It was Uncle Buddy’s favorite diner in Chicago.
He loved everything about the place, from its neon sign on the outside to its snug booths on the inside. It was in one of them, with him and me sitting side by side sharing blueberry pancakes so big they spilled over the plate, and my mom and dad across from us sharing a secret smile, that she told us she was pregnant and that it was a boy. I remember how my dad, tall and thinly muscular (like me) with a perpetual five o’clock shadow (not like me, thankfully), was grinning widely as he put his arm around my mom and pulled her close. I also recall the look on my mom’s face. She’s gorgeous, with green, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones (got ’em-thanks, Mom), and wavy black hair, and she literally seemed to be glowing. I was just a kid, confused and excited at the same time, so maybe I don’t remember correctly what happened next, but I think I do.
What I remember is Uncle Buddy’s blank face.
He stared hard at my dad and said, “Another male Rispoli,” as if it were bad news. And then he shook it off like coming out of a trance, smiled his big Uncle Buddy smile, and said, “Hey, since you told us here, you should name the kid Lou!” My parents must have liked the sound of that because several months later my little brother, Lou Mitchell Rispoli, was born at Northwestern Hospital.
Having a new baby around was weird. Until then I had been the center of everyone’s attention, from my parents to my grandparents to Uncle Buddy. Now they all cooed at the baby, held and kissed the baby, and sang him soft Italian lullabies. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed my share of hugs and cuddles with Lou, too. I loved how he smelled and especially his long eyelashes and chubby fingers. But after a while, enough was enough. In those first two (incredibly long) years of Lou’s life, with everyone treating him like a little prince, my mother teaching school, and my dad working late at the bakery, I began to feel forgotten. Even at that young age, I was aware that a Rispoli never made a scene, so whenever I felt sorry for myself, rather than complain or cry, I’d open my favorite book (Laura Lane, Spygirl) and stare at the pages. I’d only recently learned to read, but it didn’t matter since I wasn’t interested in the words. It was just a place to put my eyes while I waited for someone to pay attention to me.
That’s when Uncle Buddy introduced me to boxing.
I took to it right away, and gave up ballet to learn how to fight.
To be honest, I’m really proud of my left hook.
Boxing was unusual for a six-year-old girl, I admit, almost as much as it is now for a sixteen-year-old girl. But it’s just as graceful as ballet, and when you’re taught to do it well, you realize that it’s less about hitting than not getting hit. Anyway, even though I was taught to stand up for myself if I was being mistreated, it’s not like I’m some kind of brawling maniac. My weapons were the self-confidence I copied from my dad and the power of cool logic instilled in me by my mom.
And then there are parts of me that are just, well. . me.
I’m not shy, I’m quiet. And I’m not a wallflower, I’m an observer.
Also, in the most tense of situations, I grow calm.
Anyway, Uncle Buddy must have noticed that I felt forgotten, and one afternoon he picked me up in his old red convertible and drove us to the southwest side, to a place called Windy City Gym. It was on the third floor of a soot-covered warehouse. When we entered, the building seemed deserted. We climbed a dark flight of stairs, Uncle Buddy telling me to watch my step, and then he opened a set of double doors and we were flooded with sudden sunshine streaming through glass skylights. The room was deep and tall, with high ceilings crisscrossed by thick wooden beams. From those beams hung heavy bags, several of which were being rhythmically pummeled by guys whose hands were wrapped in tape. There were mirrors and speed bags and jump ropes hanging from the brick walls, along with dozens of old photos and peeling posters of boxers who had trained at Windy City. In the middle of it all, beneath a haze of dusty sunlight, sat a boxing ring-not a ring at all, in fact, but a canvas-covered square. It was taller than me and lined with rope on all four sides. Two guys were inside, circling and dancing, dipping their shoulders and popping their boxing gloves off each other. I smelled chalk and heard the squeak of sneakers, the buzz of a jump rope, and a squealing bell. I was aware of my small size, the thinness of my shoulders and legs, but at that moment it was exactly where I wanted to be.
Uncle Buddy laid a hand on my shoulder and said, “Sara Jane, meet Willy Williams.” I turned to a small African American man, almost as small as my grandpa Enzo and a little older. He wore steel-rimmed glasses on his face, a newsboy cap on his head, and a gray fuzzy mustache beneath his nose. He offered a hand for me to shake. When I did, he smiled, and his smile made me feel warm and welcome.
“So this is Anthony and Teresa’s little girl. You look just like your mama, you know that? Except your eyes. You got your daddy’s eyes.”
People said that all the time, so I nodded and smiled back.
“How old are you, Sara Jane?”
“I’m six.”
“My, my, big six.” He nodded at the boxers in the ring beating up on each other and said, “Don’t let those guys scare you, my girl.”
“They don’t scare me,” I said, mesmerized by the fight. “It looks fun.”
“Fun?” he said, raising his eyebrows over his glasses and grinning. “Say, did you know that your daddy won a very important championship boxing match once?”
I didn’t, and it surprised me. “Really?” I said. “He did?”
“Indeed. I trained him myself. I trained your uncle here, too. ’Course, Anthony had a left hook that Buddy never saw coming,” Willy said, with a wink at Uncle Buddy.
Uncle Buddy smiled but didn’t look happy as Willy went on to say how my dad’s build made him the ideal size for a light middleweight. Uncle Buddy’s short thickness made him a little too heavy and a little too slow to be a boxer. Then Willy patted Uncle Buddy’s shoulder and said, “But no one ever tried as hard as Buddy. And no one was tougher. You sure could take a punch, kid. You sure had a chin.”
Uncle Buddy rubbed his jaw and grinned at me, saying, “I sure took enough of them in the ring from your dad, Sara Jane. I sparred with him day and night. If it wasn’t for me, he never would’ve won that championship.”
“That’s right,” Willy said. “He couldn’t have done it without Buddy’s help.”
This time when Uncle Buddy smiled, he actually looked pleased. He put his hand on my head and said, “Well, Willy. What do you think?”
I would learn later that Willy Williams had one of the sharpest eyes in boxing. He could inspect someone from head to toe, even a skinny six-year-old girl, and instantly decide if she had what it took to be a fighter. Once Willy formed an opinion, whether it was about a person’s viability in the ring or politics or baseball or any other issue, he would deliver his judgment in a little rhyme. Willy stared at me while rubbing his chin. Finally, he pointed a finger in my direction and said-
“Sara Jane,
to me, it’s plain.
Looking at you,
I see a boxer through and through.”
I began to train with Willy that very day and never looked back. I started slowly, moving around the ring, getting used to the rhythm and movement, while he taught me how to use my hands and what to do with my feet-how to pivot and move, and how to get around and below a punch. Soon, my brain and body began to work together, the first half strategically directing mechanics, the other executing orders on command, until the partnership became one homogenous fighter, me. There’s an odd, empowering phenomenon that boxers experience when their physical and mental selves begin to merge into a single being, and I could feel it happening. It was as if I was gaining control of something inside myself that I didn’t even know existed, and it felt like an upgrade, like new features being added to the original Sara Jane. Sometimes before bed, I’d throw a dozen combination punches at my reflection in the mirror. Faster, faster, faster! I’d think, watching my hands and arms pumping like pistons, obeying my command.