Free Warrior Angel by Robert Lipsyte

Bear Fan Club. That’s cool. Just be careful. These touchy-feely types like to get into your head, and once they get in, they’re hard to get out. They want to wake up all the sleeping dogs, make you think about all the things you don’t want to think about.
    He thought about Alfred. Be hard to just pick up the phone and call him.
    The sounds of the city faded as they moved deeper into the park. The horns and the sirens and the car alarms grew distant. There were moments he could imagine himself back on the Res. When Jake was alive.
    Someone else he didn’t want to think about.
    â€œAngel!” He waved Starkey alongside and grabbed a plastic water bottle out of the bike basket. “How you doing?”
    â€œFine,” Starkey gasped. Sonny lifted the bottle to hide his grin. “How many…miles…you run?”
    â€œDon’t know. Forty-five minutes good, like a twelve-round fight. You need to wear that backpack?”
    â€œI do.” He said it sharply, a flicker of panic in his eyes.
    Sonny shrugged, then tossed the bottle back into the basket and surged ahead.
    Â 
    After breakfast Sonny trained hard for two hours, finishing up in a three-round sparring session with Cobra Rasheed, a hard-punching light heavyweight. Cobra was training for a ten-rounder on the Hall undercard. If he won, he could move up in the rankings. If he won and looked good, he might even get a shot at the title.
    Cobra had a lot of attitude, which was okay with Sonny, but he was trying to show off by scoring on Sonny, which was not okay. He knew Sonny wouldn’t unload on him. It wouldn’t look right, the champ with a thirty-pound weight advantage. So Cobra played the baby-bully game. He was supposed to give Sonny a speed workout, help him ratchet up his quickness to stay away from the slow but heavy-hitting Hall. But he moved in to punch, popping a short right that snapped Sonny’s head back and pummeling Sonny’s ribs in a clinch. Sonny was able to smother the body shots by clamping his arms over Cobra’s and pulling him in close.
    â€œYou okay, champ?” Cobra sneered.
    Sonny shoved him away.
    At the bell Johnson said, “This is for speed-work, Rasheed. Just box, don’t bang.”
    Cobra snickered. “Sor-reee. Didn’t mean to hurt the champ.” He winked at his trainers, who shook their heads in warning.
    Sonny felt an old stirring, and it felt good. Was the monster coming back? Been missing that old slugger. The Warrior Angel had been right to get him back to Donatelli’s.
    Cobra swaggered out for the last round flat-footed, ready to mix it up. But Sonny danced away, batting aside his jabs, skipping in and out of range until Cobra dropped his hands and snarled, “Someday this be for real.” His cornermen crowed at that, and Johnson shook his head. Sonny just kept moving until the bell rang, but he felt frustrated. He would have liked to rattle Cobra’s cage.
    â€œHands too slow,” said Johnson, toweling him off. “Got to snap those jabs out.”
    â€œI’ll get on Rocky.”
    â€œBe with you in a—”
    â€œLet’s see what the Angel got.”
    Johnson looked dubious, but he shrugged.
    Starkey looked panicky at first, staring atthe life-sized dummy. From forehead to waist its canvas skin was divided into numbered sections. The point of Rocky’s chin was marked 1. Seven was his right eye, 8 was his left. His nose was 3. The middle of his belly was 17.
    Starkey started slow, his calls tentative. “Jab…one. Jab…seven. Hook…nine.”
    Sonny felt impatient but wanted to give him a chance. It took a few minutes for Starkey to warm up, but then the pace picked up. “Jab, seven, jab, nine, right, thirteen.”
    Soon there was a logic to the calls, combinations that started with crisp jabs to put an opponent off balance, body shots to drive him back to the ropes, hooks to the head to put him