Maricón

Abstract

Maricón R. T. Smith (bio) In memory of Emile Griffith (1938-2013) and Benny “Kid”Peret (1937-1962) And a man who has found prowess in boxing,grant him favor and joy.pindar I “Whoever controls the breathing in the ringcontrols the fight,” my father says. Smell of sweat,Vaseline and bleach, sting of ammonia. “The art of self-defense is crucial.” The gym is dampand the speed bag singing his beliefs. Elsewhere,a husky boy from the Virgin Islands quietly designs hats in a Bronx shop, his chest bareas he hefts storeroom cartons. His boss says,“Boy’s got a boxer’s body,” and that begins it. Emile is bewildered, with no desire for the sweetscience of footwork and fist, no assassin’seye. When a backyard bully named Jeffrey lures me to his ring of jeering rednecks,I clear a path with my ball bat, rush hometo mother, because I’m skinny, afraid. Later, [End Page 74] seeing me teary on the mat at a Scout outingand pawing feebly at Jimmy Kizner, my fatherresolves to plunge me into the discipline. “To win, you control the breathing,” he insists.Morning roadwork, shadow boxing, mitts.On his bike, the old man swears as I sweat, “Your target’s never where his goddamn headis, but where it’s going next.” Willowy, skittish,without finesse, I never overcome my fear. Griffith is a better fit—welterweight, bobcatquick, graceful as ballet. Coach Gil Clancytaunts him: “Don’t you get that matador strut.” Deft and canny through the fifties, his gold toothgleaming and bombshell blondes clenchinghis biceps at ringside, the shutterbug’s flash catching the velvet dandy in action,pearls on his cuffs, satin cravat. Dark mouseon my brow, I bus back across town from the gym to mother’s tears,tonic and gin, a dead cigarette. “My otherhalf ought to know better,” she spits. He travels, sleuthing out insurance fraud,arson, while slick-dealing firehousepoker. She twists her opal ring, exhales blue breath. I don’t want to be prissy,hope to show I’ve got moxie, like a pro,like that March night when ring pundits all agree: Peret opened inspired. [End Page 75] II Whoever controls the breathing.…Jab and tuck, shoot the right high, hookto the ribs, drive him to the turnbuckle, the ropes, the canvas. Griffith has to beschooled in fury: “It’s red sport, boy,”and rumor has it the insiders suspect he’s keeping a secret, the private lifeof linen suits, the pink Lincoln crucialto his macho disguise. Still, no one will say “pansy.” Control the breathing,control a rival’s will and snuff his soul.“Wind and feet win it. You have to show an iron intent”: in the garage my fatherpops me. “Love taps,” he says. “You’vegot to learn to shrug it off. Forget thinking. Make me miss, slugger. Everybodyhas a plan, but it’s gone to smoke soonas you get hit. Duck now. Control your breath, counterpunch, get mad. Murderme, cream puf. Make me suffer.” Yearslater, his career over, Emile jokes, “I like girls and men pretty much equal.You reckon that make me bilingual?”He’d known Peret since boyhood but never heard those venomed syllables: maricón.I hammered into the heavy bag mummiedin duct tape, pounded that son of a bitch. [End Page 76] “Punish the sap. Maul him up. Makehim miss.” Still, my father’s snarl. …I skip the rope as it hums, side step, hop and cross over, wrists whipping,weaving, sparring my shadow—left, leftright uppercut. At the weigh-in Peret keeps whispering what Griffith can’tbear to catch. He guesses the word’sout and starts lurching and whirling, breathless, shamed. Kid has crossedthe line. Maricón, maricón, slur worsethan tu mama—”You faggot!” Mild Emile bides his time. It’s sixty-two, my bouts allhistory, scufed gloves and lace-up bootsin a footlocker … one local trophy—runner-up. III March 24, Saturday night: Gillette’s parrotcawks about razors—”Feel...