2nd Place

Champ by Tammie Painter

Sometimes the name they give you changes your life. Other times, it rules your life. Oh sure,  if you're born a Hank or George or something common like that, you don't have much to live up to. You're a blank slate as they say. You can go to school, make good grades, and no one’s going to pigeonhole you into becoming a mechanic, a shop clerk, or even a doctor. You're your own man, your destiny hasn't been set by the name your parents placed on your birth certificate. Not so with me. I can't blame my mother, she was pretty weak after enduring ten hours of labor to get me into the world. She’d done her fighting for the day and had no energy left to stage a battle of wills with my father. And so it was my pop — a Frank, in case you were wondering — who told the doctor what name to inscribe on the official document. 

"You sure about that?" the doctor is reported to have asked. 

"Quite. Won't have nothing else for my little man," replied my father who had started a whisky-fueled celebration of my birth the moment someone told him I had crowned. 

The doctor, the same one who would diagnose my father with lung problems in eighteen years’ time, touched his pen to my record of birth. I swear you can see his doubtful hesitancy in the cramped lettering as if he thought maybe if he squeezed the letters tightly enough that somehow someone else could come along and jot down a different name in a bigger, more 

confident script. And the name he wrote in that cramped scrawl? Champ. Not a nickname as in Robert "Champ" Miller, but as in straight-up, no-nickname-needed Champ Miller. Champ Ian Miller, to be exact. 

* * * 

To say my dad was a boxing fan would be like saying the mob was a community protection organization. A vast understatement. My dad could name every fighting champion in every division all the way back to his childhood and relate highlights of each winning round. He had match announcement posters in the basement, he had ticket stubs from the few bouts he could afford to attend, he had a photo album full of boxing clippings and articles from any newspaper he could get his hands on. What he didn't have was any skill in the ring. He tried his best in a few matches at the local gym, but he didn't have a lick of speed (except when it came to naming me apparently) and he didn't have the talent to do much but test out the springiness of the mat when he was knocked down. But, as of that spring day in 1919, he no longer needed to face these humiliations to fulfill his dreams. Because from that day on he had a son to do it for him. A son named Champ. The day I could walk, shoot probably before that if I'm being honest, my dad did everything he could to set me on the path he dreamed of. Where some kids went to pre-school or kindergarten, I trained at Coach’s, the local boxing club, for a year before I ever started school. 

Dad was so convinced I was destined to be a champion boxer he didn't even want to send me to school, but the law and my mother put their feet down on that one. Knowing he had to get up well before dawn to get to work, the night before I was to begin first grade at Baxter Elementary my dad advised me to make the most of my time in school by picking fights whenever possible to "get a bit more practice in." My mom gave him a good scolding over that one. I never understood why my dad had to leave so early for his work at C & R, the local grocery store. After all, the place didn’t open until nine in the morning. Later on I would learn what had him getting up so early and that knowledge would keep me on the course he wanted for me, no matter how much my own desires called out to me. 

Despite my dad’s advice, I didn’t pick fights. Both inside and outside the ring, I played fair and I wasn’t aggressive. With a name like Champ Ian, you’d think I’d have been picked on, but even at a young age I had already gained a reputation for being a natural in the ring. My moves were smooth, my footwork quick, my upper cut effective, and my record of wins nearly unbroken. All this meant no one at Baxter Elementary, or Lincoln High once I got there, was willing to make a fool of themselves by going toe to toe with me. With all my time after school taken up with boxing practice, I didn’t get much of a chance to play games in the street, pull pranks on adults, bother the neighborhood girls, and all that other stuff that cements a boy’s bond with his friends. In fact, other than a few friends who I’d share lunchtime with, I mostly kept to myself and spent a fair amount of my school time with nothing more than a pencil, drawing on whatever paper was at hand. 

And boy, did I love to draw. I loved seeing an image appear where there had been none before. It was like my pencil was a magician’s wand that only I had the power to wield. Sketching came easy and sometimes people don’t enjoy things that come easy to them, but I was forever filled with wonder at transforming a blank piece of paper and a bit of graphite into something special. I don’t know where my boxing talent came from other than a lifetime of training, but my art skills passed into me from my mom who had been an art teacher back before she attached herself to my dad.

As a kid, there were always her left over pencils, paper, charcoal, and blocks of watercolors around the house. I wasn’t allowed near the watercolors, not after I ate a square of vermillion red when I was three, and the charcoals were deemed too messy in an era when a vacuum cleaner was seen as a luxury. But I was given free rein with the pencils. While my pop worked late into the evenings, my mom took this stolen time with me to guide my childish doodles into decent sketches, which soon turned into work that could rival a scene captured in a photograph. My dad didn’t approve. He saw drawing and art as sissy stuff, but really I think he wanted to make sure none of my spare time was given over to anything but training in the ring. If boxing were like a wife, art was like a beautiful woman he wanted to keep me well away from to make sure my head didn’t turn in a wayward direction. Despite his demands that I quit, once when I was about eight or nine years old I thought I could win him over by recreating an image of his favorite fighter from his scrapbook, enlarging it and adding detail. When I presented my work to him, he gave it the briefest glance, produced an annoyed grunt of disapproval, warned me not to do it again in a way that left me shaking in my shoes, then asked me about what Coach had gone over in the gym that day. 

I kept my drawings hidden from him after that, shoving all my work deep under my mattress. I didn’t stop, but I did feel a deep sense of shame, of something being wrong with me every time I put pencil to paper. My father would wallop me if he found out, but I just couldn’t quit. 

* * * 

As my school years droned on, I honestly didn't know I had other options than to be a boxer. So, up until my senior year at Lincoln, I didn't apply myself. I was what most teachers declared "a good kid" but I was never a great student. I did the minimum amount of work needed to pass and to please my mother, but in all honesty I spent most of my class time scratching out pictures with a pencil instead of doing my assignments. A little spark of something ignited in me one day in January of senior year, though. A spark that made me wonder if being a boxer was all I had in me, and then an immediate sense of betrayal slapped its hand over that spark and snuffed it out. That day Mrs. Gardener, my math teacher at Lincoln, caught me sketching when I was supposed to be doing algebra. I expected to be sent straight to the principal’s office. Instead, she walked up to my desk, glanced down at the drawing (a perspective piece of the classroom I’d challenged myself to), cocked her head as if she didn’t know what to make of this very non- algebraic work, then went back to her own desk. When I tried to leave class that day, she asked me to stay behind for a moment. Never a good sign in the world of desks and chalkboards. 

"Let me see what you came up with," she said after I’d stopped in front of her desk. 

"I didn’t get the equation done," I confessed. "I just don’t get—" 

"Champ, did I ask to see your equations?" 

"No, ma’am." I’d spent too long in the ring to hang my head guiltily.

My years of training had taught me to stand tall unless I needed to hunch over to defend myself from a body blow. Mrs. Gardener wasn’t wearing any gloves and I didn’t think her five-foot-two, one-hundred- pound frame could do much harm even if she tried. So, despite the guilt and embarrassment surging through me, I kept my back straight, my shoulders at ease, and my head high as I slipped my sheet from my notebook and held it out to her. She took it. Not snappily as a teacher will do when irritated at your perpetually distracted behavior, but with reverential care like my mom did when pulling a record out of its sleeve. Mrs. Gardener held the drawing at the edges, placed it on her desk and stood up, examined it, then 

looked at me. 

"Did you copy this from something? I mean, is it traced?" 

How could it be? Where would I have even found a drawing of the back of Jimmy Matthews’s head and the chalkboard with the same non-sensical equations we were meant to solve written on it?

I thought this, but said only, "No, it’s my own work, ma’am." 

Mrs. Gardener sat back down and studied me with the same scrutiny she studied the drawing. "What had you planned on doing when you graduate, Champ?" 

"Boxing, of course. What else would I do? I’m not good at school work or any of that, but I can win against even a heavyweight when I’m in the ring." 

"Yes, that’s very impressive," she said in a way that indicated it might be impressive to someone else, but not to her. "But you have a talent here. You do know a career in art is a very respectable type of work, don’t you? Fine art is a tough field, but I’d bet boxing has given you a certain competitiveness that would be an advantage. Or, if you applied yourself to your math, you might become a technical artist. This," she tapped my drawing, "has all the hallmarks of an architectural piece. You know, the sort of drawings done for a client so they can get an idea of what the final project will look like." 

A familiar warm spot bloomed in my chest. It was the same warmth I felt at seven years old when I’d been in my first true match. Dad had gotten me a pair of purple shorts to wear. I thought they were a silly color for a boy, but I also knew they’d been on markdown in the secondhand shop and were all we could afford, so I slipped them on without complaint. In that first match I’d gone up against Cal McLachlan who was two years older and far bigger than me. I was intimidated at first, but by the time we were well into the third round, he’d only touched me with the sloppiest of punches. By the end of that round, I’d knocked him out. 

After Coach raised my arm in victory and declared purple to be my lucky color, my dad had whooped and cheered and thrown his arm around me calling me his Champ. My heart nearly burst with pride. I’d never felt that way with anything else. Certainly not with homework. But Mrs. Gardener’s words, words spoken over one of my sketches, filled me with that same warm feeling as after that first match. A feeling of potential. Of possibility. But then there was my name. I had a destiny and it wasn’t to be found behind an artist’s easel.

"My dad wants me to be a boxer. It’s his dream for me. He’s put a lot into it and I am good at it." 

"That’s all well and good, and I have heard of your abilities in the ring, but you have to decide what you want for yourself. Your dad can’t decide that. Your dad can’t make you live the  life he wanted for himself. It’s not fair to you." Mrs. Gardener paused and shook her head. "I’m sorry. I’ve no right to say such things. Your father is a good man, but there is so much in you I think he’s blind to. You won’t tell him I said that, will you?" 

"No, ma’am. May I go now? I’ve got boxing practice." 

Mrs. Gardener gave a weary sigh and leaned back in her chair. 

"Yes, you may go, Mr. Miller, but may I keep this?" 

"Yes, ma’am, it’s nothing special to me." 

* * * 

A couple days later, Mrs. Gardener again asked to stay after class. One time was no big deal, but twice in one week had my classmates whispering to one another and giving me pitying looks. "I paid attention, ma’am," I said, instantly on the defense. I held up my sheet of paper that showed nothing but algebra’s confounding combination of numbers and letters. 

"Yes, you did quite well today, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. You see, Mr. Gardener teaches over at the Academy Art School. Did you know that?" 

I had no idea women could be married and still be teachers, or be anything for that matter, and I certainly had no notion of her being someone’s wife. When did she find time to cook and clean if she was here trying to teach us math? 

"No, ma’am," is all I said. 

"I showed him your drawing." My cheeks grew as hot as if I’d spent an hour going up against the punching bag. "I know, I should have asked your permission, but I couldn’t resist. He thinks you have real potential. No, he thinks more than that. He said this already shows more skill than some of his third-year students. He’s pretty sure he could get you a scholarship. If you’d be interested, you’d have to apply soon, the closing date is at the end of the month." 

Every summer the city put on a big firework show to celebrate Founding Day. Blasts of color and light you wouldn’t believe. At Mrs. Gardener’s words, something went off in my head that would put that firework display to shame. Me, going to the Academy. Me, becoming an artist. Me, getting paid to draw. Talk about living in a dream. Mrs. Gardener interrupted my thoughts. 

"You would attend the school without any cost. Do you understand, Champ?" 

I did understand, but it was a confused kind of understanding. Why should I want anything for myself? My mom had struggled me into this world, and despite his meager wages, my dad had sacrificed every spare dollar to turn me into a good fighter. As Mrs. Gardener spoke, I did start to wonder what I wanted. I liked boxing, but the very thought of a career where I could draw for a living made my heart skip a little, like it did when I caught a glimpse of Adelaide Murphy walking past the boxing gym. 

Mrs. Gardner’s words nearly convinced me, nearly drew me into the possibility of a different future. Until she said my name. Champ. That was me. I’d been Champ since the first day — shoot, since the first hour — of my life. 

"I understand, but I’ve got to go now if that’s all right." 

"To the gym?" 

"Yes, ma’am." 

Again, she gave that weary sigh of disappointment and I hated myself for letting her down. It was a nice offer, just not one I could take. And part of me hated that. 

* * * 

At Coach’s that afternoon, I donned my latest pair of purple shorts and started in with my usual warm up and shadowboxing routine. I sparred with a few of the younger kids, pulling my punches and letting them get in a few blows just to boost their self-confidence. The whole time all I could think was how bored I was. I’d been doing this very thing for most of my life, the challenge had gone out of it, and a new dream had been kindled in my head. That boredom ended when Cal McLachlan showed up. After our bout eleven years previous, Cal’s dad — a portly bank manager — had removed his son from Coach’s place and signed him up for Gold Medal, a members-only gym with dues that could cover the Miller household’s grocery bills for a month. 

By now, Cal and I were a match for size, but not for personality. Whereas I was easygoing, a clever fighter who Coach said fought first with his head then with his fists, Cal had a reputation as a brawler, one of those fighters who get in as close as possible, pummeling without style and fighting as close to dirty as the refs will allow. The only way you can take down a brawler is to stay out of their grasp and deliver a fast upper cut straight to the jaw, to hit that sweet spot that tips a guy straight back onto the mat in nothing flat. But when someone like Cal is right up next to you, you can’t maneuver enough to get that punch in and you risk being the recipient of one of their crippling body blows. Because Gold Medal boys breathed different air than those of us who trained at Coach’s, I hadn’t met Cal in the ring since I was seven. But a few months previous, Cal’s father had made a few bad choices. He didn’t lose his job, but he did get a demotion and that meant if Cal was going to keep training, he’d had to give up Gold Medal and come back to Coach’s. On the day of Mrs. Gardener’s scholarship offer, Cal had been back at Coach’s for maybe a couple months, but I hadn’t gone up against him. 

With his harsh work schedule eating up his time from sun up to sundown, and most free time spent catching up on sleep, I barely saw my dad. But when he found out Cal had come back, he made sure to sit me down and insist that I didn’t need to risk myself with "some kid who would probably end up an overweight, balding banker by the time he was twenty-five." I didn’t argue with him, he just looked too damn tired and had been carrying around a terrible cough for ages. I never gave him any back talk and always abided by his wishes, hoping it would take the strain off him. But that day I was bored and frustrated. I craved a challenge. Normally, my father turned up at the gym toward the end of my practice and stayed after to "chat with Coach." I suspected they were drinking. Why else would my dad come home so late? However, that day, my dad had stayed home from work, complaining of not feeling well. My mom would have him in bed resting. He certainly wouldn’t be showing up to the gym. So, when matches were being made, I told Coach to put me up against Cal. 

"Yer father ain’t gonna like that, Champ. If you got hurt—" He trailed off. 

"If I’m supposed to do this for a living, I’m going to go up against guys like him, right?" 

"You mean brawlers with chips on their shoulders?" 

"Your words, not mine. What d’ya say?" 

"You just watch yourself. That guy ain’t above giving kidney punches if he gets in close." 

Cal got in close, but as I’ve said, I’m quick on my feet, so he never got in close enough to land those kidney punches. Still, it was exhilarating to fight in a way that bordered on dirty. I felt raw and wild. I almost wanted to take my gloves off and go bare-knuckle against him. I took more hits to my gut that day than any other. Each one only made the fight feel that much more real. Each one filled me with an animal energy that blurred my frustration. Each one forced out a bit of that possibility Mrs. Gardener had woken in me. But for all his Gold Medal training, Cal wasn’t a talented fighter. He was tough and he was brutal, but he was overweight by maybe ten pounds and didn’t have the lightness on his feet I did. He also didn’t fight with his head. He just seemed to throw out punches and hope they’d stick. About halfway through the fifth round, he lunged at me. I sidestepped away, leaving him grabbing for air. When he turned around, my quick jab to his jaw put him down for the count. Before Coach could call the match mine, I extended a hand to help Cal up, but he flicked it away. "I’m not taking help from some janitor’s brat." 

"How hard did I hit you, Cal?" He knew my dad was head clerk at the C & R. 

Cal got to his feet, rubbing his jaw. 

"Cal, that’s enough now," Coach warned. All eyes were on us, they had been since the match had started. 

"Enough what? Truth? That your dad’s so poor he can’t even afford this dump? That Champ here was born to a loser?" Cal spit on the mat, a sin in Coach’s playbook. "Your dad’s gonna come in here after we leave, pull out his bucket, and clean that up. Why do you think your dad always stinks of ammonia?" 

Within my gloves, my fingers were twitching, ready to deliver another blow to Cal’s pasty face. Coach, able to read all his recruits’ body language, moved nearer to my side as if preparing to step between us if needed. 

"My dad does not clean up after you." The words rumbled up from my throat. 

Cal laughed. A wicked, taunting chortle. "He cleans up after all of us. Our nasty towels, the sweat off the mat, the dirt off the floor, and whatever bodily fluids I leave for him to mop up." He shot another hunk of saliva onto the floor.

"Cal, you will get out of my gym right now." 

"I don’t think so, Coach. My father pays good money for my time here. Cash that you desperately need if his reports of your finances are correct." Coach’s face went from a healthy blush to a livid color of crimson that was a close match to the vermillion red watercolor block I’d nibbled on as a kid. "And since my dad’s bank holds the mortgage on this place, it’s kind of like I own it." 

"You do not own it, you little monster." 

Coach could barely get the words out through his fiercely clenched jaw. Cal watched him defiantly. I waited for Coach to order him to leave and never come back, but Coach merely clenched his lips, biting back the words. With a satisfied grin Cal strode over and started in on the speed bag. 

"The rest of you," Coach ordered, "get back to what you were doing or I’ll have you doing push ups for the next hour." The other kids grumbled, but went back to their weights and jump ropes. Coach then directed me into his office and shut the door. "Don’t listen to him, Champ. Cal’s just a spoiled jerk." 

"What did he mean about my dad cleaning up?" 

"I ain’t sure I’m the right person to tell you." I crossed my arms and stared at him. I wasn’t budging. "Fine. Your dad can’t afford the dues, never has been able to, so in exchange for your training, he does cleaning and odds jobs before and sometimes after his shifts at the C & R." 

I didn’t know what to say. Dad had been so tired lately. I just thought he was getting older. Mrs. Gardener’s offer for art school danced into my head, taunting me. How had I been so eager for that? Here my dad had been busting his behind to scrub up after a bunch of kids just to make sure I got the training I needed to become the boxer he wanted me to be. It was a betrayal to have wanted that scholarship in the first place and it’d be a worse betrayal to consider it a moment longer. I gave the dancing thought a mental punch and knocked it out of my head. Or at least into a far corner of the boxing ring in my mind. 

* * * 

After the Cal incident I took more notice of my father. He’d always worn dark circles under his eyes and struggled with never getting enough rest, but his coughing fits that had been the background music of my home for the past several months were growing worse. They’d come on all the sudden, then leave him so haggard and exhausted he could do nothing but slump into his favorite chair. No amount of honey and lemon and hot water could ease them, but Frank Miller insisted it was just the city air, that city dwellers all around the world had coughs, and he continued on with his long, grueling hours. 

This was also around the time I started making the county circuit of boxing matches. At first, these bouts brought some of the thrill of boxing back to me because I was going up against fellows whose styles and signature moves were wholly unfamiliar to me, making each match a challenging surprise. But it didn’t last. I’d been punching and jabbing, ducking and weaving since I could stand, and it all came too easy after only a couple months. Oh sure, I got knocked down several times, but never to the count. I’d even learned to delay getting up just to give the audience that much more of a nail-biting show. With every win I gained confidence. With every win I gained a reputation as Champ. And with every win my father glowed over my success. But these wins didn’t stop his coughing fits. That spring, around the time of my birthday, a fit hit him so hard he ended up with a set of bruised ribs. My dad protested like cat being given a bath, but the sight of those bruises, similar to the ones I sometimes came home with, had my mom calling in the doctor. 

"There’s no two ways around it, Frank," the doc said. "It’s your lungs." 

"Then prescribe me one of those tonics. I’ll be right as rain by the last drop." 

The doc did prescribe a round of Martin’s Elixir, but did it with an attitude that he wasmerely indulging a patient’s whims. Once he’d packed his stethoscope into his sturdy, black bag, I offered to walk the doc out. 

"Is it bad, Doc?" I asked once we got to the corner. "Tell me the truth." 

"I wasn’t lying. It’s his lungs, Champ. There’s ideas going around that smoking might be bad for some people," he told me as he took a drag on the cigarette he’d just lit. 

"But he doesn’t smoke," I said with confidence. "Mom said he’d maybe had a few back when he was a teenager, but the habit never stuck." 

The doc took another pull on his cigarette, his eyes drifting off like he was trying to recall a bit of information. 

"I’ve seen something similar in men who work in chemical plants. Your dad working around anything foul like that?" 

"Dad’s a grocer. You know that well enough. The worst he inhales comes from the fishdepartment." 

"It doesn’t have to be in a factory, even cleaning solutions can get to a person if a room’s not ventilated enough. Which makes me wonder what your father’s been using on the produce," he said with a chuckle. 

I didn’t smile. Cal’s words came back to me. My dad had been scrubbing up after us for years. Ammonia for the floors, lye for the laundry. How many different fumes had he been hovering over in the cramped confines of the locker room? 

"What’s gonna happen to him?" 

"Unless he gets more fresh air, the damage is only going to get worse. I’ll be honest with you, it could kill him. His lungs aren’t able to process oxygen as well as they should. One day he’ll have a coughing fit that’ll be too much." He paused, perhaps realizing how grim that sounded, then hastily added, "But that’s quite some time off. Martin’s Elixir should give him a boost." 

I didn’t ask how much time. I didn’t want to know. 

* * * 

It wasn’t long after the bad news of the doc’s diagnosis that good news came to balance it out. For my birthday, I got the gift of learning that Cal’s dad had weaseled his way back into his banker bosses’ good graces. This meant a return to his previous income. Making as big a show of it as possible, he strode into Coach’s and told Cal to leave us "poor losers" for good. Cal wore a grin like a cat who’s just eaten your entire trout supper when your back was turned. He shoved the kid he’d been sparring with, knocking the unsuspecting youngster on his behind, grabbed up his bag, and strode toward the door. To no one’s surprise, before he left he showed me his middle finger and spit for the final time on Coach’s floor. I became a little obsessed with Cal after he left. I soon learned he had returned to Gold Medal. I also learned he was making the fighting circuit. I know it’s petty of me, but I couldn’t help but gloat over his many losses. And boy, did he lose. He managed to win a match or two, but Coach said it was only by his dad bribing the organizers to let Cal into a lighter weight division. Cal could then get in close and use his brawler style to pummel a smaller guy into submission. Coach did everything to schedule me well away from Cal, but something inside of me wanted to fight him again. 

Along with this new petty behavior came a dose of bitterness. By my final months of high school, boxing was giving me no joy, but since my wins seemed to be the only thing my dad looked forward to, the only thing that gave him a charge of energy, I kept at it. He was too tired to attend most of my bouts, but he’d be eagerly waiting when I got home and, for days afterward, the good news would keep him on a high better than anything Martin’s Elixir could offer. Still, as graduation neared, the coughing continued, my winning streak continued, and my secret desire continued. 

After the matches, after delivering my news, I’d scuttle up to my room with my cheeks throbbing from whatever jabs I’d taken and my ribs aching from dead-on body blows. I’d then lose myself in drawing. It eased the pain, but it also tore me to bits. Like a drunkard who can’t help but take just one more pull on the jug, every time I pulled out paper and pencil I told myself this drawing would be the last, that I could stop at any time. But I couldn’t. Like the relief men got from the bottle, these moments of turning pencil dust into portraits or perspectives, soothed me like nothing else. All my physical woes vanished as a still life of my gloves and gear, an audience’s perspective view of the ring, or a portrait of my father as a young man took shape. It was only after my matches when I felt like I was truly winning. With every mark that appeared on the sheet before me, Mrs. Gardener’s praise rang through my head. I could become an artist. I could have this happiness for a career. But just as these notions gained a bit of traction, I shoved them aside. I was born to be Champ. 

Ever since his demand that I quit drawing, I’d never let my dad see any of my artwork. Years of sketches were now stashed under my mattress. Every now and then, just to clear out some space, I’d tuck one into my mom’s current ladies’ magazine, I’d anonymously leave them in diners, and I’d even pin them up on telephone polls just to share them with someone, but I never signed my name. It’s not what I was born for. I hadn’t been named Rembrandt. I’d been named Champ. 

* * * 

A couple weeks before my high school graduation, Coach was in a foul mood and made us run laps around the block to get us out of his sight. He wasn’t normally grumpy, so we knew it had to be serious and we took off without question. When we got back, Coach was in a better mood and pulled me aside. 

"I got a match arranged for you this weekend. Now, I don’t usually wager on these things, but this one has some great odds. Do you think you’ll win?" 

I told him I would. Why wouldn’t I? I’d never lost a match, but my assurance didn’t ease the tension in Coach’s shoulders. He gave me some drills to do, then told me to go clean up. My gut dropped when I stepped into the changing room. See, even with giving away some of my drawings, the hiding spot under my mattress had become overstuffed. Rather than throw any piece into the bin where my dad might find it, I’d bought a heavy-duty, oversized envelope, big enough to hold a Life magazine, and slipped all my best work into it. The envelope fit perfectly into my gym bag, which I kept zipped up and stashed in my locker at Coach’s. Now, my bag gaped open. The envelope had been rifled through. 

"Coach, who’s been in here?" 

"Your dad came in and took some petty cash to buy some cleaning supplies, but that’s it." 

"Did he leave with anything?" I asked as a rubbery feeling crept into my knees. 

"Don’t know, Champ, I was on the phone arranging your fight." Coach knew what I kept in that bag. He’d been the recipient of some of my work and had a couple pieces hanging in his office. One day, in one of those moments when you just can’t keep a secret any longer, I told Coach about Mrs. Gardener’s offer. He made sure to tell me in no uncertain terms that I was fool for not taking her up on it, for letting such a chance pass me by, but never mentioned it again. 

"Why don’t you just show him your work? He’d have to be proud of it." 

"No, he wouldn’t. It’s not what he wants for me." 

"What do you want for you, kid? You got a choice, you know." He then caught himself. "Just don’t make that choice until after this next fight, okay?" 

"I want to box. That’s my choice," I said, but the words didn’t have much conviction. 

Don’t get me wrong, Coach’s place was like my second home, and despite my grumblings, I did enjoy the physicality of training and the thrill of each match, but I wasn’t even a full year into doing these semi-pro fights and already my body was feeling the abuse. It helped that I was light on my feet and could dodge most of the worst attacks, but that only made the other guy wallop me harder when he could reach me. When I went to bed at night, some of those wallops wailed loud enough to keep me awake. I wanted to train, I wanted to spar, but I wondered in what condition I’d be after just a couple years of fighting, let alone after making a career of it. 

"If you say so, kid." 

* * * 

The venue for my last match before I’d graduate was in a part of the county the people in my neighborhood called The Ritz. This was where the wealthy lived. Whether that money was new or old, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that you had it and you flaunted it for all your neighbors to see. I’d always thought a boxing ring was a boxing ring, but when I showed up to this match I sensed something different. First off, the place was clean, cleaner than some of the restaurants in my neighborhood, that’s for sure. Then there were the men. They wore crisp, expensive suits that reminded me of what you might wear to a funeral. I never felt more out of place in my latest pair of secondhand purple shorts. Even the ref, who I noticed chatting with three men in the front row, was clean and crisp. Most refs I’d seen looked like they just got off work at a job that required a fair bit of manual labor. They wore cotton t-shirts tucked into black pants that needed dyed, washed, mended, or all of the above. This ref, slim with tidy, grey hair, sported a bright white shirt and newly pressed tan slacks. He looked more like he was ready for a Sunday outing than for a boxing match. The whole scene had been painted with more money than I could ever imagine. 

"Champ, can I talk to you for a minute?" 

I jogged up to Coach, shaking my shoulders to keep them loose as my feet whispered across the floor. 

"What’s up, Coach?" 

"Look kid, I got a bet riding on this." 

"A lot of people do," I said with a laugh. Betting was illegal, but that never stopped anyone. 

"And there’s some serious guys backing me up on it, if you get my drift." Coach tilted his head and over his shoulder I saw a trio of men in dark suits, the same ones the ref had been speaking with. My grin dropped into the hole that had formed in my gut. When my eyes met Coach’s, he gave an apologetic shrug. "You remember that first time you knocked Cal out? You must have been seven or so." I nodded. "Cal’s dad sued me for his kid getting injured." 

"I was smaller than him. I only bruised him at worse." 

"Regardless. He had money for lawyers. I didn’t. Enough said. When Cal’s dad sued me, I had to turn to other sources for money to settle the matter. They’re good guys, really. As long as you pay up." 

I’d heard of too many people in our neighborhood losing their homes or businesses or worse when they couldn’t pay off guys like the ones who Coach was dealing with. 

"Is the gym in trouble? Are you in trouble?" I asked in a whisper. 

"Oh no, nothing like that. I always make my pay, that’s never been a problem. But see, these guys like money. I know, who doesn’t?" He grinned as he made this quip. I didn’t smile back. 

"Anyway, they’ve encouraged me to place a bet on the fight and they’re making the same bet. A very lucrative bet and one that you’ll get a split of." 

"I’ll get the prize money for winning, that’s more than enough for me." 

"No, Champ, you don’t get it. This ain’t twenty bucks. Your cut would be close to twenty Benjamins." 

"Two thousand?" 

My head spun as if I’d been walloped by a three-hundred-pound brute. I couldn’t help it. Like a photographer’s bulb flashing in my eyes, an image of me striding into art school popped into my head. It was a dream I thought I’d stopped having long ago, back when I turned down the scholarship from Mrs. Gardener, but it had always been picking at me. It hadn’t gone away. A chance to get out of the neighborhood, a chance for a life other than punching and getting punched. A chance at a career that didn’t leave me with aches and pains at the end of the day. A chance to use a talent that had nothing to do with my name. 

"I’m not the best at math, Coach, but I don’t see how you can get that with my odds. They’re fully in my favor." 

"We aren’t betting on you to win." 

Coach held my gaze. He didn’t blink. He didn’t change his expression. He just watched as I came to the realization that betting on me might win you an okay pot, but it wasn’t going to pad your wallet all that much. I’d gotten too good. I didn’t lose. I gave a good show, but I was Champ. I lived up to my name.

"You want me to throw the match?" I whispered and darted a glance at the crowd, at my dad. 

Under the spell of Martin’s Elixir, he had been doing better in the past weeks, and Coach, or perhaps Coach’s business associates, had gotten him a seat in the third row. It was the first of my matches he’d attended in months. "Does my dad know about this?" 

"Think about it, Champ. I ain’t being greedy here. I’m thinking of you. You got a chance to get a different life. In boxing, you got maybe five more years, eight if you’re lucky, before you’re going to be worn out. Then you turn into me: in debt to some goons and betting against a kid who you think of as your son. That ain’t gonna happen if you make a life with those pencils of yours."

My throat clenched. I suppose I hadn’t thought of it until that moment, but I had spent more of my youth with Coach than with my father. And why was that? Because my dad had been busting extra hours so I could spend time at Coach’s, so I could become what my dad wanted me to be, so I could live the dreams he carried in his core. 

"I don’t need this now. I got the match." 

"I know, I’m sorry. I just, if you could maybe—" 

"I can’t. My dad’s sick. If I lost it’d probably kill him." 

"I understand." He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. "You’re a good kid, Champ." I didn’t feel good. I felt like a real heel. When I climbed into the ring, I barely heard the announcer calling my name and only knew he did so by the rumble of cheers vibrating up through the mat and into my legs. I was in such a daze that I didn’t even realize who my opponent was until the ref called out a name that churned up a gallon of bile in my gut. 

Cal McLachlan. 

My head jerked up. He wore ridiculously small, turquoise shorts with matching shoes, but he looked fit, he looked lean, he looked comfortable in this ring. And why wouldn’t he? This was the nearest venue to Gold Medal. This probably wasn’t his first bout here. I fought down my childish rivalry with Cal. I needed to get my head into the fight. This couldn’t be a frustrated brawl like when I last went up against him. I had to keep calm. When I met the ref and Cal in the center of the ring, all that ran through my head was that I had to win this for my dad. He was already on the mend. A win would leave him so happy it’d guarantee his recovery. But pushing its way like an aggressive shopper going after a bargain, came thoughts of art school. Of getting paid to do something I enjoyed, something I loved. No, I couldn’t think like that. I had to win. I had to be Champ. At the ref’s call, I tapped my opponent’s gloves and the bell signaled the start of round one. It didn’t take a genius to know the people watching had paid a fair number of pennies to see a good show, so even though Cal left himself wide open right at the start, I didn’t take the shot. Instead, I delivered a few quick punches, not even hard enough to push him off balance, just enough to give the crowd a little excitement. That was a mistake. Cal, still fighting the same as he always had, closed in and walloped me with five hard jabs to the gut. He winded me and he relished it. I won’t repeat what he said, but let’s just say that rich boy knew some dirty insults. I got my breath back and managed to keep my distance most of the first few rounds, but Cal was getting under my skin. And that was my second mistake. I was getting angry. I was smart, I was controlled, I never got angry in the ring. But Cal’s taunts, the bet, and the knowledge I was going to leave someone disappointed no matter what I did all swelled in me and left no room for calm control. 

I delivered a number of sloppy punches to Cal’s face and gut, receiving some pretty vicious boos from the crowd with each one. Even if they hadn’t watched me fight before, these people knew me by reputation. They expected to see a graceful boxer and they were getting a grouchy kid instead. 

When the bell rang on the fourth round, I shrugged off Coach’s attention and his advice to keep my cool. He wanted me to lose, but he didn’t want me to act like a loser. My ribs ached from Cal’s close-in blows, my kidneys felt like they were the size of footballs, and my head was full of the knowledge that I wanted to see Cal knocked down and out for the count in the next 

round. Hell, my organs couldn’t take any more of his abuse. I cleared my head. If I fought stupid, I was going to lose. Sure, the money would be nice and realizing my own dream would be incredible, but I had to win this. For my dad and for my own pride. Cal would be nothing but a sore winner and I’d never hear the end of it. I shook out my shoulders, and at the clang of the bell, I jumped up to start the fifth round. The people had had enough of a show. It was time to bring this to an end. I danced my way into the center of the ring, dodging Cal’s thuggish throws without any problem. My footwork was still miles beyond what his would ever be. For the first time in the match, I started to relax. I started using my head. And that was mistake number three. Without anger and irritation blocking my thoughts, my mind wandered back to Coach’s bet. If it were anyone other than Cal, I would throw the match. As I skirted my way around the ring, so did my thoughts circle back around. Art school. A chance at something more. My dad would get over the loss. I could win the next one for him. But if I lost, would he live to see the next one? Before I knew it, Cal was on me. Damn it. I hadn’t meant for him to come in close again. My already throbbing torso took several sharp blows, but I pushed him off and skirted away. I then jogged back in, threw a punch to his face, and ducked and sidestepped before he could close the gap.  

I was back in the game. Cal had never had much stamina and he was wearing out. Sweat cascaded from his forehead like a human version of Niagara. He was also being lazy about keeping his fists in position, holding them down level with his chest, not up where they could easily protect his chin. The end was coming, my win was coming, and from the frustrated look in his eye, I think Cal knew it. Someone coughed in the audience. Amongst all the cheers and jeers, that cough chased its way into my ears. It was a fierce, grating hack followed by a whooping rattle that sounded like it came from some place deep inside that doctors didn’t even have a name for. It was a familiar cough. Dad was having one of his attacks. But this was worse than I’d heard before and, keeping Cal’s position in the corner of my eye, I dared a glance toward my dad. Although clutching his chest with one hand, he waved glibly at me, indicating he was fine. I nodded just as Cal lunged at me. I’d seen it coming from a mile away and bobbed away from his clumsy attack then gave him a good jab to the sternum. The cough came again. This was different. Deeper, raspier, more desperate. Cal was on the move and he was furious. This was no time to lose sight of him to check on my dad. Then came the sound of someone fighting for air. Instinct, emotion, whatever you want to call it took hold and yanked my attention away. 

I didn’t see my dad. I didn’t see anything. Cal had gotten too close. My feet tried to move me out of his way, but a flash of blinding pain crashed into my jaw. Suddenly, the mat was caressing my cheek. His hit didn’t knock me out, but nearly so. I couldn’t lose this. I had to be Champ. Dad will be okay if I just get up and win this for him. How horrible would it be if his last sight on this earth was of his Champ, his life’s work, flat out on the mat, bested by a brutish brat. 

The ref counted as I pushed myself up to all fours. The ref counted, but my head sagged between my shoulders. The ref counted as my vision swam. The ref counted. My legs were itching to get up for another five rounds if need be, but my head had grown as heavy as the gym’s medicine ball. 

Then the ref stopped counting. 

And for some reason, even though my knees and elbows were still on the mat, the ref was announcing the winner. He had the name wrong. Cal couldn’t be the champion. I was Champ. Coach got down beside me, asking if I was okay. I was fine. My head was spinning and confused, but I was okay. He helped me to my feet and leaned in close. 

"That was the best throw I ever saw," he whispered in my still ringing ear. "You got some acting skills in there, Champ." 

"I didn’t throw it. Dad’s going to be—" My head burst with sudden clarity. "My dad, is he all right?" 

"He’s right here, Champ," Coach said as if nothing could be more natural than a man who’d sounded like he was at death’s door only a minute ago to be by his losing son’s side. I couldn’t meet my father’s eyes. I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in them. He’d given up hours of his life, worked to the point of exhaustion, ruined his health, and I’d let him 

down. When he clapped me on the shoulder, I looked up. He was perfectly fine. All trace of his cough had vanished. Normally his fits left him weak and wan, but despite his attack and my loss, his cheeks were lively and his eyes shone with a vibrance I’d never seen before. 

"I thought you were—" I couldn’t say the words. The mere thought of my dad dying was too hard for me to speak. 

My dad pulled a sheet from the inner pocket of his jacket. Even before he unfolded it, I recognized the paper as being the same stuff I used for sketching. My gut sank. I lost the match and now I was going to have to explain this. He unfolded the drawing. It was one I’d done of him as a young man, one that had been in that envelope in my gym bag. 

"I may not look like this, but I’m not dying for a long while." He took a deep breath as if showing off how well he was doing. I glanced between him and Coach. Both their eyes sparkled with a devilish hint of mischief.

"Enjoy art school, Champ." 

This was the 2nd place entry for the 2020 Writing Competition