In a B - m o v i e he does that and I grab this guy's gun and it all goes off like c l o c k w o r k — except it's us, and w e ' l l all be dead. John's warning as he watched the gun aimed at Mike's head d i d not convince D a v i d . H i s plan was foiled because he couldn't quite reach the door handle. B u t i n the end he used his head better than any o f us. T h e pistolero

i n the backseat wore

a soiled T-shirt that didn't meet his jeans, w h i c h were slipping off his ass, and he smelled bad. T h e pileup was suffocating D a v i d . H e struggled until he got his head free o f the slob and could breathe. W h a t the hell's going o n here? D a v i d thought. I f these guys were just going to rob us, they could have done that a l o n g time ago. A T V show flashed through his mind—some cop saying that the second stop was w h e n people usually got killed by hijackers. Take your chances the first time they let y o u out o f the car. N e v e r get i n the trunk. My

friends said later that H o n c h o and I spoke a great deal o f

Spanish. I don't remember that. T h e y also said it grew heated be-

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tween us, that it became personal. M a y b e sarcasm leaked into m y voice, the set o f m y lips and eyes. It's true I yelled at H o n c h o . " G i v e me your money!" he shouted. " W e l l , let me get m y hands free!" I yelled back. I twisted around under the ridiculous pile o f weight until I c o u l d finally get m y wallet; he tore it out o f m y hand, then caught my wrist and ripped off the watch. It's a T i m e x , asshole, I thought. N o Rolexes here. T h e i r robbery was a bust. I was the only one w h o had any money—about $150 i n pesos and a bank credit card. H o n c h o had hopes for that credit card, probably, but we c o u l d not have gotten any m o n e y out o f it i n M e x i c o City. M a y b e he w o u l d have killed me beside some A T M machine, w h e n I couldn't give h i m a P I N number and make the machine drop cash i n his hands. I thought I was appealing to reason w h e n I leaned forward and argued that we'd done everything he asked. F o r an instant I thought H o n c h o was hearing me, acknowledging me, but then he threw me a l o o k o f contempt and turned his head back to the road. T h e cabdriver wheeled off the expressway into a barrio. I was the only one w h o heard H o n c h o say they were g o i n g to separate us. D i d he say it i n Spanish? O r d i d he say it at all? It doesn't matter. I k n e w w i t h certainty that n o t h i n g g o o d awaited us. Adrenaline was racing through H o n c h o , too, and he had felt the power o f m a k i n g us cringe. H e had terrified and humiliated us w i t h that gun. H e was crazed w i t h that power; he didn't intend to thank us k i n d l y and let us go. Sooner or later H o n c h o meant to k i l l me. A l l o f us. I was sure o f it. Somebody had to do something, throw this train off course. W e came to a four-way intersection, then the driver turned and stopped. M i k e was almost certain they were g o i n g to let us go. I f they k i l l us, he thought, they'll just pop us all i n the head, standing beside the car. M i k e breathed a prayer as the cab stopped. W h e n we were o r dered out o f the car J o h n said, "Screw y o u , it's our cab." I don't k n o w i f J o h n realized that was a c o m i c remark, for he went o n w i t h pleas

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that were meaningless to the pistoleros.

" W e don't k n o w where we are,

we've got no money, we can't get home. . . ." D a v i d must have gotten out and hesitated, for I had time to step out behind h i m . H o n c h o grabbed me roughly by m y left arm. I was clearly the one he wanted. J o h n had the brass to step out o n the driver's side. H e was free! H e had put the car between himself and the guns. A l l he had to do was duck and run. B u t he wasn't t h i n k i n g clearly, because he strolled around the trunk to j o i n us, to check things out. " R u n ,

run, scatter!" cried D a v i d , fighting off the fat guy and r u n -

n i n g around the car and out into the street. T h e gunman clubbed a big knot o n his head and tried to tackle h i m , tearing his pants d o w n the seam. Yet D a v i d never let go o f that dumb straw derby. M i k e was immobile, frozen, standing beside the car. That's the only way I can visualize the sequence o f movement, because I was aware o f none o f it. David's breakaway must have distracted H o n c h o , for I felt his grip loosen o n m y arm. In reflex I threw his hand off me. I f I had then just turned and run, could he have wheeled and aimed and shot me i n the back? O r i f I'd had the speed and reflexes o f m y friend Jesus, the real boxer, I could have pivoted and k n o c k e d H o n c h o d o w n w i t h a right hand, for he was smaller than me and he was l o o k i n g away. "I don't know,Jan," a friend at the gym named M a r i o w o u l d say, shaking his head."If you'd hurt him, cut him, he might have emptied that gun o n you." Yes, he might have. But all the what ifs came later. There was no time for any reasoning. It was survival instinct, the dilemma o f all creatures since the dawn o f time—fight or flee. Except I didn't quite do either. H o n c h o lurched at me i n a rage. The

p u n c h I threw at h i m was as hard, fast, and angry as any I'd

ever thrown, but I miscalculated the distance and the left came up short. T h e n I stood m y ground. I was up o n m y toes—glaring at m u r der. Dunderhead! N o w it was too late for me to flee. I backed away from H o n c h o , raising m y a r m at the gun. M i k e said that H o n c h o fired

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one time at the pavement—how c o u l d I have no m e m o r y o f that? T h e n immediately he raised the gun at me. H i s eyes were full o f hate and revulsion. So y o u want to fight me, gringo. H e took careful a i m at m y vital organs, l o o k e d me i n the eyes, and pulled the trigger. I wrote a novel once that had a gunfight at night i n the story. I'd never seen such a thing, so I got a friend w h o o w n e d pistols to go out i n the country w i t h me. F r o m a few paces away he fired two bullets over m y head. B o t h muzzle flashes l o o k e d like jagged, spear-shaped blooms o f flame, pistils o f white heat narrowing from the bore. B u t H o n c h o ' s beat-up o l d .38 threw out an eerie, pale crackle o f lightning that w o b b l e d left and right and reached from above his shoulder to the ground. T h e bullet broke b o t h bones i n m y raised left arm, w h i c h must have slowed it d o w n . B u t it tore through me like a drill stem, a b i g hot c h u r n i n g screw. T h e force o f it hurled me o n m y back, and I k n e w at once I was gravely hurt. " I ' m killed," I said, t h i n k i n g I might not have time to say anything longer.

n r | h e taxi and the pistoleros

vanished from our lives. I was i n agony,

1 and furious at myself. Y o u had a g o o d life, a g o o d marriage, and y o u come d o w n here and get yourself wasted by some chickenshit thug. I was embarrassed by what I had said. Such a bad H o l l y w o o d line. M i k e thought it was so trite it must be a signal o f t r i u m p h : I had staged a c o m i c pratfall to make them go away. M y groans soon disabused h i m o f that. I had w o r n jeans and m y favorite M e x i c a n shirt that night, a Oaxacan long-sleeved white cotton shirt w i t h a pleated front. A t first the b l o o d flowed inward, not out. T h e y pulled up m y shirt and finally found the w o u n d . D a v i d said it l o o k e d like a dime, just b e l o w m y left rib cage. T h i s can't be happening, D a v i d thought. It can't be happening. W h i l e M i k e held m y head D a v i d and J o h n ran opposite ways d o w n the street, calling out for help. David's Spanish was better: " A y ù d a m e !

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A y ù d a m e ! M i amigo . . ." T h e y ran to the ends o f the block, then back toward me, still seeing nothing but boarded up windows. T h e n an o l d w o m a n opened a door and motioned at J o h n to come inside. But w h e n he asked, she said she had no telephone. "Ambulancia!" D a v i d cried out. "Sí, sí," some w o m a n answered h i m . O n e had been called. The

intersection was well-lighted, and I looked up at a clearly de-

fined r i n g o f faces. T h e y w o u l d have looked the same i f it happened on your street or mine. T h e i r expressions were frightened, anxious, w o n d e r i n g h o w they could help. T h e n the first godsend came to my aid. A paramedic i n his thirties, he lived i n the barrio. M y friends thought maybe he was still wearing his w o r k clothes; they were u n sure. B u t he pushed through the crowd and took over at once. H e checked my pulse and asked me a couple o f questions, then shooed away an o l d w o m a n w h o kept trying to give me the water I desperately craved. As they waited for the ambulance, M i k e cradled my head in his lap and J o h n and D a v i d held each o f my hands. I was bleeding more now, and it began to soak i n M i k e s clothes. T h e y were surprised at h o w quickly the ambulance and a police patrol unit arrived. The

paramedic briefed his peers from the ambulance o n my c o n d i -

tion and told them to take me to the A m e r i c a n British C o w d r a y Hospital. H e stressed it—Hospital A B C . As my stretcher was being raised to the back of the ambulance, J o h n stepped out from the c r o w d and said: "Hey, Jan, it 's gonna make a great

story."

O h , fuck you! J o h n w o u l d explain that he was just trying to elevate the m o o d . You know, lighten up. It might help. B u t D a v i d barked angrily at his friend. M i k e said later,"That 's w h e n I remembered we were drunk." The

medics i n the ambulance were businesslike but not particu-

larly friendly. M a y b e they resented me being sent to the best hospital

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i n the city. This is g o i n g to cost a lot o f money, they stressed to M i k e . A lot o f m o n e y T h e pain was unimaginable. I clung to Mike's hand and said, " M i k e , I'd rather die than take this pain, but I want to see D o r o t h y again." I remember his voice was very soft. " W e l l , there's your reason why." That snatch o f dialogue found its way into the Austin newspaper, and suddenly people w o u l d make us into Tracy and H e p b u r n , B o g i e and Bacall. N o t so widely k n o w n , M i k e told me w h e n we could both laugh, was my final wish. " Y o u said, ' I f I die, tell D o r o t h y . . . o h , you k n o w what to tell her.' "

I

n the emergency r o o m I screamed w i t h every breath."Tranquilo, tranquilo," said a doctor w i t h a sharp nose and black mustache.

C a l m d o w n . If he was questioning my courage, forget it. That was

used up, spent. I l o o k e d the doctor i n the eyes and screamed again. I was lucky. It was a slow night, the early m o r n i n g hours o f a Monday, and practically everyone i n the emergency r o o m c o u l d pay attention to me. B u t the endlessness o f such pain astonished me. I thought shock was supposed to relieve it. I kept h o p i n g I'd pass out. I asked one o f the doctors for morphine. " N o la tenemos," he answered. T h e y don't have morphine? T h e y probably d i d have a small supply i n the hospital. B u t for whatever reason, M e x i c a n doctors and hospitals prefer a synthetic substitute, and believe me, it s just not the same. M i k e said they had me l y i n g naked o n a steel table. I complained o f being cold. H e said I screamed continually, " O h , G o d ! " I remember that I thought about praying. I believed I still k n e w h o w B u t I found I

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had no religious faith. There's no solace i n that. Some time later I gazed at the dark eyes o f the nurse. She had been there for a while, and she was pretty. I was tired and scared beyond all limits o f m y being. " M e estoy m u r i e n d o ? " I asked her. A m I dying? " N o , no, estarás bien," she said, putting a hand o n m y arm, and i n Spanish she talked me through that dark passage o f surrender and despair. She persuaded me I could hang o n . A paramedic living i n a tough side o f t o w n and an emergency r o o m nurse o n the night shift. Guardian angels, and I ' l l never k n o w their names.

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f I hadn't feared and felt the nearness o f dying I wouldn't have uttered that cry. D e a t h s air was melancholy, and it pulled like

tidewash loosening beach sand under m y feet. I had been calm

i n the taxi and brave w i t h H o n c h o i n the street, but n o w I was frantic

w i t h this pain, unhinged by it. F o r God's sake, I thought between screams. Just let me pass out. A n d at last I let go o f consciousness, or it let go o f me. A vascular specialist, R o b e r t o Castaneda, led the first team o f surgeons. D r . Castaneda found me very pale, m y heart beating rapidly, and w h i l e I was still conscious I had complained o f intense b u r n i n g pain i n m y legs, w i t h some pain i n m y abdomen. D r . Castaneda opened m y abdominal wall and found the peritoneal cavity awash w i t h two and a half liters o f blood. Scarce wonder I was pale—I had lost a third o f m y b l o o d supply. Perforations i n m y small intestine accounted for most o f the bleeding. D r . C a s t a ñ e d a removed some intestine and rejoined the ends. T h e bullet had narrowly missed the aorta, a grand central station o f b l o o d vessels. I f the aorta had burst, I w o u l d have died i n minutes. D r . C a s t a ñ e d a watched me closely i n recovery. H e noticed some

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small movements that he thought were voluntary—I flexed m y toes and

the soles o f m y feet—but m y legs appeared to be paralyzed.

W h e n he was confident I was stable, he turned me over to a team o f neurosurgeons headed by Francisco R e v i l l a . After studying the results o f a C T scan and M R I , D r . R e v i l l a and his colleagues opened m y spinal c o l u m n from the rear. T h e y found the bullet had fractured m y twelfth thoracic vertebra and had come to rest nose d o w n i n the equina—"horse's

cauda

tail" i n L a t i n — w h i c h is a flaring bundle o f nerves at

the base o f the spinal cord. D r . R e v i l l a removed the bullet, then w i t h a surgical microscope inspected the spinal canal. T h e spinal cord appeared to be w h o l e , though an u n k n o w n number o f nerves i n the cauda

equina

were destroyed or damaged by the blast o f heat and

shock. U n l i k e the cord, some o f those nerves might be able to heal and regenerate themselves. B a r r i n g some rampage o f infection, I was almost out o f danger. B u t the M R I had not l o o k e d g o o d to D r . R e v i l l a . A n d throughout the surgery he had administered a test called a Somato-Sensorial E v o k e d Potential R e c o r d i n g . T h e neurosurgeons i n the M e x i c o C i t y hospital placed a great deal o f faith i n that test o f my movement capability, and it registered a completely flat line.

W

hile I was i n neurosurgery, D o r o t h y and Lila arrived at the M e x i c o C i t y airport jangled, distraught, terrified, and sleepless.

L i l a d i d not even k n o w I had gone to M e x i c o until her mother called her. T h e n an airlines clerk said L i l a 's passport had expired; only some frantic driving by her boyfriend, G r e g W i l s o n , let her present her b i r t h certificate and board the plane. T h e y cleared customs i n

M e x i c o C i t y and were exasperated that the only way to get to the hospital was to catch a cab. T h e y didn't k n o w what to expect; Texans were always hearing horror stories about medical care i n M e x i c o . B u t the A m e r i c a n British C o w d r a y l o o k e d like any m o d e r n , first-

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rate hospital i n the States. T h e y met M i k e , D a v i d , and J o h n i n the waiting r o o m where they had tried to sleep. It was awkward as they talked. Mike's clothes were stained w i t h dried b l o o d . "It's so bizarre it c o u l d have happened like that," M i k e told them. "Because h e — a l l o f us—had such a great time." T h e y were exhausted, devastated. W h i l e M i k e accompanied me i n the ambulance, a pair o f M e x i c o C i t y cops had given J o h n and D a v i d a ride to the apartment, where J o h n got m y passport and a credit card, and then had taken them to the hospital. T h e cops asked them what happened, but w i t h an air o f curiosity, not investigation. D u r i n g the night no police had disturbed them. N o cops ever came to question them at all. "Listen," D o r o t h y told them, "there's n o t h i n g y o u can do here. Y o u guys go home."

Roberto C a s t a ñ e d a was horrified that such a thing c o u l d happen i n the city where he made his home, a city he loved. H a v i n g saved m y life, he swept D o r o t h y and L i l a into his emotional care. W i t h short brushed hair, a w i d e l y bridged nose, and b l a c k - r i m m e d glasses, he was the smart, caring m a n we want all doctors to be. H e had kept m y w e d d i n g r i n g b u c k l e d to his watch. In almost fluent E n glish, he told them what he had done and all he k n e w about m y c o n dition. " T h e neurosurgeons w i l l probably tell y o u he'll be paralyzed," he tried to prepare them. " T h e y ' l l paint the bleakest possible picture. That's just h o w neurosurgeons are." D r . C a s t a ñ e d a w o u l d w r i t e i n his o w n report that m y prospects for complete recovery were very poor. Still he told them, " R e m e m b e r , I saw h i m move his toes voluntarily. I saw that. D o n ' t lose hope." D r . C a s t a ñ e d a left them i n the care o f a gracious hospital v o l u n teer. Administrators provided them w i t h a r o o m I was not yet ready to occupy. D o r o t h y k n e w she needed help; as she packed she had called our friend Ty Fain and asked h i m to come. Ty had w o r k e d for the

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State Department and an assortment o f Texas agencies that had relations w i t h official M e x i c o , and he spoke Spanish w i t h a diplomat's confidence and ease. H e arrived d u r i n g the afternoon and took over the welter o f calls. Reporters were calling from all over Texas and M e x i c o . D o r o t h y and L i l a were amazed by Ty's aplomb. H e w o u l d be talking into the hospital phone, then the cell phone he had brought from Texas, one call i n English, another i n Spanish, all the w h i l e taking notes. Later that afternoon the neurosurgeons came to the r o o m . T h e y were all freshly groomed and dressed i n black suits. L i l a and D o r o t h y later nicknamed them "the Crows." D r . R e v i l l a was solemn, proper, and frank. A few minutes later L i l a was standing outside the hospital w h e n J o h n and D a v i d arrived i n a cab. T h e y had gone to the Polanco apartment to pack for the trip home. A s they neared Lila, J o h n saw that she was sobbing. She told them, " T h e y just said he'll never walk again." D o r o t h y and Lila thought D r . R e v i l l a was somewhat aloof. O f course, he couldn't tell them anything they wanted to hear. B u t suddenly he reappeared, and this time he was smiling, animated. D r . C a s t a ñ e d a had been right. In the recovery r o o m I had been c o m i n g out from the anesthesia, and one o f the doctors scratched m y foot and shin w i t h a plastic card, a routine way o f testing sensory responses. It wasn't m u c h voluntary movement, but I yelped w i t h pain and gave a feeble kick.

U

naware that anything had changed, M i k e , J o h n , and D a v i d went

by the U . S . embassy o n the way to the airport. Ignored by the

M e x i c o C i t y police, M i k e wanted to be sure they told the story to someone o f official capacity before they left the country. A s they left, other friends were arriving. D i c k Reavis happened to be i n M e x i c o C i t y o n a freelance magazine assignment. W h e n I first k n e w D i c k ,

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he was going up i n the Sierra Madres alone to interview guerrillas. A friend from the M e x i c o C i t y bureau o f the Houston

C h r o n i c l e had

called h i m at his hotel and told h i m about me. D i c k said, " M y first thought was, H o l y shit! That should have been me! A l l the times I'd j u m p e d i n a M e x i c o C i t y street cab . . ." D i c k came to the hospital but found no one he knew; he left D o r o t h y a card offering to help. W h e n she called, she asked h i m to relieve Ty w i t h the phones. O t h e r friends from A u s t i n and Dallas arrived throughout the day. Late that afternoon, the doctors said I c o u l d receive visitors one at a time, for just a minute or two. "You

came," I said to Dorothy, as i f that surprised me.

A t a loss, L i l a asked me i f I needed anything. " A n aspirin," I replied. I don't remember seeing either o f them or saying those things. But

soon after that, I became aware o f l y i n g i n a bed that seemed to

float in olive green ether. T h r o u g h an oval i n this fog came a procession o f several close friends. R o y H a m r i c , G a r y C a r t w r i g h t , D a v i d Lindsey, R o b e r t Draper, D i c k Reavis, Ty Fain, J i m C r u m p . A handshake, a smile, a few words, and then they were gone. W h a t a finel o o k i n g b u n c h of middle-aged men! H o w nattily dressed they were! I was pretty sure I was alive, but couldn't this be like dying?

I

n Austin, Texas

M o n t h l y ' s frenetic publisher, M i k e Levy, lived for

such a crisis. S o o n after hearing about it, he tracked d o w n his

friend, Dr. R e d D u k e . R e d D u k e had been a Texas A & M

A g g i e , an

officer i n the A r m y Rangers, a Baptist seminarian, and he was the surgeon w h o treated Texas governor J o h n C o n n a l l y at Dallas's Parkland Hospital after the J o h n F. K e n n e d y assassination. B u t he was famous i n Texas because o f his folksy programs o f health advice that ran o n the news o f local T V stations. A tall, bony man w i t h a droopy cowboy mustache, he was as familiar to his audience as a pair of jeans

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and roughout boots. R e d D u k e was also a world-renowned trauma specialist, and he administered a service that dispatched jets all over the w o r l d to rescue people. M o n i t o r i n g the storm o f calls for us was another friend o f twenty-five years, N o r m a n Chenven. H e had been our family doctor, then had retired from his practice to help found the H M O that served our insurance plan. W h e n N o r m a n heard about the shooting, he assigned his top caseworker, a y o u n g w o m a n named Diane Hosmer. Diane had already lined up a jet w h e n she learned o f M i k e Levy's efforts. " B u t there was an element o f Indiana Jones w o r k i n g now," chuckled N o r m a n , w h o k n e w M i k e well. As a doctor N o r m a n thought it was a little premature to move me, but he left the decision to m y wife. " D o r o t h y was angry," Diane said later. " A n g r y at what happened and where it happened. She said, 'I don't want h i m , I don't want us, to be here.' "

D

ick Reavis, m y friend w h o had been i n M e x i c o C i t y o n a magazine assignment, was a small, mustachioed man w h o , as he aged,

more and more resembled the weathered ranch hands o n the P a n handle plains where he grew up. A drunk had once crashed a car into his motorcycle o n a Texas highway, and M i k e L e v y had come to

Dick's rescue, visiting h i m i n the hospital daily and making sure his medical bills were covered. D i c k thought this was a time o f paying back and taking his turn. Patiently he kept answering the phone. H e took one call from Jesus Chavez, w h o was castigating himself. L i l a went i n the hospital r o o m alone to talk to D i c k about the possibility that I might not survive a flight to Texas. T h e hurry was that spinal injury specialists i n Texas were saying every day o f expert rehabilitation could be critical at this stage. " I f it was me," D i c k told her, "and it meant I might walk, I'd probably take the chance." "I want a daddy w h o can walk," she told D i c k . " B u t more than

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that I want a daddy." Friends from Texas M o n t h l y were telling D o r o t h y that a rescue jet from H o u s t o n was available, but the clock was r u n ning. I f we didn't use it, somebody else w o u l d . M y wife felt like her head was about to explode; she was under horrendous pressure. T h e n , w i t h the agreement and consent o f the neurosurgeons, thirty-six hours after I was shot, Dr. C a s t a ñ e d a wrote a report that m y c o n d i t i o n was g o o d and I c o u l d be transferred to the States as soon as m y family wanted. D o r o t h y took a deep breath and said,"Let's go." But

hours dragged o n as they waited for the jet and its rescue

team. Several parties o f cops had come to the hospital by then, doggedly asking questions of people w h o had no knowledge o f what had

happened. T h e n the higher-ups arrived. These police had cell

phones and a security entourage, and one lugged a heavy office typew r i t e r to the waiting r o o m . " T h e y were mad," said D i c k , " m a d that the press k n e w about this, and mad that the other guys had left M e x i c o . " T h e cops' leader told D i c k : "He's not going anywhere until he makes a statement to us." "He

can't make a statement," D i c k replied.

The

cop l o o k e d around, exasperated. Finally someone suggested

that an interview o f D i c k might do. H a l f an h o u r passed w h i l e the top cop

batted the idea back and forth w i t h his superiors. A t last Dick's

statement was approved. In the waiting r o o m , the cop w i t h the typewriter placed it o n the counter of the nurses' station and rolled i n several sheets o f paper and carbons. " Y o u understand that I saw none of this," said D i c k . " T h e only one here w h o d i d see it is unconscious. A n y t h i n g I say is based o n what I have been told secondhand or have read i n the A m e r i c a n press." One

I

cop nodded, and another started typing.

t was close to midnight w h e n the rescue team—one nurse and one paramedic—reached the A m e r i c a n British Cowdray Hospital.

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I had a l u c i d moment. T h e leader was a feisty w o m a n w i t h curly hair and happy-people stickers o n her stethoscope. " M r . R e i d , " she said, her face close above me. "You're going to H o u s t o n ! Tonight!" I grinned at her, goofily no doubt, then once more sank into the murk. D u r i n g the ordeal a medical technician at the hospital had told D o r o t h y and Lila, " I ' m so ashamed." A n d n o w as they said good-bye to D r . Castañeda, the surgeon implored them, "Please don't hate m y country." T h e ambulance made slow progress up a w i n d i n g , bumpy road to the outlying t o w n o f Toluca. T h e A m e r i c a n technicians k n e w about my pain difficulties and they had brought morphine. O u r plane took off w i t h me b o u n d tightly to a stretcher. T h e flight to H o u s t o n was short and free o f weather bumps, but it was nerveracking for D o r o t h y and Lila. I snored loudly w i t h m y eyes w i d e open. That's not a g o o d sign, I've since been told. I was at the first tier o f descent into a coma. W h e n the plane came to a stop at the H o b b y A i r p o r t i n H o u s t o n , the w o m a n i n charge strode up to Dorothy, her voice charged w i t h tension. " M s . B r o w n e , we're having trouble w a k i n g h i m up." R i g h t after that I stopped breathing. A s they forced tubes d o w n my throat and began to inflate m y lungs, D o r o t h y and L i l a were hustled off the plane. In the darkness L i l a cried out i n fear and accusation: " T h e y O D ' e d him!" D o r o t h y said i n bitter despair: " L i l a , don't ever put your life i n m y hands." I resumed breathing and for a moment was conscious again. Something uncomfortable was clamped over m y nose and m o u t h , and I struggled, fought it. T h e face o f the w o m a n i n charge appeared above me. " M r . R e i d , y o u k n o w me. W e talked two hours ago i n M e x i c o City. You're i n H o u s t o n now. A n d " — I swear she said this— "you're blowing

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O

n the tarmac the rescue team stood around waiting for an a m b u -

lance. " G e t a helicopter i n here," D o r o t h y yelled at them. T h e y

j u m p e d to and made the call. A s the aircraft rose w i t h me and veered n o r t h toward the sprawling H o u s t o n M e d i c a l Center, D o r o t h y and Lila were i n the racing ambulance. F o r all they k n e w I was dead. D o r o t h y had been told I w o u l d be under the care o f a H o u s t o n neurosurgeon named G u y C l i f t o n . W h e n the ambulance reached the emergency r o o m o f H e r m a n n Hospital, they ran inside. T h e y e n countered a tall o l d guy w i t h a rusty-colored mustache that covered most o f his m o u t h . H e wore hospital greens and scratched h i m self. D o r o t h y burst u p o n h i m , blurting m y name and demanding to see D r . C l i f t o n . T h e old-timer answered i n a reassuring drawl. " I ' m D r . R e d D u k e . I ' m gonna be your doctor, and I ' m gonna be your mother."

1 s they plunged into sleep i n the hotel r o o m he b o o k e d for them, £\l

floated

i n an eerie k i n d o f remove, half-aware. "We're afraid

you're going to lose the m o b i l i t y o f your legs," a M e x i c a n doctor had said, phrasing it gently. I ' m paralyzed, I thought, but I ' m alive. I ' l l deal w i t h paralysis. T h e n I saw m y friend N o r m a n C h e n v e n . I thought it was night and I was outside; N o r m a n stood among a c r o w d pressi n g against a chain-link fence. (He was actually beside m y hospital bed.) H e told me i n his matter-of-fact way that paralysis was just one possible effect o f a lower spine injury. " T h e bladder and b o w e l and sexual f u n c t i o n — w e ' l l just have to wait and see about that." Bladder and b o w e l and sexual function! I could be incontinent and impotent, too? I took that harder than being told I was paralyzed. I felt like m y m a n h o o d had been chopped off at the waist.

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here's a line from an old Rolling Stones song: "Please, Sister Mor1 phine, turn m y nightmare into dreams." In the first o f m y dreams I was r i d i n g i n a truck being driven by an Asian w o m a n . It was early i n the m o r n i n g , the sun just up. I wanted to trust this w o m a n , but she ignored me. O n a country road she stopped at a store w i t h g r i m y windows and a dusty soda pop machine o n the porch. After a m o ment she came back out, started the truck, and we drove off. Still she said nothing; she had an air o f m a k i n g her daily rounds. W e came to a river that was r u n n i n g b r o w n and high. It was up to the throats o f the water buffalo. Water

buffalo!

W h e r e was I? T h e w o m a n sent the

truck d o w n the bank toward the swollen river. She was going to try to ford it. "Listen here," I cried. " Y o u get me back to D r . R e d D u k e . R i g h t now. He's supposed to be taking care o f me." It w o u l d be several days before I enjoyed R e d Duke's company, but I invoked his name like a protective chant. M y days were spent i n paranoid tedium. I lay i n a bed staring at a ceiling. I heard voices o n the other side o f the walls. People were v a cationing o n a seashore. I could hear the gulls. T h e y talked about c h i l dren and meals and laundry. T h e i r mundane chat and their comings and goings were maddening. I lay helpless, abandoned. Every n o w and then a w o m a n came i n w i t h a bucket and mop. She answered m y pleas w i t h a disinterested grunt. T h e editors at Esquire

sent flowers. I k n o w this happened because

I still have their card. B u t a nurse told me I couldn't have the flowers. I was being moved to a r o o m o f less intensive care. T h e beds o f several patients i n serious condition were arranged w i t h the usual m o n i t o r ing screens and nurses close at hand. B u t I believed I was i n a ward where the beds were plugged into a dock like tractor trailers. T h e talk

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that drifted over from the next cubicle was black English, c o o l and tart. Profane. T w o w o m e n were trying to bolster the spirits o f a p r o fessional athlete. H e was paid to be o n the field catching passes, but he had broken his leg, fooling around, and the front office was furious. T h e team had h i m o n ice, i m m o b i l i z e d . " T h i s is where they b r i n g the football players/' I informed L i l a one day. She l o o k e d around at m y fellow patients and thought it sure was an elderly team.

O

ne night I was i n a house. I c o u l d see and hear a m a n and w o m a n m o v i n g about. T h e y spoke English w i t h French accents. T h e y

had contracted w i t h the state to care for me, but they were c o n artists, and their fraud had been discovered. T h e y took their time packing, but they meant to be gone by dawn. "Wait!" I cried. " Y o u can't just leave me here. Please. You've got to find R e d D u k e . " Ignoring me, the m a n carried things to a car i n the garage. T h e w o m a n stood by m y bed and watched me for a moment, coolly smoking a cigarette. " D o y o u k n o w what's happened to y o u ? " she asked. A n o t h e r dream took o n aspects o f a novel I had been w o r k i n g o n . For generations there had been rumors and lore o f a great lost house o n the Brazos R i v e r . A sort o f Texas Camelot. It was the h o m e o f Sam Houston's family, the patriarchs, and I had found it. T h e large front r o o m had a marble staircase, bookcases, and o i l portraits o f e l ders. I was i n this house, and I c o u l d walk. I moved around freely and enjoyed myself. Sam H o u s t o n was there, ragging his son Temple for being drunk all the time. "You're one to talk," Temple shot back, p o u r i n g himself another. It was a rowdy gathering. Tall, striking o l d w o m e n flung good-natured taunts at the m e n . T h e H o u s t o n family seemed to have merged w i t h the Parkers,

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another prominent Texas clan. T h e family gathered proudly o n the staircase to be photographed by a man w h o stooped at the rear o f a camera and tripod. "Wait," one o f the w o m e n insisted, and the uproar resumed. Q u a n a h Parker deserved to be i n the picture, the sisters maintained. H e was b l o o d k i n , even i f he was a half-breed C o m a n c h e . In the flesh, I was i n that r o o m . T h e n the voices receded, and the focus narrowed, leaving the staircase blurred. I saw m y friend J i m Anderson. Tall and slender, he greeted me and said, "Jan," w i t h a n o d . A n d I greeted h i m , thinking, J i m , what are y o u doing here? It was entirely seamless. J i m handed me a telephone, and I found myself talki n g to m y sister Lana i n W i c h i t a Falls. Very m u c h for real. F o r the first time since M e x i c o City. "Mother's all right," Lana told me. "She's just very shocked. She needs to hear your voice." M y eighty-two-year-old mother. In m y absence I had gone from being as fit as a fighter and younger than m y years to the l i m b o o f a patient i n constant need o f others' care. A n d i n this m i n d b l o w n c o n dition I must try to talk to m y ailing m o m . I thought, M a n , you'd better rally. Because you're not going to reassure her very m u c h at all.

Part Two

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W

hen I came to m y senses I was i n the bright glare o f a media frenzy. I was bewildered. I couldn't understand the furor—people get robbed and shot all the time. Part o f it lay i n growing public

awareness o f the violence i n M e x i c o , awareness that some o f it was d i -

rected against Americans. I was o n the cusp o f a breaking national story. But the fascination w i t h m y looping trail o f choice and chance was more personal than that. In the communities that responded most, it tapped into the strained u n i o n and past o f Texas and M e x i c o . This was h o w the popular version played: Trying to save the lives o f his friends, the u n armed Texan looks d o w n the barrel o f the glaring M e x i c a n pistolero.

In a

desperate act o f bravery, one man stands his ground. I got cards and letters conveying a belligerent attitude o f U s against T h e m . R e m e m b e r the A l a m o and the Punitive Expedition against Pancho Villa. I got fraternal calls from o l d W i c h i t a Falls streetfighters w h o treated me like a bony nerd i n their heyday. "We're going to send d o w n a posse to get him," one teased a baffled Lila, answering the phone at the hospital i n M e x i c o City."Tell them Meskins they better l o o k out!" T h e chauvinistic embrace o f my struggle was Texas horseshit. T h e faceoff w i t h H o n c h o was m y first streetfight i n more than thirty years.

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T h r o u g h travel and reading and w r i t i n g I had been trying to escape and rise above an ethic that equated m a n h o o d w i t h hooliganism. B u t the jocular messages continued to come from men—always m e n — w h o were half-serious. W i t h language lifted from his o w n decoration ceremony, one V i e t n a m veteran awarded me a photocopy o f a Purple Heart. It was touching but absurd. N o b o d y was at war w i t h M e x i c o . I went d o w n there because I was a devoted friend o f a y o u n g man o f M e x i c a n heritage. Mexicans saved m y life. O f course, most o f the reaction was decent, intelligent, and c o m passionate. T h e first card I opened, from a girlfriend o f years past, said: "Dear Jan, N e v e r go to a gunfight without a gun." I laughed out loud. That part o f me still worked. W o m e n friends cheered me up w i t h i n flatable plastic tulips and a toy green Volkswagen Beetle. T h e avalanche o f letters w o u l d go o n for months—would awe and inspire me and fill me w i t h guilt that I could never answer them all. Total strangers, a young hospital fund-raiser and her attorney husband, gave Dorothy and Lila use o f an apartment i n a pleasant area just five minutes from the Houston Medical Center, sparing us the cost o f hotels and the stress o f Houston's traffic. Thousands o f dollars poured into a Rescue F u n d drive that w o u l d allay m y loss o f income and help cover medical expenses. O n e day brought a check for five thousand dollars and a w a r m personal note from the boxing promoter D o n K i n g , w h o had endured his o w n M e x i c o C i t y holdup and was moved by my connection to the fights. Dorothy's boss told her to stay w i t h me as long as she needed—the j o b w o u l d be waiting w h e n she returned. Dorothy and Lila were holding up, but they were still running o n adrenaline, inured by lingering shock. It was as i f a hand grenade had crashed through a w i n d o w and gone off under our dinner table. W e weren't the only victims o f the crime. T h o u g h physically they suffered no more than knots and bruises, m y friends had been terrorized and brutalized, and they weren't being given time and space to recover. " W h a t y o u d i d was brave but stupid," M i k e H a l l told me later.

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I thought. H o w bluntly he cut to the truth o f the

matter! " B u t what I d i d was nothing," he went o n . " I froze up. I called m y parents and said I needed to talk. B u t m y dad is career A r m y ; he's seen combat i n three wars. H i s attitude was ' Y o u move on.' Whatever happens, y o u move o n . I kept trying to talk to h i m about what happened to me, what happened to y o u . H e said, ' Y o u re not hurt. Y o u r friend's alive. Forget it. M o v e on.' It w o u n d up w i t h h i m getting really mad at me. H e h u n g up o n me, slammed d o w n the phone." I k n e w they all had to heal from this experience, and it was unfair for them to be harried by endless questions about me. H e r m a n n Hospital's public relations director came to m y r o o m and said their phone lines were swamped. She offered to set up a press conference i n m y r o o m w i t h one T V camera and a p o o l o f reporters. "You're going to do what?"

said D o r o t h y w h e n she and L i l a came back to the hospi-

tal. N o t l o n g before this I had been talking about the ward full o f football players. B u t five days after the shooting, three after I had stopped breathing o n the airport runway, about twenty reporters crowded into the r o o m . I said I was going to make a statement but w o u l d take no questions. I told them about m y friendship w i t h Jesus Chavez, the story I'd written about h i m , h o w m y colleagues and I had gone to M e x i c o C i t y to watch h i m fight, then had gone to Plaza Garibaldi and climbed i n the w r o n g cab. D o r o t h y was thunderstruck. "It's like y o u clicked into overdrive," she later said. " Tress . . . I k n o w that—it's what I a m ' . . . so y o u hit that button, and that's what played." M y peers were respectful, but as it usually happens they d i d call out some questions, and I answered a few. O n e asked h o w I thought m y medical challenge w o u l d t u r n out. "I don't know," I said. " S o m e days it seems like I ' m g o i n g to be fine, and some days it seems like I ' m c l i m b i n g M o u n t Everest." A t the side o f m y bed was a table and a telephone. E v e r y time the phone rang I answered it. I k n e w better, but the phone was a channel out o f this frightful state I was i n . Before, m y life had conformed to a

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practiced, familiar routine. I had good days and bad days, but nothing m u c h surprised me. Now, everything before me was a black hole of

un-

k n o w i n g and fear. I didn't k n o w i f I were brave enough to overcome and find dignity i n what lay ahead. I didn't k n o w i f I were m a n

enough.

D u r i n g that time I dialed our voice mail i n Austin and heard the recording of my emergency r o o m screams. "He's all right," said M i k e , his voice breaking, and i n recognizing my voice and realizing what this was, I heard the cry of a dying animal. I listened to it, frozen. W i t h morbid fascination I started to play it again, but the moment I again heard the voices, I erased it, flung it to oblivion, nobody was ever going to hear that again. Except w h e n I played it over and over again, i n m y m i n d . A reporter from a Texas newspaper had been calling the r o o m . Patiently and then not so patiently D o r o t h y turned her away. A day or two after the press conference the phone rang, and I picked it up. T h e reporter's deadline was pressing, and she didn't mean to be denied. "I've got all the others," she said o f her story and m y friends. "I really need your perspective." She sounded very young. " L o o k , " I said. " I ' m under sedation and I can't talk to y o u . Get a copy o f that videotape. It's got everything I have to say now." I didn't think I ought to have to lie i n a hospital bed and lecture her o n our professional ethics. B u t she persisted. " T h e others said there was something personal between y o u and that guy. I just want to k n o w where all this anger came from." M y jaw dropped. " W e l l , he pistol-whipped me. Twice." The

reporter's question was m y first awareness that I w o u l d stand

j u d g e d o n grounds o f gender: I had brought all this r u i n o n myself and m y family because i n a moment calling for calm and calculating acquiescence, I had found that i n the deepest heart of me was a macho fool. A C u b a n - b o r n friend w h o has k n o w n too m u c h violence and hurt i n her life told me later that she had taken a p o l l o f our A u s t i n circle o f friends. Every man, she said, admired me for what I d i d .

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Every w o m a n thought I was insane. W h e n I began to w r i t e again, from editorial precincts I heard the conceptual phrase "inappropriate male response." I laughed at that one, but the insinuations o f reproach d i d not go away. A t least I got the feminist vote that counted. "It's the same argument that our defense attorney friends use against rape v i c tims," responded Dorothy. " T h e v i c t i m caused i t . ' W h a t were y o u d o i n g i n a place like that? W h y were y o u wearing such a short skirt?' " I can only speculate o n h o w things w o u l d have turned out i f I hadn't rebelled w h e n the thugs got us out o f the car. B u t I ' m confident that i f I'd gone quietly I w o u l d have been killed. I acted i n a split seco n d w h e n action seemed required. I felt more courage that night than I w o u l d have ever dreamed I possessed. B u t I couldn't see m u c h heroism i n it. H e r o i s m was the judgment o f others; it wasn't an anointment I could ever pour o n m y head. A n d the inference that I stepped up to take a bullet to spare m y friends just wasn't h o w it happened. N o t exactly. O f course I wanted them to be safe, but i n that split second I didn't even k n o w where they were. I saw no one but H o n c h o . It was a vicious and very short streetfight. N o w w h e n I was alone m y thoughts leaped from mournfulness to anger. I f I was going to throw that first punch, I should have thrown two or three more. I should have gone after h i m , risked everything, tried to put h i m d o w n . B u t that was m y friend and teacher Jesus Chavez's style, not mine. I was always sliding, jabbing, l o o k i n g for the chance to catch the other guy c o m i n g i n . A n d y o u can't very well counterpunch w h e n the other guy has a gun. T h e n m y racing thoughts turned o n me. W h a t am I doing, l y i n g here w i t h no feeling beneath m y waist, t h i n k i n g about boxing?

A

man's solution—fighting w i t h your fists. I didn't feel like a hero. I felt stupid. In those first days D o r o t h y never cut a glance or made one remark o f accusation or recrimination. L i l a refused to go home. E v e r y day she came i n and made me do the exercises that w o u l d keep m y hand from freezing up as the bones i n m y a r m and wrist healed. T h e i r behavior was just as instinctive as m i n e had been, only it was another

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k i n d o f bravery. Theirs was the bravery o f dealing w i t h the wreckage that comes after violence. T h e i r support buoyed me, but w h e n they were gone I lay i n anguish and shame. This never should have happened. W h y couldn't I act m y age? W h a t have I done?

1 s l o n g as m y family and friends were around, I played the cheery, £jLgrateful survivor. A t night the morphine held the pain at bay, but it wouldn't let me sleep and forget. I obsessed about magazine assignments and thought i f I just had a laptop computer I could get them done. W h y they mattered anymore, I can't say. I watched N B A playoff games that I had no interest i n . O n e night I pondered Christianity. I decided m y reconversion w o u l d take place i n a tiny Episcopal church near our home. In large type their yard sign stressed that they used the 1928 edition o f the B o o k o f C o m m o n Prayer. I saw myself strolling to church o n a bright sunny day i n bowtie, shirtsleeves, and suspenders, fanning m y face w i t h a straw boater. T h e n I dozed, and w h e n I woke m y reborn faith was gone. A n o t h e r trick o f the m i n d and drug. M e a n w h i l e m y strange notoriety continued to grow. A B C ' s 2 0 / 2 0 spliced a segment o f m y press conference into a story about M e x i c a n violence that was finished and ready to air. Far more g r i p p i n g than anything I had to say was a videotape o f a robbery and brutal beating that took place i n daylight w h i l e a uniformed cop casually turned his back a hundred yards away. Afterward two night shift nurses, w h o were black, came into m y r o o m w i t h their eyes widened. (I had recently been moved from the intermediate care unit to a p r i vate room.) "Was that y o u o n that show tonight?" one said. "Yes ma'am. Afraid so." Before that, their care o f me had been professional but fairly i m personal. N o w one crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, and the other propped her hip beside me o n the bed. " L o r d have mercy," said the one standing."What's this w o r l d c o m i n g to?"

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T h e nurse o n the bed was squat and strong. She had a broad face w i t h expressive features. " O h , honey, I ' m so sorry," she said. She cocked her head and studied me. I c o u l d tell she wanted to reach out and touch m y face, as she w o u l d a child. " I ' l l be all right. A l l y o u folks helping me." " A i n ' t just M e x i c o City," said the one standing. "People k i l l i n g for the sake o f k i l l i n g right here i n H o u s t o n . Westheimer Boulevard they opened a p o o r girl's car door at a stoplight and just shot her i n the head. T h e n threw her out and ran over her, stealing her car. She wasn't d o i n g nothing but d r i v i n g h o m e from w o r k to her kids." " A i n ' t nobody safe," agreed the one o n the bed. "I was i n a restaurant w i t h m y child about a year ago. B o y come i n there just crazy o n dope, waving a gun around. R o b b i n g people one by one, then he got it i n his m i n d they called the police. W o m a n at the register c r y i n g , ' D o n ' t shoot! Y o u been watching me the w h o l e time! I never touched that phone!' T h e n he come to us and said he was gonna take m y child, h o l d h i m hostage. Ten years old, he's seeing, hearing all this. I said, 'Please, please, don't take h i m . Please don't. I'll go w i t h y o u . Take me!' " T h e little boy was spared, but the stories o f outrage and malice flowed o n and on. T h e w o m e n ducked their heads toward me and I tilted mine toward them. T h e bullet meant I had been ushered into a brotherhood and sisterhood for w h o m violence is a commonplace. A s they left I told the nurse, " I ' m sorry that happened to y o u and your son. T h e y came back o n the shift a couple o f nights later. T h e broadfaced nurse inspected the bedding and found that I had fouled the sheets. I didn't even know, w h i c h humiliated me all the more. H e r features returned to an impassive mask. W i t h o u t another w o r d to me, she and the other nurse logrolled me from side to side, cleaning me up and changing the sheets. That's the w o r d they use for m o v i n g someone who's paralyzed. Logrolling.

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E

very afternoon R e d D u k e came to see me and it was a huge boost to m y morale. H e disliked the new breed o f doctors w h o couldn't

write a coherent sentence, wanted nothing personal to do w i t h their patients, and jealously worshiped their "lifestyles," a w o r d he voiced like an oath. Slouched i n a chair w i t h one long leg crossed over the other, R e d said the bullet had so narrowly missed m y "business district" that it

was pretty m u c h a miracle we were having these conversations. H e said the bullet's force had "slapped" m y spinal cord pretty good. It had to be injured. B u t he told me not to w o r r y too m u c h about the changes forced upon me. H a v i n g to use a catheter to piss, for instance. H e said he ran across an old cowboy w h o lost his bladder control to prostate woes. T h e o l d fellow had figured out that his catheter tube made a perfect fit i n the crease i n the crown o f his Stetson. Whenever the time came to empty his bladder, the gear was right there i n his hat. W h e n R e d wasn't practicing medicine, he was teaching it. H e slept most nights at the hospital, but he had all the ego required to match his celebrity. Just shooting the bull w i t h h i m had a k i n d o f heali n g power. H e reminisced about growing up around W i l l i e N e l s o n and Texas' cantankerous lieutenant governor, B o b B u l l o c k . " H a d the chance to k i l l B o b Bullock," he half-jokingly remarked. H e told me about his love for r i d i n g and packing h i g h i n the mountains o f Alaska to hunt b i g h o r n sheep, w h i l e I shared w i t h h i m m y admiration for mules, w h i c h I used to ride o n broken-country trail rides w i t h a c o w boy lawyer friend from A m a r i l l o . W h i c h led R e d to come back the next day and perform a dramatic reading from the novel R u n with the Horsemen,

written by a Georgia doctor, Ferrol Sams. Stroking his mus-

tache and w i p i n g tears o f laughter from his eyes, at length he read about a boy i n the Depression w h o was provoked into putting a match to the farted gas o f a spoiled p l o w i n g mule. " ' A flame leaped out as long as a man's arm. There was a clear zone

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between the source and the beginning o f the flame. T h e blaze was blue, and it hissed and crackled and had long, feathery projections o n the u p per side o f it, and it kept o n and o n and it was altogether awe-inspiring to witness. Pets reactions were the swiftest i n a decade o f laziness. First she tried to clap her tail d o w n to cover the flame, but apparently this was painful, for she raised it again w i t h alacrity. Still w i t h her haunches h u n kered, she jerked around, eyes rolling so that the whites gleamed i n alarming exophthalmus, and beheld the great blue torch over w h i c h she had no control. W i t h a l o u d snort that expressed wonder, disbelief, terror, and rage, she lowered her head, kicked both h i n d feet straight back into the plowstock, crouched, then launched herself into a furious gallop. T h e boy was never sure w h e n the fire went out.' " A t the end o f these affairs R e d w o u l d put his hands o n his thighs, push himself up, and say, " B e back tomorrow." T h e n he w o u l d amble d o w n the hall, nurses tittering. It didn't seem possible he was seventy years o l d .

H I he doctors wanted to give me a n e w M R I . T h e complicating I factor, m u c h discussed i n m y presence, was the external fixator h o l d i n g m y left wrist i n place. It was steel, and the doctors and technicians were very careful about removing rings, watches, coins, and other metal from patients before sliding them into the l o n g tube. T h e reason, a technician told me, was that the magnets producing the imagery c o u l d j e r k metal this direction or that and cause injury. I l o o k e d at the steel b o w the M e x i c a n orthopedist had screwed into my hand and arm and said, " W h a t ? " Twice the M R I was scheduled then postponed for that reason. Finally, late one night, nurses shifted me from m y bed to a stretcher. T h e nurse o n duty told me to ask for a Valium. Some people thought the tube was claustrophobic, and the p i l l w o u l d make the time pass easier."But what about this?" I said, raising m y arm and the fixator.

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" T h e y say i t ' l l be all right. W i t h that k i n d of metal." " W h o ' s they?" "I don't know." I l o o k e d at the orderly, a y o u n g black man w h o had strapped me i n and was preparing to roll me d o w n the hall. "I don't k n o w n o t h i n ' about it," he said. "Of

course."

T h e ride took me into the bowels o f the hospital; the technician greeted me perfunctorily."Can I have a Valium?" I asked h i m . "Not

unless a doctor prescribed it. A n d there's nothing o n your

chart." Sometimes I ' m blessed w i t h great patience. After the test began, I gripped the fixator, and the alloyed steel felt inert and c o o l to the touch. I was fine. I was i n no danger and i n no pain. I simply had to lie still for a w h i l e i n a l o n g pipe that sounded like it was being beaten by a drummer w i t h two ball peen hammers. I followed the patterns and smiled. T h e ultimate i n heavy metal. T h e next afternoon G u y C l i f t o n swept into my r o o m w i t h the results o f the M R I .

T h e neurosurgeon was upbeat; the M e x i c a n d o c -

tors had done an excellent job, he said. H e wouldn't have to operate on me again. "You

may walk and y o u may not," the surgeon told me. " T h i s is

going to take a year to eighteen months to play out. If you have to get around i n a wheelchair, y o u k n o w you're going to have at least some movement of your legs. Y o u can still work. Y o u can drive. Y o u can get on an airplane." " A productive life," I said, trying to match his enthusiasm. "But

there's nothing o n here," he said, tapping the M R I ' s manila

folder,"that says y o u can't walk." T h e n he said, " N o w .

We're going to get y o u sitting up."

" R i g h t , " I said w i t h a sort o f laugh. Soon after the doctor left, nurses wheeled i n a contraption that

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looked like a heavily padded stretcher. W h e n they slid me over to it and hit a switch, the stretcher turned into a chair that groaned and vaulted me upright. T h e y rolled me out into a waiting area where Lila gaped i n surprise, grinned, and said,"Hey." F r o m the windows I could see the tops o f trees and bright sky afloat w i t h summer clouds. I was w o o z y from the abrupt change i n altitude, but they let me sit up for half an hour. I watched the changing colors o f the trees and sky and felt serene. Still, I couldn't entirely dispel an image that assailed me w h e n the nurse got me up. I happened to glance down, and I saw something pink that flopped like a salmon thrown o n a b i n o f ice. It was, I realized, m y right foot.

I

always thought o f myself as the eternal pessimist. O n matters

small and large I was always saying this won't w o r k , I can't do

that. It drove D o r o t h y crazy. I had a history o f intermittent depression; over the years I had seen psychologists for it a couple o f times. I don't k n o w w h y I had this inner darkness. B u t I was the k i d w h o signed up for the G o l d e n Gloves and was secretly glad w h e n his m o m wouldn't let h i m go through w i t h it. T h e bachelor w h o walled up i n a cabin and believed no love c o u l d last. T h e boxer w i t h some talent w h o never got over his fear o f getting hit i n the nose. If I had somehow k n o w n a bullet was going to come to rest i n m y spine, I w o u l d have predicted I'd w a l l o w i n depression and then slowly begin to deal w i t h it. B u t that's not what happened. M y thoughts o f those Mexicans trying to save m y life, the bundles o f mail put o n m y bed every day, the love and steadiness o f D o r o t h y and Lila, and R e d Duke's earthy straightness vaulted me out o f g l o o m and selfpity, i n the manner o f that hydraulic chair. T h e bullet meant I was a cripple. B u t I c o u l d wiggle m y toes; some o f the w i r i n g still worked. I had a vote i n h o w crippled I w o u l d be. W h e n D r . C l i f t o n raised that M R I and said, "There's n o t h i n g o n here that says y o u can't walk," something i n me decided I w o u l d .

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n N o r m a n Chenven's advice, D o r o t h y and I decided I w o u l d remain i n H o u s t o n a good w h i l e longer. Tucked away i n the H o u s t o n M e d i c a l Center is a small hospital called T h e Insti-

tute for Rehabilitation and Research. K n o w n by its acronym T I R R , as i n weeping, the facility is considered one o f the premier rehab hospitals i n the country. O n M a y 1, 1998,1 left H e r m a n n Hospital and the care o f R e d D u k e for an ambulance ride o f five or six blocks. It was the first time I'd been outside. L i k e a released prisoner I stared at patterns o f tiled roofs, the brilliant greens o f ordinary grass, a couple i n shorts j o g g i n g w i t h a baby carriage. Pushed along i n a wheelchair, I arrived o n m y floor i n the early afternoon. T w o o f the therapists came up to greet us and at once put us at ease. I happened to be wearing an o l d T-shirt that advertised R i c h a r d Lord's G y m . A n occupational therapist, Theresa Gregorio-Torres, told me w i t h m u c h enthusiasm and rolling o f her fists about her recent first night at the fights. A number o f T I R R employees had gone to cheer for a speech therapist w h o was also a professional middleweight k n o w n as "the Waxahachie Kid." M y daily u n i f o r m consisted o f athletic shoes, socks, sweatpants,

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and a T-shirt. I had a number o f shirts printed w i t h images o f Jesus Chavez and other fighters. F r o m the start, i n a teasing, encouraging way, the T I R R staff identified me as the fighter. A n y t h i n g to laugh about was a plus, and i n a way b o x i n g prepared me for rehabilitation. T h e schedule was unrelenting. Every m o r n i n g and every afternoon, therapists had me straining against the bonds o f m y injury. T h e w o r k was hard, frustrating, and repetitive. Some patients didn't respond, and they were quickly discharged to their homes and outpatient p r o grams. T h e screenwriter B i l l Broyles, an o l d friend and editor w h o had almost lost use o f his a r m i n an accident, had w r i t t e n me an i n valuable letter. This was m y j o b now, he told me. Forget everything else. If they asked me to do some dumb b o r i n g task ten times, I w o u l d give them twelve repetitions. That k i n d o f self-discipline and dull repetition came easy for me. I k n e w h o w to go to the g y m . A t the start, m y broken left a r m had been a medical i n c o n v e nience. I m m o b i l i z e it; get it out o f the way—I had more serious i n juries to attend to. B u t n o w an orthopedist had to rebuild the wrist w i t h a bone graft, w h i c h took me out o f rehab for the surgery, and the doctors at T I R R feared the broken a r m w o u l d hinder m y progress. Some exercises and tasks just required the use o f two hands. I might hit a plateau and have to be sent h o m e for a while. B u t I refused to concede this. M y bombast often left me chastened. I had to transport myself to and from the sessions o n the ground floor. W i t h a standard wheelchair, all I c o u l d do was roll i n an endless left turn. Theresa and the therapist i n charge o f supplies found i n storage an o l d chair that a patient c o u l d steer w i t h one hand, by g r i p p i n g and releasing a set o f gears. " I want that one," I told them. " I want the exercise." B u t the one-armed bandit rolled like a wheelbarrow piled w i t h rocks. I needed help from nurses to get from m y suite to the elevator, and downstairs the c o r r i d o r to the g y m had a considerable dip i n the floor; I couldn't b u i l d enough m o m e n t u m g o i n g d o w n to clear the ascent. P u l l i n g w i t h all the strength I possessed, I inched and struggled

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until someone came along and took pity o n me. Some boxer. People raised their gazes from mine because I crept so pathetically along. B u t I could never feel sorry for myself at T I R R . O n the next m a chine or mat someone huffed and puffed w i t h injuries far worse than mine. J i m C o p e l a n d was a R i c e University linguistics professor w h o had made his life's w o r k penetrating the mysteries o f the Tarahumara Indians i n northern M e x i c o . H e was also a competitive cyclist w h o had gotten bashed almost to extinction d o i n g his daily miles i n the H o u s t o n traffic. J i m was m u c h farther d o w n his road to recovery, yet every movement for h i m was agony A flight o f stairs and a walkway to an office had been built along two walls o f the g y m . O n e day I watched awestruck as Jim's legs gave out c l i m b i n g the stairs; he got to the top by lifting his hips w i t h shoves o f his hands, then o n the l a n d i n g as therapist goaded h i m to crawl. "I've got to walk again," J i m told me. "There's no other way to get to the Tarahumaras." In the afternoons Theresa put me to w o r k screwing bolts into nuts or kneading therapeutic putty. T h e most encouraging drill was w h e n she had me sit o n one o f the raised mats and twist and stretch to catch tosses o f a big, soft inflated ball. T h i s was an important test o f balance. "Awesome," remarked one student therapist. Theresa was a blonde w o m a n w i t h an infectious trilling laugh. After the exercises that day I sat beside her at a table and watched her fill out a f o r m for me. She came to a line for m y status and wrote "Paraplegic." M y reaction was absurd. W h o , me?

D

orothy and L i l a embarked o n a gypsy life w h i c h shuttled them

back and forth from their homes i n A u s t i n to the apartment i n

H o u s t o n . D o r o t h y spent her days i n H o u s t o n driving around finding

me things—workout pants, exercise shoes w i t h Velcro straps instead o f shoelaces, and the rescuer o f coundess evenings, a battery-operated C D player w i t h earphones. M a n y nights, to relieve me o f the bland

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hospital fare, she brought sacks o f food from gourmet delis. Friends made the six-hour r o u n d trip from A u s t i n just to cheer me up w i t h conversation and g o o d food. O n occasion D o r o t h y made herself dress up and go out to dinner alone. N e a r the apartment was a stylish little shopping center. In it was a lively Spanish tapas bar, and one evening D o r o t h y left her car w i t h the valet, took a table beside the w i n d o w , ordered a glass o f w i n e and a couple o f tapas, and sat quietly reading a novel about a fanciful election i n M e x i c o w h e n the floodgates broke and she started crying—the first time she had wept since the ordeal began. She made little noise but her shoulders shook. O t h e r diners glanced and the waiter hovered, uncertain what to do. P o o r things, she thought, so young, so untroubled, and then this middle-aged lady starts losing it i n her napkin. T h e waiter edged uneasily into her view. " C h e c k , " she told h i m . "Just b r i n g me a check."

P

atients were assigned an occupational therapist and a physical therapist. T h o u g h their responsibilities were complex and often

seemed to overlap, m y occupational therapist, Theresa, dealt w i t h

practical matters like eating, dressing, and negotiating a wheelchair; m y physical therapist, Sherry Dunbar, focused o n the legs, o n trying to help me learn to walk again. Sherry had short b r o w n hair and walked w i t h a brisk and perky sexiness. T h r o u g h o u t m y rehab I had several therapists w h o were attractive w o m e n ; the profession seems to draw them. T h e coincidence was g o o d for morale, but I never made any suggestive remarks to them. I heard some o f that from other male patients, but what the therapists were d o i n g for me was too i m p o r tant to screw up. Besides, I was a gray-haired man i n diapers—not the most virile and rousing self-image. Every weekday m o r n i n g Sherry pushed me hard. T h e first requirement was to set the wheelchair at an angle against a raised exercise mat, lock the chair, clear aside its a r m and foot rests, p i t c h m y

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weight forward, twist m y hips, and slide across a smooth plastic board, arriving seated o n the mat. L y i n g o n the mat w i t h m y shoes off, I w o u l d shove m y heel forward until m y leg was fully extended, then take o n the harder task o f drawing up m y hamstring and pulling the foot back against m y buttock. O r I w o u l d spread m y legs w i d e o n the mat, and i n a fanlike m o t i o n pull the heels back together. B u t I couldn't break gravity, the critical element o f walking. T r y i n g to lift m y foot and leg from the mat, I strained and strained and just couldn't do it. " L o o k at y o u ! " Sherry w o u l d exclaim w h e n I made some gain, but she reminded me o f Jesus Chavez teaching me boxing—she refused to bullshit me. A n d i n a way it was impersonal. W h e n our time was up and I moved o n to m y hour o n the strength machines, she tossed her hair and h u r r i e d off to the needs and regimen o f her next patient. She was brusque. " O h , y o u gonna walk," one o f the veteran nurses assured me. "I can tell by the way they're acting." B u t the doctors and therapists weren't about to say it. O n e electrifying hint came w h e n D o r o t h y was talking about modifications o f our home and mentioned building a ramp into our bedroom. " M a k e sure it's temporary," said Sherry. D o r o t h y and I glanced at each other, wide-eyed. B u t the emphasis was o n preparing me to go home and function i n a wheelchair. M y left arm had healed enough that they gave me the k i n d o f wheelchair I w o u l d be using. D o r o t h y had to learn to brake me w i t h her knee going d o w n a ramp and h o w to pull the wheels up over a curb. U s i n g the slide board, I had to master the difficult transfers between the chair and a soft sofa or bed or the seat o f a car. Because bedsores are so serious for spinal injury patients, twice a night aides came i n to turn me over i n m y sleep, like a baby. I was scrutinized almost every moment, and sometimes I didn't like it. A t one point I felt that Sherry and D o r o t h y ganged up o n me. I was alarmingly forgetful, they agreed. "You're a man w i t h two college

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degrees," Sherry said. " Y o u ' v e written books, you've traveled a g o o d part o f the w o r l d . A n d yet I ' m having to r e m i n d y o u about some o f the simplest things. Y o u act like you've never heard them before." As D o r o t h y frowned and m u r m u r e d i n assent, Sherry surmised that w h e n the bullet struck I might have banged m y skull o n the pavement and suffered an undiagnosed head injury. That angered me, and I ' m not sure why. I had a session w i t h the hospital's neuropsychologist. She told me three or four stories and asked me to tell them back to her, w h i c h I did. I ' m a reporter w i t h a pretty g o o d ear. T h e psychologist finally concluded it was nothing more than me bei n g bored and heavily drugged. T h e n she asked me, "What's your greatest fear?" H e r question surprised me, and so d i d m y answer: " T h a t this is going to destroy m y marriage."

niIRR

had a wise policy that married couples should spend a

1 weekend at home not l o n g before the patient was discharged. B e cause o f the distance to Austin, we got permission to check into a favorite hotel i n H o u s t o n . A s soon as I rolled m y wheelchair through thick carpet into our hotel r o o m , I realized I had forgotten something essential w h e n I packed—the diapers or maybe it was the disposable catheters, objects I had not come to terms w i t h possessing at all. D o r o t h y had to go back out i n the heat and traffic and retrieve them. Saturday afternoon we were reading then lolling i n bed. To m y utter surprise we found I could have an erection. B u t I was numb. I couldn't feel the act o f love—as shattering a discovery as the one just before had been joyous. W e lay quietly, D o r o t h y s back against me. N o t far from m y m i n d was the h u m i l i a t i o n o f that m o r n i n g , w h e n I hadn't moved fast enough getting to the bathroom. It is a horror for someone o f sound m i n d to drop shit like a pony or dog. D o r o t h y

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started crying now, and i n trying to console her I found out that part o f it was m y selfishness, m y thoughtlessness, m y forgetting the catheters or diapers the day before. She thought I was avoiding responsibility for the m a m m o t h changes and challenges that lay before us. I had, she said, gotten all too glad to lie around and have people wait o n me. W e quarreled. " A r e y o u depressed?" she said. " I ' m starting to be." " I k n e w y o u were going to say that." T h e next day, the hottest day o f the new summer, I insisted that we go to J i m and K r i s Copeland's house for lunch. J i m had been discharged a week or so earlier, and w i t h Dorothy's consent I had accepted the invitation; I thought it w o u l d be rude to call n o w and back out. In the oppressive heat, D o r o t h y quietly hauled the wheelchair i n and out o f the trunk. D o r o t h y and K r i s , a stockbroker and y o u n g mother, sat at a table and talked about the surliness and self-absorption that had overtaken their husbands. J i m and I talked about pain. C o m m u n i c a t i o n between m e n and w o m e n is hard enough w i t h out psychological trauma and debilitating injury. That night I was back i n m y T I R R c o c o o n , resting i n bed and watching television w h e n D o r o t h y called. W i t h o u t spelling it out, she wanted to talk about our weekend together. B u t I was distant o n the phone. I ' m not a T V addict, and I k n o w n o w that I should have turned it off—or at least explained myself and told her I'd call her right back. B u t it happened that w h e n she called I was transfixed by the drama o f the last minutes o f M i c h a e l Jordan's last basketball game w i t h the C h i c a g o Bulls. A s she and I talked Jordan made the impossible play—stole the ball from K a r l M a l o n e and seconds before the buzzer hit the titlew i n n i n g shot. W h a t a way to go out. W h a t a gifted man! A n d o f course, what an irresponsible thing for me to do n o w as a husband and a lover. D o r o t h y wasn't aware o f that basketball game

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and probably wouldn't have cared i f she'd k n o w n . A l l she k n e w was that once more I had been insensitive to her emotional needs.

I

n m y sessions Sherry tried to get me o n m y feet by using a tilt

board, but just that small change i n altitude made me nauseous.

T h e n one day, first w i t h Sherry's help, and then o n m y o w n , I discovered that I could stand up, sit d o w n , stand up again! She and another therapist got me to walk the length o f parallel bars, supporting myself

w i t h m y arms o n the bars. M y right leg was m u c h stronger than the left; I dragged that foot, and the knee kept buckling. T h e y i m p r o vised a knee brace w i t h plastic bands, and w i t h m y elbows and forearms propped o n the padding o f their most stable walker, I walked about twenty-five feet, then d i d it again. A T V crew from Dallas happened to be there that day. T h e reporter asked me h o w it felt. M y w i n d e d reply was silly but honest, straight out o f m y Texas u p b r i n g ing: " L i k e I just scored a touchdown." T h e next day D o r o t h y came i n the g y m w i t h an anxious l o o k o n her face. "You're not ready to go home," she blurted. "I can't take care o f y o u , and y o u can't take care o f yourself." Sherry absorbed this w i t h a n o d , then h u r r i e d off to tell the doctors. T h e y said perhaps m y stay could be extended a week, that D o r o t h y and I might have another weekend together before I went home. That afternoon they had us meet w i t h a counselor, w h o proved to be a pleasant, literate w o m a n , a playwright. W e b o t h got a lot off our chests that afternoon, talking to the w o m a n . I don't k n o w what D o r o t h y told her w h e n they were alone. B u t after our session the counselor told me, " I don't think you're depressed. Y o u spoke right up and defended yourself. I f you'd been depressed, y o u probably w o u l d have h u n g your head and said, ' O h , I guess you're right.' " D o r o t h y was developing a mantra that i n other trouble spots w o u l d serve us well: " W e ' l l figure it out." A s the week passed, our

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m o o d lightened. B e i n g trained to give me a shot i n m y hip, one aftern o o n she fumbled the hypodermic, w h i c h stuck like an arrow i n her forearm. She and the nurse and I hooted w i t h laughter. R e a d y or not, the Friday o f m y discharge arrived. It was two months and one day since I had lain i n the M e x i c o C i t y street t h i n k i n g I was dying. Dorothy, Lila, and I stuffed clothes and medical supplies i n a suitcase and boxes. Florence, a Jamaican nurse w h o had g r o w n close to us, came to say good-bye. " A h , well, the nice people come and go," she said, uncharacteristically quiet and shy. Sherry walked w i t h us as I pushed the wheels o f m y chair along. As a good-bye present I showed her that I didn't need the slide board anymore. I stood up from the wheelchair, grasped the car door, and swung m y hips into the front seat. She grinned and hugged us, then we were off, but got stalled i n the H o u s t o n traffic. I reached for Dorothy's hand and held it, squeezing. Finally we reached the interstate and left the city behind. W e rolled the windows d o w n for a few minutes. T h e breeze carried a mingled scent o f grass, dust, and heat that was oddly sweet—the smell o f Texas summers I'd k n o w n all m y life. Godamighty, I was almost home.

ather's

Day

fell

that

weekend.

Friends

had

kept

the

garden

I'd

J7 planted alive, and that Sunday, Lila and her boyfriend G r e g W i l son came over for our traditional summer feast o f pork chops, blackeyed peas, c o r n bread, sliced onions, and tomatoes just off the vine. D o r o t h y and I liked G r e g before m y injury, and during m y H o u s t o n sojourn he had functionally and emotionally become a part o f our family. W i t h the dogs m a k i n g the rounds at the table, accepting pinches o f c o r n bread and sniffing the pork treats to come, it was Christmas i n June, the h o m e c o m i n g o f m y life. T h e house had not changed as m u c h as I feared. T w o neighbors, an architect and builder, had w i t h w o o d and limestone constructed a

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handsome, sloping, w i n d i n g path from the gate to m y office to the front door o f our house. A steep ramp d o w n into our bedroom challenged m y a r m strength as I was going up and braking d o w n . A d d e d to our back porch was a sturdy w o o d railing that was meant to keep me and m y wheelchair from hurtling d o w n a slope into some trees. T h e top rail was just the right height for me to grip and then stand up. A t night I rolled out o n the porch and looked up through the branches and foliage at the sky. I had to think all this boded well. I leaned forward and w i t h a heave o f exertion stood up. R e s t i n g m y hands o n the rail, I pulled m y shoulders back, tightened m y buttocks, shifted m y weight from one hip to the other, and breathed air that had never circulated i n a hospital's sterile space. B u t then m y left knee started w o b bling, and w i t h a sigh I lowered myself to the safety o f the chair. O u r marriage had always been based o n equal division o f labor. I was frustrated that I couldn't take m y turn going to the grocery store. I wanted to w o r k back into the c o o k i n g and cleanup bargain she and I had maintained for years. B u t i n the kitchen I found myself spinning around, hitting a brake, as I tried to move a chicken breast from c h o p p i n g board to skillet. To clean the sink or load the dishwasher, I had to parallel park. O n e night I fed the dogs then made cold avocado soup. N o t h i n g to it, yet the two light chores consumed more than an hour. Afterward I l o o k e d at the water faucet and glasses i n one cabinet beh i n d me, and the whiskey bottle and refrigerator full o f ice at the other end o f the kitchen. H o w m u c h trick driving w o u l d I have to do to make myself a drink?

T he second week home I started outpatient rehabilitation at St. David's Hospital i n Austin. It w o u l d go o n for a year. St. D a v i d s had a large p o o l , and here water played a m u c h more prominent role i n m y therapy. M y first m o r n i n g o f p o o l exercise, an aide by the p o o l helped me into another chair and pushed it d o w n a ramp into the

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water. A physical therapist offered her forearm and asked me to stand up i n the chest-deep water, w h i c h I did, h o l d i n g o n to the ramp's submerged rail. I was eager to go out i n the deep water and s w i m and float until I found that place where m y weight diminished enough that I could stand erect and take some steps. B u t the therapist said we were going to the shallow end to do m y exercises. A s the water level fell and m y body grew less buoyant, m y legs buckled. I flailed and splashed. I needed all the therapist's strength to get me to the side o f the p o o l , w h i c h I grabbed like a drowning man. That was a c r i t i cal point for me, though I didn't quite k n o w it then. I might have given up. As it always seemed to happen, an angel came along to inspire me and help me along. A t seventy-three, George Ferguson had a neady t r i m m e d white mustache and white hair c o m b e d back from a widow's peak. George had been a pilot most o f his professional life, then had retired and bought a home o n Lake Travis, west o f A u s t i n . S o o n after that, his doctors told h i m he had cancer that had metastasized i n his bones. H e made the grieving, rattled sort o f plans y o u make w h e n you're informed y o u just have months to live. T h e n an oncologist persuaded h i m to try a n e w chemotherapy, and it w o r k e d . B u t i n k i l l i n g the cancer it almost destroyed his vertebrae. " A doctor said m y spine l o o k e d like a collapsed house o f cards," George told me."I wasn't going to blame the doctors. That drug gave me back m y life. B u t I had been a very active man. W h e n it got where I couldn't walk, I gave up. I was o n the verge o f suicide. T h e n a doctor told me I ought to start c o m i n g here.'Swim!' I said.'I can't get out o f m y chair!' B u t y o u k n o w I did," he said w i t h a w i n k , "and before I k n e w it, I started getting better. I mean, a lot better. Wasn't l o n g before I threw m y walker and crutches and all that stuff away." T h e next time he saw me i n the dressing r o o m he offered to help me transfer to the shower bench, and I accepted his offer, h u m b l e d that I should need help from one so small and pale, but glad to get it

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nonetheless. " W h y , it's terrible such a thing c o u l d happen to a b i g , healthy y o u n g m a n like you," he said later as we sat i n front o f the lockers. " Y o u r first day I saw y o u were having all sorts o f trouble. I k n e w h o w discouraged y o u were, I c o u l d see it o n your face. B u t y o u just be patient, and keep o n c o m i n g here, and d o i n g what they ask. Y o u ' l l be amazed what this water and these folks can do for y o u . " That week D o r o t h y and I met m y n e w doctor. D a v i d Harris spoke at a rapid clip then w o u l d pause and l o o k up, grinning, as i f to see i f we were still w i t h h i m . H e was dark-haired, enthusiastic, and highly regarded by his peers. H e spent an h o u r talking to us and subjecting me to the tests o f strength and sensation that were routine to me now. "I don't b l o w smoke at m y patients," he said, glancing at m y legs and wheelchair, then up again. " B u t I can tell from what I've a l ready seen here that you're gonna be out o f that thing by the fall." T h e date was July 1,1998. Just seventy days since I had been diagnosed a hopeless paraplegic. A s D o r o t h y and I rode the elevator to the basement parking garage, I broke the silence. " W e l l , he sure told us what we wanted to hear."

D

u r i n g the weeks at T I R R , and since I had been home, b o x i n g

had seemed to be i n m y distant past. R i c h a r d L o r d called and

asked me to come back to the g y m . H e said he c o u l d lower the speed

bags to the level o f a wheelchair. T h e challenge o f w o r k i n g w i t h me appealed to h i m as a trainer. B u t I stalled. D o r o t h y and several friends were already shuttling me back and forth from rehab; I didn't want to burden them w i t h more requests for transportation. B u t it was more than that. M y attachment to b o x i n g was so entwined w i t h m y friendship w i t h Jesus. W h e n I was i n the hospital we had been able to talk just once, briefly. T h e fact o f his deportation hit me n o w w i t h a thud. H e was i n M e x i c o , and I didn't k n o w i f I c o u l d ever go there again. H o w w o u l d I ever see him?

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O n e day we were talking o n the phone; he blamed himself for m y getting shot. " M a n , i f it hadn't been for me, y o u never w o u l d have been d o w n here." " O h , forget that, Jesus. Horseshit. I'm just glad to hear your voice." H e left a short silence. "Yeah. It's g o o d to hear yours, J a n R e i d . " "I'm

going to do what I have to do here. Y o u take care o f your

business, too. There are a lot of good people o n your side. We're going to get y o u back here, where y o u belong. Y o u and I ' l l be hanging out again one of these days. Sooner than y o u think." I wished I believed it were true.

O

ne day, suddenly, D o r o t h y and I stared at each other, agape. W e

were going to N e w York. It was a Texas

M o n t h l y assignment, a

profile o f a celebrity w h o was not going to be available i n Texas anytime soon. A s m u c h for our morale, I think, as the editorial needs o f the magazine, m y colleagues decided to go ahead w i t h the piece and send D o r o t h y w i t h me. T h e airline industry takes good care of its passengers i n wheelchairs. Still, we almost never got there. In H o u s t o n we learned that a large storm system i n the East had air traffic backed up all over the country. Flight after flight to N e w Y o r k was canceled. "That's it, I ' m outta here," D o r o t h y said at one announcement. "Babe, i f we don't get to N e w Y o r k tonight, this story cannot get done." B y the time we reached L a Guardia the service that was going to pick us up had l o n g since called it a night. I irritated her o n arrival by wheeling off in search of a J o h n that d i d not exist i n the baggage area, at least not one w i t h a door wide enough to admit a wheelchair. She thought I was leaving her to l u g the baggage alone. W i t h bags piled i n my lap, I wheeled after her as she pushed a cart toward the taxi stand. T h e cabbie helped w i t h the bags but made no move as she collapsed the chair and heaved it i n the trunk. B u t the tension and exhaustion

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dissolved as we saw and came into Manhattan. O u r hands crept into each other's at a stoplight o n the East Side. D a m n . N e w Y o r k . T h e magazine assignment was pleasant, light w o r k . It amounted to little more than one interview. B u t D o r o t h y and I had a great escape. T h e cabbies w h o watched her sling the collapsed chair into their trunks w a r m e d to us d u r i n g the rides; they seemed to admire our spunk. O n e fine afternoon i n G r e e n w i c h Village I rolled and wobbled across buckled b r i c k sidewalks. D o r o t h y didn't push the chair; she let me do the a r m w o r k . Aimlessly we explored blocks that might have one ramp cut to the street i n its four corners, then found that the next block had no ramps at all. W e stopped at the sidewalk tables o f an Italian cafe and ordered a salad and glasses o f wine. Watching pedestrians, I admired their gaits, the strolls and struts. W a l k i n g was effortless; they never gave it a thought. T h e n it struck me that I had to use the bathroom. T h e floor o f the restaurant was built half a step up, and the tables were squeezed close together. Christ. I didn't want to have to catch a cab back to the hotel. D o r o t h y thought about it for a moment, then took action. She marched into the restaurant and determined that the ladies' r o o m was large enough to let me stand up from the chair and, propping m y hands against the walls, pivot around to the toilet. To the m a î t r e d's shock and displeasure she announced loudly that her husband, a customer, needed use o f the bathroom and started scooting tables and chairs out o f a path from the front door. People half-stood and scuttled aside, intimidated. S o o n she pulled the front wheels up, cleared the half-step, and pushed me toward the ladies' r o o m . Face aflame, I l o o k e d neither right nor left. She stood guard as I made the maneuver she'd described. M u c h happier, I swung back into the chair, and we made our way past the maître d' to the street. " T h e only time that guy smiled," I told her, laughing, "was w h e n we left." W i t h that trip I found out I could w o r k again, that I was still a

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journalist, even i n a wheelchair. B u t more important, D o r o t h y and I figured things out, w o r k e d together. I felt better about our marriage, feared less that events might drive us apart. That afternoon i n N e w Y o r k she started trying to hail a cab, always scarce at five o'clock. Finally one stopped. I stood up, grasped the door, and slid into the backseat. This time D o r o t h y fumbled w i t h the chair beside the trunk, and somebody started honking. A sidewalk waiter leaped off the curb and came running. H e expertly mashed the wheels together and swung the chair into the trunk. G r i n n i n g , he tapped his chest then pointed his index finger at me, thumb raised i n the manner o f a child's gunplay. "Quadriplegic, nineteen eighty-four—motorcycle wreck. Y o u can do it, buddy!"

L

ila informed us one September night that she and G r e g wanted

to come over, they had something to tell us. It wasn't hard to

puzzle through her unusual formality; they found us all p r i m e d to w h o o p and h u g and slap backs w h e n they announced they were getting married i n the spring. A t St. David's I told m y physical therapist, K r i s t i n M u r p h y , that I wanted to be able to walk d o w n the aisle at

L i l a s wedding. K r i s t i n was pretty, cheerful, prone to tennis shoes w i t h brightly colored laces and socks, and though at twenty-nine a couple o f gray strands stood out i n her glossy black hair, bartenders still asked to see a driver's license to prove she wasn't a teenager. After some frustrating changes o f personnel—I got tired o f telling a new person the same story every M o n d a y — K r i s t i n had become m y regular physical therapist, and we w o r k e d together well. F r o m m y initial floundering i n the p o o l , she soon had me d o i n g cross steps o n lines o f tile i n the waistdeep water. I cruised around the g y m and up a l o n g ramp o n a walker. To correct the dropping left foot i n m y stride, she had me fitted for a plastic brace around m y calf, ankle, and heel.

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M y physical recovery became an unending struggle to get m y left leg to catch up w i t h m y right. O n the exercise mats K r i s t i n had me groaning, stretching muscles that probably hadn't been fully extended since I was a baby. I crawled and walked o n m y knees, sat and rolled m y hips o n the b i g brightly colored inflated ovals called Swiss balls, a difficult exercise o f balance. To strengthen m y hamstrings I sat o n a short stool, dug m y heels into the carpet, and propelled myself around the r o o m . O n e day I pulled myself right off the stool and landed w i t h a t h u n k o n m y tailbone. K r i s t i n blanched and threw her hands to her face, then scurried to help me. T h i s w o u l d require an incident report. B u t I grinned and shook it off. A t St. David's I moved quickly past the walker. I used forearm crutches that clasp the elbows and have handgrips parallel to the ground. F r o m the start I had said that i f I c o u l d just reach the point where I walked w i t h a gentlemanly cane, I w o u l d consider the battle w o n . I sensed the nearness o f that and nagged K r i s t i n to let me try. A t home I kept the wheelchair near m y bed at night, i n case I had to get up and go to the bathroom. Otherwise I never used it. O n e day that fall, just as D r . Harris promised, the wheelchair went away. It was so anticlimactic I didn't even note it o n m y calendar. I kept the medically engineered cushion for m y office chair. I was at m y computer w o r k i n g w h e n y o u n g m e n from the rental agency rolled the wheelchair past m y w i n d o w . I waved, they waved, and it was gone from m y life.

I

invested everything i n the struggle to get back o n m y feet. B u t i n m y single-mindedness I sometimes left important matters unat-

tended. T h o u g h I tried to keep it from happening, all the focus i n our lives seemed to be o n me. A n d I didn't find the ways to help

D o r o t h y as m u c h as she'd helped me. Love's nerve endings weren't forever stilled; I steadily regained sensation where it was most desired. B u t we couldn't w i l l our intimacy into being the same again, and

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b o t h o f us tried too hard, I think, to convince the other that it didn't matter. M e d i c a l science had developed tremendous aids, i f not remedies, for m e n w i t h sexual injury or dysfunction. T h e first week we were back i n A u s t i n m y urologist introduced us to Viagra, and at times I thought that here was a magic pill. Later he got me to try Caverject. T h e idea o f injecting m y penis w i t h a needle was appalling to m e — i t evoked images o f the most debased junkies—but then I found out that the procedure was painless, there was nothing to it. A n d unlike Viagra, y o u didn't have to think ahead and wait an hour for it to w o r k . Spontaneity, w h i c h had always been so important, was once again possible. Still, I k n e w that m y sex drive was feeble. I hadn't had one erotic dream since the shooting, nor had I awakened w i t h a hardon. M e n k n o w these things as nature's gauges, and indeed, b l o o d tests revealed that m y body was not making and maintaining a n o r m a l level o f testosterone. It diminished m y energy and raised another c o n cern that had never occurred to me. B o t h our mothers and other w o m e n i n our families hurt and stooped from osteoporosis. It was a condition D o r o t h y feared and took hormones to prevent. I thought it was an affliction o f w o m e n , the cruelly styled "dowager's hump." B u t n o w as I smeared testosterone gel all over my chest and stomach i n the mornings, osteoporosis had become m y dread, too. I took about twenty-five pills or dietary supplements a day. H o w could the consumption o f these chemicals be as safe as the doctors claimed? W h a t was it like n o w to feel normal? Every time I filled a new prescription I pored over the pharmaceutical companies' small print about placebos and side effects, but the medications could alter me i n ways that were completely unexpected. A rainy Saturday that first fall brought an annual b o o k fair at the state C a p i t o l building w h i c h raised money for the state's libraries; I moderated a panel, and later D o r o t h y and I went to a fine restaurant w i t h several friends. Whiskey, wine, espresso, and cognac flowed to excess—"Your body

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really doesn't like that anymore," one doctor at T I R R had warned me—but this was a special occasion. A t home, i n the spirit o f the day and flight o f the m o m e n t we got a little rowdy. A n d I found out there is such a thing as too much chemical assistance and structural support. T h e next m o r n i n g I rattled o n crutches to the bathroom, severely h u n g over. T h e m i r r o r relayed a stupefying message b e l o w m y waist. D o r o t h y gaped at me and said, "You're going to the doctor." After a phone call I pulled o n shoes, some loose w o r k o u t pants, and a T-shirt. I grabbed a jacket and we set out morosely i n gray fog and drizzle. A t a clinic, a y o u n g nurse o n weekend duty quizzed me as delicately as she could, then asked questions about m y recent medical history. A s she checked boxes and scribbled she cocked her head and raised glances at m y forlorn pose. Nearby, equally disconsolate, D o r o t h y sat peering intently at a magazine. T h e nurse finally laughed and said, " W e l l , you're our patient o f the day." "Thanks a lot." W i t h i n an hour I w o u l d be taking a V a l i u m to deflect the screams o f a child i n the emergency r o o m , and w i t h i n three I was i n surgery. This was all we needed. I had a bruised ureter and several ruptured b l o o d vessels i n m y penis. T h e accident was so rare that b o t h m y urologist and the one w h o performed the emergency surgery w i n c e d and said they'd heard o f it but had never seen it. T h e m a n at his nadir. H e r e I sit w i t h a broken dick.

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A

s i drove past the j u m b l e o f strip commerce along Lamar Boulevard, I felt the

ML

same embarrassed

nervousness

that

J L g r i p p e d me the first summer day I had gone to R i c h a r d Lord's

G y m . It was silly; I felt like a teenager o n a first date. This time I didn't circle the block, but w h e n I parked along the fence o f the child care center, I killed the lights and sat for a few moments w i t h m y hands o n the steering wheel. T h e sunset played out behind the blunt outline o f the g y m . I had often heard the g y m called a dump, and it was a fair assessment. Dust accumulated o n o l d bags and disabled exercise m a chines that had been crammed into overhead storage. Strips o f duct tape held a patchwork o f scavenged industrial carpet to the floor. T h e r i n g was spotted here and there w i t h splashes o f blood. B u t i n that m o m e n t o f dying light the scene was magical. A sculptor had made R i c h a r d a neon sign, and its logo o f an angel's halo stood out i n bright yellow below the sky's pinks and blues. It was a w a r m spring evening; the door to the g y m was rolled up. Inside I saw the ring's corner posts and blue ropes, the mishmash o f o l d fight posters o n the walls, and the bouncing, j o g g i n g forms o f people skipping rope. For more than a year b o x i n g had been cut off from me. I thought

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and talked about it often, but it was part o f m y past life, the p r i o r me. W h e n I was i n the hospital i n H o u s t o n , R i c h a r d had promoted one o f his cards at the A u s t i n M u s i c H a l l . B e t w e e n fights he took the r i n g announcer's microphone and talked about what had happened to me. Muscular y o u n g guys i n his T-shirts passed plates d o w n the rows like deacons i n a church, and the b o x i n g fans quietly put fifteen hundred dollars i n m y medical fund. A t least once a week I got a call from J o e l E l i z o n d o , an A u s t i n flyweight w h o had retired and n o w w o r k e d the fights as a ringside judge. Joel, a stylish little man w i t h combed-back hair and a thin line o f mustache, introduced himself to people by his r i n g moniker, " W o r l d Famous." H e took it u p o n himself to keep m y morale boosted and keep me connected w i t h the m e n and w o m e n at the g y m . W h e n I answered the phone, he said, " H e y , C h a m p . It's W o r l d Famous. H o w y o u d o i n ' ? " As soon as I was back i n Austin, R i c h a r d called and urged me to come back to the g y m . H e thought he c o u l d help me w i t h m y recovery, and I ' m sure he c o u l d have. H e was the most sought-after conditioning trainer i n t o w n . B u t I begged off. I was busy g o i n g to outpatient therapy, trying to get back to w o r k , trying to reclaim m y life. A n d i n truth I really didn't want to go back there i n a wheelchair. I k n e w I w o u l d feel so reduced. B u t i n fitful and bullheaded surges I had gone from the wheelchair to a walker to two crutches and n o w a single crutch. O n e night I had pulled m y bag o f b o x i n g gear out o f the closet and beat off the dust it had collected. I examined m y mouthpiece, stiff from disuse, and the red headgear I had bought from G r e g Curtis for twenty bucks w h e n the magazine staff gave h i m a n e w one for his fiftieth birthday. It was definitely a used m o d e l ; there were faint bloodstains o n the padding around the m o u t h . I w i p e d off the headgear and put it away, planning to donate it to the g y m . In the b o t t o m o f the bag I found some leather pads that had finger holes. I had to start wearing them under m y hand wraps because I hit hard enough that the twisting punches, the hooks and uppercuts, tore the

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skin off m y knuckles. A n editor w h o w o r k e d out at the g y m had come to me once and proudly shown me her abrasion the first time she d i d that. I sat i n front o f m y closet and flexed m y fingers i n the knuckle pads, and almost by themselves, m y hands started m o v i n g i n a slow shadowbox. So n o w I w o r k e d up m y nerve and stepped out o f the car. F r o m the backseat I got m y forearm crutch, gripped it w i t h m y right hand, and slung the bag across m y other shoulder. A s I set out I staggered and had to catch myself. I had forgotten h o w heavy the bag was; or maybe that was the measure o f m y weakness. A s I learned to walk again, I had been surprised to discover that w h e n one leg is m u c h weaker than the other—my left was still frail, the right fairly strong— the crutch or cane is employed beside the strong leg, not the weak one. I was an observer o f h o w people walked, h o w they ran, h o w they limped. I n o w walked like a creature w i t h three legs, only one o f m y outer legs was a stainless steel pole. A t the door I scrawled m y name o n the sign-in sheet, l o o k e d around, and didn't see R i c h a r d , w h i c h was really a relief—I had come unannounced and didn't want a hullabaloo. Boxers were j u m p i n g rope and stretching. In the r i n g one y o u n g guy thumped a medicine ball against the belly o f another w h o lay flat and grunted w i t h each strike. I recognized a couple o f youths, but they were absorbed i n their workouts; they paid no attention to me. "I start hitting that bag," said one friend w h o was new to the gym, "and I can't see or think o f anything else." A n d that was part o f what I wanted, what I missed. I sidled along the wall to a scarce chair, opened m y bag, and pulled out the rolls o f red cotton hand wrap. T h e wraps were well-laundered, but they had absorbed so m u c h sweat over the years that the fabric was stiff as thin leather. I b o u n d them across and around the knuckles, d o w n below m y thumbs, a couple o f figure-eight wraps to support the metacarpals—ritual w i t h a pleasure all its o w n . I propped the crutch i n a corner and shoved m y bag against it. A

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speed bag was bolted to the wall w i t h i n a couple o f steps o f the chair. I planted m y feet and began to try to recapture the r h y t h m o f w o r k i n g the pear-shaped bag. I missed it completely, or grazed it and k n o c k e d it rolling around o n its swivel, but I didn't frustrate myself. Tacked to the wall before me were a pair o f taped hand wraps that one o f our valiants had once cut off, dated, and autographed—a w i n by T K O . O n the wall beside these was an illustrated tribute to Alexis Arguello, the Nicaraguan I so admired i n the seventies and eighties. T h e artist showed h i m dipping his left shoulder and elbow and throwing a perfect uppercut, and I remembered what a graceful athlete Arguello was. In fights he w o n and lost he always behaved like such a gentleman. A s I let m y thoughts wander, the skill w i t h the bag came back i n spurts. M y hand speed w o u l d never dazzle anybody, but I loved standi n g up w i t h n o t h i n g supporting me and seeing h o w l o n g I could keep it going. Ta-tun-ta-ta-tun-ta-ta. I w o r k e d three rounds o n the speed bag, then pulled out m y sixteen-ounce gloves and put them o n . O n e o f the heavy bags was chained to the ceiling right b e h i n d me. A t the next bell I turned about, w h a c k e d m y fists together enthusiastically, and waddled the short distance to the bag. I thought I could keep m y hands o n the bag for balance and w h a c k it gently, see h o w it felt. I studied the bag like it was an opponent, then threw out a modest left jab. It was the first p u n c h I'd t h r o w n since the one that almost got me buried. T h e bag swayed away from me o n the chain and then banged me lightly—and put me d o w n hard. Richard's eighteen-month-old son T i g e r and I shared the distinction o f being the only ones i n the g y m w h o had ever gotten k n o c k e d d o w n by a p u n c h i n g bag. " W h y are y o u so afraid o f falling?" D o r o t h y had once asked me, and I replied, "Because I don't k n o w h o w to get up." She gaped at me, incredulous. I hadn't spoken out, and amid all the other therapy that very practical matter had been overlooked. A t the next therapy session, K r i s t i n M u r p h y had helped me devise an ungainly but reliable

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technique. B u t I was so embarrassed n o w that I forgot. I struggled up o n both knees, put m y right foot forward, and tried to rise w i t h the strength i n m y leg, like a n o r m a l man. I fell again, grabbing w i t h m y arms and gloves at the bag. I saw a couple o f the y o u n g boxers watching me. O n e stepped forward and said, "Sir, do y o u need . . . ?" H e saw m y expression and understood that I needed h i m to leave me alone. I sat o n m y hip for a moment, breathing grimly, then admitted there was only one way I could do it. I had to start out o n m y hands and knees. T h e n I got m y feet under me and paused there humpbacked, b o t h gloved fists o n the floor. F r o m that point, slowly, I stood up.

T

he inglorious return didn't keep me from trying again. A t first I w o r k e d the heavy bag w h i l e m y right hand held o n to the

grip o f the crutch, throwing left jabs, hooks, and uppercuts. T h e n I switched hands, pulled o n the other glove, and threw right hands only. I was no longer vain about m y b o x i n g form. I didn't care what it l o o k e d like. T h e intensity o f the workouts was g o o d for me; I drenched myself i n sweat for the first time since I was shot. A n d I found that it was one o f the best things I could do for m y walking. I was strong enough i n m y legs to walk; more critical was m y loss o f balance. T h e stepping, twisting, and swaying tested m y balance c o n tinually. B u t under m y sweatpants, I still wore the plastic brace o n m y left leg. W i t h o u t it m y ankle and knee buckled. I couldn't take for granted the act o f pulling o n m y socks. Setbacks came just as often as breakthroughs, and many times nobody k n e w about them but me. I was c o m i n g to the end o f the most incredible year o f m y life. In M a y 1999, K r i s t i n set the date for m y discharge from physical therapy. She was confident that along w i t h all the calibrated tests o f strength, flexibility,

and balance, I had met m y real g o a l — o f being able to walk

d o w n the aisle w i t h L i l a at her wedding. D u r i n g our last therapy ses-

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sion, I told K r i s t i n I wanted to walk the six-tenths o f a mile around the hospital w i t h o u t a crutch or cane. I asked her for constant conversation to keep m y m i n d off all the curbs and cracks that c o u l d h u r l me d o w n . I stumbled once but finished strong. D o r o t h y was out o f t o w n o n a w o r k i n g trip. A friend had built us a short banister that enabled me to get d o w n into the l i v i n g r o o m , the large w i n d o w e d space that had first made me want to spend m y years i n this house. That night i n celebration I drank too m u c h w i n e and fell hard w h i l e trying to get up the stairs to the bathroom. I hurt m y hip and lay there pissing o n myself. After I cleaned myself up i n disgust, I again lost m y balance, took another hard fall, and thought this time I had broken the leg o f Oscar, our ancient, ailing poodle. H e was all right, but I sat h o l d i n g h i m and wept bitterly and long. I ricocheted between lows and highs. A few nights after that, A r t h u r Vance and I put o n tuxedos and walked d o w n a sidewalk o n either side o f the beaming y o u n g w o m a n w h o considered b o t h o f us her dad. G r e g and Lila 's w e d d i n g took place i n the gardens o f a hilltop V i c t o r i a n granite house that belonged to two o f our family's closest friends. A r t h u r had a silver beard and ponytail, and w i t h m y l i m p and cane I thought we must have l o o k e d like o l d codgers dwelling o n past c o o n hunts and the Battle o f Shiloh. Later that night, w i t h a lively band playing o n the patio, L i l a ran up to D o r o t h y and said, " M o m ,

Jan

danced w i t h me! I mean, he really danced!" It was true. I couldn't match the beauty o f Arthur's first waltz w i t h her, but using the cane for a pivot, I twirled her and we pushed off each other's palms and for a couple o f numbers we d i d a fast jitterbug. Rehabilitation was up to me now. I had to design and schedule the program myself. A l o n g w i t h w a l k i n g and stretching, I lifted weights and went to the b o x i n g g y m . M y shoulders and arms began to fill up m y shirts again. In time I walked i n the g y m w i t h m y cane and bag o f gear and h u n g up m y cane for two hours. I stayed o n m y feet d u r i n g the three-minute rounds but sat d o w n for the one-minute

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breaks. T h e n I found I could rest between the rounds standing up. I wasn't boxing. M y punches landed o n nothing but leather and air. B u t I was i n a fight for certain, and the most bewildering trick o f m y opponent was pain. Doctors said the pain I had was "referred" or neurogenic. Some i n jured nerve i n m y lower back was sending signals that m y brain m i s i n terpreted. W h e n I first came back from M e x i c o City, even though I was dulled w i t h morphine m y legs were so aflame that the brush o f a sheet w o u l d make me cry out. Specialists brought that under control w i t h a high dose o f Neurontin, a drug originally developed to control seizures. Probably I w o u l d have to take N e u r o n t i n the rest o f m y life. B u t it didn't block the other pains, w h i c h began suddenly w h e n I was i n the rehab program at T I R R . Fluttery spasms traveled up and d o w n m y left leg. T h e climax felt like a combination o f a foot gone to sleep, a toe stuck i n an electric socket, and an excruciating cramp o f muscles that i n fact barely twitched. Always I had a sensation o f m y left leg being burned w i t h i n by electricity. T h e n there was a pause, followed by a fiery repetition i n m y right foot. Sometimes the pain came like a beast I couldn't fend off. Some nights I didn't sleep. Every time I dropped off, that triggered a new pain that woke me up. This went o n day after day, night after night. I laughed w h e n I told a psychologist that I called the pains the Wolverine. I didn't even k n o w what a wolverine looked like. She said that personalizing pain is normal. M y masseuse discovered an apparent "trigger p o i n t " — I was learning a new vocabulary—by probing the cord o f muscle i n the middle o f m y back, to the left o f m y spine. It set off a tingling sensation that was pleasurable but followed the identical path o f the pain spasms. A t first this seemed like the breakthrough; the culprit nerve appeared to be at the doctors' fingertips. B u t no drug or medical p r o cedure could halt the spasms. T h e doctors encouraged me to try any therapy that sounded reasonable. I tried pepper cream, magnets, acupuncture, hypnotherapy, biofeedback, and, once, a psychic healer

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named Ta Ta. She asked me to turn off m y computer—negative e n ergy, I suppose. F o r a w h i l e I took methadone, a highly regarded painkiller as w e l l as a substitute drug for heroin. D o r o t h y begged me to stop w h e n m y eyelids drooped and I slurred m y words at a dinner party. After one doctors appointment we came h o m e w i t h a drug that was supposed to be fast-acting and efficient because it was delivered by nasal spray. " D o b o t h nostrils," D o r o t h y said—that was h o w we took nose spray medicines for allergies. Prominent o n the printout we failed to read was the warning: " D o N O T apply twice unless advised by your doctor." Later, o n the bed w i t h D o r o t h y and the dogs, I thought i f I lay very still this weirdness might pass. I dozed for a w h i l e and awoke as she was stirring from her nap. She l o o k e d at me and said i n a movie giant s voice, " W u u u l l ? D i d i t W O O O O R R K ? " N o , but it scared me. T h e doctors tried to stimulate healing o f fascia that h o l d the vertebrae together, they tried b l o c k i n g off m y s y m pathetic nerve system, they injected steroids inside and outside m y spinal c o l u m n . E v e r y procedure they tried sounded so logical. B u t as soon as the anesthesia wore off, the pain always came back w i t h a fury. As i f the W o l v e r i n e had a m i n d and w i l l o f its o w n . To preserve her o w n rest and alertness at w o r k , D o r o t h y n o w slept most nights i n the small b e d r o o m that had been L i l a s. " L o v e you," one o f us called, turning out the light. " L o v e y o u , " called the other. O n e night w h e n a spasm began at dinner I got up and walked into another r o o m to let it pass. " T h a n k y o u for d o i n g that," she said afterward. W h e n she was gone I pulled m y left knee to m y chest and hissed, cursed, and o n occasion I h o w l e d . Sometimes our collie Jake was feeling protective, and he came over and p o k e d his l o n g nose at mine. O t h e r times he walked to the office door and stood w i t h his forehead against the glass, h o p i n g to be let out. D o r o t h y feared that I just gave up, accepted it as a life sentence. W e had an argument one night. Later, w h e n we talked about w h y it happened, pain was at the heart o f it. "I've never really hurt before, not

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continually," she said. " W h e n I see someone I love hurt all the time, and there's nothing I can do about it, I turn away. I don't hear, I don't see. . ." B u t she d i d see and hear. Crossing a busy street, she often reached for m y hand, as she w o u l d a child's. It was a loving gesture, and I accepted her grasp. B u t she was so tired. W e both were. A thug and a bullet had dominated our lives for so long. O n c e w h e n she said something sharp and then came out to my office to apologize, I snapped, " G o d damn it, I just hurt—okay?" She flinched and a dread came into her eyes that I never wanted to see. I realized o n seeing that l o o k that I abused her w i t h m y pain.

B

ut pain has a charity, even pain that always comes back. T h e worst spasms w o u l d b r i n g o n a whiteness, a gathering into m y -

self, a clenching o f m y jaws, a shudder. I had to remember to breathe. Yet w h e n the pains were over, w i t h i n seconds and i n a real way I forgot them. W i t h sudden keenness m y surroundings leapt back i n view. Deliverance opened like a flower, and m y m i n d seized o n other things. W h e n I was at home and the pains came on, I was likely to h o b ble to a chair and wait for them to pass. B u t i f I was walking or w o r k i n g out, I rarely stopped. I bore d o w n o n the left leg and made myself keep moving. E v e n i n the g y m i n the middle o f a round. A t best m y footwork n o w was ponderous. I w o u l d never see the day again w h e n I could j u m p rope or shuffle and skip laterally, i n the way that skilled boxers do. T h e bag didn't pop like it once did, I didn't need the extra pads o n m y knuckles anymore, and it felt like the punches flew i n slow m o t i o n . T h e straight right that I had been so proud o f was gone; n o w it was an awkward stab. It was a matter o f reach and balance. I f I let it go from a distance I feared m y weight w o u l d go top-heavy, and I w o u l d fall to m y knees or land flat o n m y

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face. I was t i m i d w i t h the right, couldn't get the coordination back. I couldn't get off, as they say i n the game. B u t I c o u l d still p u n c h . I found that n o w I hit hardest w i t h m y left hook. T h e power i n m y b o d y had shifted. So I fell into the c o m b i n a tion I'd been w o r k i n g o n since I first h u n g a bag from a l o g beam i n m y house i n the country. T h e jab the right the hook. T h e jab the right the hook. It came back to me. O n l y a curious change had o c curred. Before, I c o u l d only circle smoothly to m y left. M o v i n g right, I had felt clubfooted. N o w , circling to the right was m y natural m o v e ment, and stepping to the left was hard. That was odd. Was it i n m y legs or i n m y brain? I told R i c h a r d about it one day w h e n he was w o r k i n g me w i t h the mitts. H i s eyes widened, as i f i n the presence o f something vaguely supernatural, then after watching me awhile, he said, " W a i t a minute. Let's turn y o u around here." H e positioned m y hips so that m y right foot was forward. I jabbed and h o o k e d w i t h m y right and threw the straight power p u n c h w i t h m y left. It flew out and snapped back quickly; the pop against his leather mitts was l o u d . B o x i n g left-handed felt strange but intriguing; the routine o f the workouts had never offered m u c h variety and change. " Y o u ' v e got a lot more power and speed i n that left hand now," R i c h a r d said, laughing. "It's made y o u ambidextrous!" Sometimes I thought about sparring again—just to prove I could. I still had m y mouthpiece. B u t that was silly. I thought anybody i n the g y m c o u l d just give me a shove o n the chest and dump me o n the canvas. To the kids i n the g y m Jesus Chavez was a legend and a face o n a few posters o n the wall, and I suppose to them I was just this strange o l d guy that R i c h a r d liked to talk to. I had lost count o f the years I'd been c o m i n g i n this dust-caked place. It had g r o w n i n size and prosperity. R i c h a r d had assumed a neighbor's lease, enabling h i m to remove a wall and install a second ring. B u t it wasn't the same for me w i t h Jesus exiled i n M e x i c o . I wondered w h y b o x i n g mattered to

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me anymore. R i c h a r d 's best fighter n o w was an undefeated welterweight named Johnny Casas. H e had turned pro too late to have a l o n g career, but he was a master o f seeing and w o r k i n g the angles w i t h his punches, and he took younger guys apart. Johnny had the k i n d o f high voice y o u heard i n o l d b o x i n g and gangster movies. O n e day he stood wrapping his hands and watched me finish ten rounds o n the b i g bag. I had fought off the Wolverine a couple o f times, and the effort must have shown o n m y face. " Y o u got courage," he said.Johnny 's n o d was an admission, or readmission, to the club.

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e make friends and choose heroes for reasons f i r m and private. T h e reasons are n o b o d y else's business, really, but it's still j o l t ing w h e n they're challenged. As I stood i n line i n an A u s t i n

pharmacy one day, waiting for some refills, a stylish w o m a n w h o lived i n our neighborhood conveyed her belief that m y taste i n companions was flawed and eccentric. " T h i s boxer i n the newspaper," she said. " N o w is he the one . . . ?" "Yes, Jesus Chavez," I replied. "We've become very close. He's a remarkable y o u n g man." " W e l l , I just l o o k e d at the beginning o f the story:

boxing—and,

you k n o w . . . I moved on." She shook her head w i t h slight r e v u l sion, and I gave a n o d o f understanding. She and her husband had been allies i n many political campaigns and causes. " H i s story's not just about boxing," I offered. "It's about i m m i g r a t i o n policy. Social justice." I shrugged."In m y opinion." "I've never been able to arrive at a comfortable philosophical position o n that," she said."I mean, we can't just open our borders, can we?" "I guess not," I replied, sorry I'd r u n into her and feeling a bit craven.

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Jesus was no poster child for i m m i g r a t i o n reform. H e had twice been deported and had twice come back i n this country illegally. H e was a felon, a convicted armed robber, an ex-convict w h o was no saint i n prison. I couldn't dispute any o f those harsh terms or characterizations. I could point to his youth and extenuating circumstances. I wrote that Jesus represented the w a n hope o f the A m e r i c a n criminal justice system—a y o u n g male w h o commits a crime o f violence, admits his guilt, accepts his punishment, grows up, and rehabilitates h i m self. I wasn't just i n the thrall o f a great y o u n g boxer. In fact I didn't k n o w h o w g o o d Jesus could have been; as the months o f his banishment wore o n , I feared his chance was passing, that he w o u l d never live out his dream and fight for a w o r l d title. I couldn't w o r r y m u c h about his b o x i n g career. I was too busy trying to rebuild m y o w n life. B u t d u r i n g that time Jesus inspired me as m u c h as any m a n I knew. I could not imagine being put i n the situation he was i n — a man w i t h out a country. A l t h o u g h I never said it to h i m , it seemed likely he could never come home again, and I k n e w h o w devoted he was to his parents and siblings i n Chicago. B u t he carried o n w i t h a cheer and an equanimity that amazed me, and his courage elevated mine. T h e R i o Grande had been m y portal to a wealth o f experience and love. I first asked D o r o t h y to marry me w h i l e standing o n one o f its bridges. B u t n o w I imagined the m u r k y cane-lined river, w i t h the b r o w n plain stretching toward the blue line o f Sierra Madres i n the distance, and for the first time i n m y life perceived the border stream as a real divide. I didn't k n o w i f I could ever be at ease i n M e x i c o again. W h y bother? many friends said. B u t h o w else w o u l d I ever see Jesus? H o w could we remain a part o f each other's lives?

W

hen I was hospitalized i n H o u s t o n , one day Joel " W o r l d Famous" E l i z o n d o called and said that Jesus was trying his hand at being a

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promoter i n M e x i c o . " A promoter?" I cried. W o r l d Famous explained: "Yeah, well, see, they don't really have a g y m i n Delicias. N o t a b o x i n g g y m anyway. T h e y got to train o n concrete, and that breaks d o w n the shins." H o p i n g to raise money to b u i l d the kids o f Delicias a proper g y m , Jesus had gone partners i n the p r o m o t i o n w i t h two guys from A l i c e , Texas. F o r the fight card they used the basketball gym, and they had to b o r r o w a wrestling r i n g w i t h sagging ropes and a hole i n the canvas that was patched w i t h cardboard. T h e undercard featured two hunchback brothers from Juarez. O n e took a shot i n the belly and threw up o n the ring. Ignoring ticket sellers, the people o f Delicias climbed i n w i n d o w s and pushed through doors to watch the show. Afraid o f the unstable r i n g i n his m a i n event, Jesus threw a sharp right early at his portly opponent, w h o at once fell d o w n and took the count. R i c h a r d had come back from it just shaking his head. H e hoped the rating guys didn't hear about this. Jesus was e m barrassed but nonchalant w h e n he called and I started k i d d i n g h i m . " T h o s e guys from A l i c e , they took off mad," he said, giggling. " T h o s e guys tore back to Texas. I ' m gonna have to find another way to get that g y m built, J a n R e i d . W e cleared three hundred pesos. T h i r t y bucks." W h e n I was h o m e I called h i m n o w and then, and Terri Glanger, n o w l i v i n g i n Dallas, got h i m h o o k e d up w i t h e-mail. M y most reliable information began to come from M a r c y Garriott, w h o was w o r k i n g hard o n "Split Decision," her documentary about Jesus and his case. Jesus was always m o v i n g back and forth between his grandparents' place i n Delicias and his training base i n M e x i c o City. N o t l o n g after I returned to Austin, he returned to M e x i c o C i t y w i t h L o u Mesorana, the handler and friend w h o longed to be his manager. Jesus was training for his third fight i n M e x i c o against a veteran named Francisco M a r t i n e z Lagunas. Jesus had just begun to check h i m out— he k n e w his opponent had a rough-and-tumble reputation and was

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the father o f three—when he saw the newspaper story i n the capital. Some rateros

had tried to carjack Lagunas, and like me, he unwisely

tried to fight them. T h e y got r i d of Jesus 's opponent, shot h i m dead. Jesus had to accept the terms o f M e x i c o City. It was then the only place he could get the training and sparring he needed. H e told me that he'd learned to dress i n tattered clothes and closely watch the routes o f cabdrivers. H e thought the subways were pretty safe. H e said w h e n he was there he mostly just trained and watched movies i n his hotel r o o m . Jesus's romance w i t h Terri appeared to be over; yet neither o f them could quite let the other go. In O c t o b e r 1998, his A m e r i c a n promoters got h i m a fight i n Poland o n the undercard o f the Polish-American heavyweight A n d r e w Golota. Jesus w o n his fight and, i n respect for Terri and her family and culture, he took a tour o f a N a z i death camp. Jesus retained his N o r t h A m e r i c a n title i n that fight and was still the W B C ' s number one contender, yet that got h i m nothing. T h e game was all about money, A m e r i c a n T V money, and no b i g fight involving an A m e r i c a n boxer was going to take place i n M e x i c o . T h e super featherweight titleholder, Floyd Mayweather, Jr., was an undefeated former O l y m p i c champion. H e had looks, charisma, a flashy style, and a supportive consensus o f promoters and T V producers; i n the manner o f Sugar R a y Leonard and Oscar de la Hoya,"Pretty Boy F l o y d " was being hyped as an instant all-time great. H e had no reason to fight this guy w h o had all these problems and couldn't enter the U n i t e d States. But

somehow Jesus kept his spirits up. O n N e w Year's m o r n -

ing, 1999, the phone rang beside m y ear and I started to answer, then let it go through to the voice mail. W h e n I played it back the voice o f Jesus said: "Hey, J a n R e i d , I just want to wish y o u a happy and a happy and a happy N e w Year. I miss y o u , m y man. I ' m hopeful y o u and

me can go some rounds i n Austin this year." T h e call had me

beaming all day.

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B u t then a few weeks later, the outgoing governor o f Illinois waited until his last day i n office to turn d o w n Jesus's appeal for a pard o n o f the robbery conviction. T h e n the i m m i g r a t i o n attorney w h o had been representing Jesus abruptly quit the Washington f i r m retained by M a i n Events. N o one w h o really believed i n his cause was w o r k i n g the legal system now. F r o m boxing, all I wanted for Jesus was the chance for h i m to take o n his dream: w i n or lose, just let h i m have his shot at a w o r l d title. I was more concerned about his life after b o x ing. O n e day we talked about the possibility he might have to live the rest o f his days i n M e x i c o . " Y o u ' d be all right," I tried to encourage h i m . " Y o u c o u l d get a g o o d j o b there, because y o u speak English." " C a n I carry your bags, sir?"Jesus replied. H e covered up quickly w i t h a chuckle. B u t the remark cut like a knife, because the hotel trades were exactly what had been o n m y m i n d .

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esus n o w w o r k e d w i t h a highly regarded M e x i c o C i t y trainer named N a c h o Beristain. H i s sparring partners included a former

w o r l d champion, G o y o Vargas. Jesus had already beaten one M e x i c a n national champion, featherweight Javier Jauregui. B u t that didn't count m u c h w i t h M e x i c o C i t y sportswriters because the fight took place i n Texas, and Jauregui was a fading talent now. Jesus was ridiculed i n M e x i c o C i t y b o x i n g circles as the pocho,

the M e x i c a n gringo. H i s

Spanish was imperfect. H e grew up among the gringos, he made his reputation among them, he belonged among them. Jesus still had pride, and it was stung. That spring he responded w i t h the biggest gamble o f his career. T h e son o f a distinguished M e x i c a n fighter, Julio Alvarez was n o w the national champion i n Jesus's super featherweight class. Alvarez had been stopped once, and his record o f 20—4 didn't match Jesus's 25—1. B u t Julio was taller and had a broad-shouldered b u i l d that made h i m

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l o o k stronger than Jesus. H e hit hard w i t h both hands, and he had a large following i n M e x i c o City. Beristain told Jesus it w o u l d be a serious mistake to fight Alvarez i n the capital: T h e judges' cards were certain to be stacked against h i m i n a fight w i t h Julio. A n d even i f Jesus w o n , he wouldn't officially be the champion o f M e x i c o because that title was not o n the line. I f he lost, he w o u l d surrender the W B C ' s N o r t h A m e r i c a n title and no doubt lose the W B C ' s number one w o r l d ranking. O n paper Jesus had nothing to gain and everything to lose. So w h y d i d he go through w i t h it? M a c h i s m o is m u c h berated i n our culture, the hackneyed province o f beer guts and wife beaters; but i n Latin A m e r i c a its meaning is nuanced w i t h honor. I f Jesus had to live i n M e x i c o , he was determ i n e d to gain Mexicans' respect. A n d he believed he had to do something dramatic, almost desperate, to keep his career alive. " I f for any reason I lose that fight," he told M a r c y Garriott, "I think that w o u l d be the end o f the Matador. I really do think that I w o u l d want to do something else, rather than finish the rest o f m y life trying to chase the dream that's not going to happen." H e and I were e-mailing each other d u r i n g those weeks. O n e m o r n i n g I wrote h i m : "Last night I dreamed a nightmare o f a movie, and y o u and I were the stars. It was someplace i n the States, not M e x i c o , and I was always l o o k i n g for y o u . W e had w o u n d up i n this w o r l d that was rock-bottom, man. People living i n abandoned wrecked houses o n junkyard mattresses. A t least it was w a r m . Y o u were still trying to fight, sort of, but both o f us had gone off the deep end. Somebody handed me a pipe and I thought, W o w , is that crack?—and smoked it right then. A t least y o u had g o o d - l o o k i n g w o m e n around. A b u n c h o f us were sitting around o n the ground or a floor, and y o u were telling a story. Y o u were really into this story, and we were all laughing, but y o u were crazy o n something, and it showed. To c o o l yourself y o u turned up a bottle o f water and poured it o n your head. I heard that giggle o f yours and jerked partway up, like y o u do w a k i n g

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up from a bad dream. I thought, C a l m d o w n , he's okay, he's i n Delicias w i t h his family." I have no idea what Jesus thought o n reading that. I don't k n o w w h y I felt compelled to share it. I went o n that I didn't k n o w what the dream meant; I didn't think dreams meant m u c h o f anything—only that he was o n my m i n d a lot. " Y o u sounded discouraged about b o x i n g i n your last e-mail and M a r c y said you might retire i f y o u lose this fight. It's supposed to be easier to get you back here i f you're a boxer i n the news but that hasn't seemed to help yet and I couldn't blame y o u . Just k n o w that your family and friends are going to love y o u just as m u c h after b o x i n g . A n d it ain't gonna turn out the way it happened i n my dream. M y daughter, who's about your age, is getting married i n M a y — m a y b e the night o f your fight. I see y o u w o r k i n g this little k i d , my grandson, w i t h the mitts i n your g y m . Wherever it is. " W i n the fight, i f there's any way y o u can. W i n all o f them y o u can, then walk away healthy and proud."

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esus arrived i n M e x i c o C i t y two months before the fight. N a c h o Beristain took h i m up into the mountains for his roadwork, to

acclimate h i m quickly to M e x i c o City's higher altitude. In the g y m

he had Jesus sparring w i t h a w o r l d contender i n another weight class, but he backed off that because both fighters responded to the other's talent and reputation and turned sparring sessions into determined battles—Nacho didn't want Jesus to leave his best fight i n the g y m . B u t Jesus k n e w his training wasn't going well. "I'd start r u n n i n g up a hill and end up walking," he told me, "and I was getting beat up i n the g y m . I didn't k n o w i f the altitude was finally getting to me, or i f maybe it was the air pollution. A l l I wanted to do was sleep." Two weeks before the fight, Jesus finally got a break. H i s attorneys i n Washington told h i m that they needed a drug test from h i m i n

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order to apply for a rarely granted visa that w o u l d allow h i m to train and compete, but not live, i n the U n i t e d States. T h e test was for illegal drug use—marijuana, cocaine, amphetamines. After a doctor drew the blood, Nacho's nephew, a medical technician, analyzed the results. That night N a c h o called Jesus and asked i f he was taking sleeping pills. "No,"

said Jesus,"I'm not under any medication."

" W e l l , " N a c h o said, "you

tested positive for barbiturates."

" W h a t is this?" said Jesus. " W h a t is barbiturates?" He

didn't even k n o w what barbiturates were. W h e n he found

out, he said it was ridiculous, impossible; he was training for a makeor-break fight. B u t his b l o o d contained three times the level o f barbiturates considered safe. E v e n by the corrupt standards o f b o x i n g this was mind-boggling. It was the stuff o f a B - m o v i e . Jesus always ate i n the cafe o f the small hotel where he stayed i n M e x i c o City. Alvarez probably k n e w nothing o f it, but someone w h o wanted h i m to w i n had been slipping downers in Jesus's food and drinks! N a c h o told Jesus it w o u l d do no g o o d to call for an investigation. H e w o u l d be jeered out o f town. T h e trainer told Jesus he simply had to pull out o f the fight. B u t Jesus said this was too b i g a fight for h i m — h e couldn't back d o w n . A week before the bout, the boxers in Nacho's g y m ran a race. O t h e r fighters pushed and pulled Jesus along, telling h i m that N a c h o w o u l d cancel the fight i f he didn't make the run; still he finished last. So they went to the b o x i n g authority and its doctor and said he had stomach trouble and couldn't fight o n the scheduled date. It was opportune but not surprising that the d o c tor found an infection i n Jesus's stomach. H e probably w o u l d have found a gastrointestinal bug i n any norteamericano

w h o ' d been living i n

M e x i c o two years. W h e n the m o n t h - l o n g postponement o f the fight was granted, Julio Alvarez howled, " T i e n e miedo," he's scared, and the sportswriters picked up the cry. A cartoon portrayed Jesus w i t h his legs shaking,

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sweat flying off his head. W i t h b u l g i n g muscles, the Julio caricature prepared to drub h i m . " P o o r Jesus," said the caption. " H e doesn't feel good."

I

was one o f many people i n A u s t i n getting updates o f this. T h e fight and the d o p i n g naturally became the talk o f Richard's

gym. Contractually, R i c h a r d was still Jesus's manager, but they hadn't

talked to each other i n weeks. R i c h a r d was convinced that the M e x i can promoters and L o u Mesorana were m a k i n g sure Jesus never got the messages w h e n R i c h a r d had called. Finally they talked by phone. " W e l l , do y o u want to come d o w n ? " said Jesus, moodily. " W e l l , do y o u want me to?" said R i c h a r d , moodily. T h e y were like two bantam roosters, neither one about to yield. I doubted they w o u l d w o r k their differences out until Jesus was through as a fighter. In the meantime R i c h a r d had a wife and y o u n g son, and what had happened to me was fresh i n his m i n d — h e was none too eager to spend time i n M e x i c o City. B u t the fight was scheduled i n a larger arena i n a safer part o f t o w n . R i c h a r d agreed to fly d o w n and help w o r k Jesus's corner. W h e n he got there he found his fighter was so sick w i t h a cold, r u n n i n g a fever, that N a c h o wanted to cancel the fight over that. Jesus had every reason to quit and walk away from boxing. I w o u l d have. B u t his pride wouldn't let h i m . T h o u g h he held the N o r t h A m e r i c a n championship belt, i n every other way he was the underdog. T h e M e x i c a n c h a m p i o n was followed around by a throng o f people wearing white T-shirts silkscreened w i t h his name. W h e n Julio, his wife, and y o u n g child arrived at the arena the afternoon before the fight, they ran a gauntlet o f admirers. "Julio thought I was scared o f h i m , " Jesus said. " I n a press conference he said,'I have all m y people b e h i n d me, I have more than three hundred people backing me up. I ' m fighting i n m y h o m e t o w n , and I don't feel lonely here.'

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A n d they were l i k e — ' W h a t about you, Jesus? Y o u don't have anyone here.' I said,'I have m y mother's blessing and that's more than enough forme.'" In one o f the world's most cynical businesses, Jesus got away w i t h such remarks because people could see the sentiment was genuine. Jesus was an intuitive showman. H i s looks and manner came across well i n the prefight television coverage; y o u n g w o m e n announced to surprised interviewers they were rooting for Chavez, claw

que sí. A t

the fight Julio expected to come into the r i n g last—it was his t o w n , his crowd—but Jesus exercised his right as the champion and made the challenger enter first. Jesus had been c o o k i n g up a surprise for Julio. N o t l o n g before the bout, Jesus had gone to see his first b u l l fight. H e

disliked it, thought it wasn't sporting, the bull had no

chance. B u t Jesus understood h o w the w o r d and image o f the b u l l fighter resonated i n this culture. In Austin, w h e n he styled himself " E l Matador," he was paying tribute to his coaches, team, and g y m i n Chicago. B u t Mexicans took the n o m de guerre seriously. I f he were going to assume that name as an athlete, he had better live up to it. A n interviewer said, "People are saying that y o u hate Julio. Is this true?" For a pocho, Jesus managed his Spanish w i t h cryptic lyricism. " A t this time I need to maintain the face o f a gladiator," he answered. " I think for this same reason, I need to enter the b o x i n g r i n g wearing a mask, a face o f a fighter. After the fight, G o d w i l l say whatever comes." He

said, " I am going to come i n as a t o r e r o — w i t h a costume o f a

matador, w i t h the hunger o f a matador." H e had bought a torero's black jacket w i t h gold braiding. F r o m the dressing r o o m he walked past the sea o f white Julio T-shirts carrying a sword wrapped i n a red cape. "Everybody was going crazy about it, that was cool," he said later. " I was excited about that. I was still a little w o r r i e d about the fight." As he prepared to go out, a friend made up a song rap-fashion and sang it for h i m :

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ting!

the bell has rung the fight has the people

are

they don't

stop

started excited yelling

they're for "El M a t a d o r " a guy f r o m pride

Delicias

of C h i h u a h u a

and he has to w i n

Julio's c o r n e r m e n wore b r o w n shirts w i t h Campeón N a c i o n a l o n the back. W h e n Jesus entered the ring, he stomped his foot loudly, w h i c h got the other camp's attention. H e held the cape out from his hip and shook it, as i f taunting a bull, then flung the cape aside and w i t h a thrusting step pointed the sword at his opponent. Julio, a handsome y o u n g man w i t h a straight ridge o f nose and strong pointed chin, pointed back w i t h his finger and said," Te voy a matar"

I'm going

to k i l l y o u . M e x i c a n s respond to pageantry i n their b o x i n g , and Jesus had chosen an adroit theme. T h e man calling the fight o n T V p i c k e d it up at once, referring to Jesus i n the subsequent action not as Chavez—but as Matador! Matador! In M e x i c o b o x i n g had everything it once had i n the U n i t e d States. T h r i l l , suspense, spectacle. Schmaltz and romance, might versus cunning, may the best man w i n . After the gloves were laced o n , the fighters met at m i d r i n g . A s the referee barked his instructions Julio clamped his jaws, thrust his c h i n out, and tried to intimidate Jesus w i t h his stare. Jesus rolled his head impassively, face shining from sweat and Vaseline, and k i c k e d his feet and shot his hands out, staying loose. T h e M e x i c o C i t y fighter seethed. Julio was taller, more muscular, and had a reach advantage—he l o o k e d like he belonged i n a heavier weight class. Jesus came out circling as always, red gloves high beside his face, forearms out, ready to parry. B u t then he showed his speed

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and landed a crisp one-two, the left jab and straight right. Julio came back immediately w i t h two strong-armed rights. Julio's stuff was basic—the jab, the straight right, and a tight hook. H e crooked his arm throwing the left w h e n he went lower, attacking the body. F r o m the start Julio sacrificed speed against Jesus i n order to maximize his power. H e planted his feet widely and launched cañonzados,

cannon

shots i n Spanish, bombs i n English. H e was going for a first-round knockout. Toward the end o f the round they came off the ropes and Julio landed four, six, seven unanswered straight right hands. A t the bell they spun out o f a clinch. Jesus popped h i m w i t h a right o n the back o f the head. Julio answered w i t h a contemptuous, illegal, backhand slap. T h e referee j u m p e d between them. Jesus had planned to test his opponent's strength i n the first round, and he found the strength was considerable. In the second round the M e x i c a n champ came back w i t h the same strategy, trying for a knockout. Jesus went to w o r k w i t h his staple, the body attack. T h e first couple o f hooks flew wide and w i l d , but then they began to land, thumping loudly. Julio scored w i t h two more rights, Jesus replied w i t h two fast hooks. T h e n as they were grappling i n close Julio twisted his hips, dipped his shoulder, and threw a h o o k i n g p u n c h that caught Jesus square i n his love interests—a direct hit to his balls. Julio w i n c e d and made a show o f great contrition to the referee, but he was too accurate a puncher and that was too l o w a b l o w for it not to be aimed. T h e referee warned Julio he w o u l d take a point away i f this continued, and gave Jesus a minute and a half to squat, h o l d i n g the ropes, then walk and shake it off. Afterward Jesus lunged at h i m w i t h a h o o k and missed badly again. Julio made an up-yours, c o m e o n gesture w i t h his right glove, then mugged and taunted h i m , dropping his hands and sticking out his chin. T h e l o w b l o w questioned Jesus's manhood; and it woke h i m up. A t the bell he walked out and nailed Julio w i t h a right-hand lead. Jesus's pressure backed Julio into the ropes. Jesus must have seen a flaw

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i n Julio's defense; despite his reach disadvantage he was hitting Julio reliably w i t h his right hand lead. A fourth one drove Julio back a step. B u t at the end o f the r o u n d Julio banged h i m l o w again, this time w i t h a right. T h e ref ignored it. Jesus had two cornermen, one speaking English, the

other

Spanish. " H e ' l l do that all night," R i c h a r d hollered, "unless y o u make h i m quit." " I ' m afraid I ' l l get disqualified i f I do it, too," said Jesus. " W e l l , you'd better make h i m respect y o u . " Julio spent most o f the next r o u n d w i t h his back to the ropes. Julio wore trunks that were like a bullseye to a boxer t h r o w i n g b o d y punches; they had a broad stripe around the waist, w i t h a red star over his navel. A n d gaining confidence and rhythm, Jesus began to land his right hand off the jab. O r he double-jabbed and let the hard right fly. Faint lines began to appear i n Julio's eyebrows—cuts. B u t at the end o f the r o u n d Julio landed one o f his b i g rights, and the white-shirted contingent stood up, bellowing. It l o o k e d like Jesus was more hurt than he was. In a crouch he bobbed and weaved and ducked the

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o f blows. H e was experimenting. A s he had thought, Julio's height c o u l d be a disadvantage. P u n c h i n g downward, he connected w i t h l i t tle but air. In the fifth Julio no longer l o o k e d so m u c h like the raging bull. B o t h fighters were tiring, but Jesus had his best c o m b i n a t i o n w o r k i n g — a left h o o k to the ribs or belly, followed by an ascending right hand that had all the power o f his leg, hip, and shoulder b e h i n d it. F o r the first time his c r o w d o f supporters shouted the white-shirted Julio d o w n . " C h a - v e z ! C h a - v e z ! C h a - v e z ! "Jesus landed his right hand almost at w i l l . T h e y were deep enough into the fight n o w that w h e n a hard b l o w landed, a halo o f sweat droplets flew out into the lights. M i d w a y through the sixth Julio thumped Jesus i n the ribs w i t h a resounding left h o o k . T h e air was k n o c k e d out o f his lungs, he couldn't

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breathe. Jesus fell into his d u c k i n g crouch, shooting his head left and right, yielding ground and throwing an occasional p u n c h as Julio ran after h i m , k n o w i n g he was hurt, trying to land the b i g b l o w that w o u l d end it. B u t Jesus survived, got his w i n d back, and at the bell he had Julio backed up against the ropes. T h e furious fight was just half over. Julio continued to set his feet w i d e and throw those three-punch volleys. B u t the fighter w h o had l o o k e d smaller and weaker continued to bull the other against the ropes. Jesus missed w i l d l y a few times, showing his fatigue, but his combinations had more variety than Julio's. H e w o u l d be throwing jabs w i t h an occasional right; then he led w i t h a right, hooked high or l o w w i t h his left, and rattled Julio's j a w w i t h a right uppercut. Between rounds, horsey girls prissed around the r i n g i n high heels and the blue cotton dresses o f C o r o n a beer, carrrying the cards ann o u n c i n g the rounds and using their thumbs and forefingers to tug the hems o f their skirts d o w n over the clefts o f their buttocks. A string o f water, sweat, and saliva h u n g from Jesus's chin as the bell rang for the ninth round. Julio got the best o f an early exchange o f jabs, and Jesus danced and yielded ground. Julio snapped Jesus's head back w i t h a hard right just before the bell. "Three rounds, three rounds," R i c h a r d told Jesus o n the stool. R i c h a r d wasn't saying that to encourage h i m . H e didn't think Jesus could w i n a decision i n this fight. N o t i n this country, not i n this arena. Jesus was hearing i n one ear and language that he had better be careful; i n the other R i c h a r d was telling h i m to get up i n that pocket o f danger and k n o c k the guy out. Jesus came out aggressively i n the tenth. H e punished Julio inside w i t h short hooks and uppercuts. Jesus appeared unmarked, but both o f Julio's eyes were swelling, and b l o o d seeped from the cut i n his right eyebrow. W h e n the ref broke them up Jesus threw jabs, followed by rights. H e was "sitting d o w n " o n his punches, i n the argot o f the

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g y m , planting his feet and throwing them w i t h snap and power. B u t Julio kept c o m i n g . Jesus jabbed once, then began another left but i n a move that l o o k e d effortless, he instead threw the right. Julio walked into Jesus's best p u n c h o f the night, and it caught h i m flush o n the chin. H i s legs buckled, and the seat o f his trunks almost hit the canvas—but he had such w i l l and strength i n his hamstring muscles that he reclaimed his balance and straightened up. Everyone saw the near-knockdown, but w i t h a magnificent feat o f athleticism Julio avoided the automatic two-point advantage it w o u l d have given Jesus o n the cards. H e stuck his tongue out at Jesus and unleashed a barrage o f straight lefts and rights. Staying out o f trouble, l o o k i n g for a chance to land another b i g punch, Jesus kept the strength o f his jab rolling out o f his shoulder toward those small rips i n Julio's eyebrows. T h e referee stepped i n abruptly and waved Jesus to a neutral corner, then led Julio to the ropes. A doctor stood o n the r i n g apron and examined the cuts. Finally he nodded to the ref that Julio could continue. T h e bell rang before they could tangle m u c h again. " G o o d , y o u got h i m w i t h that right," R i c h a r d complimented Jesus i n the corner. " B u t put h i m d o w n . K n o c k h i m out." In the eleventh they came out trading jabs, then Jesus began h o o k i n g to the ribs again. " U p and d o w n , Jesus," R i c h a r d yelled. H u r t the body and y o u ' l l find the head. T h e n Julio landed five straight rights—savage chopping blows—to the point o f Jesus's left hip. To get away from that punishment, Jesus took a short step to the right, saw an angle o f opening, and turned Julio's face upward to the lights, staggering h i m w i t h a right. For the first time Julio acknowledged h i m w i t h a n o d . T h e n he charged forward and they went after each other like combatants o f all species, fighting over food, sex, survival—toe to toe, brawling, then the bell rang and the ref yelled and risked his o w n health and safety by j u m p i n g between t h e m and pushing them apart. "Last round," R i c h a r d said as the girl w i t h the card stepped through the ropes, pulling at her skirt. H e was begging Jesus for at

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least a k n o c k d o w n : give the judges a reason to go against the h o m e t o w n boy. B u t Jesus listened more to his M e x i c a n cornerman. " T e n cuidado," be careful, he warned. Jesus fought h i m close i n . H e scored w i t h the h o o k to the body, then came up w i t h a second h o o k to Julio's ear. Julio attacked w i t h straight lefts and rights like someone w i e l d i n g a machete. Yet once more Jesus backed h i m up, forced h i m to the ropes. T h e crowd was o n its feet, howling, whistling. Jesus landed another right that flung Julio's head back. H e parried the answering volley, allowing the lefts and rights to glance off his forearms, then stung h i m w i t h another right, square between the eyes. T h e n at last the bell. O n e o f Julio's cornermen gave the fighter a ride o n his shoulders. Jesus tried to congratulate Julio. H e raised a glove that Julio slapped away. W h e n Julio finished his ride Jesus tried again, but Julio kept his back turned and wouldn't l o o k at h i m . Jesus walked back toward his corner w i t h his arms raised. T h e r i n g filled w i t h people as the judges finished their calculations. W i t h his gloves removed, Jesus forced his way through the cornermen and put his arm across Julio's back, gripped h i m o n the shoulder. Jesus spoke into his ear, and at last leaned over and tried to kiss h i m o n the cheek. Julio hiked his shoulder roughly and gave h i m a look. What're y o u doing, man? Get outta here.

A sk me w h y I love boxing, and I ' l l show y o u that tape. Virtually u n k n o w n by the promoters,matchmakers,and television producers w h o control b o x i n g i n the States, that heroic fight and the outlandish events preceding it are reconstructed here. It fell o n a Saturday night two weeks after Lila's wedding, and D o r o t h y and I were enjoying an evening at home, just the two o f us, c o o k i n g and d r i n k i n g w i n e and playing music. T h e phone rang i n the kitchen, and after a w h i l e D o r o t h y got up to check the message. She came back laughing. "Somebody's calling y o u from a bar."

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" A bar?" " W h a t it sounds like. G o see. I saved it." I played the recording again—a rustle of static, cutting i n and cutting out, then a voice saying something I couldn't understand, then the only part o f it that was audible. M a r c y Garriott yelling into a cell phone i n the M e x i c o C i t y arena: " . . . and he w o n ! H e w o n l "

1 fter a l o n g and dramatic pause the r i n g announcer had arched his A

back and said: "Ladies and gentlemen! T h e w i n n e r o f this fight,

unanimous decision, is Jesus ' E l M a t a d o r ' Chavez!" Jesus fell to his knees, made the sign o f the cross, then stood up w i t h his hands raised. R i c h a r d hoisted h i m o n his shoulder and gave him

a ride around the ring. T w o judges scored it 115—113, the other

115-114. T h e fight was so close that Jesus may have w o n it w i t h those two rights just before the last bell. T h e M e x i c a n judges were innocent of the bias and c o r r u p t i o n that even Jesus's M e x i c a n trainer predicted. It w o u l d have been so easy and justifiable to let the national c h a m p i o n have it. B u t for one b o x i n g match at least, they let the best fighter have his due. Bitterly disappointed, Julio at last came over to shake Jesus's hand, then quickly left the ring. Somebody handed R i c h a r d one o f the straw cowboy hats that are popular i n the n o r t h o f M e x i c o , and he stuck it o n top o f his fighter's head. Jesus l o o k e d funny wearing that hat w i t h no shirt, his championship belt gaudy around his middle, sipp i n g a bottle o f water. A T V sportscaster thrust a microphone at h i m and said, "Congratulations. You've shown that you're number one, you

showed that you're M e x i c a n . " Jesus said it meant a lot to beat

Julio i n M e x i c o City, that he had accomplished one o f his biggest dreams. H e started to say more, then closed his eyes and pressed t h e m w i t h his fingers, h o l d i n g back tears. T h e n he raised the two fingers o f victory and cried o u t , " V i v a M e x i c o ! "

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he stretch o f dirt and rock beneath the jet's w i n g was as empty and forbidding as any I'd ever seen. I could see nothing green— •

no juniper, no cactus, not even the l o w l y creosote bush. T h a t

plant scrabbles an existence i n the West Texas reach o f this desert by contaminating the soil around it and tasting so bad that not even the hungriest and thirstiest beast w i l l browse it. I k n e w the Texas reach o f the C h i h u a h u a n Desert well, and it l o o k e d like well-watered savanna compared to this. Some o f the stone outcroppings were large enough to be called mountains; the one just below the plane n o w l o o k e d like a neatly combed pompadour. I had been reading a novel about the M e x i c a n R e v o l u t i o n o f the early twentieth century. T h e distances o f the C h i h u a h u a n Desert gave history Pancho V i l l a . In 1916, after Villa's horsemen raided the little bordertown and military garrison o f C o l u m b u s , N e w M e x i c o , U . S . A r m y general J o h n J. Pershing rolled into C h i h u a h u a o n a Punitive E x p e d i t i o n that included howitzers, proto-tanks, even airplanes. T h e expedition had been ridiculed i n the novel I was reading, and I could see why. It may have been a valuable field exercise for the campaigns Pershing w o u l d soon undertake i n Europe, i n W o r l d War I, but only generals fattened o n the g o o d life i n

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Washington w o u l d think a force so loaded d o w n c o u l d catch Villa's m o u n t e d guerrillas i n rock-hard nothingness like this. As I waited to board m y flight i n Austin, I had seen a M e x i c a n artist, a painter o f watercolors, w h o lived w i t h a c o m m o n friend. L i k e most M e x i c a n s I knew, he was friendly, solicitous, and i n an unstated way, his attitude was protective o f me. H e was at the airport putting his mother o n a plane back to Guanajuato. H e introduced us, and I offered a few pleasantries i n Spanish, w h i c h charmed her. T h e artist asked me where I was going. W h e n I said " C h i h u a h u a , " he g r i n n e d and his eyebrows hiked i n surprise. H e l o o k e d around and said, " N o one is going w i t h y o u ? " C h i h u a h u a C i t y wasn't so dangerous a place to go. It was just u n usual, off the beaten track. T h e other passengers o n the small c o m mercial jet included none o f cowboys, miners, drug runners, and gold-necklaced hustlers w h o pervade gringo lore i n C h i h u a h u a . A l l the conversation around me concerned some mainstream business. T h e y were technicians and consultants brought here by the econ o m i c activity stirred by N A F T A , the N o r t h A m e r i c a n Free Trade Agreement. N o n e acted too eager to get where we were going. I occupied a solo seat along the bulkhead, w h i c h allowed me to stretch m y legs. A number o f pain spasms roamed through me o n the flight; w i t h the leg r o o m I was able to weather them w i t h o u t s q u i r m i n g and avoid disturbing m y neighbors. I had packed w i t h o u t m u c h thought or preparation, stuffing everything i n a single bag I carried slung over m y shoulder. It grew heavier as I hobbled through the c r o w d w i t h m y cane. H o u s t o n has a b i g international airport, scooter rides for the disabled were unavailing, and I had a tight connection. B y the time I reached the gate m y leg was o n fire. People w h o have chronic pain are always divided by a tension—wanting help and not wanting to bother. This day I w o u l d have flagged a ride. N o one could stop the spasms or even explain them i n a way I fully understood, but since they began I had made one objective observation: M u n d a n e

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stress—I've lost the keys, I ' m going to miss the flight—set t h e m off 100 percent o f the time. B u t they were bearable. T h e y rose up i n me like storm clouds but then they passed. R e m e m b e r i n g that was part o f m y life's w o r k now. D o r o t h y hadn't wanted me to make this trip, but she k n e w she couldn't talk me out o f it. I needed to see Jesus—needed to see i f the b o n d I felt really transcended that time i n the g y m and ring, w h e n he was m y trainer and m y teacher. W o u l d we still be friends w h e n n e i ther one o f us had thrown an uppercut i n years? I also needed to put some things at ease w i t h i n me. I had to keep reminding myself that M e x i c o was a place, only a place. B u t n o w w h e n I watched some travel program o n T V , and the camera suddenly scanned across the Z ó c a l o i n M e x i c o City, i n m y gut I had a sharp, visceral reaction o f fear. D o r o t h y was not i m m u n e to this specter. O n e night I w o k e her w i t h one o f m y pain spasms. She asked me i f I was all right, and she moved around for a while, then I could tell from her breathing that she had gone back to sleep. It lasted just a few minutes, then she cried out and fiercely grabbed m y arm. I shook her shoulder gently, and she sat up and put her hands to her face. " A m a n was chasing me," she said. " I ran into a small storage shed. It was clean inside, gleaming. I had all m y family jewelry i n a little b r o w n box. I stepped out and saw there was a crowd. T h e n I saw the guy c o m i n g again. H e pulled out a knife, and I said,'You're a fat M e x i c a n thug.' H e raised the knife to k i l l me, and I w o k e up. It was the most v i v i d dream I've had i n years." T h i s w o m a n had always loved M e x i c o , had offered and opened it to me as a gift. W h e n D o r o t h y told me that M e x i c o was the most foreign place she had ever been, she said it w i t h a fond air o f mystery. She shared memories o f her first marriage to m y friend and mentor, the novelist B i l l i e Lee Brammer. In a Volkswagen van they w o u l d drive deep into M e x i c o ' s interior, between the Cordilleras o f the Sierra Madres, where they found only vastitudes o f pale earth and sparse stony growth. A hundred twenty-eight kilometers to a gas station.

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W i t h dog, clothes, stereo, and all the money they had i n the van, o n one o f those highways they blew out a tire. L i k e a mirage four campesinos i n white appeared from the cactuses. T h e y all carried m a chetes. After a m o m e n t o f profound staring, the campesinos came forward to help change the gringos' tire. She loved M e x i c o , but then I was shot and crippled there. A n d just a year and a half later, as I regained m y feet and we fought for e q u i l i b r i u m i n our lives, we sat at the dinner table one evening i n happy anticipation o f a vacation i n Ireland. T h e phone rang, and D o r o t h y learned that her beloved younger brother H o u s t o n had died i n a nightmarish boating accident off the coast o f C o z u m e l , where he o w n e d a restaurant and bar. "I k n o w M e x i c o didn't k i l l H o u s t o n , " she later said to me, trying to think her emotions through, but then she dreamed about the knife-wielding thug. She seemed inconsolable and terribly alone. M y pains subsided, and for a m o m e n t I l o o k e d again at the pages o f the novel about Pancho V i l l a . I wasn't going to C h i h u a h u a just to hang out w i t h Jesus and watch h i m fight. I had begun to w r i t e about the hijacking and shooting. I finished one essay by saying a dark beast was loose d o w n there, and I aimed never to feel its breath o n me again. I referred to M e x i c o City, but I k n e w that I believed and felt that about the w h o l e country. I remembered a time not too many years past w h e n rain was falling and I had walked barefoot, shirtless, and alone through a M e x i c a n village that had no electricity or p l u m b i n g . T h e campesinos I walked among were slash-and-burn farmers i n a mountainous jungle. T h e year could have been 1800 as easily as 2000. I had no fear o f them at all. So I was wiser now. B u t how m u c h had I sacrificed i n gaining that wisdom? H o w m u c h o f my loss was courage and self-respect? M a y b e I couldn't reclaim a M e x i c o o f mariachi songs and storms o f butterflies, but I c o u l d face its other nature, and m y fear. I always heard that was what made y o u a boxer— conquering your fear.

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he plane's w i n g dipped l o w into a turn, and out before us I c o u l d see our destination, an oasis o f green. In the midst o f that waste-

land C h i h u a h u a C i t y l o o k e d like a mirage. H o w could a city ever have come to be i n that place? S o o n we were o n the ground, and it didn't l o o k quite as barren as it had from the air. N o r was I totally alone o n this trek. I f I had been obliged to get around by w i t and wile, hailing cabs and r i d i n g M e x i c a n buses—as I had planned to do before I got shot—I never w o u l d have left Austin. A private K i n g A i r turboprop had made its approach and landing right before the descent o f our commercial craft, and as I stood i n the short line to clear customs, I saw the g r i n and wave o f M a r c y Garriott. She and her husband R o b e r t were veteran, accomplished pilots. T h e y had also come to watch Jesus's fight and visit h i m briefly i n Delicias. T h e y had already rented a car and made reservations for us i n a motel distinctly tailored to norteamericano

expectations and tastes.

I had seen the all-but-final edit o f "Split Decision." M a r c y s documentary told our friend's story i n powerful fashion. It w o u l d be a smash hit at Latino film festivals throughout the U n i t e d States. T h e Garriotts were so l o w - k e y and down-to-earth it was easy to underestimate them (as I had o n our first meeting i n M e x i c o C i t y ) . Schooled as an engineer, M a r c y had been a vice president i n the B e l l c o m m u n i cations empire. After growing up i n the H o u s t o n household o f an astronaut, R o b e r t considered a career i n science, then took an advanced degree i n business from M I T ; he helped turn his younger brother Richard's gift for creating video games into a giant o f that industry. The

success o f their company enabled R o b e r t to cash out, fly planes

and helicopters, learn Spanish, and i n his forties do whatever he wanted to do. R i c h a r d had sufficient charisma that M e r r i l l L y n c h selected h i m as the subject o f a national advertising campaign aimed at y o u n g entrepreneurs and investors. R i c h a r d believed i n Jesus and his

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cause, and offered to pay all his legal bills. T h o u g h Jesus's b o x i n g career was still stymied, the Garriotts' involvement got h i m the lawyer w h o m many attorneys i n A u s t i n had recommended w h e n he was bei n g deported. A law professor at the University o f Texas, Barbara Hines had been overcommitted then and declined his case, to her eventual regret. She soon fell under his spell as we all had. H i s case was so r i c h w i t h the intricacies and subtleties o f i m m i g r a t i o n law that she showed M a r c y ' s movie to her students. " M o r e b o x i n g ! " they wrote i n their course critiques. Barbara wasn't sure the law had a remedy for Jesus's troubles, but at least we k n e w that n o w his representation w o u l d be reliable and first-rate. As we rode away from the airport R o b e r t , Marcy, and I chattered about these things, but I kept turning m y head, staring, feeling strange. O n a broad patch o f bare earth, w i t h deft footsteps and twists o f their ankles and heels a gang o f kids banged a soccer ball outside an adobe painted aqua. Shorthaired goats watched them w i t h interest, raising their bearded chins like wise o l d m e n . C h i h u a h u a C i t y belonged to the M e x i c o I k n e w along the Texas border—the tinkling o f goat bells, an o l d man o n a ramshackle wagon w i t h a team o f gaunt horses, a street dominated by tire repair shops, and d o w n t o w n the zócalo and a graceful but slightly forbidding church. A l l the b o x i n g people were staying at one hotel. R o b e r t l o o k e d over the hotel's garage entry and decided to leave the rental car parked o n the street. T h e hotel d o o r m a n made a lavish show o f presenting me the ramp for the disabled. W e walked into a lobby that had deep plush carpet and glitzy chandeliers and found Jesus. H i s smile lit up as he embraced us, but first he had to finish negotiating w i t h the hotel manager. In the parking garage thieves had broken into his truck and t o r n out his stereo. T h e hotelman raised his palms and told h i m not to worry, he was an honored guest, u n g r a n peleador,

the insurance w o u l d

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in a brown suit named Fernando Beltran, and I met L o u Mesorana, the American w h o had effectively expatriated himself in M e x i c o i n order to befriend Jesus and get a piece o f his boxing career. L o u told M a r c y he enjoyed her movie but added pointedly, w i t h a smile,"I was conspicuous

in

my absence." M a r c y smiled and let the complaint pass. Jesus then took me over to meet his M e x i c o C i t y trainer, N a c h o Beristain. H e was a t r i m man w i t h a sharp nose, a w e l l - t r i m m e d mustache, and a distinguished air. T h e Garriotts k n e w h i m from M a r c y 's interviews and coverage o f the Alvarez fight. In Spanish he greeted them w a r m l y and me politely, but he seemed edgy and distant. Jesus l o o k e d no different to me. H e wore r u n n i n g shoes, blue jeans, and a long-sleeved athletic shirt. For a fighter w h o was c r i t i cized for poor defense and letting himself get hit too m u c h , his handsome features still showed no signs o f the destruction o f his trade. H e led us to his r o o m and sprawled o n the bed. H e watched me walk w i t h the cane and sit d o w n carefully i n a chair. It was the first time we had seen each other since the night of the M o i R o d r i g u e z fight. "So h o w y o u doing, J a n R e i d ? " he asked me. "Not

bad. I can walk. I drive. I ' m w o r k i n g as hard as I ever have. I

go to the g y m . I can go ten rounds o n the b i g bag, i f it's not too hot." H e nodded. "I miss those guys," he said o f the m e n and w o m e n who

w o r k e d out at Richard's g y m . "Everybody misses you." " Y o u r legs, they still hurt?" "Yeah. Some." "That's a tough place, M e x i c o City. Y o u k n o w N a c h o , m y trainer,

the guy y o u just met? H e got carjacked d o w n there this week. It's the third time that's happened to h i m . " "You're kidding," said Marcy. "No.

T h e guy opened the door and put the gun to his head, his

temple. N a c h o said, ' N o , no, don't touch it to m y head! It might go off' H e can't sleep at night because he keeps playing it over and over

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i n his m i n d . N a c h o used to be some k i n d o f police; he knows about guns, had one i n his car. It bothers h i m that he let the guy get away w i t h it, that he didn't get to his gun." H o w M e x i c a n , I thought. H e loses sleep not because o f the terror o f that experience, but because he surrendered to it—he didn't have the balls to risk and maybe lose his life trying to shoot the ratero over a damn car. B u t I don't k n o w the man, I thought next. People w h o didn't k n o w m e — a n d some w h o did—made the same sort o f value judgment about me. Jesus trained i n M e x i c o C i t y and lived there about half the time. T h e M e x i c o C i t y b o x i n g press and the M e x i c a n a r m o f the W o r l d B o x i n g C o u n c i l had honored the Chavez-Alvarez bout as 1999's fight o f the year. Yet M e x i c o ' s b o x i n g establishment had not really e m braced Jesus's career after his defeat o f Alvarez. H e was still a pocho,

a

beneficiary o f the soft life i n N o r t h A m e r i c a . There had been no more p r i m e - t i m e exposure o n national television. So he fought i n C a n c ù n , Baja California, and C h i h u a h u a . O n e o f the times we talked by phone, Jesus had told me he needed money and had gotten the best deal he c o u l d get i n M e x i c o — $ 3 0 , 0 0 0 o n signing, $10,000 a fight, at least six bouts a year. B u t it never added up to that. M a r c y and R o b e r t told me that Fernando Beltran was always m a k i n g promises. A b i g h o m e c o m i n g bout i n A u s t i n i n two or three months. A w o r l d title fight w i t h F l o y d Mayweather, Jr., by the end o f the year. A n d this very fight the M e x i c a n national hero, Julio Cesar Chavez, was supposed to come to C h i h u a h u a C i t y and accompany Jesus to the ring. It w o u l d be almost like a blessing, a passing o f the torch. N o n e o f it ever happened. Jesus ducked no one but still fought bums. H i s opportunity and perhaps his talent faded w i t h each passing m o n t h . " T h e y ' l l fight h i m till they get h i m beat," R i c h a r d L o r d had predicted o f the new managers, w i t h his customary cynicism. ( R i c h a r d and Jesus had formally parted company w h e n he signed the n e w c o n tract.) " A n d the M e x i c a n w h o beats Jesus Chavez," R i c h a r d went o n ,

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"then they'll have themselves a m i l l i o n dollar fighter." B u t Jesus had to make a living somehow. H e had faith i n his n e w manager, who

handled fighters and affairs i n M e x i c o for Top R a n k , the p r o -

motional company o f B o b A r u m . It was a high-powered company; i n b o x i n g A r u m was the principal competitor of D o n K i n g . A n eventual contract w i t h Top R a n k was implied, i f not promised. B u t i n the meantime Jesus was fighting i n backwater arenas o f provincial M e x i c o . It was a l o n g way from pay-per-view and Atlantic City.

A t dusk a bus pulled up beside the hotel, and along w i t h the b o x -T^ers, trainers, and other cornermen, we climbed aboard. I found myself seated across the aisle from N a c h o Beristain, w h o smiled and nodded at me as he sat d o w n . I debated trying to talk to h i m about the carjacking and decided against it. S m o k i n g a cigarette, he seemed tense, pensive, and distracted. W h e n we arrived at an arena, a y o u n g man w h o m Jesus was g r o o m i n g as an amateur fighter led the G a r riotts and me inside. Jesus and L o u referred to the promoter o f this fight card as "the Arab." Whatever the man's ethnicity, he was i m p o s ing

and exotic. H e had dark chiseled features and black hair and

beard, both o f w h i c h were razor-cut to m o o n l i k e points above and below his face, and he wore a black suit, a black shirt, and a black tie. Jesus's p r o t é g é d e l i v e r e d us to the Arab, w h o glanced at m y cane and the video camera that R o b e r t carried, then gave a curt n o d to a man who

led us to ringside chairs, beneath one o f the fighters' corners. I l o o k e d around the oval-shaped municipal arena and thought

it was used most often for basketball. T h e seats filled up quickly, m e n outnumbering w o m e n by about two to one. I saw a lot o f Chihuahua's distinctive straw cowboy hats. A t one end o f the hall a band set up and started playing extremely loud. I thought I could make out someone singing, but it was hard to be sure. T h e bass line was established by a tuba's boom poomp!

boom poomp!

and the frantic

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w o r k o f the drummer. T h e band cranked up between every fight and every round. T h e fight c r o w d d i d not drift i n , as they do i n the U n i t e d States. Virtually every seat was taken before the undercard began. T h e fans cheered and rooted as fiercely for the four-rounders as they d i d the ten-round fights at the end. M a r c y p o k e d m y a r m at one point and gestured upward w i t h her finger. I couldn't believe it. T h e c r o w d was d o i n g the Wave. A r o u n d and around the small arena they went—standing up, throwing up their arms, then sitting d o w n . O n the bus I had sat beside a handsome fighter w h o l o o k e d supremely bored. H e was from Tijuana and seemed to think the night's w o r k was beneath h i m . H i s opponent i n the s i x - r o u n d middleweight fight was as ugly as a toad. H e had a large r o u n d face scarred by acne, red clumps o f w h i c h still gnawed his back and s h o u l ders. W h e n the bell rang he seemed to have no b o x i n g skills at all. T h e Tijuana fighter danced around h i m , threw a few flashy c o m b i n a tions, and expected h i m to crumple. B u t punishment was fuel to the C h i h u a h u a fighter. T h e more he got hit, the more earnestly he drove forward, throwing roundhouse punches that outmuscled the dancer and brought his hands d o w n . T h e campesinos face turned bright red and swelled up from all the punches it absorbed, but the slick Tijuanan backed up, found himself cut off and trapped i n a c o r n e r — for all his contempt, he was i n a fight and steadily getting the worst o f it. W h e n the judges announced a draw, the Tijuanan threw up his hands, held his gloves to his face, stomped his feet. H e refused to shake the hand o f the k i d w i t h the face o f a toad. T h e c r o w d b o o e d the dandy heartily as he stalked toward the dressing r o o m . I agreed w i t h the judges' decision. I f anybody w o n that fight, it was the campesino. M i d w a y through the card I made m y way around the ring, past the defeaning band, to the J o h n . I stood i n line and eventually took m y turn at the urinal trough. M y bladder was full because I had drunk a couple o f beers, but I had to really concentrate and at the same time relax to make the pipes w o r k like those o f the fellows beside me. I was

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standing, the thought struck me, i n the middle o f a packed c r o w d composed entirely o f M e x i c a n men—and l i k i n g it! A n d they liked me, or at least they appeared to. A s I rebuttoned the fly o f m y jeans they grinned and stepped aside for me, nodding respectfully at m y cane. W h e n I got back to m y chair, one beside it had been taken by the game, untalented boxer w h o had fought the six-round draw. H i s face l o o k e d like raw hamburger and his eyes were almost closed by the p u m m e l i n g he had taken, but he l o o k e d very happy. Someone handed h i m a beer. H e l o o k e d at me and nodded his welcome and greeting. " B u e n trabajo," I told h i m , raising m y beer. H e grinned broadly and touched his beer to mine; we were pals. Two black m e n approached the corner and climbed the stairs to the ring. Jesus's opponent, D a r y l Pinckney, didn't wear a robe over his trunks—just a gray sweatshirt w i t h the sleeves t o r n out. H e stepped through the ropes, let his cornerman p u l l the shirt off h i m , then stepped around throwing short punches, loosening up. F r o m Florida, Pinckney had stopped losing fights he was supposed to lose midway through his career; he earned a reputation as a k n o c k o u t artist and for a w h i l e was ballyhooed as a contender. B u t it didn't happen for h i m , and now, R i c h a r d L o r d had told me, he was just making all the money he could before o l d man time made h i m get out. I had l o o k e d up his record and couldn't believe it: 2 4 - 3 4 - 3 .

Thirty-fourlosses?

O l d man time had been tapping o n his shoulder a good while now. "Yeah, but he's dangerous," R i c h a r d had said. Jesus stepped through the ropes across the ring. H e no longer wore the torero outfit into the ring. H e n o w had a white robe t r i m m e d tastefully i n black; it had his name and " E l M a t a d o r " and " C h i h u a h u a " embroidered o n it. D a m n , I thought. Jesus's fight wasn't even the main event, but m y heart was thudding w i t h excitement. T h o u g h he hadn't won

over the b o x i n g establishment i n M e x i c o City, the fans from

Delicias loved h i m . T h e y filled a section o f the stands and chanted the name o f their t o w n as Jesus moved around the ring. Concessionaires

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were selling strips o f cloth printed i n glitter w i t h the names o f the top fighters o n the card. Jesus's fans wore them as headbands or w h i r l e d them round and round. L o u Mesorana was i n the r i n g w i t h N a c h o Beristain and Jesus. L o u wore one o f the headbands and clapped his thick hands, smiling. Jesus pointed his glove at P i n c k n e y d u r i n g the introductions, then they met w i t h the referee. T h e y were all business—no glaring or posturing. Jesus came out biting d o w n o n that black mouthpiece, as he a l ways did. H e let go a w i l d roundhouse right that missed by a foot. Those punches were a signature o f his first rounds; I didn't k n o w i f he was trying to lure his opponents into charging, or i f it was sheer e x u berance. H e d i d love to fight. Jesus was back to his o l d style—pressure, pressure. W i t h his back to the ropes, P i n c k n e y kept his hands against his head, his elbows against his ribs as Jesus banged away; then i n flurries he fought back. T h o u g h Jesus may have slowed d o w n some, his hands were still fast. P i n c k n e y was skipping laterally i n the first r o u n d w h e n Jesus caught h i m w i t h a hard left jab. P i n c k n e y was suspended i n the air w h e n it landed, so it dumped h i m o n the seat o f his trunks. H e shook his head i n disgust as Jesus raised his arms and turned to the crowd. It was a flash k n o c k d o w n , but it counted o n the cards, and Jesus was all over h i m as soon as the referee finished the count. In the second r o u n d Jesus continued to maul P i n c k n e y against the ropes. W e c o u l d hear the l o u d thumps o f his hooks to the body. It l o o k e d like any second P i n c k n e y w o u l d fall. H e w o b b l e d and sagged—playing possum—because he came off the ropes w i t h a swift right h o o k that left Jesus o n one knee, l o o k i n g very surprised. It was only the second time he'd been k n o c k e d d o w n i n his pro career. H e raised his arms and looked the ref i n the eyes, assuring h i m he was all right, then resumed the all-out attack. Pinckney continued to fight back i n spurts—it was a thrilling fight—but i n the third round he winced and shook his right hand like something had stung it. B y the bell he thought a bone i n his hand was broken, and i n the fourth round he

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realized the folly o f trying to fight Jesus one-handed. W h e n the bell rang for the fifth he calmly sat o n his stool. H e got up w h e n his gloves were off and bowed to the crowd, w h o cheered h i m warmly, then he took Jesus's hand and raised it, walking the winner around the ring. Jesus's young nephew was taking gymnastics lessons, and he saw an opportunity. H e slipped through the ropes and then went running across the ring and performed a somersault. T h e crowd whooped w i t h delight. After it was over the Garriotts and I decided not to stay i n our chairs for the m a i n event. W e were going to j o i n Jesus and his family i n the dressing r o o m . M a r c y and I both heard people yelling at us, and we chose to ignore them. A s I made m y way w i t h m y cane, someone gripped m y arm from behind, and it ignited a flash o f d é j à v u . Honcho's hand o n m y arm! I w h i r l e d around i n fright—but the hand belonged only to a smiling M e x i c a n man. H e and the toad-faced boxer and the people w h o had been yelling at us pointed at m y chair. T h e y were just telling me that I had left my jacket draped o n the chair. It was an Italianmade leather jacket I bought the first time D o r o t h y took me to Paris. It was m y favorite garment. I w o u l d have been crushed i f I'd gone to M e x i c o and lost that coat. After the fights, w h i l e we sat o n the bus waiting for Jesus and the other boxers, I thought about m y reaction to the hand o n m y arm. I was more frightened, perhaps, than the instant I was really i n the grasp o f H o n c h o , for I had been hurt by h i m so badly. B u t m y instinct still was to stand m y ground and put myself between M a r c y and whoever threatened us. I took that step without thinking—fight first, then flee. O n l y here there was no threat. Just some people trying to be k i n d and thoughtful to strangers. M y heart had raced and the r o o f o f m y m o u t h had gone dry and metallic—the taste o f fear. Yet m i x e d i n w i t h the foolishness I felt as the middleweight handed me m y coat was a quiet and private satisfaction. Fear didn't o w n me, and it never w o u l d .

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J

esus's grandmother never watched her grandson fight. W i t h

short gray-streaked black hair that she kept brushed away from

her pretty, lined face, H e r m i l l a prayed that neither he n o r his

opponent w o u l d get hurt. T h e exception was the Julio Alvarez fight; she sat i n her l i v i n g r o o m spellbound by the action o n T V , d r i n k i n g beer and s m o k i n g cigarettes. "I got very nervous," she said w i t h a shy laugh, h i k i n g her shoulders. H e r m i l l a 's home was i n one o f the nicest parts o f Delicias. T h e streets were broad and paved; the one-story cinderblock homes l o o k e d identical i n construction, but they were well-painted, and many had chain-link fences across the front. T h e y were homes o f the middle class. T h e difference i n the Chavez h o m e was the entryway. O n a counter and rack i n the front part o f her l i v i n g r o o m , S e ñ o r a Chavez had an array o f packaged candies. She sold nothing else—no cigarettes, no potato chips, just candy. H e r candy store meant that she w o u l d always k n o w her neighbors, that she w o u l d always have children i n her home. T h e elder Jesus Chavez had a small potbelly, a closely t r i m m e d mustache, and a gap-toothed g r i n . " M y father died very young," he told M a r c y w h e n she was interviewing h i m for her m o v i e . " I think he

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was forty-four w h e n he died. A n d he left six o f us, seven w i t h m y mother. W e were already delivering water, because he was very sick, for seven centavos per can. It was barely enough to feed the animals and ourselves. W e were many animals! A n d so we went, until I was old enough to go to the mine. M y mother didn't want me to go. She was crying, because she k n e w what had happened to her husband. T h e w o r k i n the mine is good; it's g o o d but it's not healthy. In 1992 I completed forty-three years w i t h the m i n i n g company. That is the daily life o f a miner, to be buried i n the interior o f the mine. H e leaves, and he comes back to life." A fourth member o f the family j o i n e d us n o w as we drank Cokes, sat o n the sofas and i n the easy chairs, and talked. H e was Jesus's U n c l e Julio. Tall, i n his thirties, Julio was the father o f the boy w h o had flipped across the r i n g after Jesus stopped D a r y l Pinckney. Julio was also the relative w i t h w h o m Jesus had lived w h e n he first came to Austin. T h e uncle told me that living i n Texas had been hard for h i m . Learning English was difficult. H e liked being back here. H e said he w o r k e d i n a maquiladora—one

o f the foreign-owned plants that take

advantage o f l o w M e x i c a n wages. H e said they manufactured auto parts. H e liked his j o b . A t the rear o f their house S e ñ o r Chavez had made a small patio o f concrete, and o n one side o f the square had built himself a workshop that contained his large collection o f tools. T h e workshop was his refuge, his private place. O n other sides o f the patio he had built two apartments consisting o f a large bedroom and a bath. Since his separation from his wife, Julio had been living i n one o f them, and Jesus o c cupied the other. A wall covered w i t h the fanciful painting o f a child was built up from another side o f the patio. A n d i n a small pen b e h i n d it all was a bleating shorthaired goat that w o u l d soon take its turn at the knife and o n the coals. As we talked inside I had noticed that Jesus cocked his head and studied me. "JanReid, that's the first time I ever heard y o u speak

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Spanish," he said w h e n we were i n his apartment, where he went to get his keys to his t r u c k . " I was impressed." " O h , I ' m not any g o o d at it," I said. "I w o r k at it and try, but it's not m y gift." " N o . Y o u d i d good." It was Sunday afternoon following the fight o n Friday. T h e G a r riotts had flown away and L o u Mesorana had gone back to M e x i c o City. Jesus and I had the day just to fool around. H e was concerned and curious about the pains i n m y legs. I had told h i m that the w h i r l p o o l i n m y bathtub eased them; he asked his uncle and grandparents for directions to hot springs i n the area. T h e y were uncertain, but he decided we were going off to find them. Jesus had a vehicle that seated four people and was enclosed like a station wagon but felt and rode more like a truck. T h e thieves i n the C h i h u a h u a C i t y parking garage had not only stolen his C D player; they broke out a w i n d o w and tore up the underside o f his dash r i p p i n g it out. Rateros

everywhere, I thought. Outside Delicias, I gazed at

countryside that was cut w i t h irrigation channels and shaded w i t h o r chards o f pecan trees. T h o u g h the climate is arid, Delicias is i n the river valley o f the R i o C o n c h o s , the l o n g R i o Grande tributary. T h e day before, the Garriotts, Jesus, and I had driven the route o f the u p hill eight-mile r u n that he loped along w i t h his Dalmatian C h u l a o n a leash. It went through a pretty village then w o u n d up toward an i m poundment o f the C o n c h o s , and above the dark blue lake was a footpath up a steep hill o f red stone and earth. U n l i k e many fighters, Jesus didn't listen to music w h e n he was d o i n g his roadwork. R u n n i n g was his time to think, he said, to reflect and clear his head. W h e n he reached the summit o f the small mountain he rested and took i n the broad v i e w o f the river valley and tawny distances o f the nation o f his birth. T h e C o n c h o s heads up i n the Sierra Madres Occidental o f the Tarahumara Indians, the fabled long-distance runners. In A m e r i c a , Tesus was C h i c a n o , but i n M e x i c o he was mestizo, and the Indian

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ancestry that his family talked about was Tarahumara. I had thought o f that, watching M a r c y 's footage o f h i m r u n n i n g w i t h his dog through the streets o f Delicias. H e had a distance runner's l o n g rolling stride. H e had explored these flatlands o n his bike, he said. H e and the k i d w h o l o o k e d out for our safety at the arena i n C h i h u a h u a C i t y rode fifteen or twenty miles at a time, meeting people, just l o o k i n g around. People i n Delicias and some outlying villages k n e w Jesus now, asked h i m for his autograph. " I was very scared w h e n I came d o w n here," he told me. " B u t m y grandparents took me i n just like they d i d w h e n m y mother was sick and I was ten years old. T h e apartment I showed y o u , that was where m y U n c l e Pepe lived. M y grandparents were very sad w h e n I first came here because U n c l e Pepe had passed away just a few months before that. T h e y said, ' W i l l it bother you, staying i n his place, sleeping i n his bed?' I s a i d , ' N o , no, o f course not.' F o r them it 's been like one son has gone, and n o w another son has come. A n d J a n R e i d , I swear to y o u : O n e night I was l y i n g i n U n c l e Pepe s bed, and I felt these arms close around me, and for a l o n g time they just hugged me. It was h i m , I think. Letting me k n o w I was going to be all right." Past a village o f very little charm we found the hot springs. T h e y l o o k e d like the pools formed by irrigation ditches that kids used for s w i m m i n g holes, courtship, and beer-drinking i n the part o f Texas where I grew up. It was Sunday, and a number o f adults and kids splashed and swam; one family cooked o n a charcoal grill. " N a h , I don't wanta do this," Jesus said abruptly, wheeling about o n the dirt road. H e l o o k e d at me and grinned. " D o y o u like cockfights?" he startled me again. "I've never seen one," I confessed. Bullfights, dogfights, cockfights— i n a way they were all the same to me. T h e y placed no value o n life. A n d I was scornful o f the latter two. Betting o n dogs and chickens i n

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fights to the death—to me that was low-rent, savage. B u t I didn't speak up for m y principles now. In fact, I was fascinated. " M a y b e I can find us one," Jesus said. B a c k i n Delicias he drove d o w n an unpaved street. H e stopped at a house and k n o c k e d o n the door. A bald m a n stepped out o n the porch and they talked for a moment, then Jesus m o t i o n e d for me to come. T h e bald man smiled and introduced himself as Pancho. H e led us through a sparsely furnished house, out the back door. T h e fenced yard was bare packed dirt. A r r a n g e d around the perimeter were several chicken coops. A grizzled white pit bull w i t h a rope around its neck was tied to a steel stake hammered i n the ground. M a r k e d w i t h the scars o f its b l o o d sport, the dog stood up wagging its short tail u n til it became apparent Pancho meant to ignore it. T h e dog lay d o w n and went back to sleep. N o r t h e r n M e x i c a n s speak Spanish w i t h u n usual rapidity, I had learned after tutoring by a C o l o m b i a n and heari n g it spoken by people from other parts o f Latin A m e r i c a . F r o m the start I had trouble keeping up w i t h the conversation o f Jesus and Pancho, but clearly the subject was cockfighting. T h e bald m a n led us over to a place at the rear o f the house and pulled a scrap o f tarpaulin off a dead white rooster. H e picked up the bird by its feet and held it out stiff as a board. This was what had become o f his latest fighting cock. Pancho was the father o f one o f Jesus's friends. H e shook his head, threw the dead bird d o w n , and flipped the tarp over it again. H e led us out to the coops, each o f w h i c h contained a single rooster and hen. Pancho reached i n two o f the coops and pulled out the fighting birds, getting himself pecked badly enough that b l o o d ran and dripped off the end o f his thumb. Ignoring that, he thrust the roosters face-to-face, teasing them and getting them riled. A s their heads and beaks shot toward each other, the feathers o n their necks fluffed out. Pancho tossed them o n the ground and at once we had a cockfight at

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our feet. T h e y hopped about and flew at each other and b o u n c e d off each others' chests w i t h noisy flapping o f their wings, but it was like boxers sparring. T h e y didn't wear the steel spurs, so they couldn't k i l l . Pancho didn't seem too concerned that one might put the other's eye out. H e let them scrap for a few minutes, then broke it up and tossed them back i n the coops w i t h their hens. Pancho led us back inside the house. T h e living r o o m walls were decorated w i t h a painting o f a bearded Christ, some family photographs, and a framed diploma that Pancho showed me proudly. H e was a licensed breeder o f Aves

de

Combate. I congratulated h i m , and we sat d o w n to what he'd been d o i n g w h e n we a r r i v e d — d r i n k i n g B u s c h beer and tomato juice. That drew from me a surprised grin. In the bars o f W i c h i t a Falls, the d r i n k was a popular tradition called a "red draw." It's not an unpleasant c o m b i n a t i o n o f flavors, but w h e n I left m y h o m e t o w n enough people stared and turned up their noses w h e n I made one that eventually I lost the habit, though I sometimes ordered one w h e n I went there, for nostalgia's sake. Pancho was the only person I'd ever encountered w h o had no connection to W i c h i t a Falls and m i x e d tomato j u i c e w i t h his beer. We drank and talked for two or three hours. It was the first time I had ever drunk w i t h Jesus. I certainly didn't disapprove; I used to think that R i c h a r d Lord's never-stop emphasis o n training was going to b u r n Jesus out. B u t I had to concentrate so hard to keep up w i t h their Spanish that m y attention lapsed at times and I got a little bored. I slowed d o w n o n the red draws—my paraplegic kidneys and bladder didn't appreciate large quantities o f beer. Pancho was an animated storyteller. A t one point he pointed at his blue eyes then ran his p a l m over his bald head and said he wished he c o u l d meet the gringo w h o was responsible for h i m ! W e shared his laughter. I think Jesus must have told Pancho what happened to me i n M e x i c o City, for he said, " Y o soy u n hombre pobre. Pero todo l o que tengo es suyo." I a m a p o o r man, but all I have is yours.

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Pancho's wife made us delicious quesadillas from fresh tortillas and a crumbly white cheese called quesa fresca.

Jesus's

grandfather

stopped by for a couple o f beers and cigarettes w i t h Pancho. T h e sun went d o w n and it grew dark outside. Jesus got a little drunk. I discovered w h y we had stayed so long. Some m e n were c o m i n g by i n a w h i l e to l o o k at Pancho's birds. T h e y might be b u y i n g , they might be selling. W h e n R i c h a r d L o r d and Jesus were b e g i n n i n g to disagree, R i c h a r d often said o f his fighter: " Y o u k n o w h o w he is w h e n he sets that jaw. . . ." Actually I didn't k n o w what R i c h a r d meant by that; but w h e n the m e n showed up at Pancho's house I noticed that Jesus's right j a w was clenched. H e too was bored, he had money from his fight, but no sweetheart to share his g o o d times w i t h , and he wanted some excitement. I wouldn't lose sleep over watching a cockfight, but there was a surliness i n Jesus's manner that I hadn't seen before, and it made me nervous. H e followed the older m e n out i n the backyard and asked t h e m i f there was going to be a fight. T h e y told h i m no. H e showed the v i s i tors m o n e y he'd earned from stopping P i n c k n e y and offered to pay them for two o f their best cocks. T h e n we'd put o n the steel spurs and watch them fight. T h e two m e n glanced at each other. T w o cocks they'd bred and trained and groomed, and this y o u n g pocho

wanted to

watch one k i l l the other? T h e y turned h i m d o w n . W h e n we left Pancho's house it was eight o ' c l o c k or so. I told Jesus I was a little tired and thought I'd turn i n early. H e agreed quickly and seemed a bit contrite. It mattered a great deal to h i m that I had come to M e x i c o to see h i m , and he wanted me to have a g o o d time. H e said,"Let me show y o u one more thing about this town." N e a r the business district he pulled up to a b u i l d i n g marked only by some n e o n above the entrance. W e walked into a time warp o f plush red velour and polished hardwood beams. T h e bar was the shape o f a large horseshoe. Three or four people sat o n stools d r i n k i n g beer and tequila. P o o l tables w i t h leather pockets occupied some

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rooms that Jesus and the barkeep, w h o spoke English well, escorted me through. O n every wall were framed photographs o f entertainers and athletes. Louis Armstrong, Marlene D i e t r i c h , Jack Johnson, C a n tinflas. W o o d - b u r n i n g stoves o f ornate metalwork sat here and there, stacks o f neatly chopped firewood at the ready. N e a r the entrance to the dining rooms, where all the tables were set but the r o o m was darkened, light shone o n the framed cover o f an o l d Texas

Monthly.

Evidently the magazine had once plugged the place i n a travel story. We walked through a door and came out i n a large tiled square w i t h a fountain. I realized the place was a hotel and asked the man h o w many rooms he had. "Forty-three," he said proudly. B u t except for the interior o f the bar, no lights gleamed anywhere. T h e place was mind-boggling, a hugely expensive movie set. It had a distinct air o f desolation and abandonment, yet there was no dust, no cobwebs. I was profoundly confused. Jesus and I took stools, ordered shots o f tequila, and ticked the glasses before we drank. A man i n his sixties came over and said hello to Jesus i n English. H e appeared to be criollo, a M e x i c a n of European blood. H e wore an expensive sportcoat. T h e man congratulated Jesus on his latest w i n and said he was confident Jesus w o u l d w i n the w o r l d championship. Jesus thanked h i m , introduced h i m to me, and the man

bought us another round. T h e only other man i n the bar sat

nearby w i t h a fiftyish w o m a n whose cheeks were rouged and hair was bleached blonde. A nice pair o f legs were crossed o n the stool. She looked us over, blew a stream o f cigarette smoke, and smiled. T h e man w i t h her slid off his stool and approached us, putting his hand against the bar to steady himself. In Spanish he gushed his admiration for Jesus, patted h i m o n the back, then left his hand there. H e touched the fighter's short black hair, then tried to pull his face close. Jesus laughed and fended h i m off w i t h a polite forearm. The

owner said maybe we'd enjoy our drinks more o n the other

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side o f the bar. T h e o l d queen raised his hands and muttered apologies, apologies, and w o b b l e d back to his d r i n k i n g partner. I sat beside my friend and g r i n n e d at his embarrassment. "Is that the first time a gay guy' s ever hit o n y o u ? " " N o , " he said w i t h a laugh, eyebrows shooting up. " B u t it's the first time one's ever kissed me!" H e chuckled again, r e m e m b e r i n g . " I n Austin, Terri used to tell m e , ' G a b r i e l , gay m e n just adore you.' Great. A l l I need." As we drank, a number o f w o m e n drifted into the bar, dressed up and carrying purses. I finally understood the place. T o u r i s m was a hapless venture i n Delicias; no one came here except for business or family reasons. T r y i n g to keep up his overhead, the hotelier had turned this fabulous place into the town's whorehouse. A w o o d e n faced prostitute walked through the door, and before entering the bar she made the sign o f the cross. " D a m n , " Jesus said, considering his tequila glass. "Crossing herself every night she comes to w o r k . H o p i n g she won't get A I D S . " I didn't remark that I'd seen h i m make the sign o f the cross w h e n the bell rang and he had to go to w o r k .

T

he next m o r n i n g I was having breakfast i n the motel's coffee shop

1 w h e n he came to pick me up and take me to the airport. Jesus had loaded me d o w n w i t h gifts—the gloves, n o w autographed, he had w o r n against D a r y l Pinckney, bottles o f his grandmother's h o m e made red and green salsas, and a beautifully shaped and labeled bottle o f sotol. It's similar to tequila and rawer grades o f liquor made from the agave plant, except sotol is a different desert plant w i t h nutritious flesh i n its bulb root. I k n e w o f sotol liquor by reading accounts o f the nineteenth-century frontier. I imagined it to be like pulque, the vice and d o o m o f pobrecitos.

B u t D o r o t h y and I w o u l d find that this

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clear stuff was tasty. W e also established, though, that it should not be consumed like cognac, just because we poured it i n snifters. As I finished m y eggs and coffee Jesus sat w i t h his elbow o n the table, grinning. A middle-aged man i n a coat and tie came over to our table and introduced himself. H e asked Jesus i f he w o u l d have a w o r d w i t h some m e n at a nearby table. W h e n Jesus returned, I checked out o f the motel and we carried m y possessions to his truck. H e said o n the way out o f town, "Those m e n said they'd like to help me get that g y m built i n Delicias." "I noticed them before y o u came i n . They're like m e n i n every small t o w n I've ever lived i n . T h e y o w n the tractor dealership, the drugstore, the insurance agency. T h e y have breakfast at the same place every m o r n i n g . T h e y talk and gossip, and then they go r u n their businesses. T h e y r u n the town, i n a way. T h e y can probably help y o u raise money for that gym." "Yeah, except they told me that they're P A N , and the people i n power here are P R I , " he said o f the M e x i c a n political parties. " W h i c h makes it harder." " Y o u never know. P A N might w i n . " "I don't k n o w what the parties are about, what they even stand for. I like it here i n many ways. You're free i n M e x i c o , y o u have personal freedom. People i n the U n i t e d States don't understand that. B u t this is a very corrupt country." We rose from the orchards and river valley into Chihuahua's stark ranching country. "There has never been a w o r l d b o x i n g champion from Chihuahua," Jesus said after a while. " I f I get a title fight, I ' l l be the first." "There's never been one from Austin, either." H e looped his wrist over the steering w h e e l and smiled. " Y o u remember I told y o u I was b o r n i n the t o w n where Pancho V i l l a got killed? People still talk about Pancho V i l l a here. W h e n the A m e r i c a n soldiers invaded Chihuahua, chasing Pancho V i l l a , they wore green

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uniforms. People here didn't like being invaded, and they still talk about that, too. T h e y didn't k n o w m u c h English, but they w o u l d yell out, 'Hey, Green. Go!' and point to the border. T h e y say around here that's where the w o r d ' g r i n g o ' came from." Jesus shrugged and g r i n n e d . " ! don't k n o w i f that's true."

I

was buoyed by m y solitary trip to M e x i c o . I didn't k n o w i f D o r o t h y and I w o u l d ever care to travel there again. O t h e r

countries i n Latin A m e r i c a have beauty and charm, w i t h o u t the risk.

B u t I no longer felt destroyed by M e x i c o . I had gotten back up o n the horse that threw me. A n d I was not quite so w o r r i e d about Jesus. I didn't k n o w i f he w o u l d ever be allowed back i n the U n i t e d States; he was a bit o f flotsam o n a tidal wave o f history and law. A m e r i c a w o u l d get over its fear o f Latino immigrants, but maybe not i n time for Jesus. A t six or eight thousand dollars a fight he was m a k i n g fair m o n e y i n M e x ico. H e c o u l d have made a h o m e for himself i n Oaxaca, Zacatecas, or Guanajuato, places where attractive y o u n g Mexicans, Americans, and Europeans spill each night through the streets. B u t he chose dry and homely C h i h u a h u a . Jesus k n e w and I n o w understood that he might not have survived his exile i f not for the comfort and company o f his family. Others w o r r i e d about h i m after the P i n c k n e y fight. H e was slow to get back i n training. H e didn't go off o n w i l d benders, but he was d r i n k i n g more than usual. Unsavory guys wanted to be his entourage. W e heard that his grandfather had a talk w i t h h i m : Okay, he had taken a break, n o w it was time to get back to w o r k . Delicias was a small t o w n . If he was going to be a champion, he must conduct himself like one. I k n e w Jesus was centered not because he returned to M e x i c o C i t y and the b o x i n g g y m . It was w h e n his n e w lawyer, Barbara Hines,

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asked h i m to write a letter. She took his case o n its merits, but as she d i d w i t h all her clients, she asked h i m to write her about what he hoped to gain from the legal action. H e procrastinated, and I sympathized—writing was not a skill that came to h i m easily. B u t Jesus bore d o w n and at last delivered his lawyer the following letter: " T h e r e are many reasons w h y I want to come back to the U . S . O n e o f the most important ones is m y family. I miss them very m u c h and I wish I had the chance to only visit them every once i n a while. " M y friends i n Austin, I get lots o f mail from them and they w i s h just as m u c h as me that I w i l l get to come back. Some people probably think that it 's mainly for b o x i n g and to make money but that's not what it's all about. I think that there are more important things than money. Family, friends, and to finally get back to where I was raised and to where I k n o w h o w to live best. "I have learned to love M e x i c o very m u c h and I love to be w i t h my family here. M y b o x i n g is going well but I don't k n o w anything else here i n M e x i c o other than boxing. "I don't k n o w exactly h o w this country works politically and I think it w i l l be hard to find something after boxing. "I love m y C h i c a g o family and friends and all m y friends from Austin. I only wish I can finally find m y way back home."

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he m o r n i n g o f N e w Year's Eve, 1999, D o r o t h y was shaking m y shoulder; m y groaning had once more awakened her. It was dawn, j u d g i n g from the light. She said, " D o y o u have any pain

medicine?" I m u r m u r e d and pointed at the chair beside the l o w - s l u n g bed. O n it was a glass o f water and the vial o f V i c o d i n . She said, " W h y don't y o u take it?" She rolled over o n her side and jabbed at her pillow. T h e reason I haven't already, I thought, is that I was asleep. D o r o t h y and I had agreed we couldn't face our usual Christmas— the ten-foot tree and the b i g party that friends had come to expect. T h e death o f her brother that fall weighed heavily o n our moods. T h e n she read one day that the French were going to set off ten thousand flashbulbs o n the Eiffel Tower at midnight o f N e w Year 2000. She said, " O h , honey, we've got to see that." T h r o u g h friends we had rented two apartments i n the Marais, the fine little neighborhood o n the R i g h t B a n k , and spent a week i n each. T h e first apartment was just two blocks from the Seine, and the day we arrived we bundled up, crossed the short bridge, and p r o w l e d the little shops and cafes o n the He St.-Louis. T h e apartment was so small it was like living o n a boat. B u t everything had its place;

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everything worked. T h e kitchen was up to any meal one might want to cook, and the triangular bathtub was just b i g enough for me to crawl i n . A t a market we had bought an eighteen-inch Christmas tree and spent a good part o f a day and night decorating it. W e had cooked a Christmas dinner o f roast veal and rosemary potatoes, and called G r e g and Lila i n Austin and m y mother and sister i n W i c h i t a Falls. M o t h e r couldn't help being a little w o r r i e d about this, m y sister reported. After what happened to me, she didn't think we ought to be gallivanting around i n foreign countries. D o r o t h y and I laughed and tried to persuade her that Paris and M e x i c o C i t y were not the same places at all. T h e second apartment was a four-story walk-up, w h i c h didn't bother me. T h e physical therapy had left me well-schooled o n getting up and d o w n stairs. This apartment was the residence o f a French businesswoman. It was larger, lived-in, full o f interesting books and records. T h e bed was an ordinary mattress set u p o n a raised w o o d frame. I k n e w firm beds were supposed to be g o o d for human backs, but this one was like a rock slab for m y hips. I woke each day r e m e m bering what it had been like to be paralyzed. W i t h a painful w r e n c h o f m y hips I rolled over o n m y side and lowered m y feet to the floor. It took a hot bath and an hour or so to get me fully mobile. That N e w Year's Eve m o r n i n g D o r o t h y had gotten up, dressed, and left the apartment after our brief exchange about the pain pills. She walked south o n R u e de Turenne, shoulders braced against the gray, penetrating cold. W e had stayed a little too long, she w o r r i e d . There had been so m u c h time walking, walking, w i t h her trying to stay w a r m and me slowly b r i n g i n g up the rear. She had watched me go taut-faced and stiff-legged, leaning heavily o n the cane, w h e n the spasms grabbed me. She doubted I could make the hike necessary to see the fireworks show. Earlier, i n a coffee shop one afternoon, I had spread out our map and calculated h o w far we w o u l d have to walk to reach open spaces and have a g o o d v i e w o f the Eiffel Tower. I didn't

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say, but m y quiet and m y blank-eyed expression must have conveyed the truth. W a l k i n g b o t h ways it was a little over four miles. D o r o t h y l o o k e d i n a few shops for more Christmas presents she wanted to take home, then at one o f the markets bought a bouquet o f lavender roses, w h i c h she w o u l d leave i n a vase for our host. She walked up the coiling w o o d stairs, let herself i n the apartment, and the day turned. "It was your smile," she said. " Y o u l o o k e d up and smiled." O f f a small park, Place des Vosges, we had l u n c h i n a cafe that seemed to draw closer as each table was claimed and we ate the r i c h food and drank a bottle o f red w i n e . B u t the small table next to us could have been yards across, j u d g i n g from the b o d y language o f the French couple. She was blonde, t r i m , pretty, and she dined i n the European manner, h o l d i n g her fork w i t h the tines d o w n . H e wore a white turtleneck and a cashmere blazer. H i s gaze drifted toward other tables and the shadowy forms o f people w a l k i n g outside, beyond the condensation o n the w i n d o w s . She spoke occasionally, and he responded w i t h stretches o f his m o u t h and tilts o f his leonine head. H e tried to p o u r her more w i n e ; she stayed h i m by placing her p a l m o n the glass. H a p p y N e w Year. I hoped D o r o t h y and I never struck such a ruined and distant pose. After the walk we w a r m e d ourselves i n the apartment w i t h our backs to the radiators. T h e tugs o f a nap drew us toward the bed as soon as the coats and mufflers were put away. W e awoke about the same time and lay still for a moment, our heads o n the pillows, w a t c h i n g each other. I unclasped the top buttons o f her g o w n . In time we were gasping and twisting out o f clothing, eyes closed then opening for glimpses o f the love contours we had k n o w n so l o n g and well. W e wanted to make it through these b o m b blasts i n our lives, and that was one o f the times I k n e w we w o u l d . L o n g after darkness fell, we began to put o n layers o f cotton and w o o l for the c o l d night out. " R e a d y ? " said Dorothy, standing up o n her toes to touch her lips to mine.

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"Let's hit it," I said. W e set out a little after ten p.m. T h e subways were r u n n i n g all night and free, and we thought we should at least give them a look. In the St.-Paul station we saw two cars arrive and pass. T h e y were so packed that w h e n the doors opened, release o f the pressure shoved people outward, and they had to grab and brace to avoid being ejected o n the platform. " N a h , " I announced. W e walked back up the stairs, and as we stepped back out o n the sidewalk we were amazed to see a small white sedan p u l l up to the M e t r o stop's cabstand. H e r e we didn't give possibilities o f danger a thought; D o r o t h y waved and ran over. T h e taxi driver, a y o u n g Korean w o m a n , said i n English,"I w i l l take y o u as close as I can. B u t y o u must have small change." D o r o t h y showed her a denomination o f francs that satisfied her, and the car shot through a commercial district then o n d o w n the l o n g street, R u e de R i v o l i , that runs beside the Louvre. T h e driver let us out at a traffic barricade. W e walked around the corner o f the palace turned museum, and the l o n g open space o f the Jardin des Tuileries opened before us. Across the Seine, splendidly aglow i n orange, was the Eiffel Tower. I looked at Dorothy. Tears were streaming d o w n her cheeks. W e could have seen the show well without taking another forward step. B u t it was only ten-thirty, so we began to wander slowly w i t h the crowd. W e stopped n o w and then and rested w i t h our forearms o n the l o w wall above the Seine. W e passed a line o f buses where a large number o f police stood i n loose formation, talking and smoking. O n this night they were almost unnecessary. It was such a gentle crowd; hundreds o f thousands o f people were said to be o n the streets, and all night I didn't see one unpleasant incident. T h e tower was a magnet—we couldn't get close enough. Taking our time, we walked about a mile and a half. I w o u l d make three more o n the way home and finish feeling strong. Finally the tower l o o m e d so close it seemed pointless to go any farther. W e set up a comfortable

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vantage point along the river wall. A n o n g o i n g game kept balloons batted up, over, along the way. I heard languages I couldn't begin to identify. A s the m o m e n t grew close I didn't k n o w what to expect. T h e n the flashbulbs went off, and a h u m a n roar erupted that exceeded any I had ever heard. O n the tower the flashbulbs zipped up, d o w n , and across the spans and supports. A thick cloak o f fireworks began at ground level and slowly w o r k e d its way upward, t h r o w i n g starbursts o f every color all over the sky and somehow igniting ropes of explosion that w h i r l e d out and around the tower. D o r o t h y was aiming and c l i c k i n g her camera. "Babe, don't take pictures!" I yelled through the tumult and detonations."Look!"

A nother night i n Austin, fourteen months later, felt almost as fesi ^ t i v e and unreal. "Cha-vez! C h a - v e z ! Cha-vez!"

the c r o w d began

to chant. After three years the dam o f unforgiving had broken. Jesus had told me about his pivotal appointment w i t h i m m i g r a t i o n authorities at the U.S. consulate i n Juarez, M e x i c o . " T h e r e was a l o n g line o f p e o ple, J a n R e i d . I went to the lady i n charge and right away she said, 'You've got a problem, well, everybody here has a problem. You're not any different just because y o u speak English. G o back to the back of the line.' So I d i d and we all made our way for two and a half hours. T h e y gave me a physical, and they asked me to talk to a psychiatrist. H e was really pretty nice. H e asked me i f I'd ever been i n prison, and I told h i m I had, and we talked about that. A t the end o f the interview he told me he was a b o x i n g fan. H e shook m y hand, wished me luck, and said he was glad to have me back." T h e l o n g exile ended w i t h Jesus o n the banks o f the R i o Grande, signing autographs for employees o f the I N S . H e was a permanent resident again. Jesus c o u l d travel freely now. H e had a G r e e n C a r d . This was no inside fix by the movers and shakers o f pro b o x i n g .

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To the contrary, w h e n Jesus's h o m e c o m i n g bout was announced, the promoters and T V producers had seemed a bit startled; suddenly here stood this guy w i t h twenty-nine straight wins and three years as the number one contender. It didn't hurt that I championed his cause, n o r that M a r c y Garriott made a heartfelt movie about his odyssey. It happened because a y o u n g video game magnate, R i c h a r d Garriott, was able to finance the w o r k o f a dedicated activist, Barbara Hines, w h o k n e w every nuance o f the law—and because i n every dealing w i t h the I N S , Jesus impressed officials w i t h his honesty and his character. Still, like M u h a m m a d A l i w h e n he declined the military draft during the V i e t n a m War, because o f politics Jesus had lost three years o f his athletic prime. I don't contend that Jesus had as m u c h talent as A l i , but i n the months leading up to the Troy Dorsey fight i n Atlantic City, b o x i n g insiders seemed to have little doubt that Jesus was destined for a w o r l d title. In the ensuing three years he had fought only one opponent o f his caliber, Julio Alvarez, and his skills seemed to erode as he fought the string o f M e x i c a n j o u r n e y m e n . N o w almost no one i n b o x i n g thought he could beat the super featherweight champion, F l o y d Mayweather, Jr. Despite his ranking, Jesus had become a nonentity i n A m e r i c a n boxing. A t one point U S A

Today

ran an overview o f b o x i n g that placed h i m thirteenth among super featherweight contenders. Outside Texas he was an unknown—just another M e x i c a n fighter. B u t no fight was as hard as the one Jesus had just w o n . N o w he had a life after boxing, and i n Austin it was his hour. Texas politicians and well-dressed w o m e n preened near the r i n g and T V cameras. A n event was being planned i n w h i c h the Texas legislature and G o v e r n o r R i c k Perry w o u l d grant a symbolic pardon to Jesus for his illegal walks across the R i o Grande bridge. F o r the first time, the University o f Texas had allowed one o f its arenas to host a boxing match. B o x i n g promoters and E S P N producers were astounded by the electricity and noise and the size o f the crowd; few boxers i n A m e r i c a were able to

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put seven thousand people i n the seats. D o r o t h y and I were at ringside w i t h M a r c y and R o b e r t Garriott. Nearby were J o h n Spong, D a v i d Courtney, and M i k e H a l l — t h e friends w h o had gone w i t h me to M e x i c o City. People were wearing m o c k torero hats to w e l c o m e home E l Matador. T h e y might have been mistaken for M i c k e y M o u s e ears. I saw Sean C u r t i n , the o l d Irish trainer from Chicago, amused by the foolishness and l o v i n g it. Jesus's sister L i d i a , a n e w l y wed, rushed up to me i n her excitement and planted a fragrant kiss o n m y cheek. M a y b e nowhere else i n A m e r i c a — b u t i n A u s t i n , Jesus was back o n top. In the ring, up i n the lights above us, a svelte former w o r l d c h a m p i o n , T o m " B o o m B o o m " Johnson o f Detroit, m o v e d around w i t h a blue robe and l o o k o f g r i m intention o n his face. Johnson was thirtysix, but he had fifty wins, and this fight was his chance to get back i n contention and i n the money. T h e n the music began and everyone was jostling, shoving, trying to get closer for a l o o k . Jesus and his entourage came d o w n the aisle beside our seats. M e n b e h i n d h i m waved flags o f Texas, M e x i c o , and the U n i t e d States. A n d w i t h them, dressed to the nines, was the i m m i g r a t i o n lawyer, Barbara H i n e s , w h o wouldn't have been caught dead at a b o x i n g match two years earlier; n o w she sashayed along h o l d i n g up his N o r t h A m e r i c a n c h a m p i onship belt. " B y golly," she had told me, " y o u just don't k n o w h o w life is gonna surprise y o u . " W h e n she came back to her seat D o r o t h y and I asked her about the scene i n the dressing r o o m . " T h e r e were thirty guys and me. It was so male."

T h e c r o w d parted for an instant, and

then I saw Jesus, beaded w i t h sweat and wearing a black robe, resting his red gloves o n another's shoulders. H e glanced and recognized me and threw me a g r i n . T h e n the bell rang and he was above us, champing o n that mouthpiece, hands held high."What's this, J o h n L . Sullivan?" D o r o t h y laughed about his stance. A few months earlier she had told me never to waste another b o x i n g ticket o n her. N o w she was yelling like

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the rest o f us. B o o m B o o m Johnson stepped smartly, j u k e d w i t h his shoulders and head, tried to drive Jesus back w i t h his jab. B u t he couldn't land his power combinations, and Jesus's pressure was unrelenting. B y the end o f the fourth round Johnson was gasping, his gloves o n the ropes, before he sat d o w n . T h e body shots just took too m u c h . In the eighth he chose not to answer the bell. R i c h a r d L o r d picked up Jesus by the waist and carried h i m around the ring, the fighter beating his fists i n the air and yelling back at the adoring crowd. After it was over, a network b o x i n g analyst, the sometime trainer Teddy Atlas, acknowledged the rousing show but said w i t h m i l d c o n descension, " F l o y d Mayweather is special." T h e champion from G r a n d Rapids, M i c h i g a n , was twenty-three, he was lightning fast, and he had the patina o f an O l y m p i c gold medal. H e was projected and endowed by the powers o f b o x i n g as a multimillion-dollar fighter. Top R a n k n o w held the promotional rights to both Mayweather and Jesus (no acknowledged conflict o f interest, this being boxing). U n t i l n o w Top R a n k executives had referred to Jesus as "the mandatory." U n t i l the A u s t i n crowd grabbed their attention they didn't even afford h i m the respect o f a name. Jesus was twenty-eight, w h i c h is not y o u n g for a boxer. H e wore a brace o n one knee, w h i c h had a t o r n ligament; he'd gotten kicked by a bull w h i l e helping some people brand their cattle i n Delicias. T h e official line out o f Las Vegas, where he was supposed to fight Mayweather, was that Jesus had no chance. B u t three months later the outcome o f such a title fight, i f it happened, seemed not so preordained. H o p i n g to impress an H B O T V audience and a crowd i n his home o f G r a n d Rapids, M i c h i g a n , Mayweather hurt his hands, danced, and pat-patted his way w i t h light jabs to a decision against a game but l i t t l e - k n o w n challenger. "Mayweather's lucky he didn't get Chavez tonight," said one o f the T V announcers. T h e night Mayweather was booed i n his h o m e t o w n , Jesus had stolen the champion's show i n a twelve-round brawl against

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a Californian named Juan Arias. Jesus had demonstrated everything— jabs, left hooks, straight rights, uppercuts, and stamina. B u t he still took too many punches, and R i c h a r d L o r d , n o w Jesus's second c o r nerman, said o f his opponent: "Arias c o u l d have k n o c k e d h i m out at any time, and he was trying to." T h e i r relationship largely mended, Jesus trained a great deal i n Richard's g y m , benefiting from some grueling sparring w i t h J o h n n y Casas. Jesus's lead trainer n o w was Houston's R o n n i e Shields, w h o had g r o o m e d Evander H o l y f i e l d and Pernell W h i t a k e r at the peaks o f their careers and was one o f the best i n b o x i n g . Shields had briefly trained Jesus before the deportation, and o n the H B O debut his t o u c h showed; it may have been the best performance i n Jesus's career. Still, late i n the fight Jesus weathered a j o l t i n g h o o k then resumed slugging w i t h Arias. It was a risky exchange, for Jesus was w e l l ahead o n the cards, and afterward Shields reprimanded h i m : " I k n o w you're a warrior, Jesus, but I don't want to see any more o f that." R i c h a r d told me that i n the locker r o o m , after the unanimous decision, "Jesus's hands were swollen up like grapefruits. H e wanted to go over and see Arias. T h e y just l o o k e d at each other, then at their hands, and laughed. What's a handshake w h e n you've been through something like that together? It's a b o n d that n o b o d y can understand outside boxing."

A

fter the Arias fight, U S A Today

again put Mayweather at the top

Lof its w o r l d rankings, but added, " E l M a t a d o r was sensational." Je-

sus seemed happy, although he was hindered by his M e x i c a n c o n tract, and it remained to be seen i f he w o u l d make any m o n e y i n boxing. F o r n o w he was content w i t h having a n e w car and, for the first time i n his life, his o w n apartment. In A u s t i n I was c l u m p i n g along a sidewalk one day w h e n B i l l y G a m m o n , the insurance executive w h o had first lured me out to Richard's g y m , called out and trotted up to say hello. A s we talked about Jesus's u n c o m m o n journey,

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B i l l y reflected, "It's funny h o w the 'matador' business started w i t h a h i g h school English teacher and a g y m i n Chicago. B u t Jesus comes as close as anyone w e ' l l ever see around here to having the k i n d o f courage it takes to be a real matador." I wondered i f I'd cry w h e n he finally got beat. Probably. A n d then start begging h i m to quit. H e was risking his life, his m i n d , i n there— consider the sad state o f M u h a m m a d A l i . Physically and emotionally I was pretty m u c h through w i t h boxing, I believed. Yet one day I was w o r k i n g out and thought, G o on, do it—nobody's going to ask y o u to. I had mentioned sparring once to Julian Henry, a man about m y age w h o had been training hard and pairing off w i t h the y o u n g b o x ers almost daily. Suddenly I was pulling o n the groin cup and smearing Vaseline across m y cheeks and nose. I stepped through the ropes like Frankenstein o n stilts and Julian took it easy w i t h me. Later I realized h o w few punches he had thrown. I staggered once i n the sparr i n g and swung m y arms to keep m y balance. B u t for two rounds I was back i n there; I was relaxed and I landed some blows to Julian's headgear. " Y o u didn't l o o k bad," one man said afterward, w i t h a narrowed gaze. M a y b e it was a ridiculous thing to do, but for the rest o f that evening m y m o o d soared. I wish Jesus had seen it. Still, w h e n I thought o f h i m now, it was not i n Richard's g y m , under T V lights, or o n the dusty plains o f Chihuahua. T h e I N S had first allowed h i m to come back i n the country w h e n his mother fell i l l i n Chicago. O n the way back to M e x i c o he came through Austin, and a number o f us went out to dinner w i t h h i m . It was a misty night, the sidewalks and pavement were slick, and after dinner he walked me to m y car. I c o u l d tell he debated whether to take m y a r m as I stepped d o w n from a curb. A l l the prohibitions b o r n o f being told what it was to be a man fell away. Beside m y car, we stood for a m o ment hugging each other. H e l o o m e d so large i n the r i n g that I often forgot h o w short he was. I sighed and rested m y c h i n o n the top o f his head.

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I

t was a fine and fitting reunion to see D a v i d Courtney, J o h n Spong, and M i k e H a l l at Jesus's h o m e c o m i n g fight and then help

them close d o w n a bar. O n e reminder o f our friendship was as c o n -

stant i n m y life as m y car keys. D a v i d had been r u m m a g i n g i n a j u n k shop w h e n he found a cane that someone had painted orange. H e stripped it, stained it, found someone w h o c o u l d carve m y initials into the grip, and to its front he had tacked o n a milagro

i n the f o r m

o f a h u m a n leg. T h e tokens are a M e x i c a n tradition; i n Spanish the w o r d means "miracle," and the small crafted bits o f copper or silver are entreaties for a blessing, or at least g o o d luck. D a v i d gave it to me w h e n I was ready to give up the more supportive crutch, and this cane felt just right. Its strength w o u l d take whatever weight I had to put u p o n it, and it was exactly the right height. W h e n I was still i n the wheelchair D o r o t h y and I had gone to a play w i t h D a v i d and J o h n Spong and their dates. Toward the end o f the drama a couple o f blanks were fired loudly from a pistol, and I saw J o h n flinch and turn pale. T h e noise took h i m back to that street i n M e x i c o C i t y ; he still reckoned w i t h that terror, too. J o h n and I talked often—about music and w r i t i n g and his airy two-story house i n the hills south o f Austin. " I didn't call y o u about w a l k i n g i n o n a rattlesnake i n the l i v i n g r o o m at three i n the m o r n i n g ? " J o h n asked."I must have w o k e up everybody else." H i s country place made me nostalgic for m y rustic cabin l o n g ago. B u t not all our enthusiasms were shared. After Jesus's fight w i t h B o o m B o o m , J o h n sipped a beer, shook his head, and quietly told m y w i f e i ' T don't k n o w about b o x i n g , Dorothy. I just don't get it." In addition to his magazine w o r k , M i k e H a l l had his following as a singer and songwriter, and finally I talked h i m out o f a couple o f his records. O n e featured a thirty-eight minute track about a man's dream o f the Spanish C i v i l War. M i k e sang over and over i n a deadpan

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mantra: " L i f e is all right, for the time bein'." G o o d , rowdy rock and roll welled up for a time, then came a squawk of such l o u d and abrupt discordance that I couldn't help j u m p i n g . " Y o u

listened to all o f i t ? "

M i k e said, laughing. " A friend o f mine was d r i v i n g w h e n that came up, and he thought he'd had a wreck." M i k e was devoting energy and creativity to music again; w h e n he got some extended time away from his j o b at the magazine, he and his sidemen made g o o d m o n e y and played to rapt houses o n quick tours o f Europe. T h e enthusiasm o f Europeans kept a lot o f A m e r i c a n musicians i n the business. H i s n e w band was called M i k e H a l l and the Woodpeckers. T h e i r first record was D e a d by D i n n e r . Our

interchange as friends was never constant. D o r o t h y and I had

a wedding party at our house for D a v i d and his bride. M i k e held his w e d d i n g i n A l p i n e , Texas, because the band had a g i g out there. A n d John's romance l o o k e d solid and serious to me. T h e w o m e n partners in our lives recognized the importance o f our friendship. It was a c u rious b o n d we shared. After a w h i l e we hardly spoke of M e x i c o City. A w o m a n w h o thought the episode was a variety of madness peculiar to m e n asked i f I w o u l d do the same thing again. I didn't answer because the replies were complicated and contradictory. N o , o f course not, because even i f I wanted to, I w o u l d never again have the ability to do something so reckless and violent. B u t , yes, I'd risk taking another bullet, i f that was the only way those guys w o u l d still be w a l k i n g around. A n d I k n e w they w o u l d do the same for me.

Epilogue

M

any M e x i c a n s — a n d residents o f M e x i c o C i t y — h a v e told me that a cop or ex-cop shot me. T h e y had no evidence,yet they made the accusations w i t h complete assurance. I f anyone

i n the U n i t e d States doubted the menace o f the police i n M e x i c o City, the doubts should have been dispelled by the death o f Frederick M c P h a i l , a twenty-seven-year-old N e w Yorker murdered

seven

months after I was shot. A M e x i c a n coroner ruled that M c P h a i l drank himself to death, w h i c h was true; except that M e x i c o C i t y cops forced h i m to guzzle straight vodka until he passed out, after first drawing all available cash out o f his credit cards. T h e case was cracked because the y o u t h 's father k n e w his son was not a heavy drinker. H i s persistence l e d to an A T M camera w h i c h showed the killers using one o f the credit cards w h i l e still i n u n i f o r m . A pair o f cops heard the j i g was up o n their patrol car'sradio; they j u m p e d out and left the car w i t h the m o t o r running. Detectives later found three o f t h e m w o r k i n g illegally o n a construction site i n a small t o w n near A u s t i n , and a speedy extradition w h i s k e d them back to M e x i c o City. M o r e than a dozen M e x i c o C i t y cops were charged w i t h the robberies that led to the murder.

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In m y case no arrest was ever made; to m y knowledge there was no investigation. A sinister e-mail from M e x i c o C i t y appeared one day: " W e can find the guys w h o d i d that to you." Someone trying to make a buck. I replied curtly and never heard from that person again. T h o u g h the M i n i s t r y o f Tourism has contacted me several times, I have never spoken w i t h one law enforcement official i n M e x i c o . I don't k n o w what to believe. B u t I k n e w I had to go back. Several weeks after I was shot and R e d Duke's jet flew us out o f M e x i c o City, R o b e r t o Castañeda, the M e x i c a n surgeon w h o first w o r k e d o n me, called us i n Texas to see h o w we were doing. I had no m e m o r y o f h i m , but he told me i n his tentative but almost perfect English that we had a certain b o n d . W h e n I wrote about the e x p e r i ence I mentioned the doctor, his embrace o f D o r o t h y and Lila, and his plea w h e n they said good-bye: "Please don't hate m y country." After some hesitation I sent h i m the essay and a letter. D r . Castañeda wrote back: "I k n e w about your article. Obviously, I read it i n detail and enjoyed it very m u c h . Unfortunately y o u said terrible things about M e x i c o City, but it is understandable. M y personal o p i n i o n is that the article shows M e x i c o C i t y exactly as it is. It is a tragedy that our city can be so dangerous. Sometimes we do not see things because we are accustomed. I distributed copies among doctors and friends, asking for their opinions. Majority o f them think that y o u wrote the crude reality o f our city. However, let me tell y o u that some o f m y friends w h o read it, considered it a little bit exaggerated. I am sure that time is going to heal some o f the bad feelings that y o u have about this city. B u t fortunately y o u think that we d i d a g o o d j o b w i t h your emergency situation, and specifically that we treated y o u and your family very kindly, and I feel very happy w i t h that comment i n your article and i n your letter. Let me tell y o u that I read your article exactly o n the 'Doctor's D a y ' i n O c t o b e r and that was the best present I have ever received. . . . Please continue being i n touch w i t h me."

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B ecause it was Sunday the traffic i n M e x i c o C i t y was light, and had been staying at a resort near Cuernavaca that R o b e r t o r e c o m mended. H e had invited us to come to a family celebration o f one child's baptism and another's confirmation; it was a t o u c h i n g gesture, and an honor. I l o o k e d out and thought h o w serene and untrammeled the countryside l o o k e d so near the huge city. T h e driver delivered us to the hotel where members o f Roberto's family were staying, near Chapultepec Park. W e rushed inside, checked i n , left our bags i n storage b e h i n d the desk, and took the sedan provided by the hotel. It was a short drive to the restaurant, the driver said, and i n g o o d English he c o m m e n c e d w i t h touristy chat. W h e n we arrived we found the w h o l e restaurant had been taken over by the C a s tañedas' celebration. W h e n we walked inside D o r o t h y cried out and threw her arms around a m a n w h o hugged her just as exuberantly. T h e m a n I had heard so m u c h about wore a suit and owlish black glasses. H e l o o k e d the part o f a prosperous and confident y o u n g doctor. R o b e r t o turned to me and I said,"Finalmente!" "Sí, sí. Finalmente!" he said, shaking m y hand, and then we embraced. G r i p p i n g m y arms, he inspected me and said, " Y o u l o o k a lot better than y o u d i d the last time I saw you." " I bet." H e turned w i t h us then to a group o f people w h o were c o m i n g forward to meet us. T h e tables were covered w i t h white cloths; p i n k balloons lay and were batted about; a mariachi band played. Roberto's nine-year-old daughter, w h o had been confirmed into the C a t h o l i c faith that m o r n i n g , ran about i n a white dress w i t h flaring petticoats,

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enjoying her day o f constant attention and making the most o f it n o w that church and parental strictures were released. H e r hair lightly reddened w i t h henna, Roberto's wife was w a r m but shy toward us, for she spoke little English. T w o o f Roberto's sisters lived i n B o c a R a t o n , Florida. O n e was married to a stockbroker, the other to an orthopedist. T h e y were thoroughly and proudly Americanized. A m i d the chatter R o b e r t o said to me quietly:"I must ask y o u . T h e t r i m m i n g o f your small intestine. D i d y o u ever have any problems w i t h that?" " N o . N o n e at a l l " "I thought not," he said, smiling proudly, for he was speaking o f his work. H a n d e d a glass o f champagne, I talked to Roberto's older brother, Javier. H e was a pleasant man fast growing bald. " A t the university I studied physics and mathematics," Javier told me. " B u t n o w I have a company that installs air-conditioning systems. I ' m a technician." H e shrugged and I nodded. W i t h a smile he said, " Y o u wrote that y o u w o u l d never come to M e x i c o C i t y again. B u t here y o u are." "Yes, and enjoying it very much." " M i casa es su casa," he said. I acknowledged his family's hospitality w i t h a toast to the r o o m w i t h my champagne glass. B u t there was an insistence i n his smile. "Mexicans are a peaceful people. D o y o u know, i n my w h o l e life I have never struck another man w i t h m y fists." M y hand jerked slightly; the w i n e sloshed as I raised it to m y mouth. Across the r o o m R o b e r t o was telling Dorothy: " Y o u r husband has to let this thing go. Let it go." "I know," she said."He knows." Too soon the hour was over. T h e y were m o v i n g o n from the children's religious celebration to a wedding. Friendly people crowded around us saying good-bye. R o b e r t o pulled me aside. " Y o u have to find the place that can treat y o u for your pain. In your country

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I'm sure it exists. T h e pain is too m u c h w i t h y o u . I can see it i n your eyes." Outside, taxis were z o o m i n g into the drive, p i c k i n g people up, and shooting onward. I d i d exactly what I was supposed to do: I asked the maître d' o f this classy restaurant to call us an appropriate cab. "Con

seguridad," I said.

"Claro," she said, o f course. A green and w h i t e Nissan p u l l e d i n the drive. D o r o t h y and I l o o k e d at the maître d \ She nodded and held out her hand to the cab. A n d like sheep led to slaughter, we got i n . T h e driver had a surly expression and said n o t h i n g to us as he sped away. I realized this was exactly

the k i n d o f cab m y friends and I

had taken at Plaza Garibaldi. T h e backseat even felt the same. I l o o k e d quickly at the sun visor o n the passenger side. There was no registration credential—only a g r i m y business card. T h e driver was going very fast, turning right, t u r n i n g left. Good

God! I'd done it again, only

this time I'd dragged m y wife w i t h me! M y heart was pounding. I said nothing, just l o o k e d at the doors to see h o w to l o c k them. T h e y couldn't be l o c k e d from the inside! D o r o t h y meanwhile cursed the heels o n her shoes and l o o k e d for door handles that w o u l d let her out o f the cab, so she could run. T h e n the driver careered back out o n the Paseo de la R e f o r m a , cut a hard right, and jerked to a halt beside the d o o r m e n o f our hotel. H e swung his flat, unknowable eyes at me, i n dicating the fare and expecting a g o o d tip.

F

or part o f our trip the M i n i s t r y o f T o u r i s m offered to provide a driver, so we came to be r i d i n g one day w i t h an attractive, w e l l -

educated y o u n g w o m a n named Hortensia. She drew the assignment

because she spoke English so well. T h e driver, Jaime, spoke no English, but he navigated the daunting freeway traffic very well. I l o o k e d out the windows and blinked. Because o f the smog, I had

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never before seen the mountains from the city. A communications officer for the ministry, Hortensia had a thick shock o f dark b r o w n hair, arched eyebrows, and a sharp, distinctive nose. She l o o k e d at me and asked mildly, " W h a t happened to y o u ? " I told the story quickly. A t the end she shook her head and said, "The

same thing happened to me." "What?" "Yes," Hortensia said. "It was o n a workday, middle o f the week. I

had

an appointment about ten blocks away, so I just hailed a cab. I

knew, the minute the driver left the curb. I don't k n o w what it was about h i m — I just knew. I kept h o p i n g for a stoplight, so I c o u l d j u m p out. B u t it was just like w i t h y o u and your friends. W h e n the driver stopped, these guys j u m p e d i n the seat w i t h me. T h e y didn't do anything to me, except one o f them had a gun that he kept p o k i n g i n m y ribs. B u t they kept talking about what they were going

to do to me,

w h i c h was almost as bad. 'You r i c h bitch,' things like that." She shuddered. "It was terrible. T h e y had me four hours." " F o u r hours!" I cried. "Yes.

I had credit cards, and they took me to A T M

machines. I

was so scared, I couldn't remember the P I N numbers. I kept saying, ' L o o k , leave me alone, just a minute. Let me think.' B u t they were right up i n m y face and ears. 'You r i c h white bitch. . . .' T h e y got about eight hundred dollars from me. W h e n they finally put me out of the car, I had no idea where I was. Someone let me use a phone, and I called m y boyfriend, but I was so terrified I could barely speak. I had nightmares for months." F r o m a friend w h o had come to m y bedside i n M e x i c o City, I had a map w i t h the place where I'd been shot circled i n i n k . Persia Street. Jaime kept studying the map and trying to reconcile it w i t h his knowledge o f the city. A couple o f times he stopped the van, got out, and

went to talk to taxi drivers, taking the map w i t h h i m . H e drove

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on, and then he saw a police squad car parked beside a curb. H e stopped again and took the map to them. Jaime must have told them some o f the story, for i n another flareup o f M e x i c a n surrealism, we found ourselves speeding toward m y crime scene w i t h a police escort, red and blue lights flashing. After delivering us, the cops didn't stick around. I gave them a wave of thanks as they killed the lights and drove away. Persia was a short street. M y comrades i n A u s t i n had said the taxi driver left a freeway, w h i c h I remembered, then he drove a couple o f blocks, turned a c o r ner to the right, and stopped. I saw there was only one place it c o u l d be. I walked out to it i n a light rain. D o r o t h y and Hortensia m a i n tained a distance. I used to fear physical pain. N o w I feared things left unfinished. In the j o u r n e y I had found a courage and o p t i m i s m I never k n e w I possessed. B u t bravery and sanguinity flagged as I grew older and understood what it had done to m y health. Some w o m e n friends had said they envied D o r o t h y w h e n they heard she was the reason I fought to stay alive. I k n e w our marriage had w o b b l e d under the day-to-day strain. I wondered i f I c o u l d have changed it, c o u l d have spared her, spared us. R e m e m b e r i n g that night, I decided I c o u l d not. D a v i d had the p l u c k to break and r u n , and he was probably safe. B u t M i k e and J o h n were caught between the angry pistoleros.

T h e y were i n dire

trouble, and so was I. In a split second o f instinct and decision I l o o k e d a killer i n the eye and d i d what I c o u l d to stop h i m . W h a t a terrible, costly way o f proving m y m a n h o o d — i n the o l d vernacular, I c o u l d f i nally say I had balls. But

that m y t h cheapens it. O f the hundreds o f letters I received

after the shooting, the one I cherished most came from M i k e ' s sister, who

wrote: " M i c h a e l hasn't talked m u c h to me about what happened

to y'all o n the m o r n i n g o f A p r i l 20. However, from the little he has told me, he believes that y o u r actions saved his life, as w e l l and J o h n

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and David's lives. M a y b e no one w i l l ever k n o w for sure, but I feel so strongly that i f it weren't for y o u , and your selflessness, and your act o f bravery, I wouldn't have an older brother anymore." I can be p r o u d o f what I d i d . That's no sin. Persia Street lay i n a strange part o f t o w n . Its strangeness, D o r o t h y later realized, lay i n the fact that it was so empty. Everywhere else, M e x i c o C i t y imposed a continual crush o f people. O n Persia n o one was home. I saw one store at the next corner, and a couple o f schoolgirls walked past i n blue uniforms, carrying umbrellas and books. B u t all the other doors to the street were locked shut. T w o trucks rested o n the sidewalk i n states o f disrepair, but no mechanics w o r k e d o n them. I asked Jaime, w h o had walked w i t h me, i f this was a dangerous place. H e wagged his hand, the gesture o f màs o menos,

more or less,

not too bad. M o r e dangerous, he said, were barrios to the south. I had come here to find only quiet and the soft rain o n m y face and hair. W h a t I desired most was release. A n d indeed H o n c h o ' s face was fading; I don't k n o w i f I w o u l d recognize h i m i f I walked up to h i m o n the street. There w i l l always be his k i n d , snatching at the thrill o f murder, i n every place o n earth. H o n c h o has no presence i n m y dreams. I've never dreamed about h i m , and I doubt I ever w i l l . B u t I won't forget the faces o f those people w h o came out from their houses, sad and stricken i n the haloed light. I wish they could k n o w that i n time I got up and walked away from his bullet. In m y way I w o n that fight.

P o s t s c r i p t : A Toast

M y thoughts often return to the incredibly peaceful c r o w d D o r o t h y and I saw around the Eiffel Tower the night o f the M i l l e n n i u m celebration, and to m y sense that the security police w h o stayed i n the background, chatting and smoking, were superfluous. Twenty-one months later three airliners crashed into the W o r l d Trade C e n t e r and the Pentagon and a fourth i n Pennsylvania; m y epiphany o f intense optimism was revealed as a fit o f naïveté. A thwarted plot aimed at Los Angeles had indeed been timed for the M i l l e n n i u m , we learned, and fanatics w h o dreamed o f being martyrs had once planned to fly a plane into the Eiffel Tower. N o w w h e n I pass through airports, I surrender the cane I was given by g o o d D a v i d C o u r t n e y so it can be electronically screened as a potential weapon. It might contain a stiletto, a bullet, a capsule o f poison. C a n y o u walk w i t h o u t that, sir? That far, yes, thank y o u . Take your shoes off, sir. N o t perched o n one foot, sorry. Y o u ' l l have to let me sit d o w n . Before the attacks, I c o u l d not remember having heard or read

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the w o r d " h o m e l a n d " applied to the U n i t e d States. O n e might infer that I take this country's blessings for granted, but that's not true; I came o f age i n a place that was reputed, because o f the length o f its A i r Force runways, to be number seven o n the Soviet U n i o n ' s list o f nuclear targets. W e perceive a greater peril now, or at least one that's more intimate. In our grief and paranoia and jingoistic obsession w i t h homeland security—the t e r m a brainchild o f political sloganeers—I wondered i f Jesus Chavez w o u l d have escaped his hole o f immigration law had the I N S reexamined his case after September 11,2001.1 doubt it. People w h o are not b o x i n g fans or members o f m y social circle have often asked: what became o f your friend Jesus? D i d his dreams come true? T h e ephemera o f dreams. O n N o v e m b e r 10, 2001, Jesus finally got his w o r l d title fight against F l o y d Mayweather, Jr. T h e promoters organized the bout i n a San Francisco civic arena named, D o r o t h y and I noted w i t h amusement, for the dour rock impresario B i l l Graham. W e flew out and roved the lovely city w i t h several friends, two o f w h o m added the fight to their h o n e y m o o n itinerary. J o h n Spong hired us a derelict l i m o and droll, streetwise driver. T h e d o w n t o w n arena drew a large crowd, its partisans evenly divided between blacks favoring the undefeated champion and Latinos pulling for the underdog challenger. R e a d i n g a paper that m o r n i n g , I had seen a statistic that w o r r i e d me. Mayweather had a substantial reach advantage, and i f his hand speed was equal to its hype, that could spell trouble for Jesus. D o r o t h y and I had seats o n the end o f a r o w near the ring. D u r i n g the buildup I l o o k e d back and saw Jesus c o m i n g from the dressi n g r o o m . H e walked fast, outdistancing R i c h a r d L o r d and the others i n his small entourage, and he had a l o o k o n his face I had never seen before. H e seemed wild-eyed and dazed. B u t then he swept past us and was up i n the ring, stretching the hinges and tendons o f his jaws

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and d o i n g the b o u n c i n g knee-bends o f his usual routine, as calm as ever. O n c e the fight began he filled the air w i t h punches, averaging a hundred a round. Mayweather counter-punched i n sightly flurries, danced around the spacious r i n g he had demanded, and used his l o n g arms to land punches and score points and i n impressive defense— letting them take a beating but protecting his ribs, midriff, and hips from Jesus's body assault. T h e fight was televised o n H B O , and Mayweather h a m m e d it up. A t one point between rounds he left his stool and c o r n e r m e n and lounged o n the ropes, interpreting his prowess for George Foreman and others i n the H B O crew. Foreman meanwhile raved about Jesus's performance. M i d w a y through the fight, H B O ' s unofficial scorer had it even, then Jesus trailing by a single point, but the judges hired by promoters—who had an investment i n Mayweather's stardom—didn't see the same bout. T h o u g h Jesus seemed to have w o n over the crowd, w h i c h was chanting C H A - V E Z ,

CHA-VEZ,

by the judges'

scorecards he w o u l d have had to k n o c k out the champion to w i n . His punches were slowing d o w n ; more and more l o o p e d w i d e or fell short. Mayweather began to exploit a chronic flaw i n his defense, knifing through his forearms and gloves w i t h uppercuts. H e staggered Jesus toward the end o f a n i n t h round that had been a nonstop brawl. A t the bell the c r o w d gave them a standing ovation. "I'm

cut!" Mayweather yelped o n his stool. " H e cut me!" W i t h a

thumb a cornerman bore d o w n o n a butterfly bandage o n the c h a m pion's eyebrow. Jesus's trainer was again Houston's R o n n i e Shields. He

was the only cornerman allowed inside the ring; R i c h a r d L o r d

could only stick his head through the ropes. " T h r e e - r o u n d fight," he yelled at Jesus, meaning it was d o w n to the practiced length and pace of amateur bouts, nine minutes to let everything go. B u t Shields was saying, "Listen to me, Jesus, are y o u listening to me?" H e said later that his fighter had been taking too many uppercuts. Imposing his w i l l o n Jesus i n a matter o f seconds, Shields then spoke to the referee,

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saying his fighter had had enough. Mayweather w h o o p e d and leaped off his stool, the cut forgotten. R i c h a r d couldn't believe it. N e i t h e r could George Foreman, w h o exclaimed, " A w o r l d championship is o n the line—you've got to let the man fight." T h e c r o w d that seconds earlier had given the boxers a standing ovation raised an angry and jilted h o w l . F r o m a balcony a cup o f beer tumbled end-over-end and splashed into the ring. A t the time I couldn't fault Shields for stopping the fight. B u t only boxers understand the i g n o m i n y o f losing w h i l e sitting o n a stool. Consider the instant shrinkage o f Sonny Liston w h e n he failed to come out for another round against y o u n g Cassius Clay. A l o n g time passed before Jesus stood. F o r the cameras and interviews he burbled g o o d sportsmanship, but then it was over, really over, and he stepped through the ropes and l o o k e d out into the crowd where his family and friends had paid four hundred dollars a seat. H i s face was unbearably sad. H e thought he had let us d o w n . Mayweather had already said he w o u l d give up that title after the fight—he

didn't want to make the 130-pound weight anymore. Jesus

had fought well and had been the W o r l d B o x i n g Council's topranked contender i n that class for nearly four years. In fairness and precedent he deserved to be part o f any fight for the vacated title, but the W B C moved h i m d o w n to number three i n the rankings, behind a T h a i and a Japanese. Jesus parted company w i t h Shields and teamed again w i t h R i c h a r d , k n o c k i n g out M e x i c a n j o u r n e y m e n for little more than his place i n the rankings and Spanish-language T V e x p o sure. F e w o f us i n the g y m thought he w o u l d get a second chance. In the spring o f 2002 m y b o o k came out. I gimped through enough airports and forgot enough friends' names at b o o k signings that I was glad for that tour to end. W e had a party at Austin's storied Continental C l u b , and passably well, I ' m told, I sang an appropriate B o b D y l a n song, " K n o c k i n ' o n Heaven's D o o r , " w i t h M i k e Hall's rock-and-roll band. Those three minutes were a lot more fun than

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any r o u n d o f boxing. O n e more event had been scheduled at a b o o k store i n Austin. Its managers had been generous to me i n the past, and I imposed o n Jesus and M a r c y Garriott to help me depart from the usual dry format. M a r c y 's documentary Split

Decision

had re-

ceived splendid notices and prizes at film festivals i n the U . S . and abroad, and Jesus was still Austin's very popular champ. A newspaper writer gave the signing a plug, and a fair c r o w d showed up. S o o n after I made some opening remarks, a y o u n g w o m a n began firing

questions and remarks o f oddly hostile vein. " I got shot, too,"

she announced, and I smiled and m u r m u r e d sympathetically and i n vited her to share her story w i t h us. A b i g mistake. A s she rambled on, I stammered w i t h discomfort for m y friends and utterly failed the test o f m y leadership skills. A genial dentist interrupted her and rescued me: " I don't want to be rude, but the rest o f us came here to listen to these people, not y o u . " "Oh,

well, excuse

me!" said the troubled soul. She grabbed shop-

p i n g sacks and purse and lurched over people's legs to the aisle and churned around shelves o f books, d o w n the escalator, and out the store, a pair o f flip-flops clopping through our silence like the hooves o f a horse. As I regained composure and went o n I noticed i n the audience a tall, dark-haired y o u n g w o m a n w i t h an exotic cast o f features. A u nissa Strokland's father had been a career officer i n the army; her mother was T h a i . She had a degree i n business from the University of Texas, a j o b managing the office o f an A u s t i n law firm, and a c o m mission as a lieutenant i n the N a t i o n a l Guard. She k n e w n o t h i n g o f boxing, or o f me, but the newspaper i t e m had stirred her curiosity; on impulse she and a friend stopped by. After we finished our remarks I was signing books and glimpsed the w o m a n and Jesus i n the midst o f an animated conversation. She handed h i m something as she said goodbye. Jesus had had girlfriends i n Texas and M e x i c o but none o f his r o -

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mances had been serious since his breakup w i t h Terri Glanger. H e was frank about it, burdened w i t h a k i n d o f regret that took me back thirty-five years. T h e cliche and verity, first love dies hard. N o w as we walked toward our cars he opened and read a small message b o o k that Aunissa Strokland had given h i m . It contained a phone number and an invitation to have lunch. " D a m n , " he said w i t h a selfdeprecating laugh and sudden bounce i n his step. " N o t bad for a beaner from Chicago." A few days after that J o h n Spong raised a weary hand and called hello as Jesus and a tall girl sped past h i m o n a j o g g i n g trail, talking as intendy as they ran. Jesus and Aunissa fell i n love, and they're fond o f saying it never w o u l d have happened i f not for that strange party. I can't think o f a better way to put one's b o o k o n the shelf. B u t there's more to the story. In b o x i n g Jesus persisted. H e regained his number-one ranking, and a promoter's press release announced that i n M a r c h 2003 he would

meet

the

new

champion

from

Thailand, S i r i m o n g k o l

Singmanassuk, w h o had k n o c k e d out the Japanese contender. B u t the T h a i champion hurt his shoulder and had to postpone his first defense. T r y i n g to h o l d a pay-per-view card together, Jesus s p r o m o t ers pressed h i m to take a fight against a popular and colorful e x champion from M e x i c o , Jorge Paez. Jesus was not enthusiastic about a nontitle fight against someone he considered a friend. That bout was canceled w h e n Paez failed a neurological exam. B u t Jesus's relief turned sour w h e n he was ordered o n short notice to fight Carlos Gerena for not m u c h money i n what was n o w billed as an " e l i m i n a t i o n " bout. Gerena was the Puerto R i c a n w h o had w o n a split decision against Jesus i n his fifth pro fight. Gerena had since fought three times for w o r l d titles and lost each time, but only he and Mayweather had wins over Jesus. D u r i n g his exile Jesus had been disappointed w h e n a proposed rematch w i t h Gerena i n M e x i c o had

fallen

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through, but this was different; he had gone from fighting an earned title match against Singmanassuk to being required to prove himself one more time against a dangerous

opponent. A t the g y m he

shrugged and told me was going out to Nevada to "take care o f business," and after enduring some showboating from Gerena and an i l l e gal backhand slap, i n short order he did. O n e o f the state officials j u m p e d o n the apron and ordered the referee to stop it. Evidently the official thought the ref wasn't m o v i n g fast enough, for he didn't just throw i n a towel—he pitched Gerena's stool over the ropes. O n e afternoon that summer o f 2003 I sat beside Aunissa at a press conference i n the A u s t i n convention center. In a m o n t h A u s t i n w o u l d be hosting its first world-title fight. "I don't have any trouble p r o n o u n c i n g S i r i m o n g k o l Singmanassuk's name," Jesus respectfully said o f the champion, w h o was not yet i n Texas. T h e T h a i had w o n titles i n multiple weight divisions and had lost just once but had never fought outside Asia. T h e most money he c o u l d make off this mandatory title defense was from a large live gate i n the challenger's h o m e t o w n and the payout o f a Spanish-language cable network, Telefutura. Aunissa and I were chortling over a story she had told me. L i k e most people w h o were close to Jesus but hadn't come to k n o w h i m through the g y m , she called h i m Gabriel. To Richard's dismay Jesus had taken a break i n his training so he could fly to M o n t a n a for the F o u r t h o f July and meet Aunissa's dad. That m o r n i n g she and the retired soldier went to a supermarket, and he filled the cart w i t h buns and hot dogs. "I said,'Dad, Gabriel can't eat that!' H e was i n training, for heaven's sake, but D a d had no earthly idea what I was talking about. H e said, ' W e l l , gosh, maybe we could get h i m some tortillas?' D a d , " she giggled i n m e r r y recollection."It's not the

bread."

Past a certain point, R i c h a r d was more o f a c o n d i t i o n i n g trainer than one w h o h o n e d the fine points o f boxing. F o r that Jesus brought i n a y o u n g trainer named Flaco Castrejón, w h o m he had

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met w h i l e w o r k i n g i n M e x i c o C i t y w i t h N a c h o Beristain. Jesus w o u l d be speaking English one moment, Spanish the next, but they all agreed that the team approach w o r k e d . To maximize concentrat i o n — o n e hopes not to h o n o r the o l d b o x i n g m y t h requiring chastity before a fight—Jesus left his and Aunissa's apartment and checked into a hotel. Suddenly he was i n an emergency r o o m w i t h soaring fever, intense pain, and deep ugly sores under his a r m and above his hip. Doctors told h i m he'd been bitten by some nasty k i n d o f spider, perhaps a b r o w n recluse. Hastily the hotel found h i m another r o o m . Later, the lab reports revealed that he had contracted an exotic virus from w h i c h several people i n A u s t i n had died. Jesus showed me the wounds a week before the fight, and I didn't believe there was any way they w o u l d heal fast enough. T h e one above the hip was where a left h o o k to the body routinely landed. Singmanassuk's record o f wins and knockouts was almost identical to that o f Jesus, but he was a veteran o f title fights. T h e T h a i had to be extremely confident to ignore a b o o i n g c r o w d and the possibility o f h o m e - c o o k i n g o n the scorecards. I liked the trainer, Flaco, w h o spent his days w o r k i n g i n a rock quarry, and wished m y Spanish was better. I asked h i m i f Jesus was going to w i n . H e cocked an eyebrow and said, " C l a r o que sí!' O f course. F r o m the first seconds Jesus out-jabbed an opponent w h o was younger, taller, and had superior reach. Despite a knee badly injured by a bull that belonged to his grandfather's friend i n Delicias, he had perfected a new trick o f dipping, d u c k i n g and slipping punches, and then springing out o f a crouch as l o w as a baseball catcher's. Jesus and the T h a i traded furious blows through the bell o f one round; as the ref j u m p e d i n Jesus stepped back, put his forearms together, and dipped forward i n a b o w o f T h a i tradition, and he made it seem like a gesture o f honor, not mockery. L i l a had a daughter now, our treasured grandchild Isabelle, and a mortgage, and an outlook toward b o x i n g that was apprehensive at

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best. She and her sister-in-law Casey W i l s o n went to the fight w i t h D o r o t h y and me. N e i t h e r o f the y o u n g mothers had seen a live b o x i n g match before; b o t h were at once caught up i n the electric storm o f this one. J o h n Spong leaned across as the rounds piled up and asked me, "What's happening? H o w s it going?" I replied like someone not wanting to j i n x a no-hitter: " T h e other guy's got to k n o c k h i m out to w i n . " Jesus cut Singmanassuk badly enough that the ref halted the action and called up a doctor to see i f the c h a m p i o n c o u l d continue, and, to an explosive roar i n the hall, Jesus once almost put h i m d o w n . T h e T h a i was game, desperately

fighting

his best r o u n d i n the

twelfth, but the decision was resounding, unanimous, and fair. Jesus's dream o f a w o r l d title came true the night o f August 15, 2003. Dorothy, L i l a , Casey, and I stood out i n the w a r m night w i t h G a r y and Phyllis Cartwright, J o h n Spong and M i k e H a l l and Dave C o u r t ney, and we simply jabbered, k n o w i n g w i t h o u t saying that this was part o f an arc o f delivery from that bleak and bitter street i n M e x i c o City. T h e n came his chance to make the b i g money. Jesus trained for his first title defense against a credible opponent from Africa, but the bout was projected as an A u s t i n celebration o f his perseverance and t r i u m p h . It w o u l d have drawn a b i g crowd. Jesus was sparring w i t h an amateur w h e n the kid's left whanged off his right shoulder. H e dropped to one knee, then lurched through the ropes, and as soon as the gloves were off, w i t h o u t explaining himself to anyone he walked bent over to his truck, headed back to the emergency r o o m . T h e w a r m - u p fight i n A u s t i n was canceled. Jesus stayed away from the k i n d o f doctors w h o might tell h i m he w o u l d have to u n dergo surgery. H e was i n a box because his promoters were saying he either had to surrender his title or defend it soon against E r i k Morales, a marquee figure i n M e x i c o , a two-time w o r l d c h a m p i o n at

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lighter weights, and, according to H B O , one o f the all-time greats. Jesus rested and took care o f his body as he always had—athletically. T h e doctor i n charge o f his recovery was a chiropractor. Jesus and Aunissa bought a house i n the suburbs and doted o n a dog. Jesus hired his friend and sparring partner A r m a n d o Guerrero to paint his living r o o m bright red. In training he felt sound, and everyone w h o watched h i m thought he'd never l o o k e d sharper. B u t he k n e w that title or no title, once more he was the opponent, as he had been against Mayweather, as he had been his w h o l e career. Jesus feared l i t tle, but he was afraid to let that payday pass. I saw h i m at the g y m before he headed out to Vegas, and he said o f the promoters and the Morales camp, w i t h a wistful smile, " T h e y think I ' m gonna be a walk i n the park." D u r i n g Jesus's exile he and Morales had trained for a w h i l e i n the same g y m i n Tijuana. T h e tall, hawk-nosed M e x i c a n and his handlers thought they k n e w Jesus well, especially his habit o f slow starts. Morales believed that he had no heart, and he might get r i d o f h i m early. B u t o n February 29, 2004, Jesus charged out like a racehorse, and Morales was the one backing up. Jesus caught Morales square o n the chin w i t h an arching right; the favorite's knees buckled and he wavered against the ropes, i n a fog. T h e bell rang. Jesus had almost k n o c k e d h i m out. B u t he didn't, and the second round was the other order o f dream—the nightmare, the one worthy o f morphine. A s Mayweather had, Morales took advantage o f the flaw i n Jesus's defense and came through his arms and gloves w i t h a fast right uppercut, sending h i m stumbling across the r i n g before he went d o w n . Jesus sat for a m o ment and w i n k e d at a friend at ringside, then got up and went back to w o r k . H e opened a cut over Morales' s right eye, but then he threw a right to the body. A s doctors explained it later, the damaged tendons and ligaments from the shoulder blew up as his a r m shot out, and the shoulder dislocated, but he landed the punch, and the j a r r i n g

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shock crammed it back i n the socket. A n y o n e should have fainted from the pain. H e fought o n , and late i n the r o u n d Morales caught him

w i t h a second uppercut, this one glancing, but again he went

d o w n . In our l i v i n g r o o m D o r o t h y said, " T h i s is awful. I ' l l never watch this again." Jesus staggered to his corner. H e kept up w i t h the torrent o f Spanish and English from his trainers, but he had no m e m o r y o f the second k n o c k d o w n . Flaco and R i c h a r d spoke o f it i n terms o f the scorecard, and he said, " W h a t second k n o c k d o w n ? " Morales later said he hurt b o t h hands, and he suffered cuts over b o t h eyes. T h e trainers were urging Jesus to bear d o w n o n the bad cut over his right eye, and asking h i m to make the referee and r i n g physician stop the fight. Fight officials k n e w what had happened to his shoulder, that he was fighting w i t h one hand. T h e director o f the Nevada athletic commission circled the ring, trying to determine what was w r o n g . But

incredibly, Morales and his trainers never realized that Jesus was

throwing only lefts because he couldn't use his right arm. A s the fight went o n , Morales's right eye was almost closed. B u t Jesus was also bleeding from a cut under his eye, and whatever the pain i n his hands, Morales was hitting h i m hard. Jesus's w h o l e right side was a sheet o f fire. Between rounds Jesus wondered what was the point. Flaco told h i m , no, he had to finish. Jesus went out i n the twelfth round and threw a right-hand lead that landed, though it had no power. T h e last thirty seconds, a c r o w d o f eight thousand people were o n their feet, screaming. A l l three judges scored it for Morales, though one saw Jesus w i n n i n g five o f the twelve rounds. T h e fighters' power punches, as H B O calculated them, were almost even. Ironically, that loss w o n Jesus respect that had never completely come his way i n b o x i n g . " T h i s wasn't twelve rounds," wrote M i c h a e l Katz o f the New York Times.

"It

was more like twelve reels, the k i n d o f drama that makes b o x i n g movies so popular." T h e next day i n his follow-up piece Katz quoted

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Y o r k fight manager Johnny Bos: " T h a t was one o f the most

courageous performances I've ever seen. That's the k i n d o f thing that gives credence to this game, that makes it worthwhile." Still, Jesus lost. W i t h his younger brother Jaime Sandoval (who is n o w an undefeated pro fighter i n Chicago), Jesus went to the h o s p i tal, not to the press conference or party, and spent a restless night i n his hotel r o o m dosed full o f painkillers. T h e next m o r n i n g at the h o tel was awkward for his family and friends. T h e y gathered to say goodbye before heading off to airports, and he was wearing a sling. Jesus is a bit o f an orator i n his shy way, and as he began they thought he was g o i n g to speak about boxing. Instead he dropped to one knee, pulled an engagement r i n g out o f his sling, and proposed to Aunissa. Almost a year has passed since then. H e had surgery to rebuild his shoulder and repair the knee torn up by the bull i n M e x i c o . H e adjusted to the pace and demands o f physical therapists, not athletic trainers, and fought off bouts o f depression. A n d — i n this often dreadful time we live in—Aunissa's National G u a r d unit got called up. She received orders to go to Iraq. Today she commands a c o m pany o f combat engineers attached to infantry—as lethal an environment as there is o n earth. She and Gabriel, as she calls h i m , had planned to have a traditional T h a i wedding i n a Buddhist temple. B u t there wasn't enough time. O n M a y 9, 2004, the monks instead came to their small suburban house i n Austin. Actually there were two weddings. Texas i m poses some k i n d o f waiting period, so they had flown out to Las Vegas, where Jesus's promoters paid for a ceremony i n one o f those chapels. I watched a tape o f it o n a V C R i n their bright red living r o o m . A s tears o f happiness spilled over Aunissa's cheeks, the m a n i n charge o f her husband's athletic destiny, or at least his contract, sat i n the back o f the r o o m , wearing about as bored a l o o k as I'd ever seen. M y friend is just thirty-two, and his life is i n the sixth reel, to b o r r o w the sportswriter's metaphor. T h e well-liked son o f immigrants, the

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armed robber and hard-time convict, the reborn y o u n g contender, the deportee, the one-fight w o r l d champion, and now, as he puts it, a war g r o o m . In May, 2005, w h e n they w i l l have been married a year, Aunissa is scheduled to come h o m e o n leave for a couple o f weeks, before going back to the M i d d l e East to fight and risk her life again. I f all of Gabriels repairs h o l d up i n training, she w i l l get to see her husband return to the r i n g i n a three-Chavez extravaganza i n Los A n g e l e s — the alleged last fight o f the great M e x i c a n c h a m p i o n Julio C é s a r C h à v e z , the p r i m e - t i m e debut o f his teenaged son o f the same name, and Jesus against Carlos Hernandez i n another twelve-round " e l i m i nation" bout o f 130-pounders. Jesus w i l l have had a forced layoff o f more than a year, and his comeback w i l l be no w a r m - u p fight against a j o u r n e y m a n . T h e C a l ifornian Hernandez is, like Jesus, an e x - c h a m p i o n w h o wants another shot; Latino fight enthusiasts have clamored to see them go at it for years. T h e w i n n e r w i l l meet the victor o f a spring fight between E r i k Morales, w h o recently lost his title to his M e x i c a n rival M a r c o A n t o nio Barrera, and F i l i p i n o national i d o l M a n n y Pacquiao. They've all lost two to four fights now, and they have marketable names and devoted followings. M o s t o f Jesus's friends w h o are m y age w i s h he had retired. I can't help t h i n k i n g o f that night i n A u s t i n w h e n I met tremulous M u h a m m a d A l i , w h o o w n e d the hearts o f the w o r l d but answered the bells too long. B u t w h o o f m y friends c o u l d walk away from a million-dollar payday? W h o are we to say? T h e ups and downs o f Jesus's life are so dizzying that I can only be grateful for the extension o f mine. In the l i v i n g r o o m that Sunday last M a y the newlyweds knelt and the monks chanted. In the ritual, we passed i n front o f a b o w l o f water i n w h i c h floated blossoms that I assumed were lotuses. W e were handed silver cups filled w i t h the water, and we went forward to give them our blessing. T h a t day words failed me. A l l I could think to say was "Godspeed."