by W. c. Heinz
“You’re right about that.”
“Certainly. It’s the truth, but their game doesn’t allow it and yours does. I like baseball. I like most of the refinements of civilization, but I have to believe that of all games—if that’s what we’re talking about—yours goes the deepest and, going deepest, goes the furthest toward the truth.”
“I still envy those ballplayers.”
“I know. Do you want to turn around and start back?”
“All right, but nobody knocks their game. I wish you’d explain it to Helen sometime, the way you just explained it to me.”
“I wasn’t explaining it to you. I was just talking. I can’t explain it to anyone.”
“Helen’s got a good head.”
“I know she has.”
“She seemed to like it at first. I mean she went to three or four of my early fights.”
“Certainly, but how can a woman—a wife—sitting outside a ring come away from a fight with the same feeling about it as you who were in there doing it?”
“I suppose that’s right. Many times I think that if I was in some other business she’d understand it.”
“Not really, and I don’t mean to apply that just to Helen.”
“How do you mean?”
“Every man’s in a fight, Eddie, no matter what business he’s in. The woman can try to understand, but she’s really just a spectator.”
“Then Helen reads all that stuff they write about the fight game. If you read it, and you don’t know anything about it, you have to believe a lot of it. She’d like me to be in something everybody looks up to.”
“Everybody looks up to the champion of the world, in spite of what they read or think about it.”
“That’s right, too.”
At least his mind was off Jay.
20
That was Cardone’s last day of boxing, and after he had finished his three rounds, Eddie went in. Charley Keener handled Memphis, and Vince DeCorso and Barnum handled Eddie, and that night Keener stayed in camp. Eddie and the sparring partners and Penna and I went to the movies—a war thing about a G.I. who got mixed up with a German girl in a cellar and then had to fight with himself about what the war was all about. He accomplished his mission, though, lieutenant, and when we got back to Girot’s, Eddie went right to bed, and I went into the bar.
Keener was there. He was talking with a middle-aged man and woman who, apparently, had just stopped in for a couple of beers, but when he saw me he finished his conversation with them and sat down on the stool next to mine.
“How did my guy look today?” he said.
“Fine. He looked fine.”
“He’ll lick that other guy easy.”
“He should.”
“Why?”
“You know why. The other guy is a short-armed club fighter who’ll keep trying, but he’ll never be able to reach Cardone.”
“I know. That’s why I made the match.”
“Of course.”
“See what Mr. Hughes will have, Girot.”
“He knows.”
Girot set the drink down in front of me.
“That’s why I picked him. It’ll look good on that TV, and my guy will look great.”
“Agreed.”
“That’s the way you’ve got to do it.”
“Is it?”
“Sure. What do the people know? They’ll see a good fight.”
I started on my drink.
“You still like Eddie in his fight?” he said.
“I do.”
“The other guy is seven-eight to five.”
“It’ll come down. He opened higher than that. The newspapermen will be up in a day or two and get a look at Eddie. He’ll come out of his depression about Jay, and they’ll see him as he is.”
“The other guy will still close as the favorite. He’ll be at least six to five.”
“That’s because he’s the champion.”
“Well, that’s a good reason, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Look, I like Eddie and I like Doc, but look at the records.”
“What does that prove? There’s nothing wrong with Eddie’s record, but you can’t read a fighter in black and white, won and lost in a record book.”
“You remember that fight Eddie had in Chicago about a year ago, that was on TV?”
“Yes. It was a good fight. Eddie licked him good.”
“But he had a tough time doing it. The champ fought the same guy later and licked him easy, eight rounds out of ten.”
“Come off it, Charley, will you? He outboxed him, proving what?”
“You tell me.”
“Gladly. I can name you two or three other fighters—including Eddie Brown himself—who can lick that guy outboxing him, but you can’t name me another one who ever licked him the way Eddie did.”
“I don’t get that.”
“The guy in Chicago is a southpaw.”
“Of course.”
“The left hand is his big punch.”
“Sure. When he fought the champ he never landed it.”
“All right. All you people are always saying that the way to fight a southpaw is with right hands. Right?”
“Sure. Then you take his left hand away at the same time.”
“You know how Eddie fought him?”
“How?”
“Right to his strength. With left hands. He licked that guy standing in there, drawing the left hand, slipping it or taking it high and belting the guy’s brains out and blasting his body apart with hooks.”
“So he made it a tougher fight.”
“Sure, but he and Doc wrote a book for all you others to read. Eddie could have outboxed him, too, but if you’re basically a counter puncher the way to lick a southpaw is with hooks. It’s a risk, sure, because you’re inviting him to fire his big gun, but that’s the only way to open him up. Eddie gave him a worse licking than that champion did, winning his eight rounds, and he wrote something new.”
“But he made it tougher for himself.”
“So does any explorer. Doc made it tougher. You people don’t understand Doc.”
“I understand him. I know him for years.”
“So do I, and I’ve watched him all those years. Doc isn’t looking for the easy way to do things, because he tries to build fighters, and there’s no easy way to do that. For nine years he’s been building Eddie Brown. He finally found a kid who could learn it all and do it all, and he taught it to him in the gym and, most of all, fighting tough fights the tough way—going to the other guy’s strength and licking him there, and then, once you’ve proved it and taken all there was out of it for yourself as a fighter, handling him any way you want.”
“You think he’ll try to outbox the other guy in this one?”
“No. Not in this one. He’s arrived now. Eddie’ll make the other guy fight this one the way Eddie wants it fought.”
“He’d better.”
Girot motioned toward my glass, but I shook him off.
“Look. What you say about Doc may be true. I like Doc.”
“He’s the last of the old guard.”
“That’s the trouble. Times change. The fight game isn’t what it used to be.”
“That’s the trouble, not Doc.”
“With everything you say about Doc, how many times has Eddie fought on TV?”
“Three.”
“Cardone has been on five times already, and he’s fighting half as long as Eddie.”
“Congratulations.”
“The big thing today is to get those TV shots. I’m telling you. Within two years, at the most, Vic Cardone will be the welterweight champion of the world.”
“I won’t be surprised.”
“Like I told you. You’ll get a good magazine story out of him.”
“How, Charley? It’s a real sacrifice for him to say good morning, and that’s the last thing he says all day.”
“He’s not that bad. He’s just s
hy. He’s a kid.”
“Obviously.”
“Listen. It’s a good story. You should see the mail he gets. They love him on TV. He’s a good-looking kid. They’ve even got bobby-soxers’ fan clubs for him. Vic Cardone clubs. I’m not kidding.”
“I know you’re not. You probably started the first one.”
“What one?”
“The first bobby-soxers’ fan club. Did you stake it?”
“Well, I send them all pictures. That’s all. The women are crazy about him. They really are.”
“How’s he about women?”
“Cardone? He’s a kid. What does he know?”
“He knows there are men and women, and that there’s a difference.”
“He pays no attention to them. He’s a fighter. You don’t think I’d let him get loused up, do you, all the years I’ve had fighters?”
“No. I’m sure not.”
I was sure then, too, that he knew nothing about it. If he had, he would have known that we all knew and he would have found a way to explain it, and this pleased me.
The next morning Cardone went on the road with Eddie and the others. In the gym he exercised lightly and then, when he went to the dressing room, Keener handled the sparring partners again for Eddie. Eddie was hitting the light bag when Cardone came out, ready to go to Keener’s home in Jersey for the night. When he saw Cardone, he stopped the bag.
“Good luck, Vic,” Eddie said.
“Yeah. Thanks,” Cardone said.
“Hey, Silent,” Penna said, walking over with the jump rope in one hand and sweating. “If the guy gets too tough in there, just talk him out of it. Give him a little speech. Say: ‘Look, Mac.’ You’re a good talker.”
“Good luck,” I said, shaking Cardone’s hand.
“Thanks.”
“Can you imagine him talkin’ in a fight?” Penna said to Eddie. “Ain’t that a laugh?”
“You watch tomorrow night,” Keener said to me. “You’ll see a good fighter.”
“Yes. One good fighter. Yours.”
“So?” Keener said, winking. “What do you want from me?”
They walked across the gym and out, Cardone carrying his luggage and Keener striding ahead of him. I got Eddie’s robe off a chair and helped him into it, and Penna followed us into the dressing room while Barnum went for the hot tea.
“He looked nervous to me,” Penna said. “Cardone.”
“He’ll win easy,” Eddie said. “I’m not even going to watch it.”
“You’ll be better off in bed,” I said.
After dinner we all took a walk for a half hour and then went in and watched television. We were watching Groucho Marx when Doc came in. He had Freddie Thomas with him and a middleweight named Artie Winant, and they had driven out in Winant’s car.
“How do you feel?” I said to Doc.
“All right.”
He looked tired. Even the dark blue suit he was wearing looked too heavy on him.
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“We’d better have Katie make you something. Some scrambled eggs and toast and tea?”
“All right. I’m going up and wash.”
“I’ll tell Katie,” Eddie said.
“Where do you want us?” Freddie Thomas said to Girot, who was standing in the doorway, with his arms crossed, listening.
“There is the room Eddie and Johnny Jay had,” Girot said, shrugging. “The big room in the back corner by the lake.”
“I know the room,” Winant said. “I know all the rooms here.”
“I’m glad to see you,” I said, shaking Winant’s hand.
“Thanks,” he said. “It’s been a while, no?”
I wasn’t glad to see him. Four or five years before he had been a pretty good middleweight. He had been good enough to fight for the title and almost take it, and then Eddie had taken a decision from him and Winant had managed to win his next one and had retired. Now he was heavy, and even his face looked a little soft.
“I’ll take the stuff up, hey?” he said to Freddie Thomas.
“Fine, Artie.”
“Why don’t you move in with me?” I said to Doc. “Let Eddie stay in your room. There’s two beds in my room.”
“That’s what I was going to suggest. I’ll be down in a minute.”
He went upstairs, carrying his bag and following Winant.
“I’m glad Doc was able to get you,” I said to Freddie Thomas.
In thirty years he had worked with nine or ten champions. He was the best conditioner in the business and had great hands in a corner. He was a quiet, immaculate man of medium build who came as a surprise to any stranger who, having heard his name and knowing his business, met him for the first time.
“Listen, I’m glad to be able to do it. These are nice people—Doc and Eddie—and I felt terrible when I heard about Jay.”
“We all did.”
“I was coming up with Artie in a couple of days anyway. The extra time will do him good.”
“I didn’t even know he was coming back.”
“What can you do?” he said, shrugging. “Somebody conned him into putting everything he made fighting for ten years into some roller-skating rink out on Long Island. Now they need some more money, or they’ll lose everything he’s got in it.”
“It’s a shame.”
“So they came to me. What else can I do? How else can he make any money? He was good to me when he had it, so I said I’d try to get him into some kind of shape.”
“But how much can he make?”
“You tell me. He’ll win a few tune-up fights out of town somewhere, and then to get some money he’ll have to fight somebody who’ll lick him good. It’s terrible, but what can you do? I’ve seen it happen to a lot of them. They get out of this business, and they’re suckers for everybody. I feel sorry for him.”
“So do I.”
When Doc came down, Eddie and I sat with him while he ate his eggs slowly and had one piece of toast and drank his tea.
“So how did it go?” I said.
“All right.”
“Was there a funeral?” Eddie said.
“Yes, sort of.”
“What happened?” Eddie said.
“We had a service last night at the funeral parlor. I remembered there was some minister Jay knew when they were kids. He used to get him tickets to the fights, some Protestant minister in New York, and I got him. He was glad to do it.”
“Was anybody there?”
“Yes, a few. About a dozen guys from Stillman’s. Freddie Thomas was there. Jay’s brother-in-law was there—an old Italian. My nephew was there, and that friend of Jay’s came.”
“Stanley?”
“That’s right. He had his wife with him. This morning the minister and I rode out to the cemetery with the fella from the funeral parlor. We were the only ones there.”
“Where’s he buried?”
“In Woodlawn. I got him a small plot—the funeral man from up here arranged it. I’m having a stone made for the grave.”
“I’d like to go in on that,” Eddie said.
“Forget it. It’s taken care of.”
“But I want to, Doc.”
“All right. We’ll take it off the top after the fight.”
21
At about eleven o’clock the next morning Doc and Freddie Thomas had gone into town for tape and gauze and Eddie was lying in his room, reading the morning papers, when I came up the stairs and saw him there and stopped by the door.
“There’s nothing in the out-of-town fight results about Schaeffer’s fight,” he said.
“Those are the early editions we get up here. They come out too early to carry all the results.”
“I wish I knew how he made out. He’s a nice guy.”
“I’ll call the AP in New York.”
“It’ll be in the afternoon papers, won’t it?”
“Probably, but why wait?”
I called the AP and got the sp
orts desk. It took the kid who answered a couple of minutes to find what I wanted, and then I went back upstairs and told Eddie.
“Schaeffer lost,” I said. “A decision.”
“He did? Gee, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t think that guy he was fighting was much of a fighter.”
“Let’s be honest. Neither is Schaeffer.”
“He’s a nice guy, though. Did they say what kind of a fight it was?”
“No. All they sent out of New York was the result, and it took the kid a couple of minutes to find that.”
“Poor Polo, too.”
“He shouldn’t be in the business, either.”
“I know, but when guys are in camp with you, you get to like them. You know?”
“I know.”
I went into my room and lay down. I had brought I Cover the Waterfront to camp and I was reading it when Penna came in. It is something I do every two or three years—get it out and read it once more. I was reading that chapter about the Navy diver, the one whose wife was plaguing him for back alimony and whose buddies would hurry him into the decompression chamber every time his wife showed up at ship side. I prize that book the way you prize a great recording that you take out and play again when you feel just right for it and need it.
“Hey!” Penna said. “Your two buddies are here.”
“Who?”
“Them two aces. Them sports columnists. Fred Gardner and that little guy, Scott. He’s some writer, huh?”
“Dave? Yes, they both are. Thanks, Al.”
When I went down they were already in the dining room, at one of the small tables by the windows, and Girot was bringing them dry martinis.
“Make me one of mine, will you, Girot?”
“Yes, Mr. Hughes.”
“Doctor Livingstone, I presume?” Fred said, the two of them standing up while we shook hands.
“Precisely,” I said.
“How long you in for?” Dave said, as we sat down.
“The duration. Until the fight.”
“God, you’re as loyal as—I don’t know—but I’ll say Lassie,” Dave said.
“Not a bit. She’s smarter than I am. I hang around because I can’t discover a quicker way of doing this kind of a piece.”
“Getting stir crazy?”
“Just about. Thanks for coming.”