588
LEO E. LITWAK
him over my head and sprawled on him and wrapped my arm
around
his
throat and squeezed until he surrendered.
"You're as strong as any man in this outfit," he said. "You
don't have to take crap from Witty."
We were told that when a man's in shock, his face is grey, he's
in a cold sweat, his pulse is fluttery, his lips purple. The blood leaves
the brain and collects in the solar plexus and elsewhere. Blood vessels
collapse. The brain brooks no starving and will perish from the
insult. Lift the legs, lower the head. Give plasma to raise the pressure
in the veins.
I took the challenge on Witty's terms and we faced each other in
a corner of the gym, wearing sixteen-ounce gloves, naked save for GI
shorts. I shivered. The blood was in my belly. There was cold sweat
on my face despite the heat. The gym was a great shed with naked
steel beams, sun dazzling through clerestories. We were beneath an
elevated running track. In an opposite corner were mats for wrestlers
and tumblers. Several basketball games occupied the center of the
gym. Balls pounded, shoes thudded, players called for balls. I heard
basket rims vibrate from missed shots.
We circled each other, alone in our corner.
I launched my arms. He jabbed. Wild swings. We circled,
clinched, pounded backs. I held tight and gasped. Just before the
whistle which summoned us to retreat he hit me hard in the eye
with the lacings of his glove and for the first time I felt something
and swung with purpose, rapping him on the shoulder, then winding
around his neck. It ended in a clinch.
"Okay," Witty said, "it's time."
We didn't shake hands. We walked to the locker room without
speaking, both of us breathless.
After the shower I looked in the mirror and saw that he had
blacked my eye.
"It's not enough," I told him.
"Anytime you want more," he said.
"Now."
"It's time for retreat."
My eye got worse and by the time we stood retreat I was marked
for everyone to see.
