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park districts around town and then the Golden Gloves, I’d learn that boxing was way more than hitting and getting hit. But I’d always look back at this as my first real bout.
    My stomach was uneasy and bloated. The plan was to get him in a headlock, hip-toss him to the ground, and then pound his face with my free hand—a move that had won me most fights. But I was usually angry when I fought. Now, I just felt sick and dizzy as the circle of boys hooted.
    â€œNaw… I betchu Joe’s gonna whoop his ass,” Ryan sneered at a mahogany-toned black kid who’d just walked up.
    BB solemnly stepped into the center of the circle of boys, announcing, “And in this corner,” BB raised his small palm towards Leroy, “with a record of zera and zera... dangly, old Leroy...” Laughter rippled through the ring.
    â€œAnd in this corner,” BB said, raising his arm towards me, “also with a record of zera and zera... Whitey Joe...”
    Everyone’s eyes beat down on me as they giggled and clapped. Mad, eager smiles spread across their faces, and BB waved us both to the center of the ring. Twon loomed behind Leroy, and he glowered down at me. A thin line of peach fuzz undulated above his mouth. T-Money kneaded my traps and shoulders. They walked us up close to each other, and our foreheads almost touched. Leroy and I tried to make mean faces, but they slid from grimaces to grins.
    â€œRules...” BB said, looking down and scratching his chin. “Fuck... it ain’t no rules...” The crowd squealed. “Aight, no bleedin’ too much, and no cryin’.”
    The boys roared.
    â€œNow go back to your corners, and come on out swingin’,” BB declared, placing his hands on his hips. “And don’t be swingin’ like no girls or nothin’.”
    As I walked back to my corner, Ryan rushed up.
    â€œYou got him, Joe... You got him.” Ryan’s green eyes gleamed. His spiky buzz-cut blazed in the sunlight like a copper crown.
    I smirked. My heart pulsed. The yells deafened me. I couldn’t think. I just scanned their faces. An obese, light-skinned black kid with a saggy, off-yellow shirt; a little white kid with a blond box cut; a wiry Assyrian kid with a shaggy, loose-curled afro. All of ’em bounced on their toes with the same excited, toothy grins. The ground felt soft and unstable under my sneakers. Their sudden shouts spouted up and swallowed the next.
    â€œLet’s get ready to rumble!” BB bellowed, and then stepped back. Leroy and I stood across from each other. We didn’t know what to do.
    â€œGo on an’ fight,” BB ordered, and clapped his hands together.
    We walked out in the middle. Both of us awestruck, we smiled and glanced around. Suddenly, Leroy’s fist lurched out and cracked my forehead. A loud “Ohh!” rang from the circle. My head rocked back. I’d never been punched like that. I saw the fist, then the blue sky. Then, I was looking back at Leroy again. A howl surged through my ears. It wasn’t funny anymore. An orb of broiling energy materialized in the center of my chest. I squeezed my fist, and the energy gushed straight through my arm and bottlenecked at my wrist. Then, it exploded as my fist burst into Leroy’s eye socket. His head whipped back, and his smile evaporated.
    We commenced to drive our clutched fists into each other’s heads. There was no form, no technique. The blows were all guided by complete and blind malice. I heard nothing, thought nothing. There was no time, just the moment. We teetered into the circular wall of boys, and they just shoved us back toward the center.
    After a few calamitous minutes, I drew arm-weary. Tears splashed down Leroy’s face. His lip sparkled with blood. I couldn’t catch my breath. My arms flapped at my sides like two dead lake trout, and I crumpled to the cement. A joyous howl ballooned up around me. The