Mexico?”
“A huevo.”
Eloy grinned. “Just goes to show that the Irish will marry anybody.”
By the time Chicky was almost sixteen, he’d already begun to take more responsibility for the farm. With his granddaddy always
pedo o crudo
from the booze, drunk or hungover, Chicky worried that some
gran chingadazo,
or enormous screwing, was on its way.
His grandmother Dolores had once attempted to make light of Eloy’s alcoholism. She said that Eloy had swallowed the worm at the bottom of a
mezcal
bottle, and had to keep drinking so the worm wouldn’t die. Realizing the depth of his grandmother’s suffering, Chicky swore to her that he would never drink alcohol. That was tough in Texas, where roadies—ice-cold beer for the road—were as legal and common as blue-bonnets. But despite offers from kids at school, girls as well as boys, Chicky had kept his promise.
After Dolores died in 1991, Eloy would get up sick every day, and pass out early. His foreman ran the farm for a couple of years, but got fed up and moved on. Chicky suddenly realized that he was his grandfather’s caretaker and the boss of the farm. He took over as best he could, and he was glad to do it, but seeing pain in his grandfather was to suffer pain himself.
Eloy had his devils, but he was always protective of Chicky. The boy would not suffer the burnout so many youngsters experience when pushed too hard in any sport. Eloy would allow Chicky to train seriously only when upcoming tournaments were scheduled. Afterward, Eloy would lay the boy off for several months so Chicky could absorb what he had learned. Besides, there was football as well as other sports to play. But the kid was fascinated with boxing, wanted to be a fighter the way Travis, Bowie, and Crockett had wanted to hold out at the Alamo.
Since Chicky lived out in the country, this last year had been especially hard for him because he depended on Eloy to drive him to the gym. What he needed most was to spar. Without sparring, a fighter can’t get sharp, can’t become accustomed to pain, can’t develop the speed and hand-eye coordination necessary to win. But now Eloy either sat aroundor slept. Chicky missed the workouts in their homemade gym, starting when he was brand new to the game. Eloy would talk strategy in his rough and funny way, and had even tried to get him to convert from southpaw to fighting orthodox, or right-handed. Eloy argued that fighting orthodox would give him the advantage of having a bigger left hook than most right-handed fighters. He also pointed out that right-handers, especially the pros, would do their best to “duck” southpaws, avoid them whenever they could, because facing left-handers was a handicap for most orthodox fighters.
“Come on, at least try it
huevón,”
lazy big balls.
Chicky would laugh and try, but he felt better fighting as a left-hander. “I hit harder my natural way, Grandpa.”
“That’s because you don’t practice at it.”
The mischievous kid in Chicky would always stall the old man. He’d stumble purposely, or pretend he’d hurt his hand when he worked right-handed. “Maybe
mañana,”
he’d tease, stretching the Spanish syllables.
“Ay-yai-yai,”
Eloy would say.
“Mañana
don’t never come, you don’t know that yet,
huevón?
Chapter 7
C hicky and Eloy left the farm one afternoon in 1994 and drove to the San Ignacio Gym in San Antonio. Chicky operated tractors and trucks on the farm, but, at fifteen, was too young to legally drive roads and highways. As usual, he rode shotgun with his grandfather. The sun was bright as a white duck’s bill, and he had to squint to see through the broken bugs and wings and yellow gut smears that nastied up the windshield.
Once they got to San Antonio, Eloy steered his pickup along Santa Rosa and into the San Ignacio parking lot at the corner of Travis. The Greyhound bus station and Crockett’s barbecue were a couple of blocks east of the gym, the Cathedral of San Fernando a few
“A huevo.”
Eloy grinned. “Just goes to show that the Irish will marry anybody.”
By the time Chicky was almost sixteen, he’d already begun to take more responsibility for the farm. With his granddaddy always
pedo o crudo
from the booze, drunk or hungover, Chicky worried that some
gran chingadazo,
or enormous screwing, was on its way.
His grandmother Dolores had once attempted to make light of Eloy’s alcoholism. She said that Eloy had swallowed the worm at the bottom of a
mezcal
bottle, and had to keep drinking so the worm wouldn’t die. Realizing the depth of his grandmother’s suffering, Chicky swore to her that he would never drink alcohol. That was tough in Texas, where roadies—ice-cold beer for the road—were as legal and common as blue-bonnets. But despite offers from kids at school, girls as well as boys, Chicky had kept his promise.
After Dolores died in 1991, Eloy would get up sick every day, and pass out early. His foreman ran the farm for a couple of years, but got fed up and moved on. Chicky suddenly realized that he was his grandfather’s caretaker and the boss of the farm. He took over as best he could, and he was glad to do it, but seeing pain in his grandfather was to suffer pain himself.
Eloy had his devils, but he was always protective of Chicky. The boy would not suffer the burnout so many youngsters experience when pushed too hard in any sport. Eloy would allow Chicky to train seriously only when upcoming tournaments were scheduled. Afterward, Eloy would lay the boy off for several months so Chicky could absorb what he had learned. Besides, there was football as well as other sports to play. But the kid was fascinated with boxing, wanted to be a fighter the way Travis, Bowie, and Crockett had wanted to hold out at the Alamo.
Since Chicky lived out in the country, this last year had been especially hard for him because he depended on Eloy to drive him to the gym. What he needed most was to spar. Without sparring, a fighter can’t get sharp, can’t become accustomed to pain, can’t develop the speed and hand-eye coordination necessary to win. But now Eloy either sat aroundor slept. Chicky missed the workouts in their homemade gym, starting when he was brand new to the game. Eloy would talk strategy in his rough and funny way, and had even tried to get him to convert from southpaw to fighting orthodox, or right-handed. Eloy argued that fighting orthodox would give him the advantage of having a bigger left hook than most right-handed fighters. He also pointed out that right-handers, especially the pros, would do their best to “duck” southpaws, avoid them whenever they could, because facing left-handers was a handicap for most orthodox fighters.
“Come on, at least try it
huevón,”
lazy big balls.
Chicky would laugh and try, but he felt better fighting as a left-hander. “I hit harder my natural way, Grandpa.”
“That’s because you don’t practice at it.”
The mischievous kid in Chicky would always stall the old man. He’d stumble purposely, or pretend he’d hurt his hand when he worked right-handed. “Maybe
mañana,”
he’d tease, stretching the Spanish syllables.
“Ay-yai-yai,”
Eloy would say.
“Mañana
don’t never come, you don’t know that yet,
huevón?
Chapter 7
C hicky and Eloy left the farm one afternoon in 1994 and drove to the San Ignacio Gym in San Antonio. Chicky operated tractors and trucks on the farm, but, at fifteen, was too young to legally drive roads and highways. As usual, he rode shotgun with his grandfather. The sun was bright as a white duck’s bill, and he had to squint to see through the broken bugs and wings and yellow gut smears that nastied up the windshield.
Once they got to San Antonio, Eloy steered his pickup along Santa Rosa and into the San Ignacio parking lot at the corner of Travis. The Greyhound bus station and Crockett’s barbecue were a couple of blocks east of the gym, the Cathedral of San Fernando a few
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