The Champ
Tristan Beach
76
Everyone gathered at the beach. Some men unloaded bleachers from
a truck and set them up. People sat, packed like cattle in a trailer,
fanning themselves with programs. Someone spit on someone else. A
fistfight broke out between them. Someone lost a tooth. Two or three
were badly squished, and one slid off her seat onto the hard sand
below. The culprits were separated. One person fainted amid the
commotion.
A cheer struck the crowd like a whipcrack as a lone bare-chest-
ed boxer approached the shoreline. He wore red trunks with white
frayed piping and faded blue boxing gloves. His arms pumped the air
as he toddled over kelp ropes and sharp rocks. The roar of the crowd
matched the pitch of the waves. When he entered the water, the champ
began boxing the foamy surface. He wadded in farther, furiously
batting and swiping—each blow landing with a plop. Soon his arms
vanished and his head floated like a gold bobber. Then he was gone.
After a few minutes, the whooping and screaming died. The
champ didn’t turn up again. A few spectators grumbled to no one in
particular about money wasted. Some men were ecstatic, having bet
on the sea. Eventually the bleachers emptied and were hauled back
into the truck.
In the morning, searchers combed the shore.