Read Online The Chief by Robert Lipsyte - Free Book Online

kid’s good for John L.,” Richie told me one dawn in the car. “John L. hates to train. He gets bored real easy. I’m glad you guys showed up.”
    â€œFive hundred dollars glad?” I rasped.
    â€œDon’t push your luck, pencil boy.”
    Sonny never sparred with John L. for the crowd. An old sparring partner would go through the motions, never laying a glove on John L. After the public session was over, Richie would coach Sonny. He’d talk strategy. He’d put on the big mitts and review combinations.
    I learned from watching Richie. He corrected some bad habits Sonny had fallen into, like dropping his shoulder so low before throwing a body hook that he left his face wide open. Sonny was a fast learner with lots of energy, and I could see that Richie enjoyed teaching him. He could forget about John L. for an hour or two. He made Sonny go outside after the coaching and run again for twenty minutes to get used to the heat.
    My folks were excited when I called home;they’d seen me on TV. My dad never asked where I got the money for my flight. Jake sounded happy, too. Alfred asked a lot of questions about Sonny’s training. There was no way I could lie to him about the secret sessions with John L.
    â€œShouldn’t need that kind of work so close to a fight,” said Alfred. “Don’t bet on Solomon.”
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    John L. invited us to have dinner with him one night. He had his own cottage by the hotel’s golf course—three bedrooms, a huge living room with a monster TV set, gold bathrooms. We ate outside on the patio overlooking the pool, with a dozen other people, family and friends and lawyers. John L. put us near him at the long table.
    â€œSo, what kind of Indian are you?” he asked.
    â€œYou never heard of it.”
    â€œWould if you told me. Be proud of your race, make your race proud of you.”
    â€œMoscondaga. Up near Sparta, New York.”
    â€œYou don’t look so Indian.”
    â€œMy father was a white man.”
    â€œWas?”
    Sonny got a funny look. “Died in Vietnam.”
    John L. leaned back in his chair and put his hands on top of his big gut. “My granpa Moise came over from Russia, settled in Brooklyn. Brighton Beach. That was like a reservation—you could walk on the boardwalk, hear nothing but Russian and Yiddish. English is my fourth language.” He winked. “Third one was punching out anybody called me kike. Roots make you strong, Sonny Boy. And after I messed up…”
    â€œBad breaks can happen to anybody,” said one of the lawyers.
    â€œâ€¦I had a place to crawl back to.”
    My mouth was full but I couldn’t miss the chance. “How’d you mess up? The papers said…”
    â€œPapers always get it wrong. I blew it, didn’t train, let it all go to my head. Women, booze, dope.” He winked. “Maybe I got my break too early. The world’s upside down, once you can afford things, everybody gives you stuff for free.”
    â€œBut you pay for it,” said Richie.
    â€œJewboy, redskin, schvartze”—he winked at me—“same books, different covers.”
    He winked too much. I finally figured out he had a nervous tic. Did it have something to do with his brain? The reason Richie wouldn’t let Sonny hit his head?
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    The next morning, in the car, Richie said, “You think Sonny be willing to fight the under-card?”
    I thought he was teasing. “Nah, we’re just out here for the sun.”
    â€œWorth two grand.”
    â€œYou serious?”
    â€œSludge took off. He was supposed to fight one of Hubbard’s sparring partners in a four-round prelim.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œA pretty decent banger, used to be ranked, but he got into drugs, now he’s trying to make it back up. I don’t think Sonny’ll have any trouble with him.”
    I tried to stay cool. “He got a