Free The Chief by Robert Lipsyte Page A

matter,” said Jake. “White men don’t know and we don’t care.”
    â€œWhite men,” said Robin. “That lets Marty and me off the hook.”
    We laughed and shoved Sonny out into the aisle. He got a big hand. Standing under the lights, his hair still wet from the shower, in a fringed white shirt with pale-blue and orange beads, he already looked different. Bigger. Famous.
    The heavyweight champion, Floyd (The Wall) Hall, was introduced. The booing died as he stomped around the ring shaking hands. He was taller and wider than anyone. He loomed over John L. and Sonny.
    Muhammad Ali was introduced to a storm of applause. People stood. Ali was wearing a dark suit and red tie. He had trouble getting through the ring ropes. His face was a brown moon. He shook hands with Floyd and Junior and John L., and he whispered in Sonny’s ear. We all looked at each other, feeling proud, as if the great Ali was whispering in all our ears.
    â€œGod, I wish I could shoot this,” said Robin.
    â€œMake a deal with Hubbard.”
    She wrinkled her nose.
    Sonny came back, grinning. He’d lost some cool, he seemed a little dazed.
    Robin asked, “What did Ali say?”
    â€œTrust in God and don’t get hit.’”
    â€œSounds good to me,” said Alfred.
    â€œGreat warrior,” said Jake. “Stood for what he believed.”
    We settled down for the fight. John L. was sweating before the opening bell. His forehead was red. There were red streaks on his chest.
    â€œToo hot for an old man,” said Jake.
    John L. stuck to his plan. He moved right out at the bell and tried to crowd Junior so he couldn’t box and dance, he tried to bull him toward a corner, and he kept flicking out left jabs to keep him off balance. But Junior was a disciplined fighter, you could see right away that he also had a plan: Watch out for John L.’s right hand and keep moving back to the middle of the ring where there was plenty of room to dance the old man into exhaustion.
    The first round was slow; they were feeling each other out, a few rights and hooks that didn’t quite land. I scored it even. When it was over John L. plopped down on his stool as if he was tired already.
    â€œHe’s melting,” Robin said.
    Junior picked up the pace in the second round, throwing a jab, moving his head, skipping out of range of John L.’s counterpunch.Twice, John L. threw roundhouse rights that got the crowd roaring, but Junior caught them both high on his arms. They must have hurt—you could hear the damp smack—but they didn’t land anywhere they would do damage. Toward the end of the round, John L. bulled in and tried to throw some inside punches, but Junior locked his elbows to his sides and pushed him off.
    I hated to admit it, but Junior was a strong fighter with all the right moves. He wasn’t exciting to watch, but he made no mistakes. He was so well trained that he had an answer for everything. He knew how to avoid the right hand, slide off the ropes, clutch and run.
    â€œHe’s a robot,” I said. “RoboPug. No fire, no passion.”
    â€œBut he’s good,” said Sonny.
    â€œAnd he’s going to win,” said Robin.
    She was right. First John L.’s legs slowed down, then his arms sagged. Junior became less cautious, skipping forward and landing combinations. It was like hitting soft clay. John L.’s flesh didn’t spring right back. His face started to lump up. His chest and arms were splotchy.
    John L. didn’t sit down between rounds.
    â€œTrying to psyche Junior,” I said. “Show he doesn’t need to sit down.”
    â€œCan’t sit down,” said Robin. “Knows he won’t get up again.”
    Alfred said, “He’s gone.”
    John L. was too tired to get out of the way; he could only absorb the punishment and try to punch back. But he had to take three punches to land one, and after a