The Power of One (39 page)

Doc could hardly contain himself. “Not even one scratch, black eyes not even one. Perfect, you should play Chopin so good as this,
jaV
He laughed and handed me a towel. “Lieutenant Smit says you must have a shower and change into your clothes again. Tonight six o'clock we fight again.” He suddenly grew silent. “Peekay, in the finals is a big Boer. You must dance very goot, in him is too much Wagner. You must box like a Mozart piano concerto, fast and light with perfect timing,
jaV

Doc found a small antechamber leading off the corridor in which there was a leather couch. After lunch he made me lie down. I was anxious to watch the adult preliminary fights and succumbed with an ill grace. Despite the heat he threw a prison blanket over me, and to my surprise I fell asleep. It was five o'clock when he came to fetch me, and I felt a little stiff and sore. He made me have a warm shower before I changed into my boxing things again. By the time we got back into the town hall it was almost six o'clock and the preliminaries were over. Bokkie de Beer said five of the Barberton Blues were through to the finals, including Gert, who had had an easy and a hard fight but was okay. That made nine of the fourteen Barberton Blues in the finals. I went over to Gert to congratulate him, and he seemed pleased.

“Ag,
it wasn't too hard, Peekay. I think I got lucky. But like you, man, I got a Boer in the finals that's as big as a mountain, a super heavyweight. He won both his fights on knockouts in the first.”

“You got the speed, speed is everything,” I quoted Geel Piet.

“Not if he gets me in a corner,” Gert said solemnly.

“Then stay out of corners, man!” I said flippantly. But the advice was meant as much for myself as it was for him.

“You on soon, I've got my money on you, Peekay. You can do it, Fm telling you.” But I could hear him talking in his head, and he was very, very worried about me.

Fonnie Kruger came over and said that Lieutenant Smit wanted me.

Lieutenant Smit and Klipkop were in earnest conversation with Meneer de Klerk and seemed not to notice my arrival. I stood and waited for them.

“The Boer kid has thirty, maybe forty pounds on yours. I don't like it. I don't like it one bit,” the referee was saying, shaking his head.

“You saw him in the other two fights. He hardly got touched, our kid's a good boxer,” Klipkop said.

“He's better than that. He's the best I've seen in a long time. But he's a midget compared to Kroon. Kroon dropped both his opponents in the first. That's a bad kid. I work with young boxers every day. I'm telling you, this kid is not a sportsman.” Meneer de Klerk threw his hands open in a gesture of conciliation. “There's plenty of time, he's only ten. Let the boy grow a bit, wait till next year. He's champion material, too good to spoil with a mismatch.”

I could see a hesitant look cross Lieutenant Smit's face. The voices going on inside his head were confused. My heart was going
boom, boom, boom
and I couldn't swallow; there was a huge, aching lump in my throat. Then he cocked his head and squinted at the bald referee. “I make you this promise, Meneer de Klerk. If my boy even looks like being hurt, we throw in the towel. You don't know Peekay. That kid has worked three years for this fight. In three years he hasn't missed one training session. For two years he just fought the bag and the ball. I can't pull him out without giving him a chance.”

“I'll give him one round, Smit. If he even looks like being hit in the first round, I'm giving the fight to Kroon on a TKO, you understand?”

Lieutenant Smit nodded.
“Ja,
okay, you the ref, man.” He turned and saw me and I grinned at him as though to indicate I'd just arrived. They had to give me a go. I had to fight Kroon. Kroon was no bigger to me than Jackhammer Smit was to Hoppie. I could take him, I knew I could take him. “We got to glove up now, Peekay,” Lieutenant Smit said as he took a glove from Klipkop and slipped it over my left hand.

I climbed into the ring and sat on the little stool. Killer Kroon also sat on his. When he sat down he didn't look as though he was on the potty. He stared directly at me. Shit, he was big! He had a grin on his face, and I could hear his conversation to himself:
Fm going to knock this little bugger out first round.
“You got to catch me first, you bastard,” I said to myself. But I could feel his hugeness growing and beginning to fill the ring.

With the arrival of the townspeople for the finals, the town hall was at least half full. I had looked down on a bigger crowd when I played Chopin at the Barberton concert, but a boxing crowd is different, much more raw or something. I remembered Doc's words, “You must box like a Mozart piano concerto.” In my head I could hear the way Doc would play a Mozart concerto, no arpeggio, fast and straight, the timing perfect. It made sense to box Killer Kroon in the same way.

“Never mind his head, Peekay. You just keep landing them to the body. Quick punches in and out with both hands. Scoring shots. Stay out of reach and don't let him get you against the ropes, not even once. You box him in the middle of the ring. Make him work, make him chase you all the time, you hear?”

I listened to them carefully, but I knew the real answer came from Geel Piet. That I had to box with my feet. I had no idea what sort of a boxer Killer Kroon was. His first opponent had lasted less than a minute, and Fonnie had gone down a few seconds into the second round but had spent all of the first backpedaling.

As I just sat there waiting, Kroon stared at me with an evil grin, and I began to feel very small and a little bewildered. The feeling of being in front of the Judge came back to me and the ring became the dormitory and the audience the jury.

I closed my eyes and counted from ten to one. I stood on a rock just below the full moon, the roar of the falls in my ears. The river and the gorge and the African veld stretched out below me in the silver light. I was a young Zulu warrior who had killed his first lion and I could feel the lion-skin skirt around my hips, the tail of the lion wrapped around my waist. I took a deep breath and jumped the first of the falls into a pool lashed with white spray and thunder, rose to the surface and was swept to the rim of the second, plunged downward and rose again to be swept to the edge of the third pool where I fell again, rising to the surface at the bottom of the falls where the water danced with silver and the first of the stepping-stones shone wet in the moonlight. I crossed the ten stones to the other side, opened my eyes, and looked directly at Kroon. Killer Kroon saw something in my eyes that made him turn away and not look at me again.

The referee called us up, and, taking us each by the wrist, he held our hands in the air, introducing me first. “On my left,
dames en here
. . . Gentleman Peekay of the Barberton Blues.” The crowd gave me a big hand, although this was mixed with laughter as they saw my size next to Killer Kroon. “On my right, from Lydenburg, Martinus Kroon.” The crowd had already chosen sides, and with the exception of the Lydenburg squad the clapping was only polite.

I went back and sat on my stool. It was the first fight of the finals, and anticipation made the crowd enthusiastic even though it was the most junior fight of the night.

The bell went for the first round and I sprang from my stool, while Killer Kroon got up slowly, almost disdainfully. We moved to the center of the ring, and he threw a left at my head, which came up only to below his shoulder. I could see it coming for miles and let it pass my ear. He followed with a right and I ducked under the punch. It was almost the same opening Du Toit had used, and I followed it the same way with a left and a right under Kroon's heart. I got some body behind the two punches, which I drove in hard, but he didn't even seem to notice. I danced quickly out of the way, and a clumsy uppercut with his left missed my chin by six inches. The crowd winced at the ferocity of the punch, even though it was all show and no blow.

I stayed in the center of the ring, moving around Kroon, who threw four more punches and missed. He threw another right which parted my hair, but the punch was too hard and threw him off balance. I moved in fast and hit the same spot under the heart with a left-right combination which I repeated. Four good short punches with plenty of shoulder behind them. But I'd been too greedy getting the extra two punches home. His huge arms locked around me and, lifting me bodily, he threw me away from him. I was sent spinning across the ring, my legs working like pistons to keep me on my feet. I bounced into the ropes and grabbed the middle one with both arms to steady myself. I was wide open as the straight right came at me. It should have been an uppercut. I was against the ropes and would not have been able to move out of the way of a punch coming up at me. To put everything he had into the punch, Killer Kroon had pulled his shoulder back just a fraction too far. It allowed me a split second to move my head to the right. Instead of sending me bye-bye birdie, the blow caught my ear and it felt like a branding iron had been pushed into the side of my head. But I'd taken worse from the Judge and I feinted left and moved off the ropes under his right arm. He turned quickly, but my feet were already in position and he walked into a perfectly timed right cross that came at him with the full weight of my body behind it. The punch landed flush on the point of his chin, and his head snapped back. I knew I had hurt him. It was the best punch I had ever thrown by far. Gert said later that had I been nearer to Killer Kroon's size, he'd have been out for a week.

Kroon shook his head in bewilderment. He was hurt and he was mad, and he came looking for me. I stayed out of his way, taking a straight left on the shoulder moving away, and managed two more good punches to the spot under his heart when he telegraphed another right cross. The spot under his heart had developed a red patch. The bell went for the end of round one, and as I returned to my corner I could see a grin on Meneer de Klerk's face.

Doc was standing outside the ring in my corner as Lieutenant Smit and Klipkop climbed in to attend to me. He had his bandanna in both hands and was twisting it round and round with the tears rolling down his cheeks.

“You done good,” Klipkop said with a huge grin. Lieutenant Smit said nothing at first but smeared Vaseline over the ear where Kroon had glanced his big hit off me. He covered my good ear with his hand.

“Can you hear me, Peekay?” He spoke from the side I'd been hit.

“Ja,
Lieutenant, I hear you good,” I replied.

“If a thick ear is all we get out of this fight, we'll be blery lucky.” He turned to Klipkop. “Give him another half glass of water. Rinse only, don't swallow.” He looked directly at me. “Now, listen good, Peekay. It looks like this gorilla's only got four punches. Straight right, straight left, right cross, and left uppercut. He's a fighter, and he's never needed any more than those, every one is a good punch and he throws them well, except the left uppercut is a bit clumsy and he tries to hit too hard with the right cross so you can see it coming. You done good to move under it and hit him under the heart. That's a damn good punch. He's very strong, but if you can get in enough of those they're going to count in the end and you'll slow him down for the third. Keep moving, you must keep moving, you hear? Make him work. He's not as fit as you, make him work and keep hitting him on that spot under the heart, okay?”

I had never heard Lieutenant Smit talk so fast, and, listening to what he wasn't saying, I could see he now thought I had a chance. “No more attack, counterpunch, you hear? Only counterpunch.” I nodded and the bell went for the second round.

Kroon came storming out of his corner, and I could see from the look in his eyes that he wanted to finish the fight. For the first half of the round I ducked and weaved and backpedaled and moved him around. He must have thrown fifty punches without landing even one. The crowd was beginning to laugh as he repeatedly missed, and he was becoming frustrated. Toward the second half of the round he slowed down just a little and his right cross wasn't coming quite so fast. He was breathing heavily, and to my surprise I could smell his sweat. A kid's sweat doesn't smell until he's about Bokkie de Beer's size, but I could smell Killer Kroon's sweat all right, plain as anything. I moved up a little closer and started coming in under the right cross again, to land on the same spot under the heart time and time again. I couldn't believe his lack of imagination. The right cross came at me regular as clockwork and I moved under it and landed two and sometimes four punches to the spot under his heart. His breathing was getting heavier and heavier and he grunted as I landed a left and a right, and I realized that my punches to the heart were beginning to hurt him. I was getting pretty tired myself when the bell sounded for the end of the second round.

The crowd stood up and clapped. As I returned to my corner, I looked toward Doc. He had his bandanna in his mouth and was chewing on it.

“He's going to try and finish you this round, Peekay. You got both rounds, you miles ahead on points. He is going to try to put you down.” Lieutenant Smit's usually calm voice was gone, and he was breathing hard. “Stay away, man. I don't care if you don't land a blery punch, just run away, keep clear, you hear? Keep clear, you got this fight won.
Magtig!
You boxing good!” His eyes were shining as he spoke.