C HAPTER 1

T elevision vans were never a good omen for the Alisal.

Like vultures, they only arrived in Salinas’ poorest
neighborhood when they smelled blood. Miguel Ángel
saw the gleaming white vans parked outside his boxing
club, their antennas disappearing into the evening fog,
and he shivered. No way. He looked around for other tell-
tales; sweat beginning to dampen his hands. No cop cars.
No yellow tape. Why the hell were TWO news vans out-
side HIS boxing club?
“Brother, you’re hurting me,” Mary Carmen whim-
pered.
Dang, he was so nervous he didn’t even realize he was
squeezing his little sister’s hand so hard.
“I’m so sorry, Pan con Mantequilla,” he said, calling
her by the special nickname he had for her: Bread ’n But-
ter. His favorite treat. “I just get nervous about all these
TV cameras.”
“Why are they here, Miguel Ángel?”
“Not sure. Let’s go inside.”
Were they going to cover the boxing match? It was just
a friendly bout. TV didn’t even show up for the Golden
Gloves championship.
The idea of running into dumb television reporters
turned his stomach. All these guys ever reported on were

3
4 C LAUDIA M ELÉNDEZ S ALINAS

car chases and murders, and Miguel Ángel always changed

the channel when their blonde horse-faces appeared on
the screen. Maybe it was nothing. Still, he pulled Mary
Carmen around the back entrance of the Packing Shed.
Maybe they’d be able to get through the bouts, and the
vans would be gone by the time he went home.
Fat chance. Inside the Packing Shed, the scene was
even worse. Besides the TV cameras, there were dozens
of strangers walking around the huge warehouse, dis-
mantling the boxing ring, arranging chairs and tables in
a semi-circle, as if some sort of meeting was going to take
place. Miguel Ángel stood frozen for a few minutes,
watching his boxing pals and complete strangers scurry-
ing around like ants after a storm.
Dismantling the boxing ring? What the hell?
“What’s happening, Miguel Ángel?” Mary Carmen
asked, as if sensing something was wrong.
“Let’s find out,” he said, pulling on his little sister’s
arm.
The curiosity was stronger than his revulsion for the
TV reporter, so Miguel Ángel approached him as he was
getting ready for his live six o’clock shot. A tan make-up
line wrapped around his jaw, in front of his ears, by his
hairline. That’s why he looks like a clown, Miguel Ángel
thought.
“Nice of you to join us.” He heard the squeaky and
unmistakable voice of Coach, lowering himself to Mary
Carmen’s level. “And who’s this little boxer joining us?”
“Coach!” she screamed, throwing her arms around the
bearded, round man.
“How are you, preciosa?” Coach asked Mary Carmen
as he gave her a peck on her cheek. Then he turned to
Miguel Ángel, “You think you can give us a hand here?”
 A F IGHTING C HANCE 5

“What’s going on, Coach?” Miguel Ángel dropped his

gym bag to the ground with a loud thud and let go of
Mary Carmen. “Aren’t we supposed to spar tonight with
the Watsonville guys?”
“Man, you really are in love, aren’t you? That’s not the
kind of fight we’re having tonight. We’re having a council
hearing, remember? To decide whether or not we can
stay here?”
“Oh, man. You’re right. I forgot. My bad.”
“Ándale, help me set up these chairs. I don’t like flo-
jos standing around, you know that.”
“And I don’t like it when you call me lazy, you know
that,” Miguel Ángel responded, raising his fists and
bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Mary Carmen, you can sit here or you can help pull
chairs out,” Coach told the little girl.
“I’ll help,” she said eagerly.
A month ago, when Coach found out the city was
going to evict the boxing club from the Packing Shed, he
hauled all the fighters down to the Salinas City Hall to
speak to the mayor and city council. The council’s
response: a subcommittee hearing at the frigid gym.
Three council members would come down to see for
themselves what was going on at the Packing Shed before
deciding the boxing club’s fate.
For Miguel Ángel, it was better to be at the Packing
Shed than at city hall, though. Coach had wanted him to
say something, but when they visited all those bright
offices smelling of cleaning chemicals, Miguel Ángel
froze. All those ladies wearing suits and high heels and
smelling of perfume were too much. Not even the high
school principal dressed like that.
6 C LAUDIA M ELÉNDEZ S ALINAS

Miguel Ángel promised Coach he’d prepare next time.

When they had their hearing, he’d have a speech all
ready.
And he totally forgot about it. Three weeks with his
stomach in a knot about the fate of his beloved gym, and
he completely forgot about the hearing. Was he dumb or
what? Fool, fool, fool. Maybe Coach was right: it was Brit-
ney’s fault. Now, as he walked to the far end of the gym,
where the chairs were stacked, he barely began to think
about what to say. If it weren’t for the Packing Shed and
for Coach, he’d still be in the streets beating up punks
and gangster-wanna-bes. Maybe he’d be selling dope and
stuff, just like Beto. Maybe he would have joined the
gang, like Beto. Hell, maybe he’d be dead.
“What time are you going to fight, Miguel Ángel?”
Mary Carmen broke his spell.
“Oh, man. I’m not going to fight, Pan con Mantequilla.
Not like that. We’re going to talk to these people. It’s a
hearing, you know?”
“What’s a hearing?” she asked, trying to lift a chair
over her head.
“Wait, no, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Miguel Ángel
stopped her. “These people are going to come talk to us.
Then they’re going to tell us if we can stay here or not.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know.” He felt like he was going to fight but
completely forgot to train. Like he’d been eating potato
chips before the weigh-in and he’d gained all these
pounds.
It was as if chairs were attracting people: the more
chairs they put out, the more quickly they filled up. The
only time he’d seen such a crowd was two years ago,
when he gave a lesson on fighting to the L.A. punk who
 A F IGHTING C HANCE 7

ran out of gas by the second round. He didn’t really like

seeing that fool all messed up. He didn’t like fighting. It
was just that when he climbed into the ring, he could
finally let loose. When the bell rang, it was his signal to
become somebody else, somebody who could leave his
shyness, his crowded apartment and his ghosts behind.
Somebody who was somebody.
Mary Carmen’s question echoed in his head. Where
am I going to train if they close the Packing Shed?
“So, what are you going to say, bro?” asked Ricky, one
of the scrawniest boxers.
“I’m not sure,” Miguel Ángel said. “What about you?”
Ricky just shrugged his shoulders, as if that were an
answer.
“I feel like just going over to city hall and throwing a
bomb in there or something,” said Raúl, the tiniest boxer
at the Packing Shed.
“Tst, don’t let them hear you say that,” Ricky whis-
pered. “They already treat us like terrorists. If you give
them any excuse, they’ll haul your butt to juvie.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Raúl said. “I’m just so mad.”
“Remember what Coach says, right?” Miguel Ángel
said. “Channel your anger.”
“I know, I know. I just want to channel my anger at
those idiots.”
“He said ‘idiots,’ Miguel Ángel.” Mary Carmen turned
to her big brother in disbelief.
Miguel Ángel just glared at Raúl.
Truth was, Miguel Ángel wasn’t really prepared for
this kind of battle either. He knew about punches and
footwork, but of speaking in public and trying to convince
a bunch of politicians to keep his gym open, he knew
8 C LAUDIA M ELÉNDEZ S ALINAS

nothing. The thought made him sweat even more. But he

didn’t want to talk smack in front of Mary Carmen.
“We should find a place to sit, or we’re going to have
to stand the whole time,” he told his buddies, pushing
them all along, including his little sister.
No sooner had Miguel Ángel and his bunch found a
seat, than the council people began to talk.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” a gray-haired
old Mexican spoke into the microphone. “We’re here
tonight because we need to decide what to do with the
Packing Shed. As some of you may already know, Salinas
is having some financial problems, and we need to find
ways to save money and, at the same time, still provide
services to our residents. Some of us think Alisal resi-
dents would be better served if we opened the Packing
Shed for other uses. But we want to hear what you have
to say.”
Miguel Ángel buried his head between his hands. It
was the exact same speech this guy gave last time, give or
take a few words, and Miguel Ángel hadn’t even thought
about what to say today.
“Please fill out a form if you want to talk,” the coun-
cilman continued. “Form a line right in front of the mic,
and don’t go over the two-minute time limit. We have a
lot of people, and we don’t want to stay here all night.”
Miguel Ángel surveyed the room one more time.
There were dozens of people he’d never seen before.
Some occupied the metal chairs, others rambled around
the warehouse-turned-gymnasium. Everyone began to
line up before the microphone, and Miguel Ángel decid-
ed to get it over with.
“Brother, when are we going to go home? I’m getting
hungry,” Mary Carmen said.