Many thanks to my friend and yoga student, Jai, for giving me a place to go to finish my novel GRAVITY.
Here's a scene I cut from the novel. Takes place at the gift shop at the Great Wall of China. Our heroine, Gravity, has lost her fight in the Women's World Boxing Championships, but is still in the running for the Rio Olympics...
***
Gravity never noticed referees too much, unless they were really bad. Like that old guy who had taken a bullshit point away from her for cuffing in the Junior Olympics, or that mousy lady who officiated in the Golden Gloves and looked terrified to get too close to the action.
The two refs she ran into in the Great Wall of China gift shop must have been okay, because she couldn’t remember anything about them. One was fat and one was skinny. The fat guy was white and American and had thin, sandy hair and glasses. The skinny guy was black and Canadian and bald with a mustache. They would have made good spies, because they had the kind of mild faces that blended into the gift shop crowd. Nobody would ever stop them at airport security to search their luggage. They were just sort of there, like telephone wires.
She browsed the display of post cards while listening in on their conversation out of the corner of her ear. The fat referee was telling the skinny referee that they needed to have something called a “catchphrase.” The skinny referee was arguing with him.
“Catchphrases are unnecessary,” said the skinny guy. “You already gave the fighters their instructions in the dressing room. All you need to do in the ring is clarify what constitutes a low blow.”
The fat ref gestured with a Great Wall snow globe. “You need to assert your authority in the ring. A tag line announces your presence.”
“A good referee is someone you don’t notice,” said the skinny ref.
The fat referee said, “Come on, Warren, do you really want to spend your whole life not being noticed? You’re the best goddamn ref in Toronto, and everybody knows it. I’ve seen how hard you work. That stoppage on the Stevenson undercard? Perfect. Everybody else was shitting their pants about that ring death in Edmenton, but not you. You let ‘em fight!”
Gravity stole a look at Warren. She could tell he was pleased by what the fat ref was saying, but he was trying to hide it.
“And the way you handled that head butt on the undercard?” the fat ref continued. “So authoritative.”
“Thanks, Herschel,” said Warren. “I have been studying Carlos Padilla’s work in the Thrilla’ in Manilla. It’s helped with my rhythm.”
“See!” cried Herschel, pounding the snow globe. “Who else does that? You eat, sleep, and breathe officiating. It’s time you were recognized for it.”
Warren picked up a snow globe and shook it. “They did give me that nice plaque last year.”
Herschel shook his head. “I’m not talking dinky little plaques, Warren. I’m talking big time. There’s supposed to be a PBC card soon in the Bahamas. Amy told Donna that the network guys said they need a ref they can trust for the main event, and Lynn said the commission suggested you.”
Warren looked up. “Really? Me? On a televised main event in the Bahamas?”
“But you need a catchphrase,” Herschel said gravely. “All the big time guys have them. Joe Cortez has ‘I’m fair but I’m firm.’ Kenny Bayless has ‘What I say you must obey.’ Old Mills Lane’s got ‘Let’s get it on.’”
“Mills Lane!” Warren picked up a Great Wall coloring book and leafed through it. “He was a prima donna. Steve Smoger doesn’t have a catchphrase.”
Herschel reached a fat pale hand to pat Warren’s skinny dark one. “Let’s be honest, Warren, neither of us are a Smoger.”
As the two men touched, they looked over and met Gravity’s eyes. She looked away, embarrassed to have been caught eavesdropping, but the men seemed delighted to see her.
“Gravity Delgado!” cried Warren.
“How you feeling today?” said Herschel. “You all recovered from that bout with China?”
“I’m fi-”
“Mind if we come chat a little?” asked Warren.
“Um…”
But they were already hurrying over to the display of post cards to talk to her.
“Congratulations on winning Continentals,” said Herschel, patting her on the back so hard she choked a little.
“We knew you would make it,” said Warren. “From the first time I reffed one of your fights, I said, ‘She’s a future continental champion. Didn’t I, Herschel?’”
“You did,” agreed Herschel. “And after I reffed for her, I saw just what you meant. Remember I came up to you after the fight and congratulated you and told you that you could be the next Million Dollar Baby?”
“Uh, yeah,” Gravity said. “That was really nice of you, thanks.”
It was a little embarrassing how well both men seemed to know her. The truth was, she had no memory of either of them ever officiating for her, and people were always mentioning Million Dollar Baby to her, so that didn’t ring any bells. She hated that movie. She didn’t understand why the girl boxer in there had to get crippled and die. It was kind of sexist when you thought about it. Rocky didn’t get crippled or die. Neither did Creed.
Warren leaned in and lowered his voice. “As the third man in the ring, we must of course maintain a certain hermetic remove, so if I haven’t been more forthcoming with accolades, it’s not for lack of esteem.”
“Um, thanks.” She had no idea what that meant.
“You’re the bee’s knees,” said Herschel.
“Thanks!” She didn’t know what that meant either, but bees could sting you, so it must be good.
“Do you think referees should have catchphrases?” asked Warren.
Both men looked at her eagerly. They seemed to care a whole lot what she thought, which made her feel embarrassed again, because the truth was she had no opinion at all.
“I think,” she said carefully, selecting a few post cards of the Qinhuangdao skyline for Auntie Rosa, “that as long as you’re fair, it doesn’t really matter too much what you say.”
“Hah, see!” cried Warren.
Herschel shook his head. “When you go pro, Gravity, you’ll understand. Boxing is a business. It’s not enough just to be technically skilled. You have to make the television audience remember you. You have to be a brand.”
“I’m not sure I’ll change my mind when I go pro,” Gravity said, frowning. What the fat referee had said made her feel sad for some reason. She thought about Andre Vázquez back home, always handing out stuff that said PLASMAFuel, about how Boca tagged everything on Facebook #bocacrewforever, about how they both treated Monster like he was a racehorse or something. Gravity didn’t want to be a brand. She just wanted to box. “But I guess if you think it would help your business or whatever to say a catchphrase, you should. I mean, nobody really listens to referees anyway.”
Warren coughed. Herschel shuddered. Gravity became aware of a sudden chill in the air of the gift shop. She tried to backtrack.
“I mean, I didn’t mean nobody listens. Just that, you know, the boxers are so focused on their fight that it just sort of…rolls over them, you know?”
That only made it worse. Gravity picked up one of the rubber birds from the display case next to the post cards labelled “Shrilling Chickens.” When she squeezed it, it let out a horrific wail.
Warren stood up very straight and said, “Boxers are not the only ones who are focused.”
“There’s three people in that ring, you know,” said Herschel. “And one of them never gets any credit.” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began to furiously polish his glasses.
Gravity felt bad. She was still trying to think of what to say to apologize when Warren took his friend’s arm with great dignity.
“Come on, Herschel,” he said. “Let’s go pay for our snow globes.”