by Jack Tunney
At Sally’s house, we spent nights on the front porch swing, inside watching TV with her family, or taking long walks through the neighborhood.
“I’ve seen you and Sally together,” Mrs. Lester said one day. “She’s such a sweet girl.”
“She’s the kind of girl you take home to meet your mother,” somebody else told me.
I wondered what Sally saw in me.
Her dad was a foreman at St. Joseph’s Mining Company two towns away – one of those big guys who came home caked in dust and dirt. No amount of hot showers softened him up, and it took him forever to warm up to me. Sally was his oldest daughter. He kept an eye on everything we did. Her mom was another story. Right from the start, she welcomed me into her home.
Most nights when I came to see Sally she had a dinner plate warming in the over for me.
“You need a good meal,” she said. “You have to eat right.”
“I can always grab something at the diner,” I said.
She would shake her head. “That’s no substitute.”
Sometimes on Sunday afternoons, I would pick up Sally after church. We would pack a lunch and take the Mercury east toward Ste. Genevieve. I’d roll down the windows and we sang along with Elvis or Jerry Lee Lewis. We found a secluded spot on the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi, parked the car, and spread out a blanket. After kicking off our shoes, we watched the river, or stared at the clouds overhead, and talked.
It was on one of those afternoons I told her about my time at The Walls.
“I made a mistake, but I paid for it,” I said. “I wish now it had been different.”
Sally looked at me. “You wish you never got caught?”
I shook my head. “I wish I never got involved,” I said. “I made a mistake and paid for it. But I wish I could take it back and start over.”
She took my hand in hers. “We all make mistakes,” she said. “You got a second chance to make it better.”
“What about your father?” I asked. “How do you think he’ll take it? What will he say when I tell him?”
“He likes you,” Sally said. “And he knows I like you. Tell him like you told me and he’ll understand.”
“I don’t want to be a disappointment. Not to him. Not to you,” I said.
Sally shook her head and squeezed my hand. “Do you think Father Tim would be disappointed in you?”
I took a breath. “He’d be disappointed in the choices I made.”
“But not in you?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said.
“He always believed in me,” I added. “I’m trying to do better now and make smarter decisions. I’m not the same guy I was back then.”
Sally smiled.
“I don’t know that other guy from Chicago or St. Louis,” she said. “But I really like the one I met here.”
ROUND TWELVE
Missouri in the summer felt like the hottest place on earth. It was impossible to stay cool, even after the sun went down. July evenings were the worst, but August was almost as bad. And inside the YMCA it was always twenty degrees hotter.
I finished another brutal hour in the gym. Lifting weights then working the speed bag, followed by twenty minutes pounding the heavy bag. Then ten minutes jumping rope. No rest. No breaks. When I was done sweat poured off my body and my t-shirt was soaked. I had a towel wrapped around my shoulders and another pressed against my face.
A familiar voice boomed through the locker room.
“Hey, Daddy-O!”
I looked up to see Donny Wayne striding across the locker room like he owned the place. “Knew you’d turn up sooner or later.”
He had on a white t-shirt with a pack of smokes rolled in his sleeve. Dark shades. Attitude and cool. A wad of gum tucked in the corner of his cheek that made him look like a chipmunk.
I shook his hand and gave a smile.
He plopped down on the bench and punched me in the arm. It was a playful shot, but still hard enough to hurt. “Ran into a guy at a bar in St. Louis. Started talking about some kid he saw fighting in a VFW Hall down here in the sticks,” he said. “The way he went on, I just knew it had to be you. Who else could it be?” He gave me the eye. “Had to come down here and see if it was true.”
“Didn’t think it was the kind of fight anybody would be talking about once it was over,” I said. “Sure didn’t think the news would make it that far north.”
Donny Wayne shrugged, but his grin never disappeared. “Got in the car and motored down here,” he said. “Knew if there was a gym in town, I’d find you. Saw your car outside and figured I was right.”
“You’re a regular Joe Friday,” I said.
He poked a sneaker at a towel bunched up on the floor. “What are you doing down here in this place?”
‘It’s as good a place as any to start over.”
“In this jerk water little town?” Donny Wayne shook his head. “Can’t be nothing happening here?”
“I like it just fine.”
Donny Wayne tipped the shades down his nose. “What’s down here that you can’t get up in St. Louis? This is deads-ville.”
His expression said one thing, but I knew him better than that. Donny Wayne never lost his smile, but something changed and it got cold and edgy. “Nothing down here for a guy like you,” he said. “You’re an action guy. Big City. A place like this is nowhere.”
I wiped my face and peeled off the tee shirt, digging in the bottom of the locker for a clean one. “I like it here.”
Donny Wayne slowly unwrapped another stick of Juicy Fruit. He spit out the wad in his mouth, then popped in the new piece. He chewed on it for a minute, working it from side to side.
“When I heard you were boxing again, I gave Big Mike a call,” he said. “Figured he’d want to know, especially on account of how close you were and how much he likes you. Told me he always had a soft spot for a stand-up guy like you.”
I returned Donny Wayne’s stare.
I slid out of my trunks and stuffed them in the gym bag along with my wet t-shirt, gloves, and other towels. “I’m just trying to get comfortable in the ring right now,” I said. “Don’t know if I’m ready to throw in with Big Mike.”
“Talk to him. See what he’s got to say,” he said. “It don’t hurt to talk. He can make things happen.”
I tossed some socks in the bag as another smile crossed Donny Wayne’s face – brighter and warmer this time.
“I got a great idea,” he said.
I felt a twinge. Donny Wayne’s ideas usually led to trouble.
“Why don’t you take a ride back with me?” he asked. “Give us a chance to shoot the breeze and catch up. Maybe knock back a couple of cold ones while we’re at it. In the morning we can ride over to Big Mike’s and see him.”
“Can’t do it tonight. I’ve got plans,” I said. “Besides, what about work?”
“I’m the boss,” he said, puffing out his chest. “I can do what I want. Old Man Gleason don’t mind.”
“I’ve got a job. Responsibilities,” I said. “Can’t just blow it off.”
“Got a lot I want to talk about,” he said. “Me and Big Mike put something together and I could use your help.”
I was itching to leave.
“Maybe some other time,” I said.
Donny Wayne kicked at the towels and stared at the floor. “Really need to talk,” he said. “This thing we got going on is important, and I can really use a guy who knows how to drive. Big Mike’s counting on you.”
“Not tonight. I’ve got things to do.”
“I drove down here to see you,” he said. “Let’s make the most of it.”
I shook my head and packed up the last of my things.
”What about on the weekend?” he asked. “Ain’t got time for a beer on Saturday? Just you and me, talking – like old times?”
“I’ve got a fight coming up in a couple of weeks. Need to focus on that,” I said. “But if Big Mike asks, you tell him I’m just playing my car
ds. Playing the hand I got dealt.”
Donny Wayne looked at me. “Pard, I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about?”
“It’s okay. Just tell him exactly like that,” I said. “He’ll know what I mean.”
Donny Wayne sat quietly, watching me collect the last of my gear then zipping the gym bag closed. “I dunno’, pard,” he finally said. “Things are different, huh? Not like they used to be.”
“Nothing stays the same,” I said with a shrug.
“That’s too bad,” Donny Wayne said. “I really need that guy I used to know back then.”
Nothing I could do about that. That guy was gone and never coming back.
ROUND THIRTEEN
August 16, 1958
I squeezed my eyes shut, but nothing changed.
No matter how long I kept them closed or how often I repeated the routine, every time I opened my eyes I was still sitting in the locker room at the Flat River VFW.
Before I got sent away, I had worked my way onto undercards in decent sized arenas. Places people heard about and recognized. I fought once in Chicago Stadium, in a place called The Madhouse on Madison. Had a couple of fights in the Old Red Barn in Detroit, as well as the Cleveland Arena. They were big time. Sugar Ray, Joe Louis, and Jake LaMotta fought there. The dressing rooms were first class, even for nobodies and wanna’be’s on undercards and preliminaries. There were full lockers, chairs with seat backs, and hot showers. Floor to ceiling mirrors where you could shadow box and and an endless supply of clean towels.
Nothing like that in the VFW.
This locker room was long and narrow, with metal cages that passed for lockers and an old oak bench bolted to the floor. It had been there so long even the initials carved into the wood had been worn smooth. There was no hot water and you had to bring your own towels. And the only place to shadow box was in front of the mirror hanging over the bathroom sink.
A curtain divided the locker room and separated the fighters. You sat with a room full of strangers, stretching, sweating, and bleeding, united only by a common bond that nobody on this side of the curtain would be fighting each other tonight. At least not in the ring.
Anything could happen in the parking lot.
The crowd was loud and noisy and, when I peeked out the door, it looked like every seat was filled. More people stood in the back while others wandered the main aisle between bouts, drinking Falstaffs and chatting with buddies.
Sally was someplace in that crowd. Not front row, but close to the ring. This was her first time watching me fight. The first time she would see a different side of me – I wasn’t the same guy who held her hand on the front porch – at least not when I was in the ring. I didn’t know what she expected or how she would react.
The butterflies in my stomach were worse than usual.
Sally drove me to the VFW and we walked in together. A few people wished me luck, and I like the way she looked at me when that happened. Just before she went to find her seat, Sally gave me a kiss.
“For luck,” she said.
I was one of the featured fights on the undercard and had time to kill. The official from the boxing commission barely looked at the way my hands were wrapped. Other fighters had already drifted in and out after their own fights, and only a few guys were left waiting.
Nobody had much to say, even if somebody felt like talking.
I was paired off against an old pug out of Pittsburgh named Jake Krupa in a six rounder. I didn’t know much about him, but he had knocked around the ring for years. Fought in places nobody ever heard of or bothered to visit too often. Somebody told me he had gone a few rounds with a guy from St. Vincent’s named Roberto Varga a year back. Varga had busted him up pretty good, but Jake kept fighting with at least three or four fights since then. It was going to take more than one beating to get him to hang up his gloves.
I caught a look at him before our fight. He was big and broad-shouldered, with a face that was mostly scar tissue and a jaw bent at an odd angle. He’d been hit so many times in the head that when he turned, he swiveled his whole body to look at me.
When our eyes met, his stare narrowed and he sneered, “What are you looking at, punk?”
I went back to the dressing room without a word. I sat in silence, thinking about how I wanted to fight when I climbed in the ring.
The door creaked open. Mr. Roach stuck his head inside and eased into the room. “Hey, Billy,” he said.
“Hey, Mr. Roach,” I said back with a smile. “Great to see you. Thanks for coming tonight.”
“Just wanted to see if you’re ready to go.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Got Sally and the wife with me. Got us some good seats a couple of rows back,” he said. “Should be a really good fight.”
“Hope I don’t disappoint you.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Got any thoughts on how you want to fight him?”
“Going straight at him,” I said, staring at my hands and flexing my fists. “I’m hitting him with every punch I got. Heard he’s the kind of guy who throws everything but the kitchen sink at you as soon as the bell rings. Figure I got to get to him quick.
Mr. Roach nodded. “I’ve seen this guy pass through here once or twice,” he said. “Not a lot of technique.”
I looked up. “Anything I need to worry about?”
“He’s a banger. A bleeder, too,” Mr. Roach said. “Likes to mix it up inside. He’ll crowd you and make it tough to get your punches off. He’s got a big left.”
“But he drops that right when he’s getting ready to throw his left,” he added. “Doesn’t have much of a chin.”
That was music to my ears.
ROUND FOURTEEN
The ring announcer made the introductions while I shuffled and danced in place, trying to stay loose and ready. When he wasn’t handling the mic in the ring, the guy owned the grain and feed store on the south side of town, and was a regular customer at the Esso. He gave me a bigger build up when he called my name, and made sure the crowd knew I was, “Flat River’s Own Bam Bam Billy Flood.” That got me a few more cheers.
Somewhere out in the crowd I knew Sally was watching, but I tried concentrating and putting aside all doubts and fears.
Sometimes in that moment right before the bell rings, the silence in your head was louder than the noise of the crowd. It was hard to think straight. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Took another moment to swallow those lingering doubts before moving to the center of the ring. While the referee gave last minute instructions, I focused. Sweat poured off my face and shoulders, but Krupa was bone dry, like he hadn’t bothered warming up before stepping in the ring. Looked like one of those old timers who figured he could work into a rhythm as the fight wore on.
Or maybe he didn’t take me seriously.
When we touched gloves, he snarled, “Let’s see what you got, punk.”
At the bell, I came right at him. Krupa was a southpaw and he led with his right hand, jabbing at my head three or four times. Up close, he was taller than I expected. Not many middleweights ever matched up with me at eye level. He threw another sloppy jab which I swatted away with my left. I came overhead with my own right and tried a left-right combo to the midsection that moved him back a step.
He dug in and put that right in my face again. I hooked off the jab, stepped to the side, and tried a right that missed.
I moved forward and landed a solid left hook to the gut, forcing Krupa to cover up. Then followed with another left-right combo that made him grab my arms and pull me into a clinch.
“Ain’t nothing,” he said, with his mouth pressed against my ear. “You ain’t nothing but a pretty boy.”
“Been called worse,” I said.
As the ref broke us apart, he tried a left cross that glanced off my shoulder.
Somebody in the crowd yelled, “You’re a bum, Krupa!”
I could hear a few people laugh.
; Krupa was a bulky middleweight – solid and tough to move. Most of his career, he had used size to bully guys around the ring. He came toward me with his head down, trying to work a left into my midsection while waving his right in my face.
I danced from side to side, fired a jab at his head then pushed a left to his chest. When he tried to counter, I popped a half dozen jabs into his face, then came back with a left uppercut and a right to the bread basket.
He missed with his own left and I smacked a right into his eye.
Krupa tried another left and I hit him again with that same right. Then I went to work on his body with a combination of lefts and rights. Before he could grab my arms and pull me into a clinch, I popped him on the nose with a jab and slipped to the side.
It was like putting your foot down on the accelerator when you were behind the wheel and found a long stretch of highway. You opened it up and let it fly. I worked an uppercut between his gloves that jerked his head back, and then came in with a left to the head and two short hooks to the ribs. Krupa dropped an elbow to protect those ribs and I slammed him in the chest with a right cross.
He went backwards then came off the ropes, throwing a right like it mattered.
I slipped the punch and drove my right hand to his gut, just like Muldoon taught me. All the weeks working the heavy bag in the gym paid off. When I landed the punch Krupa softened.
Krupa was a pro who had been around. Even when he was hurt, he knew how to buy time and ride out the round. He kept throwing his right hand, trying to set me up, but there was nothing to his punches.
I stayed in the bucket and waited.
When he wound up to throw a big left, I saw my opening.
He dropped his right and I nailed him with a left to the side of the head and a right to the jaw. When he brought his gloves up to his face I pounded a right to his gut then slammed a left between his gloves. I tagged his jaw so hard, I felt the punch connect all the way to the bottom of my feet.
Krupa dropped like a rock.
The crowd roared as the ref pushed me to a neutral corner then started his count. I sucked in a deep breath and scanned the crowd, but it was impossible to find Sally. In the darkness and hazy cigarette smoke, faces blurred together. I couldn’t have picked her out if I had ten minutes.