The Blues & Billie Armstrong 16
PUT ON THE GLOVES
Previously in The Blues & Billie Armstrong…
The fearsome Craiger Robinson stood at home, glaring and pointing at me with his bat in one hand like Babe Ruth’s famous called shot.
It’s a familiar ritual: each team forms its own single-file line of players, and the two lines move parallel to each other in opposite directions until every player has shaken hands with every one of his opponents.
Good game, everybody says. The ceremony suggests a return to equal footing, bringing the victors down from the clouds and the losers up from the dirt. And this implies a philosophical argument about the limits of sport itself. Shake hands—after all it’s only a game.
As I worked my way down the line, I could see Craiger Robinson shaking hands with my teammates—gruffly perhaps, reluctantly certainly, but dutifully at least, his black eyes mostly cast aside.
When I reached him, I put out my hand and said, “Good game.” He suddenly lunged with both arms straight out, slammed me in the chest and knocked me to the ground. I landed flat on my back, and Craiger straddled my middle and cocked his fist, but Coach Fish showed up in time to grab his arm and drag him off me.
The majority of the bleacher crowd had headed for the parking lot after the final out, but Billie, Alice and Hank had stayed behind and now they all ran onto the field. Alice and Billie helped me to my feet, and Craiger and I were quickly encircled by a ring of riled spectators.
He strained against Coach Fish’s arms, his fists still clenched and a look in his eyes no one had ever shown me before—not simply childish anger or frustration, but a knowing contempt. “You cheated,” he said.
A couple of Craiger’s teammates chimed in, Yeah, that’s right. You cheated.
Even Joey Two-Bits said, “Are you sure that was legal?”
Timmy Bilderback said, “It’s a legal play, check the rulebook.”
“It wasn’t fair!” Eugene said, fighting more tears.
“The ump called you out, it’s over, fatty,” Timmy said.
“I don’t care what the rulebook says,” Craiger said, shaking free of the coach’s hold and pointing at me. “It ain’t right, and this ain’t over.”
“Put on the gloves,” someone said, I’m not sure who, but right away players on both sides joined in. Yeah, put on the gloves. Settle it now. Put on the gloves. Almost a chant.
In those days, an adult-sanctioned boxing match was not an uncommon approach to the frequent disagreements among competitive American boys.
Even at school, teachers were known to move playground shoving matches into the gym to be settled with boxing gloves. Coach Fish always kept a set in one of his equipment bags.
“Well, boys,” the coach said, “you two want to shake hands and call it a day, or should I get the gloves?”
I didn’t say a word. My father had often told me a man has to learn to fight his own battles, but I didn’t want to fight Craiger Robinson, gloves or no gloves, not even if I had a bat and he was empty-handed.
But Craiger said, “Get the gloves.”
Coach Fish looked at me. The Odd Fellows and the Paperboys looked at me. Hank looked at me, and my head seemed to nod on its own. The coach turned toward the dugout.
“That’s right, Bullseye, he ain’t so tough,” Hank said.
But Alice said, “Archer, just go and apologize.” She pushed me lightly on the shoulder, and I took half a step toward Craiger. “Say you’re sorry, shake his hand, and let’s all go home.”
“This is stupid,” Billie said. “What’re you even fighting about?”
“Who the hell is this?” Hank said.
“Hank Timmons, meet Billie Armstrong,” Alice said, and when he wrinkled his brow, she said, “Archer’s new sister.”
“Stepsister,” I mumbled.
Hank ran his eyes up and down Billie. “Oh yeah, I heard. The flower child jailbird.”
Billie imitated his scan and put a hand on her hip, “What’s it to you, soldier boy?”
Hank ignored her. “Look, Bullseye, if you don’t stand up for yourself now, you’ll be an easy target for every bully in town, understand?”
“What’s that, your own personal domino theory?” Billie said.
Timmy said, “Hank’s right, man. You can’t back down.”
Craiger made chicken sounds and flapped his elbows.
“Don’t listen to them, Archer, you don’t have to do this.” Billie said.
Coach Fish waded through the crowd with the boxing gloves in his hands. He locked eyes in turn with both Craiger and me, and said, “Last chance.”
“Jesus! Aren’t you supposed to be the adult around here?” Billie said to the coach.
We both took off our hats and uniform shirts. Me, in my white t-shirt, winter-pale, slender and blinking in the sun. Craiger, shirtless and muscular, a full-blooded Pomo Indian with reddish brown skin dark as Lupoyoma mud, fists balled up in his eyes. He stood in the center of the ring of jostling spectators and held out his hands while the coach laced up the gloves.
“Beat his ass, Craiger,” one of his teammates said.
Fat Eugene said, “You’re dead meat, King. You’re road kill.”
Coach Fish came toward me with the other set of boxing gloves. I didn’t hold out my hands. “What are you waiting for?” Craiger said.
The coach stood in front of me offering the gloves. I still didn’t raise my hands. I lowered my head and focused on the damp green grass at my feet. “It takes a bigger man to walk away,” my mother used to say. But it’s not easy to be the bigger man when you’re the smaller kid.
“He’s afraid,” someone said, and the truth of it cut like a stab wound.
Craiger snorted a laugh.
“Give me the gloves,” I said.
It wasn’t exactly a twelve-rounder.
Coach made us touch gloves, then signaled the bell with a hand motion. Craiger rushed me like a mountain lion and started firing punches in a blur. I tried to cover up but he was so fast. He found holes in my defense over and over and hit me at will—in the eye and the mouth, square in the nose and upside my head. And when he landed a hard right around my belt line, I went down to my knees.
“Give him room!” Hank shouted. “Let him up!”
Craiger backed off a few steps, but I didn’t move. I stayed down, in the fetal position. I groaned and held my hands between my legs.
Hank said, “Low blow, low blow, dammit! You’re okay, Bullseye, shake it off and make him pay.”
“What the hell is wrong with you!” Billie said, and Hank backed up like he’d been slapped. She moved to stand beside me and leaned over with a protective hand on my shoulder.
Coach Fish put his hands out like stop signs. I kept up the groaning. “He’s had enough,” the coach said.
Craiger scoffed and turned away. His teammates attaboyed him and clapped him on the back as he yanked off his gloves and threw them on the grass.
Billie and Alice each took an arm to help me, but I shook them off and struggled to my feet. As the girls unlaced my gloves, I glowered as if still itching for a fight.
“That’s right. Take it like a man.” Hank said.
“Fighting doesn’t make you a man,” Billie said.
“Neither does running away,” Hank said. “Running away is for cowards… and women.” He winked and grinned like he thought he was teasing.
But Billie said, “Wow, thanks for the extra macho on top of your bullshit.”
“And what are you, some commie pacifist women’s libber?” Hank said, still grinning.
“Better than being a trained killer.”
“Whoa, that’s a little harsh,” he said. “But you know what? If it comes to it, I will kill or die for my country.”
“You mean for the politicians and the fat cats.”
“Say what you want, sweetheart. It’s a free country, and we’re fighting to keep it that way.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, with a fake salute.
Coach Fish scooped up Craiger’s gloves from the ground and tugged mine off my hands. He pointed toward Hank and Billie. “Maybe those two should be next.”
The Blues & Billie Armstrong is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance of the fictional characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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