X by Ilyasah Shabazz Page B

only black boxer headed to the heavyweight championship. I tried out my uppercut, right hook, and blocking with the left. Philbert had given me some moves to practice.
    Philbert was a really good boxer. He trained and took on real matches and everything. My own skills left something to be desired, but I was working on it. I thought about Joe Louis and the sound of the crowd on the radio, the thump of gloves and the grunts and the cheers. I pretended it was all around me right now. I went up on my toes.
Boom. Swish. Pow. Pow.
    “Look at this,” said Richie Dixon, coming up from the side, along with some of our other friends. I hadn’t seen them coming. I dropped my fists, embarrassed to be caught swinging into midair.
    “Hi, Richie,” I said.
    “Hey, nigger. You think you’re some kinda Joe Louis?”
    “Maybe,” I retorted. “I could be.” This was not entirely true, but that was the whole point of practicing.
    “Oh, yeah?” Richie started rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s see what you’ve got, nigger.”
    “You’re on.” We danced around each other for a moment, all in good fun.
    “Let’s go,” he said.
    “Right here?” I asked. “On the road?” I wasn’t about to walk away from the challenge, but it didn’t feel right to go it alone. If I was going to beat Richie’s behind once and for all, I wanted witnesses.
    Richie looked like he was thinking. “OK,” he said. “Let’s do it official. How about up by the Coleman barn? Meet you there tomorrow, daybreak. Then you’re going down.”
    It sounded sufficiently dramatic to me. We shook hands to settle the deal. A day meant all the time in the world to gather an audience. It wasn’t just a challenge; it was a showdown. I ran ahead, to meet up with Philbert. If Richie was going to bring some people, I had better, too.
    The Coleman property had been abandoned for a number of years. For as long as we could remember, at least. Behind the barn was nothing but a patch of dying grass. We had heard that by night it used to be a moonshine spot, where the booze runners would make secret deliveries to paying customers. But now it was just a place kids would meet and kick a ball around or set up a makeshift diamond for stickball or whatnot.
    Richie Dixon was on one side of the group. I was on the other. I thought about Joe Louis and how he ruled in the ring. Today I could be Joe Louis. Today I could fight. Today it would be easy.
    I thought about my victory lap, knee-high jogging with my gloves in the air. Not that I was wearing gloves; it was just a backyard fistfight, but still. I could imagine it.
    “Come on, Malcolm. You can beat him,” Philbert urged. Just because I always lost to Philbert didn’t mean I didn’t have skills. He was just really good.
    I hopped up into the makeshift ring, which was a circle of our friends and classmates.
    “Go, Malcolm,” some shouted.
    “Go, Richie,” others proclaimed.
    I thought I had a fair share of the cheering section, and I was feeling pretty good about it until Richie stepped forward, fists raised. His knuckles flew at me.
    I saw stars. “Malcolm? Can you hear me?”
    Philbert’s face loomed over mine. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he said.
    I honestly could not have told him. His hands and face were swimming. “Uhhh . . .”
    “The fight’s over, buddy.” Philbert reached for my hand and helped me sit. “He knocked you out in one punch!”
    Not possible
, I thought. “That’s just the first round, then, isn’t it?” I said.
    Philbert’s worried face gave way to a laughing face. “Not when you stay down as long as you did,” he chortled.
    “Why? How long was I out?” I noticed that the other boys were already some distance away. Were they leaving?
    “About a minute,” Philbert answered. “Boy, you are never going to live that one down!”
    “Noooo,” I groaned.
    “Richie Dixon, boxing master?” Philbert shook his head. “I should never have let you go up against