by Jack Tunney
“Don’t think I can wait that long,” I said quietly.
Michael Boyle pushed back his hat and straightened the knot in his tie. Dusted some imaginary lint off his suit and found his smile again. “Do yourself a favor, Bobby,” he said. “Take the money and walk away.”
ROUND FOURTEEN
“That guy really pisses me off,” I said. “Guess it’s always been like that, ever since I knew him at St. Vincent’s.”
Boyle was gone by then. There were a few more smiles while he had a couple of words with Ray Gold about Saturday’s fight, but I was done talking. There was nothing else he had to say that I wanted to hear. Gold walked him out the door – probably chatting up his prospects back at the Blue Star and hoping word might get back to Tommy Domino that his two guys were worth a look. I watched Boyle leave but not before he signed a couple of autographs, including one for the kid in charge of the cigar box and another one for my big heavyweight sparring partner.
Nobody ever asked me for an autograph.
Autographs were the kind of thing you got from champions, like Sugar Ray, Archie Moore, and Floyd Paterson. Or from legends like Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, and Dempsey. Not from somebody like Michael Boyle, who was a nobody contender.
No big deal getting his name on a piece of paper.
“Guess nothing’s changed much since I knew him back in Chicago.”
Frankie pulled off one of my gloves. “He is who he is.”
“Maybe I should show up at his gym,” I said. “Disrupt his training.”
He yanked off the other glove and handed me a towel to wipe my face. “Guy’s already done with camp,” he said matter-of-factly. “Just be wasting your time.”
“Too bad,” I said. “Would have liked to do to him what he did to me.”
“He’s got time on his hands,” Frankie said. “Figured this is just the kind of thing he does. He wants to get in your head and throw you off your game.”
“Ain’t gonna work,” I said.
Frankie handed me a water bottle. “He’s already done it,” he said. “Got you thinking about going over to that gym in Pleasantville where he’s holed up. Wasting time worrying about how to mess with his head when you should be thinking about how you’re gonna fight him.”
“I know how I’m gonna fight him,” I said. “I know what I got to do.”
“Then why you talking about the things he said?” Frankie asked.
He looked like he expected an answer, but when I looked in his eyes that icy cold stare told me to keep my mouth shut. “You got to keep your head screwed on right. This guy’s trying to throw you off your game. When you get in the ring, you can’t be thinking about what he said or what he did.”
I shook my head. “I’m on my game.”
“Then act like it,” he snapped. “Don’t think about what he did back in Chicago or what happened in the last fight or the things he said here today. The only thing that matters is you do what you came here to do. Fight your fight. Got it?”
I nodded. Frankie gave me a look of approval, collected the gloves and wet towels, then went off across the gym without another word. I stood in the ring with Ginny beside me, thinking about what he said. Her expression hadn’t changed since Boyle left but I could see something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before he showed up.
“Every time Mikey Boyle opens his mouth, I remember what he did in our last fight and it gets my blood boiling,” I told her. “Guess it’s hard to see past that.”
“I don’t see why this is so difficult,” Ginny said. “You don’t have to be stupid about it.”
“You don’t understand what happened the last time we fought.”
“Yes, I do. But that’s not what I’m talking about,” she said.
I looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“I’m talking about doing what he said.”
“Who? Frankie?”
“No. Doing what Michael Boyle said you should do.”
“Walking away?” I asked.
Ginny nodded and looked at me like I was supposed to understand. I could feel my face suddenly redden with anger.
“Do you know what he means when he says, ‘walk away’?” I asked as my voice rose in surprise and anger. “He’s talking about me taking a dive.”
She shook her head. Ginny’s voice might have been soft and low, but there was no missing what she had to say. “It’s not a dive.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, Roberto. No, it’s not.”
“It’s a dive,” I said, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter what you want to call it. That’s what it is.”
“Fighters who don’t have skill or ability take dives,” she said. “I never said you were that kind of fighter. But I’m just saying you shouldn’t put yourself at risk.”
“How am I doing that?” I asked. “What am I doing that’s risky?”
“You’re risking your life the longer you fight.”
“I’m a boxer. It’s what I do,” I said. “But when you know what you’re doing there’s no risk.”
“I care about you,” Ginny said. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“You’re asking me to do something I can’t do. That’s not how I was taught,” I said. “If you think that’s something I would ever even consider, you don’t know me at all - it’s wrong.”
“It’s not wrong,” she said. Ginny crossed her arms, holding her copy of Gone With The Wind against her chest as she shook her head. “It’s just common sense.”
“I told you. It’s not how I was taught.”
“My mother says you can’t teach someone common sense,” she said.
“Doing the right thing is common sense,” I said.
ROUND FIFTEEN
I stayed in the shower a long time. It took forever for the water to get hot. When it finally warmed up, I let it pound my neck and shoulders until the skin was raw. It felt good to feel the water and I got so caught up, I didn’t want to get out. I tried to forget what had just happened with Michael Boyle. I tried even harder to let go of all the things Ginny said. It was bad enough every conversation we had was centered around Uncle Manny and his butcher shop. Now this, I thought.
I wondered how Frankie expected me to focus when I had to deal with that kind of distraction.
When I finally came out of the shower with the towel wrapped around my waist, Ray Gold was sitting on the bench by my locker.
“That’s the last time I want to hear you say anything about that last fight,” he said. “It’s old news and nobody wants to hear it no more.”
“It’s the truth,” I said.
“The truth ain’t important.” Gold flicked open his Zippo and held it against his cigar, puffing and pulling on the tobacco until he had it lit. Most days the locker room smelled like the chlorine from the swimming pool two floors below the gym, and the nasty smell of his Dutch Masters cigar made it worse. I moved around him and grabbed a comb from inside my locker.
“It’s all ancient history,” Gold said. “Seven years is a long time. Guys don’t care what you said or did seven weeks ago. Nobody cares about something that happened seven years ago.”
I ran the comb through my hair and didn’t say a word. Just shrugged and kept smoothing back the sides.
Gold blew a smoke ring and turned around on the bench to face me.
“You got to focus on the fight. Nothing else.”
“Frankie already gave me this lecture.”
“Good. Then maybe you should listen.”
I shrugged and kept working on my hair.
“I seen too many guys get their heads filled with all kinds of distractions and things that don’t matter before a fight,” he said. “Start to get rattled before they even get in the ring.”
“It’s not gonna happen. Not to me.”
“You’re no different. Same as every other fighter.”
“It won’t happen to me,” I said again, only this time a little harder.
“They al
l say that. Every single one of them. You ain’t no different from nobody else.”
I turned around and shot him a look. “I don’t care about anything somebody else ever did.”
“Don’t you start now,” I added. “I’m tired of everybody telling me about something I’m doing wrong or should be doing. Or should have done. Had enough of that with the nuns back at St. Vincent’s.”
I dressed slowly while Gold just sat there, puffing on his cigar and watching the smoke rings curling towards the ceiling. He hacked up a glob of phlegm and spit in his cup. Finally, he looked at me. “You’re a good fighter, kid. You give it a go every round you’re in the ring,” he said. “You got fast hands. Fast feet. And you never kissed the canvas. Maybe you ain’t ready to headline the Friday night fight card on TV, but you ain’t riding the last train to Palooka-ville neither.”
I stopped buttoning my shirt and looked at him.
“You got potential,” he said. “Maybe it happens for you and maybe it don’t. But you got a shot and that’s more than most bums in this business get. But sooner or later, you’re gonna shoot your mouth off in front of the wrong people. Say something to somebody and then that’s that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m saying that guys in this business – the guys who make things happen – hear talk like that and it’ll be the end of your career.”
“Not if I keep winning,” I said.
“You can’t win nothing if you can’t get a fight,” he said. “You think it’s hard getting a big time fight now? Think you got it rough trying to find a bout against a contender? Think you’re being ignored?”
I shrugged.
“I seen it happen too many times,” Gold said. “A fighter says something that rubs a promoter the wrong way, and he figures the pug is too much trouble to deal with. Won’t touch him with a ten foot pole because it ain’t worth the aggravation he can cause with talk about fixed fights and bribes and payoffs.”
“You’re telling me somebody’s going to remember everything I ever said?” I asked.
Gold nodded. “Nobody forgets nothing. Keep shooting off your mouth and you won’t ever see a fight that matters again,” he said. “The only Friday night fight you’ll ever get is gonna be against some has-been pug in St. Rose’s gym across the river in Camden. You’ll be on that train to Palooka-ville so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
He stood up and put his hand on my shoulder. For a moment it felt like the kind of thing Father Tim used to do, and for just a second I was back in the basement at St. Vincent’s. I felt something familiar. Felt something comfortable.
Then Gold added, “Just shut your yap and fight. That’s all you got to do.”
ROUND SIXTEEN
By the time I got out of the gym it was late. We only had a few hours before Ginny’s bus left and I didn’t want her to miss it. She didn’t need to be out past midnight and even though people watched out for each other in our neighborhood, it was a work night. Besides, I didn’t want her mother mad at me. I didn’t need any more lectures.
I knew when I made the reservation that dinner would cost a pretty penny. The maitre d’ had looked me up and down when I showed up that afternoon, and even after I slipped him a ten, he still acted like I couldn’t afford to be there. But my fight would give me enough cash that I could spend a couple of bucks on a nice meal with my girl without it taking a dent out of my pocket. It would be nice to have a meal without worrying about how much it would cost.
We didn’t say a lot, and every time I pointed something out or tried to make small talk, Ginny only smiled politely and nodded. It was just as well because I didn’t feel much like talking either.
She picked at her salad and nibbled on a small piece of fish. I worked on a porterhouse, but mostly just pushed it around my plate. I knew guys who struggled to make their weight and had to diet for weeks before getting in the ring, but I never had that problem. Welterweights and lightweights who had to drop twenty pounds in a couple of weeks and then had nothing left when the fight started – guys who ran out of gas after three or four rounds because they were juiced. I didn’t feel like eating because I wasn’t in the mood for food.
“I’m thinking about catching the earlier bus,” Ginny said as they cleared away our plates. “There’s one that leaves in thirty minutes.”
I looked up. “Don’t you want to take a walk on the boardwalk?” I asked. “Maybe stop in one of the stores and get some salt water taffy?”
“That stuff hurts my teeth. Besides, it’s a long ride home and I have to get back to work tomorrow. I don’t want to get back home too late. I don’t want my mother to worry.”
I stared a hole in the tablecloth. “If that’s what you want.”
The busboys finished and we were left to look at each other in silence. Finally she took a sip of water and cleared her throat. “I know this is something you need to do.”
“What? Take a walk on the boardwalk?”
Ginny shook her head.
“This fight,” she said. “I know it’s important for you.”
“It’s important for us,” I said.
“Roberto,” Ginny said. “I’m not uncaring. I know how much boxing means to you. And I know that it was a big part of your past, and it made you the man you are today, but it’s really something that you need to leave in the past.”
I wondered how she expected me to do that.
I couldn’t tell her that boxing, like Chicago, was something I could never walk away from. It was too much a part of who I was, but I thought she knew that already. It would be like asking somebody to forget about breathing, walking, or talking. There were some things you did and places you went that molded and shaped you in ways you couldn’t ever change – forgetting things like that were impossible.
I knew Ginny would never understand that.
Ginny’s mouth eased into a smile and she reached across the table for my hand. “This job with Uncle Manny is a good opportunity,” she said. “You’ll see. It’s the kind of thing that will work out well for both of us.”
I nodded.
“This will be good,” she went on. “If you ever want to be something, this job with Uncle Manny will help. We can have the life we always wanted.”
Funny, but until that moment I thought I was living the life I always wanted. Who would have ever thought I would be sitting in a fancy restaurant with waiters in tuxedos, drinking wines I couldn’t pronounce from countries I never heard of, and eating a ten dollar steak? Or that I could be earning more money from one fight than guys my age made in a couple of years? For a poor kid from the tough side of Chicago, this was as good as I ever imagined it could get.
I thought I had everything I wanted, but she couldn’t see that.
“You wait and see,” she said, squeezing my hand. “One day you’re going to tell me that going to work with Uncle Manny was the best thing you ever did.”
ROUND SEVENTEEN
Talk about butterflies in your stomach. I took a deep breath and felt my insides twist into knots.
It didn’t matter how many fights you’d had – those minutes before you actually got it on were the longest stretch of time you had to face all night. You could talk tough and act tough all the way from the dressing room to the ring, but once you were in there, under those lights with everybody watching you, the weight of the world was on your shoulders.
“Be cool. Stay focused,” Frankie said. “Just another fight.”
Easy to say, but it wasn’t just another fight.
My mouth was dry, and I could feel my heart pounding, like a Jerry Lee Lewis song on the radio.
The Big Room in the Traymore was alive with noise as vendors hawked programs, cigarettes, and beer up and down the aisles. People drifted in and out of their seats, killing time and talking. Our fight was the last preliminary of the night and nobody was hurrying back from the restrooms and refreshment stands just to watch us go at it.
I couldn’t see pas
t the first couple of rows – the audience was a blur of suits, ties, hats, and dresses, and smoke hung heavy in the air. Flash bulbs popped. The overhead vents on the ceiling blew out cold air that dried the sweat on my skin, but didn’t chase away the odor of cigarettes and stale beer.
Ginny was supposed to be sitting three or four rows back – I couldn’t pick her out of the crowd, but I was sure she was there. Somebody had said Sinatra and Dean Martin were going to be ringside, but I didn’t see them either.
Most times celebrities like them only showed up to see the main event.
The house lights dimmed and the referee motioned us towards each other. Michael Boyle had a cold, silent stare. With three day’s worth of stubble under his chin and sweat on his forehead, he tried staring me down in the center of the ring. It was a look that was supposed to be intimidating, but I wasn’t buying it.
“You got your instructions in the dressing room,” the referee said. “You got any questions?”
Neither one of us answered. Boyle stared straight ahead while I bounced up and down on my toes, shaking my head from side to side. We both nodded when the ref asked if we were ready and told us to touch gloves.
“I want a good, clean fight,” he added.
“Good luck,” I said to Boyle.
“Don’t need no luck against you,” Boyle snarled, and he turned and walked away.
I went back to my corner as the buzz inside the hall grew louder.
“Take away his jab,” Frankie said as he pulled the robe off my shoulders. “Use this first round to feel him out and set your pace. You got ten rounds.”
I drew in a hard breath and nodded.
“You got speed and quickness. You’re the faster fighter,” he said. “Make him work for everything. Don’t give him nothing.”
I looked across the ring and watched Boyle snapping punches and shadow boxing in his corner. He was all business as his trainer gave him last second instructions. At the side of the ring, I could see Tommy Domino watching with a smile on his face and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. It was a look that said he had it all figured out.