Youngblood Eternal

When he was a kid, tight and fierce, they called him Youngblood. “Youngblood from around the way,” they’d say, and by that they meant “watch yourself.” He’d proven himself the way kids always did in that part of the city—fistfights in an alley surrounded by other kids who bet dimes and quarters on the winner. His buddy Drell Swilla would guard the kitty while Youngblood stepped to his sparring partner, plowed right through the flat spasm of punches coming at him until he could almost bite the other kid’s nose off. Nobody in those alleys ever played defense. You drove forward punching and tried to knock your guy off balance. If you got him on the ground, it was over. The kicking began, and once it started there was often very little to bring back with you, once you stood up. Youngblood never took to the ground, but what set him apart was that, if the other guy did, he’d make way so he could stand up. He was only content to kick you with his fists; a toe in the ribs was low-brow. When the other guy fell, he brought a world of blood with him and when all bets were paid out, Drell would bring an old t-shirt or a hand towel over to the other guy, even crack open a beer so he could wash the tooth-flecks from his mouth. The bruises and cuts on Y’s knuckles rarely made it back to full health before someone else was throwing down a challenge. The best alley fighter in Grilltown three summers running. Then this other guy came around, big, shoulders like two trucks double parked, a few years younger than Y. He had no problem with kicking folks. It was a trademark of his style, actually. He was Brazilian on his daddy’s side and there was this style of fighting from the jungle country, the street style in Rio and San Paolo a century ago, really old hat and a bit flowery. From the few times Drell saw the new guy take to an alley, he said it looked like the whole point was to get his guy to the ground as quick as possible, so that he could get down there with you. Then he’d do these low round-house looking kicks, like he was doing a backspin, some real antiquated breakdancing shit. But true to sight: it would mess you up. People got to talking and pushing at Drell to get a fight going; some boys from the block even said they’d put down some bigger money to make it happen. Youngblood and this new guy could get a cut right from the get-go. So Y said sure. The other guy said, When? In an alley between Shakespeare and Halster they set things up, a few boys at either end and some others down the block, all with walkie-talkies, to keep a look-out. Youngblood did his usual thing, spat on his fists and rubbed them together. The other guy—and this part is still legendary—did deep stretches, these moves that looked, to about everybody there, like warm-up exercises for the ballet. The kitty filled up, they took to fighting. Y took straight at him and this guy, he moved like water slung from a bucket: quick and splashing away from any punch Y tried to land on him. It wasn’t but half a minute before he had Y on the ground, and from there it got nasty. This guy, big as he was, rolled out on the ground and spun on his hands like some kind of Shao Lin master, jacking Y with hard kicks right to the throat and face. Y couldn’t get his hands up to cover himself; the kicks kept knocking his hands away. In about a slow count of ten fingers, Y was as done as dead. The big guy stood up and took his money from Drell, counted out half of it and dropped the bills one by one on Y’s head. His boys kept everybody clear while he did it. Once he was done he rolled off like it was still morning and he had his whole day ahead of him. Y they took to the emergency room of Western Central. His nose was snapped almost completely off to the right, so when he looked straight at you, it was still stuck there in profile. It’s strange how fast things change when you start to lose a little. That summer, down to that actual day, people around the street stopped calling him Youngblood. There was no respect at all to it, how they would mumble over their shoulders when he showed back up, as healed as he could get, considering. Nastynose, “Nasty from around the way”, they’d say. As if they’d proven themselves where he hadn’t. And that new guy, the one who did all the kicking? Can you believe it when they began to call him Youngblood, as if he had exactly the same reputation and name?