Free The Chief by Robert Lipsyte Page B

while he was staggering after Junior like a drunk.
    â€œHe’s out on his feet,” said Alfred.
    â€œOughta stop it,” said Sonny.
    People in our section were moaning and looking away, but the rest of the arena was chanting for the kill, “JUN-ior, JUN-ior.” John L.’s skin was bright red, his mouth and nose were torn and bloody, his eyes were swelling shut, but he wouldn’t quit, wouldn’t go down.
    â€œWhy doesn’t the ref stop it?” said Sonny. His face was covered with beads of perspiration; his fists were pale.
    Between rounds, Richie was screaming and John L. was shaking his head. He wouldn’t let Richie stop it.
    I heard heavy breathing next to me. Sonnywas sucking air through his mouth, wincing at every blow.
    In the seventh round, Junior backed John L. into a corner and began chopping at his head, a lumberjack killing a tree with his axe, and the crowd screamed for Junior to pour it on. Only the ropes were keeping John L. up.
    â€œStop it,” shouted Sonny.
    He hurtled down the aisle, snatching the white towel off Richie’s shoulder on the run, throwing it ahead of him into the ring. Security guards tried to pull him back, but all they could do was tear the shirt off his back. Sonny leaped over the ropes and brushed the referee aside and threw himself between the fighters. He wrapped his arms around John L. and pushed him into his corner.
    The arena exploded, people yelling, surging forward. Robin and I started for the ring, got caught in the swirl and were knocked back, but when Sonny came tumbling out of the ring with five security guys on top of him, we jumped on the pile and tried to pull them off.
    Suddenly a familiar voice roared, “LET THE BOY UP!”
    It was Elston Hubbard, Senior, himself,peeling the guards off Sonny and throwing them away like banana skins. He pulled Sonny to his feet.
    â€œYou crazy, boy.”
    Sonny swung at him, but Senior ducked and wrapped up Sonny’s arms. Sonny relaxed, and Senior hugged him. “You did the right thing,” he said, and shoved Sonny into my arms. “Writer-Boy, take him before he gets hurt.”
    Sonny let me drag him away. Robin and Jake and I linked arms around Sonny, and Alfred cleared a path for us back to the dressing room. We were there when John L. was carried in and laid out on the rubbing table.
    â€œHeat exhaustion,” said the ring doctor. “Happened to Sugar Ray Robinson, happens to the best of them.”
    John L. struggled up. “Who stopped the goddamn fight? I woulda won, woulda knocked…” He collapsed.
    Richie began to cry.

17
    S ONNY AND I RODE the ambulance to the hospital. John L. was babbling in Yiddish, delirious. Richie cradled his head in his lap. The emergency-room doctor took one look at John L. and stuck an intravenous needle into his arm. That’s when I bailed out. I sat in the waiting room until John L. was admitted to the hospital for observation. Richie said he would sleep in his room overnight. He made us leave.
    When we got back to the hotel, Jake and Alfred and Robin were waiting for us in a suite. There was food and champagne on the table.
    â€œNothing to celebrate,” grumbled Sonny.
    â€œHubbard sent them,” said Alfred. “You’re the big winner tonight.”
    â€œEvery TV station in the country ran you stopping the fight,” said Robin.
    â€œGotta go,” said Sonny. He turned away.
    â€œWhere?” asked Alfred.
    â€œGotta run.” He was out the door.
    We talked for a while, about Sonny’s killer hook, John L.’s condition. We ate some food and zapped the TV for glimpses of Sonny stopping the fight. It would be on everybody’s yearend reel. After a while Alfred went off to bed; you could see on his face he was fighting pain. Robin made plans with Jake to go up to the Res with her crew. Then Jake drifted away. I sat there with Robin and not much to talk about.
    â€œSo.