A Man with Hands

             He had drawn the shades and the room was dark. The only light was the moonlight that managed to sneak through minor cracks.  He walked to the bathroom, bumping into furtive corners, silently absorbing their blow. His shadow appeared in the mirror, all features indiscernible, simply a dark black mass with a unique shape.  He brought his hands up to his jaw, kept them there for a few moments and then put them back down at his sides. 

            The radio played, filling the desolation of the room.  He walked out of the bathroom, once again hitting edges and corner, and sat down before the radio.   It was atop a wooden table and he sat on the wooden floor.  The radio bleated out classical; desperately yet beautifully.  He shut his eyes and swayed back-and-forth, trying to comprehend the music, analyze its intricacies, understand it scientifically, yet he kept retrogressing into merely savoring it for its lilting sound.  He put his hands up on to the edge of the table and began to move his fingers as if he were playing piano.  He had slender, gentle hands, however, in contrast, they were purple, engorged with blood, and swollen.

            It was Brahms.  He did not know this, but it was Brahms: Sonata for Two Pianos in F minor. He had heard more symphonies than most any man or woman in the entire city of Chicago, yet he had no acumen in regards to the subject.

            He sat there for a while, a little bored, listening to the music, until the phone rang.  He immediately knew who it was.

            “Sandy?” said the voice on the phone. 

            “Yea, Lou, “he said.

            “O, Christ, kid, I knew it.  What the hell are you doing awake at this hour?”

            “Nothing at all.”

            “Get some sleep!  You fight in three days!”

            “Three days isn’t tomorrow.”

            “You need your rest.”

            “I’m fine, Lou.”

            “Are you sure, kid?”

“What do you think she’s doing right now, Lou?”

            “Christ, kid, just go to sleep…”

            “Who’s she with, ya’ think?”

            “Do I need to come over there?”

            “Well, whoever she’s with…how many rounds do ya’ think he could handle me for?”

            “Sandy, I’m sure he couldn’t make it out of the first round even if your mother were in there!”

            They both laughed.

            “Really, do I need to come over there?” said Lou austerely.

            “No, Lou.”

            “Ok, well hold it together.  And go to bed.”

            “Sure thing, Lou.”

            They both hung up.

            He sat down before the radio again.  It was Strauss now.  He didn’t know.  He listened for a few minutes, however he was not in the mood anymore; it irked him, made his head ache.

            Savio Sandini was a boxer; a boxer with a professional record of 12 wins and 10 losses.  A boxer with a record of 12-10 is as significant as a fisherman who catches goldfish.  However, Savio Sandini was an exceptional case.  He was considered one of the most dangerous fighters in the Midwest circuit.  It was his style which doomed him to his record.  From the bell, Sandini came straightforward, in a definite line, swinging with his great reserve of power, relentless as a hornet, wanting immediate closure, wanting immediate result, inexorable and determined.  It drove the crowds crazy; they loved the warrior spirit, especially when they had been drinking through the earlier fights.  It was like watching a matador and the bull, except the people were rooting for the bull.  They were poor, meager people, with jobs, wives and children, and when they saw Sandini fight they liked to believe themselves in the ring.

            Sandini won his first six fights, all knockouts before the third round.  But then the opponents began to study his method.  They began waiting, trying to survive his barrage and ballet of violence, looking for a small opening and moment to strike.  And when they did, Sandini crumbled, dramatically and violently.  It had happened ten times in his career and the effects were beginning to show.

            “I’m retiring, Lou,” he’d say.

            “What are you talking about, kid!  You’re 29 years old!”

            “It’s doing horrific things to my noggin.  I can’t think straight at times.”

            “What’d ya’ need to think for?  You’re a fighter!”

            “I want to be a musician, Lou.  A composer.”

            “A composer?  You can’t even play an instrument!”

            “Not technically.  But I could play by ear.  A lot of the best did.  I think Beethoven did.

            “Who?”

            “Yea.  And I think van Gogh also.”

            “Is that so, Sandy?”

            “Yea, Lou.”

            “Shut up and fight!”

            Sandini was tiring of the business.  The thrill had died.  There used to be a visceral pleasure knowing he could physically handle himself against any man.  But that had been replaced by a constant tiresomeness, headache, and soreness.

            “You gotta’ fight smart, kid!  You gotta’ fight intelligent!”  Lou would tell him.

            “If people are going to be intelligent, Lou, why waste it on fighting?  Fighting is for fighting.  Intelligence is needed other places.”

            “You fight like a damn maniac!  No patient!  No planning! You gotta’ play their game!”

            “I can’t stand their game, Lou.  Counterpunchers are worse than whores who run off with the cash.  Sick, no dignity.” 

            After winning his first six fights, he lost 4 in a row to near unknowns.  He had considered quitting at that point, until Crawley was unable to fight Johnson.  Sandini was given the fight on three day’s notice.  Johnson was the #5 cruiserweight in the Midwest.  Sandini finished the fight at 1 minute 26 seconds into the first round.  Then he went on to be knocked out by O’Patrick three months rather, an unranked newcomer.

            He picked up the phone and called Lou once again.

            “What is it now?” answered Lou.

            “Y’know, Lou, in retrospect, I think I could have beaten Adams, Robinson, and Marco.”

            “Yea, and then you probably would have lost to Saunders, Lee, and Conti.”

            Sandini laughed.

            “Sleep, kid, sleep.”

            “Can’t.  Head bothers me too much.  I’m already punch drunk at the age of 29.  It’s ruining my music career.  I need to quit this sport.”

            “Shut up, kid.  Fight how I tell you to fight and you’ll be fine.”

            “I figure I can be just as good of a musician as I am a fighter.  It isn’t hard to be a 12 and 10 fighter.”

            “You’ve beaten some of the best, kid.”

            “What does it matter, Lou?”

            “Get some sleep.  You’ve gotta’ destroy Cooper in three days.”

            “Alright, but I’m telling you: last fight.”

            “Goodnight.”

            They hung up.  Sandini walked over to the window and stood by the drawn shades. 

He first saw Judith at his fight with Sanchez; a big tough Mexican fighter, undefeated,16-0.  Sanchez was bigger and faster than Sandini.  Sandini chased him around the ring the entire first round, unable to connect with his heavy strikes, eating countless counterpunches to the head and jaw.

            The first round ended and Sandini was cut above the right eye and bleeding from the left ear.  He sat down at his corner.

            “You can’t beat him like that!  He’s too good!  Get out there and BOX!” yelled Lou. 

            But amongst Lou’s diatribe, he noticed a girl in the crowd. She was short, compact, blond, wore a purple dress and she was staring directly at him, fiercely.  It was the strangest sight he had seen.  She was alone, beautiful, a child but a woman, sexual but strict. 

            The bell rang and he went out for the second round. It was much of the same.  Chase, miss, punishment.  This routine went on for five rounds.  And sure enough, every time he sat in his corner, beyond Lou’s shouts, he would notice her gazing directly at him, with a look of despair, desire, willing him to execute better, chastising him for his poor performance, almost needing him to win for some obscure reason. 

            The bell sounded the sixth round.  Sandini came out more ferocious and bellicose than ever. The woman demanded a victory.  He kept swinging and missing, eating counterpunches, however they didn’t seem to faze him any longer.  Sanchez had lost his power.  Finally, he trapped Sanchez in the ring corner.  Then Sandini unleashed a barrage of hooks to the body, uppercuts to the chin, wearing Sanchez down, and at last toppled him with a left hook to the head. 

            The ref stepped between the two.  Sandini’s hand was raised.  He saw her in the crowd.  She was smiling wide and applauding as if her hands were two hummingbird wings.

*

            That night she was in Sandini’s room.  She was sprawled across the mattress like a baby tigress, jovial and playing with the sheets.  He looked down at her and laughed. 

            He was sore, sore as he could remember, bruised, covered with ripe lacerations and head clanging with a thousand heated hammers.

            “You were great,” she said.  “It was so exciting!”

            “Thanks.”

           He went into the bathroom and turned on the tub’s cold water.  He got in and shut his eyes, letting convalescence wash over him.

            “You’re not tired, are you?” he heard her yell from the room.

            “No, no, I’m fine…” he said.  He got out of the tub and dried.  He walked into the room and saw her still in bed, still cheerful, the exhilaration apparent in her eyes.  He crawled into the bed. 

            And so they began living together.  Eating, sleeping, bathing, breathing, drinking, reading, being bored together.  However, those seemed to be minor things.  The relationship and each individual were based upon fighting. 

            She began attending every fight; in her little shoes, her pretty dresses, her hair styled, thrilled, nervous, eager.  The crowds and journalists began to recognize her. They began to ask her questions, interviews, some even autographs, treating her like a celebrity.  The attention tickled her. 

            “That’s my Sandini!  O, I love him!”

            He’d see her in the crowd and then press forward like a wild bear.

            When the fights ended quickly and he had won, things were great.  They would go back to the room, both all smiles, maybe open a bottle of champagne and engage in their gesticulations of sweetness.

            However, there were fights Sandini won yet in which he absorbed tremendous punishment.  Those nights were not as simple or kind.

            He would get into bed and simply lay there, half-alive, half-dead, like a boulder resting or a wounded lion.  She would be beside him, raging with stimulation and adrenaline.

            “Wake up, wake up!” she’d say, shaking him.

            He would not respond.  She would keep on bumptiously.  Sometimes she would curse, turn over and go to bed.  Sometimes she would run into the bathroom, crying, and slam the door.  Sometimes she would leave, yet always returning the next morning.

            And the fights which Sandini lost entailed a maudlin, ill-tempered situation.  He would return to the room raging, pumped with choler, revolted by the outcome, cursing his opponent, cursing cowardly tactics, overturning furniture.  She would be weeping uncontrollably, theatrically, in an admixture of sadness, disbelief, disgust and disappointment.  He would see her and then direct his frustrations upon her, yelling derisive names and comments.  Her weeping would reach higher volume and she’d run off; either to the bathroom or simply away.  Neither could stand a failed fighter.

            However, the next day all was calm and pacified.  They would be lying together once again, quiet yet loving.

            “I’m sorry,” he’d say.  “I become like that.  I mean none of it.”

            “I know.  It’s okay,” she’d reply.

            She would lay there with her back turned; her small, white, smooth back.  He’d peek over the head to see her face.  He would move the blond hairs that covered her eyes, tucking them behind her ear.  He couldn’t understand her.  It was a mystery where she came from, what she was, what exactly she was doing with him. He could not understand her complexities, her idiosyncrasies, her movements, her highs, her lows.  It was all foreign to him.  All he was capable of was appreciating her beauty, glad she was extant, and learning not to question any of it.

            “You remind me of a star,” he said, looking down at her half-hidden half.

            She giggled.  “What do you mean?”

            “I’m not sure.”

            Her body was warm, it was solid, it was palpable, it was there.  And inside it there was a soul or person or something else. And all of that was there beside him.

            “One day I’m going to play you a song,” he said.

            “With what, your fists?”

            “No, on a piano or a violin or a cello…I’ll learn…one day, after this next fight, I’m going to get out before it’s too late…before I’m completely punch drunk…and I’ll play you a song.”

            “Okay,” she said.  And they slept. 

*           

            In three days he would have to fight Berbick Cooper: #3 Light Heavyweight in the country.  Cooper was scheduled to fight Armstrong for the title but Armstrong had to drop out due to injury.  So they decided to feed Cooper a mid-level fighter.  Cooper would want to end the fight early.  Sandini had no expectations.

            He stopped thinking about Cooper.  It was a dull subject to him.

            He remembered the last conversation he had with Judith.  It was the day before his fight with Marco.  He was shaving in the bathroom while she sat in bed.

            “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” she said.

            “Sure thing.”

            “It’s about this place…”

            “You don’t like this place?”

            “No, it’s fine.  I’m just curious as to where all the money goes to.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “All the money you make, where’s it go?”

            “You’re sitting around it.”

            “I mean, the rest…are you saving it?”

            “No.”

            She didn’t seem to understand the income of a mid-level fighter.  No matter how the crowd cheered for you, or how animated and bombast they were during your fight, you were bound to your record. 

            “Is it that Lou?” she said.  “I knew it, is he screwing you out of your money?  Why, I never liked that dirty, old_”

            “No, it’s not Lou.  Lou makes peanuts.  You leave Lou alone.”

            “Well, how bout’ tomorrow?  You gonna’ win, baby?”  Her voice rose and became sanguine at the prospect of him winning.

            “Well, let’s see, I’m a 12 and 9 fighter…I’m not so good with math but…I’d say there’s greater than fifty percent shot of me winning.  And that’s all I need.”

            He toweled his face and went to lie down beside her.

            “I just know you’re going to win!  We’re going to make it, darling.  All the way to the top!” she said.

            “Oh come on, baby, I’m just a man with hands.”

*

            Sandini looked at the clock; 2:38.  He slept, dreaming of things he wouldn’t dare think when he was conscious.   

*

            Sandini v. Cooper was the final fight of the night. The crowd was rowdy, drunken, wanting action.  A few of the earlier fights had been lackluster; guys just leaning on each other, throwing listless punches.  Now the crowd wanted Sandini.

            Sandini entered.  The crowd roared.  Sandini looked complacent, jaded.  Early in his career he would enter scowling, gnashing his teeth, looking as mean as possible.  He wanted to instill fear in his opponent, letting him know that he wanted blood in celerity.  But now he felt like a middle-aged prostitute with another customer.

            He glanced into the crowd.  It was a full-house.  But it looked empty to him tonight.

            He stepped into the ring and then Cooper entered.  Cooper was scowling, gnashing his teething, looking as mean as possible.  But Sandini felt no fear, just tired.

            “Remember what I told you, kid,” said Lou.  “BOX him.”

            The bell sounded round one and the two met in the center of the ring.  But Sandini didn’t fight.  He boxed as Lou had told him.  The two stood in the center exchanging meager.  Two minutes into the round a chorus of boos began to rise.  It was not their Sandini.  But Sandini continued boxing until the round ended.

            “This feels strange, Lou,” he said.

            “This is how you win a fight!”

            The two met for round two and the routine continued.  Sandini did as he was told.  Cooper wasn’t interested in ending the fight either; he seemed content in their jejune dance. 

            This continued for 5 rounds.  Cooper was ahead slightly on the scorecards, only because he was a better technical boxer than Sandini.  But the crowd was appalled and cantankerous.  With each round their jeers exacerbated.  The deluge of disapproval poured onto the two fighters.  It was borderline madness; the roof rattled, the floor vibrated.

            It was nearing the end of the sixth.  Sandini looked into the crowd: hatred and emptiness. Suddenly he lunged forward.  He connected with a hard body shot to Cooper’s gut.  Cooper looked up at him incredulously.  Then Sandini came forward with a straight right, a left hook, right uppercut, left hook, right hook, left body shot, right hook.  Cooper fell.  The bell sounded.  The crowd went berserk.

            “What the hell are you doing out there kid!” yelled Lou.

            “Fighting.”

            “Well, whatever it is, keep doing it!”

            The bell sounded.  Cooper seemed hesitant to take the center.  Sandini wasted no time.  He leaped forward, connecting with a jab-cross and then a left hook.  Cooper appeared to be broken, disheartened.  Sandini decided upon the end.  He felt lousy that he would have to ruin Cooper’s momentum, his career, his title chances.  He was a young kid, probably out of some ghetto, who seemed real intent on making a name.  But Sandini was growing weary with the sport.  It was time to step out, learn how to play piano, write that song.  And the end would begin now. 

            He fearlessly moved forward, threw a 1-2, left uppercut, and finally a right hook as heavy as the whole of Chicago.  Cooper crumbled backwards.  The crowd erupted.  The ref counted to ten and it was over.  The media rushed the ring.

            “You did it, kid, you did it!” screamed Lou.

            “Yea, Lou, thanks.”

            “You’re gonna’ make it!  You’ve just gotta’ beat two or three more contenders and you’ll be in picture for sure! Kid, you’re going to be the champ any day now!”

            Sandini looked into the crowd.  There was no one there to watch his victory.  The stands were empty.

            “Come on, baby, I’m just a man with hands.”     






-Sameer Saklani