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ateleven. Like all boxers, Tim Pat had to make weight or he wouldn’t be allowed to fight. Neither had eaten breakfast.
    Dan and Earl had both worked Tim Pat’s corner the night before, had been as serious as if the kid was fighting for a professional title. Because the shop was open a half day on Saturdays, Dan would work Tim Pat’s second fight alone. Dan and Earl alternated, and it was Earl’s Saturday to work. Dan had thought about closing the shop down so Earl could be there for Tim Pat’s second fight, but Earl reminded him that they had customers coming in to pick up their cars.
    Earl said, “The way the White Fox won last night, we’ll all be there for trophy time on Sunday.”
    Tim Pat had gained nine pounds since he fought Tiger, and had grown two inches.
    “We just might have us a classy white-boy heavyweight,” Earl said, smiling.
    Dan said, “His daddy sure was big and fast.”
    “Tim could be the one, Dan.” He slipped into a black-folks accent. “White folks so hongry for a white heavyweight they like a welfare nigga wit a tapeworm.”
    Dan laughed, but the idea tasted good. “Wouldn’t that be somethin after all these years?”
    The night before, Dan and Earl had dressed Tim Pat in shiny gold trunks, a Kelly green top, calf-high white boxing shoes, and headgear that Earl had spray-painted a brilliant gold. Tim Pat fought novice. Kids in that division fought one-minute rounds, and most flapped and raged around like banty roosters. Dan touched his eye often, was so nervous he had to ask Earl to wrap Tim Pat’s hands and to lace his gloves and tape the laces on his boxing shoes.
    Dan got Earl off to the side. “You talk to him, my mouth’s too dry.”
    Once Tim Pat was warmed up, Earl spoke quietly to him. “He’s gonnacome in like a windmill, okay? All little guys are like that when they first start.”
    Tim Pat said, “Not me, right, Earl?”
    “That’s right, Tim,” Earl said, “not you, you’re too smart. So instead of you backing up when he comes, you step to him, okay? Move inside his wide stuff, jab to his chest and neck, double up when you stick, forget about his head at first.”
    Tim Pat said, “Now he’s tired.”
    Earl nodded. “Now he’s tired because you made him tire himself out, right?”
    “Right.”
    Earl said, “This is when you set him up with the jab and begin to fire your one-two at his head. You can even shoot the one-two and drop your hook on him if you think you got the shot.” Earl made the move. “One-two-hook!
Bing!,
and then move outta there behind your jab.”
    Tim Pat made the same move so pretty that Dan had to turn away, had to rub his wet eyes with the backs of his wrists.
    Earl said, “You won’t forget, now?”
    “I won’t forget,” said Tim Pat.
    “You sure?” Dan asked.
    “No way, Grampa.”
    Dan hugged the kid. This was the same little guy who, at bedtime, would hustle Dan to read
Winnie-the-Pooh.
Dan was an expert on grumpy donkeys and little bears who love honey. But now Tim Pat was eleven—and he was a fighter.
    Tim Pat won by a unanimous decision in three rounds. He flurried like the other little guy, but he also got in some good shots. He missed with his hook, but Dan knew that hooks were a question of time and opportunity, and that Tim Pat had plenty of time ahead of him. Resting while Tim Pat changed into gray sweats afterward, Dan felt like he’d just gone fifteen rounds with Roberto Duran.
    Dan could see their off-ramp up ahead. Carson was just off the San Diego Freeway, near oil refineries, and not far from L.A. Harbor and San Pedro, where Dan had grown up. Carson was a working-class town made up of whites, blacks, Asians, and Latinos, but there was a large Samoan community there as well. Many of the Samoans playing college football or in the NFL came from Carson. Tim Pat had been the only white boy in the tournament the night before. The other trainers with boys in Tim Pat’s weight class thought he would be a
palomita