The first time I ever saw Ernie Lambert was on that sweltering August day when he showed up at my tiny office in the Athlete's Club and asked if he could join my boxing team.

"Sure," I told him. "It's not really a team, you know, just a bunch of kids who like to box. You ever box before?"

He nodded. "Yes, sir, I used to fight all the time in St. Louis, before we moved down here." His voice was the careful English of a kid trying to break free of a ghetto accent. "I was hoping you could teach me enough in the next few months so I can get in the Golden Gloves tournament."

"Well, we'll see what we can do. I suppose I ought to tell you, though, that I'm not a real boxing coach. I teach gym at the high school and I haven't boxed in competition since college."

"That's okay. My last coach wasn't a pro, either."

"Fine. Just thought you should know." I glanced at the clock and continued, "Some of the other guys will be in pretty soon to do some practice sparring. If you want to suit up, you'd be welcome to join us."

"Yes, sir, thank you."

Eight other guys eventually came in. I told them to do their own warm-up exercises, partly because that's easier on me and partly because I wanted to watch Ernie. No doubt about it, he had had some good coaching in the past. He knew all the standard exercises and a couple I'd never seen but which made sense once I stopped to think about them. He seemed in pretty good shape, too, and it looked to me like he was eager to get into the ring. That was starting to worry me a little. It wasn't because he was black; three of my twelve fighters were black and that never caused any problem. But Ernie was the smallest guy here today, outweighed by ten to fifty pounds, and I didn't want him to get run over on his first day. I hoped he would see that and have the sense to stay off the canvas.

He either didn't notice, which is bad, or didn't care, which is worse, because after Ray and Hal had finished their bout Ernie asked to have a turn in the ring. I wished I could say no, but I'd already sort of told him he could and I couldn't go back on my word. The only guy even close to Ernie's size was Chuck, who still had ten pounds and an inch or two on him. But there was no help for it, so the two of them put on the head protectors and oversized practice gloves and got in the ring together. Holding my breath, I tapped the bell.

Ernie demolished him. I mean, completely.

It was the strangest fight I'd ever seen. Ernie didn't seem to be particularly fast, but halfway through each punch there was this weird little jerk of some kind, and suddenly that hand was behind Chuck's guard and was bouncing off his head. At least three out of five of those jabs were landing, which was ridiculous for someone as good as Chuck. And on top of that, Chuck's own punches weren't connecting with anything except air, because that jerk of Ernie's was as good for getting his head back as it was for getting his fist forward.

The whole thing began to get to Chuck in the middle of the second round and he started throwing everything he could find, so I had to stop the fight. But I'd seen enough. I had a real Golden Gloves contender on my hands in Ernie.

It took the other guys awhile to see it, and awhile after that to see what it might mean in prestige for the whole town, but they eventually figured it out and from then on Ernie was one of the gang. At the end of the session Chuck announced that everyone was chipping in to buy Ernie a soda at the drugstore, and they all trooped off together. Me, I went home and startled my wife by telling her we were going out to dinner.

The next few weeks went by quickly, kind of surprising when I looked back at all the work I'd done. My gym classes at the high school took up a lot of my time, except for the two weeks between summer school and the fall quarter. Ernie was kept pretty busy with studies himself, and so we didn't work out as much as we had before. But every minute that I could get Ernie and at least one other guy together I spent at the Club. For a while I worried that I was neglecting the other guys in my work with Ernie, but Ray told me that they were getting more from my coaching, now that I was really fired up, than they ever had before. Ever since that day back in college when I broke my wrist and had to drop out of the boxing team, I'd really wanted to get a shot at working with real champion material. I guess my excitement was just boiling over.

And gradually, I got to know Ernie.

The last of five children, he grew up in the St. Louis ghetto area. His father didn't earn too much money, but Mister Lambert must have put a lot of time into raising his kids, because Ernie seemed better adjusted than a lot of richer kids I've known. He was about average height and build and sort of plain-looking, and he wore his hair short instead of in one of those Afros. He was soft-spoken and polite, and though I finally broke him of the habit of calling me "sir," he never called me "Ron" like some of the others did. It was always "Coach" or "Coach Morrissey."

He was smart, too, especially in the math and business classes he was taking. His teachers told me they thought he would get straight A's in those courses if he didn't spend so much time at the Club. That bothered me a little, but I decided it was my duty to develop the boy's talent. That's what I told myself, anyway.

About a month and a half after Ernie's arrival in town we got a real nice break. One of the local banks closed its lobby for remodeling, and I managed to talk them into loaning me one of their videotape cameras for a few days. I set it up at the Club and announced to the guys that they were going to get to watch their own fights, just like the pros do.

Everybody seemed pretty enthusiastic about the idea. Everybody, that is, except Ernie. He was sort of nervous, and kept looking at the camera while the others were sparring. And once in the ring, he got clobbered, the first time I'd seen that happen. His timing was shot to pieces, that whiplash jerk gone completely. I had to stop the fight after two rounds. Ernie wouldn't say anything about it except that the camera must have made him nervous.

The camera went back after four days and Ernie became dynamite in the ring again. But it bugged the heck out of me. Ernie was good, sure, but he still had flaws and I just knew it would help him to be able to watch himself in action on film. In real action, I mean; not the bum show he had given before for the camera.

It finally bugged me to the point where I did something about it. The videotape camera was back at the bank, but I had an old movie camera of my own. Taking it to the Club, I set it up where it wouldn't be seen or heard from the ring. I figured that what Ernie didn't know about couldn't make him nervous.

Sure enough, the next day Ernie did his usual good job in the ring. After everyone had left I took the film out of the camera and hurried home with it. Wolfing down my dinner—Diane complained about that—I went down to the basement and set to work developing the film.

It came out beautifully. The camera had been close enough to the ring that the fighters sometimes stepped out of its range, but there were some really clear shots, too. Ernie's whiplash punch was there in all its glory; so were a couple of his fast ducks and side-steps. My projector was an expensive model, a gift from the in-laws, and it had three speeds and even a single-frame viewer. So after I watched Ernie go through his paces a couple of times, I backed the film up and watched one of his whiplash punches in slow motion.