Pound for Pound by F. X. Toole Page B

he would first attend Palo Alto Community College, just up the road from Poteet. Boxing, however, was as important to him as a college degree, and he figured he could do both. Not at the same time, but if he got knocked out of the fight game, an education meant he’d have a place to bounce to.
    Graduating from A & M and using the skills he learned on the farm was Chicky’s long-range goal. But no one, including Eloy, knew whatChicky planned as a fighter. The last thing he wanted was to start out as a four-round prelim fighter at $100 a round. He’d lose 10 percent off the top for a trainer and another 33 for a manager. Then there was a cut man to pay if the trainer couldn’t double up as both. By the time Uncle Sam got his hooks into you, you went home with more lumps on your face than money in your pocket. There was a better way: Win the Nationals, and then win the Olympic box-offs for a spot on the Olympic team. Winning the gold medal would bring a professional signing bonus from big-time Tex-Messkin lawyers from Austin looking for the right homeboy. The next step was to win a professional World title. That would mean a good stake to invest in the sinking farm. Chicky figured he was four, maybe five years away from that title, and in between, he had to figure out some way to help Eloy. Chicky saw himself marrying the right
wifa,
retiring to the farm, and having a gang of kids. He’d teach them that soil was different from dirt. There was no way he’d ever let his granddaddy be put out along the side of the road with a little bundle tied in a bed sheet. No, sir, he had to fight and make it big for his
abuelito.
Soon as he had money coming in, he’d take care of his grandpa.
    It was not as if Chicky had a choice. Eloy’s local farmhands had been laid off. Mexican stoop laborers, in their seasonal sweeps through the South Texas harvest, no longer found work along the rows of red and green at Lobo Farms. Weeds took over the long rows where berries had grown. Some of the equipment was covered with frayed tarps, some stored in sideless corrugated sheds and wooden barns. The fragile sprinklers, once connected end to end to irrigate wide stretches at a single lick, were shoved together into a pile of rusting junk. The Mexicans saw what was happening to Lobo Farms and stopped coming.
    Chicky kept order as best he could, remained a good student, and was hellacious as the best defensive back on the high school football team. But he could do only so much at the farm while Eloy continued with his daily
birongas
of Lone Star or Pearl, and his late afternoon launch into
pistos
of the hard stuff. Chicky worried about Eloy’s drinking, knew it was killing him slowly. He also began to suspect that Eloy had closeddown the farm to free him from his chores. Equipment was sold to pay bills.
    None of Eloy’s suffering, his slide into dereliction, made sense to Chicky. The old man had achieved his dreams, and more. He couldn’t grieve for Dolores forever. He had to get on with life. But what could a boy say to his grandfather, the man who had saved and loved him? What could he do but endure and stay loyal? Chicky did it, but he let fury loose on the football field and in the gym. It would be the same during tournaments. Chicky could punch, Eloy had taught him well. Other young fighters swallowed hard when they thought about facing Chicky Garza.
    Living in Poteet and driving to the gym six days a week got old quick for Chicky, but he did it. At first Eloy made the trip north with him, but more and more he stayed at home. After busting his hump in the gym, it was no fun to come home to Eloy snoring in front of a blaring TV set.
    Chicky knew he had to focus on the Cavazos’ shitty tournament in Uvalde. He had started running again, having learned from his other fights that he had to be fit, inside the ring and out, physically and mentally. Being ready was the key, but sometimes fights with other southpaws were his toughest fights. It was