Diesel Heart by Melvin Carter Jr

Author:Melvin Carter Jr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Minnesota Historical Society Press
Published: 2019-07-18T16:00:00+00:00

I handed my lil’ ol’ tiny cheap camera to Quinn, a fellow sailor. “If either of us goes down, snap a photo!”

Corporal Woods, my cornerman, methodically wrapped my knuckles up and down each hand with gauze and tape. “How does that feel?” he asked, carefully inspecting his workmanship for tightness. Finally, I put on the gloves. He laced each on tight. The die was cast; there was no turning back. He held the pads for me to snap some left jabs and right crosses, suggesting that I warm up a little better. But I was always warmed up and ready to fight, especially in this extreme heat. He climbed up to ringside and held the ropes for me to get in.

“Ladies and gentlemen! And now, the time for that main event you’ve all been waiting for. From Kenitra Boxing Gym, Ahmed Hassaaaan! And from Bouknadel, hailing from St. Paul, Minnesota, our own Meeeeeel Shuugaaa’ Caaaine Cart—uuur!”

Captain Jones, the officiating referee, brought us nose-to-nose, eyeball-to-eyeball, in mid-ring. My seasoned opponent glared into the bottomless abyss of about-to-be-released rage. I postured, as menacing and as threatening as possible, but he was unmoved, as if withholding a huge hippo yawn. My advantage was having watched him warm up, memorizing his moves. In terms of skill, technique, and sophistication, I was clearly in over my head. But never in life had I met any man who was anywhere near my size who could match me strength for strength, nor anyone who could match my hand speed. I presumed his ability to match my strength to be improbable.

He came to box. I came to fight! But this was a boxing match.

The ref ordered us to have a good clean fight with no rabbit punches (whatever they were), to obey his commands, and to protect ourselves at all times. “In the event of a knockdown, go to a neutral corner … and may the best man win!”

My opponent went to his corner. Facing east, he, his cut man, and his trainer held a moment of prayer. Yeah, you’d better say your prayers! Because I’m sure sayin’ mine! I thought.

Scorching rays baked down on two glistening Black bodies, bringing brilliance but draining energy. This sweltering day, at the edge of the Sahara Desert, the sizzling sun would hold the definitive say.

My strategy was to unleash the fullest brunt of suppressed rage on his ass. To release pure raw ghetto fury that would force him to fight and not allow him to turn this into a boxing lesson. To nullify all his skill, experience, and technique by launching an all-out offensive attack, turning this into a toe-to-toe slugfest. After all, the best defense is a good offense.

Ding! I raced out, bringing it straight to him, side-stepped his left, countering with a devastating right cross. His body launched backward, crashing hard, end over end, across the canvas. The ref raced to him and began the countdown with one hand, pushing and holding me back with the other. Carried away with fight adrenaline, I had rushed over, attempting to stomp on his face.

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