430 - scrambled brains - dragonyphoenix - Original

[dragonyphoenix.livejournal.com]

Title: The Boxer
Fandom: Original
Prompt: 430 - scrambled brains
Rating: PG
Summary: Parkinson's syndrome wasn't a surprise
Word Count: 922

The trembles started in his hands, a slight shaking that he couldn't seem to stop. He'd been a boxer all his life, world champion twice. He'd seen the Ali interviews. He knew what it meant when his hands started shaking.

He hid it for the better part of a week before Linda noticed. The word spread like wildfire through the family and Tom, their son, arranged for the hospital visit. Tom had encouraged the doctor to ramble on. Neither of them came straight out and said Parkinson's but the doc did say difficult to diagnose, a tremble could be symptomatic of a number of different diseases, tests to rule out other conditions. Joe sat there, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and waited for the doctor to leave. “Damn fool nonsense. Why'd you have to drag me here in the first place?”

Tom had grown up in the suburbs, in a white neighborhood. As a teen, whenever Joe or Linda had done something he'd thought of as too black or as too poor or too whoever knew the hell what, he'd freeze as if nobody would see it if he didn't move. He did that now, just for a moment. “Dad,” he said in that careful tone he took when he thought he was talking above Joe's head. “We need to diagnose …”

“I know what the hell's wrong with me.” He'd been expecting it most of his life.

He'd been at the gym. Tony, who everybody called The Kid, had brought in a tv and they'd all sat around to grab a view. Ali's words were so mumbled you could barely make them out. “Sheeeit.”

“What the hell he'd say?”

“Embarrassing, that's what it is. If he can't sound like a real person, he should just stay home.”

“Hey, man.” Tony had jumped to his feet. “That's Ali you're dissing. That's the Greatest. You don't get to badmouth Ali.”

They'd almost come to blows before Dick had stepped in and told them to take it to the ring if they were gonna fight. It had been Dick's gym and he could get away with saying shit like that.

A couple of days later Grandma Milly had gotten her sister, a nurse over at Mercy Hospital, to come over for dinner. “You saw what Ali sounded like.”

“Did you see how he was sitting? How stiff he was? That's called hypokinesia. The man can barely move much less speak. Soon enough he won't be able to stand on the two feet God gave him.”

In Grandma Milly's house, kids didn't interrupt when the grown-ups were talking. He was seventeen then, still a kid in Milly's eyes. “You want your brains scrambled up like that? Well? What are you going to do boy?”

“You were glad enough when boxing got me off the streets.”

The two women started in on him again. He didn't know what they wanted him to say. Boxing was the only thing he was good at.

“Dad? Dad?” Joe blinked up at his son. Now where was he. Oh, right, hospital. There was a nurse standing in the doorway. “They're ready with the tests now Dad.”

“I remember the first time I won the world championship. Bobby Greer. I took him down. Nobody expected me to, but I did it.”

“Yeah, Dad, I know. I saw it on tv. Let's get those tests taken.”

“Tests, feh. You don't remember your roots, boy. Big fancy doctor. Feh.”

Tom jerked his head away. Upset. The boy always … Doctor. He'd wanted Tom to be a doctor. He'd wanted his kids to grow up in a better neighborhood. No gangs. No drugs. Not dead from a gunshot wound before they'd even reached twenty. “Right, tests. You make sure they give me the right tests, son. Keep on top of them.”

The tests were dull: blood, a big machine where he had to lay back and not move. His thoughts wandered. The match against Greer had gone nine rounds, the odds against him winning, astronomical. He'd been a bull that night. Taking hit after hit and coming back with punch after punch. He'd dedicated his win to his kids, Matilda and Thomas, the boy less than a week old. And now look at Tommy. Talking with the doctors, keeping them honest.

Some of the tests would take time to analyze. The doctor gave him some pills. “Let's see if these make a difference.” He didn't know what kind of a difference they were supposed to make but Tom was keeping an eye out, keeping the crook honest, so the pills must be okay.

When they got home, Tom pulled Linda and Tilda aside. Joe didn't know why the boy couldn’t speak directly to him. It wasn't as if his mind was wandering. But then she came out and sat with him, Tilda. His daughter. A lawyer. He'd done good, raising these two although Linda should get most of the credit. Didn't matter. The kids had turned out well. What he'd wanted.

His hand started trembling and Tilda took it in hers. It didn't stop the shakes but her hands were warm, comforting. “My fight, the world championship. You remember that girl?”

“Which one?” Her voice was as comforting as her hands.

“The first.”

“Oh yes. Mama let me stay up late and watch it on tv.”

“That was for you.” The boxing. The wins. “For you and your brother.”

“I know.” She said, and she kissed his trembling hand. “Thank you.”