David Johnson and his grandfather, Turner were training in the large basement of his home in The Box, a mass of empty space that reeked with the stench of hard work. The drops of perspiration on the gray floor made it look as if there had just been a rainstorm. In the far corner was a stack of steel dumbbells, a white jump rope and a pair of black boxing gloves.
David was wearing a white t-shirt, black gym shorts and white tape wrapped around his hands. There was a large red punching bag hanging in between him and Turner. The old man was hugging the bag as David dug his fists into it. Right, Left, Right, Right, Left, Right, Left.
The music was loud and booming. The Greater Hope Community Choir had produced a CD and the two men were listening to praise songs as David Johnson continued his training.
“C'mon son,” Turner Johnson said, “you bedda hit dat bag like God love you. He's been too good! He's worthy to be praised! He is awesome in dis place. It is He who arms you with strength and makes yo way perfect. Now c’mon, son! Hit dat bag like he’s been good to ya!”
David Johnson loved to hear his grandfather’s voice, especially when he was training. Turner always knew just how to get him fired up. They had been in the basement of their house on Drexter Avenue for almost seven straight hours. David was exhausted, but Turner pushed him until he found his second wind. And his third wind. And his one-hundred and twenty-third wind.
“Time!” the old man yelled, observing the small, plastic watch on his wrist. “Dat's good for now.”
David Johnson grabbed the white towel that hung around Turner’s neck and wiped the sweat from his face. Then he sat on the floor, leaned his back against the wall and took a swig of water from the orange bottle that sat next to him.
Turner put on a slow gospel song to cool David down as he watched him unwrap the tap from his hands. Ever since his exhibition match with George Dean, something had change in David Johnson. His wasn’t getting in trouble, his grades were improving and he was talking to Turner about college. He and Turner had been talking about many things, about being man of God, about his mother before he was born, about cooking ribs.
But there was one thing that they never discussed.
David Johnson never told Turner about the burning, about what his hands could do, how they could erupt into fire.
It had started not long after he defeated George Dean. He ignored it as best he could until one day, while he was training by himself at night, his hands began to glow orange by themselves. He hadn’t been sure what to do ever since.