THE CHAMP IS HERE
He’d never seen one of those before, one of the classic ones like in the cartoons.
In real life, though, it was pretty big and ugly in a prehistoric way, and scaly.
A classic woodpecker.
He saw it one day when he pulled into the driveway, caught a quick glimpse of some red and black bobbing its way up the tree then out of sight into branches and glare.
There was a pile of bark and wood chips at the foot of the big old scraggly pine and there were holes in a haphazard almost-pattern going up the trunk.
Man, he thought, a classic woodpecker.
He wanted to tell someone right away and badly.
Show them the piles underneath the tree he parked in front of every day.
Man, he thought, like the cartoon. Never seen one like that before. Never seen a classic woodpecker in real life. Not once in his life.
He’d seen a different kind once—stiff-dead on its back in the weeds for a few days, legs sticking up out of the bentgrass. Didn’t look real anymore. Half-taxidermic traces. Familiarity just shy of being able to tell how it reminded him—like the lotion smell that reminded him of music instead of the fruit it says it smelled like.
He felt like he learned something when he saw this real-life classic woodpecker. Like something out of a nature program. A shot of him pulling into his driveway and seeing the woodpecker through the windshield—there it was, right there in plain view.
He’d see it as soon as he turned onto his street because he started to look for it and his house was the first house on his street and the tree was right by the driveway.
And when he’d see it, he’d slow the car down, drive softly, and stop to watch it. Best seat in the world.
He took pride that this woodpecker, a Pileated woodpecker—he’d done his research—chose the pine tree in front of his house and not a tree in front of anyone else’s house in town. This gave him something to come home to at the end of the day, look forward to: the woodpecker and the feeling.
Man, this was a future he could settle into.
A thing to be proud of.
When he stopped seeing it, when it stopped coming, he started looking out the back and side windows.
He’d had something special there. It’d even lifted his spirits. And even now, sometimes, when he thinks about the classic woodpecker, like how he hadn’t heard it make a sound, it amazes him, how he’d never heard it pecking or whatever else it did.
But he did see it a last time: Its profile and the way it moved. Out the kitchen window, flying off somewhere, and he thought about boxers. How boxers could really take lessons from the classic Pileated woodpecker. With the way its head bobbed. How the bird seemed swifter than a featherweight, jabbing, moving.
Bob and weave.
Stick and move.
Nobody fights like that anymore, he’d said aloud, thinking about it and shaking his head.
When he stopped seeing it, at first he worried. Then he wondered where it went and he pictured himself fighting some homeowner somewhere in town, the homeowner that had the pine tree on their property that the woodpecker went to now.
Jab and move, baby.
Stick and move.
He’d knock on the door and spit and say, The Champ is here! He’d flutter his feet in complex footwork and throw a haymaker the moment his opponent looks down.
There had to have been something he could’ve done to have made it last or to make it come back and stay.
Maybe he should’ve parked up the street so not to bother it.
Anything he could’ve done so that it would’ve stayed. And not’ve gone to somebody else’s pine tree.
Most things were like that. How it always happened, happened before and would happen again.
Something to react to.
And most things.
In real life, though, it was pretty big and ugly in a prehistoric way, and scaly.
A classic woodpecker.
He saw it one day when he pulled into the driveway, caught a quick glimpse of some red and black bobbing its way up the tree then out of sight into branches and glare.
There was a pile of bark and wood chips at the foot of the big old scraggly pine and there were holes in a haphazard almost-pattern going up the trunk.
Man, he thought, a classic woodpecker.
He wanted to tell someone right away and badly.
Show them the piles underneath the tree he parked in front of every day.
Man, he thought, like the cartoon. Never seen one like that before. Never seen a classic woodpecker in real life. Not once in his life.
He’d seen a different kind once—stiff-dead on its back in the weeds for a few days, legs sticking up out of the bentgrass. Didn’t look real anymore. Half-taxidermic traces. Familiarity just shy of being able to tell how it reminded him—like the lotion smell that reminded him of music instead of the fruit it says it smelled like.
He felt like he learned something when he saw this real-life classic woodpecker. Like something out of a nature program. A shot of him pulling into his driveway and seeing the woodpecker through the windshield—there it was, right there in plain view.
He’d see it as soon as he turned onto his street because he started to look for it and his house was the first house on his street and the tree was right by the driveway.
And when he’d see it, he’d slow the car down, drive softly, and stop to watch it. Best seat in the world.
He took pride that this woodpecker, a Pileated woodpecker—he’d done his research—chose the pine tree in front of his house and not a tree in front of anyone else’s house in town. This gave him something to come home to at the end of the day, look forward to: the woodpecker and the feeling.
Man, this was a future he could settle into.
A thing to be proud of.
When he stopped seeing it, when it stopped coming, he started looking out the back and side windows.
He’d had something special there. It’d even lifted his spirits. And even now, sometimes, when he thinks about the classic woodpecker, like how he hadn’t heard it make a sound, it amazes him, how he’d never heard it pecking or whatever else it did.
But he did see it a last time: Its profile and the way it moved. Out the kitchen window, flying off somewhere, and he thought about boxers. How boxers could really take lessons from the classic Pileated woodpecker. With the way its head bobbed. How the bird seemed swifter than a featherweight, jabbing, moving.
Bob and weave.
Stick and move.
Nobody fights like that anymore, he’d said aloud, thinking about it and shaking his head.
When he stopped seeing it, at first he worried. Then he wondered where it went and he pictured himself fighting some homeowner somewhere in town, the homeowner that had the pine tree on their property that the woodpecker went to now.
Jab and move, baby.
Stick and move.
He’d knock on the door and spit and say, The Champ is here! He’d flutter his feet in complex footwork and throw a haymaker the moment his opponent looks down.
There had to have been something he could’ve done to have made it last or to make it come back and stay.
Maybe he should’ve parked up the street so not to bother it.
Anything he could’ve done so that it would’ve stayed. And not’ve gone to somebody else’s pine tree.
Most things were like that. How it always happened, happened before and would happen again.
Something to react to.
And most things.
Nathan Dragon is a writer, educator, and weatherization technician living in Salem, MA.
His debut, The Champ is Here, is a loosely-linked collection that follows, with varying distance, an unnamed narrator, his dog, and girlfriend or wife, from small American town to town.
Nathan is a founding editor of Blue Arrangements and was a 2023 resident for The Giancarlo DiTrapano Foundation for Literature and the Arts. He offers workshops and one-on-one mentorships.
His debut, The Champ is Here, is a loosely-linked collection that follows, with varying distance, an unnamed narrator, his dog, and girlfriend or wife, from small American town to town.
Nathan is a founding editor of Blue Arrangements and was a 2023 resident for The Giancarlo DiTrapano Foundation for Literature and the Arts. He offers workshops and one-on-one mentorships.