flashquake Editor's Pick
Debi Orton

Ducking and Diving
by Andy Oldfield

The voice in this story was very unique, very genuine. The story is an old one, but it's told in such an entertaining way that I couldn't help but love it. And using the grub as the metaphor for the promoter is a great touch.

That white boy's not as white as the dots in front of me eyes. Right hook wasn't in the plan. I should bust his face. But, I don't let him see he's hurt me. I think about me daddy instead. "Respect," he'd say. Proud I can take it, keep me anger in. Bide me time.

The bell rings and I sit in the corner, looking at the crowd. People I don't know sitting with me promoter. All got their bets on his great white hope. "Black boy goes in round four," he's told them with a wink. Fat white man on the make.

Yeah, I'm a black man on the make. So? I've me daddy and family to take care of. I'll dive for five thou. No problem. Next fight they say is gonna be a real one. No diving, no fixing. Win that and I win a crack at the title. Just bide me time.

Bell sounds and I go back to do me job. White boy's head is next to mine. "Black bastard," he whispers. Jesus, man. I think of me daddy and the money. And respect.

Ignore the white boy, he don't know no better. It's coming up to dive time. Promoter gives me a thumbs up sign like he was me daddy or something. How many fights he done that now? Too many. Sometimes wonder if I'll ever get a proper fight.

When he was my age, me daddy says, he was just a poor farmer in Jamaica, picking grubs off potatoes — like we both still do in his garden. "My boy — athlete," he tells anyone who asks. "Boxer. Earn enough to look after his family. Respect due."

Makes me sad, then mad. Wish that promoter, bloated like them white grubs I pick off me daddy's spuds, was in the ring instead of out there waiting for the good black boy to dive like he's told. Respect's not due, it's earned.

Time's come. But I've had enough. I jab that white boy's head near clean off his neck. His gumshield flies, lights go out in his eyes, legs buckle. No grace the way he hits the canvas. No style. Ticket to life support for him. Ticket to title fight for me.

They pile into the ring. Trainer and seconds dancing with joy, arms up in the air. Cameras are on them, what else they going to do?

I smile. Nice and content. Promoter, in the ring now it's safe, scowls as I blow him a kiss off me gloves. The man with the TV camera comes. I grab me promoter. Hug him to me shiny black skin. "Respect to the man who believes in me," I say. "I'm going to be the next champ 'cos of him," I say.

He shudders, like I've done something terrible to him. Daddy's gonna be proud. Squeeze that bug, he always says when we're out in the garden, squeeze him till his insides pop and watch him squirm.

Copyright 2002 by the Andy Oldfield

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