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blanca,
a little white dove. They didn’t know how he’d handled Tiger, didn’t know about all the months he’d worked hard with Dan and Earl, didn’t know that Tim Pat was the White Fox.
    The Friday-night crowd, mostly Latinos, with a scattering of blacks, was stunned by the little white boy’s showing, the
gabachito.
It meant he’d fight the next day in the semi. If he won that, he’d fight Sunday for the first-place trophy. Men with beer guts and creased, brown faces smiled at the little
gabacho
as he and his trainers headed back to the dressing room. Balls counted, but so did skill. One of them called him
raza.
    Another said,
“Este chico sabe nadar y no mojar su ropa.”
This little guy could go swimming and not get his clothes wet.
    On Saturday morning, Tim Pat made weight, then Dan drove to a waterfront café in San Pedro that had served fishermen and lobster poachers since the thirties. Dan carbed up the kid, fed him S.O.S. on wheat toast, sliced tomatoes for potassium, a big glass of milk, and a piece of freshly baked berry pie with vanilla ice cream melting on top. Tim Pat cleaned his plate, sat back like a satisfied cat.
    The waitress was a trooper, had a tobacco-and-coffee smile. “That’s one heck of a little man you got there.”
    Tim Pat said, “I’m a fighter.”
    The waitress, Marleen, said, “You keep eatin like that, you’ll be a world champ.”
    Tim Pat said, “This is my grampa. Him and me and Earl are goin to the top.”
    To pass time until nine-thirty, when they had to check in and get ready, Dan drove through his old neighborhood, though not much of it was left. He told Tim Pat about the hard times of his great-grandparents in Ireland. Tim Pat asked about his own mother and father, and Dan talked on, said that Mary Cat had been the prettiest and the smartest girl in school, told how Tim Pat’s father, Eamon, had been a great defensive back in college.
    Tim Pat said, “I fought last night’s fight for you and Earl, Grampa. Today I’m fightin it for my mom and dad.”
    “You do that, laddie.”
    Dan wrapped and taped Tim Pat’s hands and gloved him, buckled the strap of his headgear under his chin. Earlier, he’d also had the kid shadowbox and hit the punch mitts, made sure the little guy was warmed up. The kid had begun to sweat and appeared primed to fight. Tim Pat saw his shadowy opponent standing in the doorway of the opposite dressing room and suddenly his mouth went dry. He began to shiver despite the sweat. Gone was the confident little battler on the freeway, the one who sat forward on the seat and bounced with anticipation.
    Dan had seen it before. You never knew when the cotton mouth or the empty ass would hit you. Fighters with twenty-five fights would sometimes have to take a scare pee after they’d been gloved and were already making their way to the ring. When it happened, Dan would pull a quick U-turn at ringside and run the boy back to the dressing room. He’d have to pull the boy’s shorts and cup down, then aim his shriveled dick so he wouldn’t piss on his shoes.
    Tim Pat’s opponent was a handsome little Mexican kid. He weighed the same seventy-five pounds as Tim Pat with his recent weight gain. The other kid was shorter and wider in the shoulders, and he stomped and banged his gloves in the far corner.
Cholos,
Mexican-Americans at ringside, made it two to one for the Mexican over the
palomita.
Old-timers who’d seen the
palomita
fight the night before took the wager. Fifty-dollar bets were not uncommon. Women with children werechosen to hold the bets, and they would collect a quick five dollars from the winners for guarding the loot.
    Dan saw Tim Pat’s eyes scurry. He cautioned, “When the ref calls you to the center of the ring for instructions, your guy’ll try to stare you down.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s like Tiger. To give you the loose ass, to make you blink.”
    “Will I blink?”
    “Hell, no,” Dan said. “When he locks eyes, you lock right