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To Ed da Silveira, Jr.'s previous pieceAmerican Samurai - In Training
He knew the white men were ready when the strands of muscle stood out more than the flesh itself. The black men were ready when their shoulders and legs had the strength, stealth and spring of a prowling puma and the eyes had the diamond sparkle of a predator.
He would show them specific exercises for the arms, torso, belly, thighs, and calves. At the end of each day, they would examine themselves in full length mirrors like narcissus, held rapt by the image of perfection taking shape. He would jolt them away, laughing at their dreamlike state and at their self-absorption. He would show them ripped out pages from Gray’s Anatomy revealing the muscular superstructure coiled around the skeleton.
‘This is what I want you to look like.’
He would touch them occasionally, massaging, rubbing oils and ointments into them, interludes where neither would talk - a communion of sorts between moments of exhortation and taunting which was part of the ritual of pushing men to their limits.
But mostly it was visual. He would look at them as he would a painting. He liked to review artist sketch books, the preparatory drawings so he could visualize the transformative process step by minute step.
The ones who didn’t have it had a blubbery aspect which could not be worn away - were mentally slow. He’d steal glances at the fighter’s faces when they were hooded in terry cloth, and thought they could relax their expressions. He looked for their true selves.
The most dangerous segments of a prizefight are the embraces, when both combatants lean into each other, rest their heads in close to an armpit or a crock of shoulder - almost nuzzling one another. He called it a mortal embrace, a most intimate moment. It could tire one of the fighters out, but also could provide a moment of respite.
The referee mediated the contest, the conquest and the humiliation.
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