Tomato Can Comeback (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  According to Mrs. Kress, Tom walked out on her following the loss to Braxton, after a marathon drinking binge. When she asked where he was going, his response was surly and incoherent. Her eyes moistened up when she got to this part, and it didn’t seem like a put-on.

  “Can you please tell me how to find him, Mr. Schwartz? Please?”

  “You can call me Gil,” I said. “And it’s like this: I don’t normally give out personal information for the people I write about. But I’ll let Tom know next time I see him. Do you have a telephone number that’s good for him to call?”

  She produced a folded note from her pocketbook and handed it over. “Thank you, Gil. Thank you ever so much.”

  Her hands and face told the story of a hard life for a woman, but she gave me the impression of a decent, caring person with a vulnerable inner core. I liked her.

  “Can I give you a lift?” I offered, as we left the table.

  “No need for me to impose,” she said, checking her watch. “My bus should be coming in the next fifteen minutes.”

  “Nonsense,” I said, pulling my hat off the rack with one hand and seizing her wrist with the other. “It will be my pleasure.”

  My car was a couple blocks away. During the drive, I asked her, “So, how long was Tom eating at your restaurant before he asked you out?”

  “A couple months,” she said, smiling wistfully. “He came in every morning when training for a fight. Steak and eggs. The steak was always rare.”

  “A couple months,” I repeated. “That’s kind of patient, for a young pug.”

  She played with the knob on the window crank. “He’s a little shy, but always nice. He wasn’t like the other regulars.”

  “He’s pretty young for you though, isn’t he?”

  Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I know. I thought the same thing. But when we talked, it was like we were on the same level, you know?”

  I glanced away from the windshield and saw she was blushing again.

  “We were in love. It wasn’t just a lonely widow and a young man full of wild oats, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  The thought had crossed my mind. “I’m not judging you, Judith. Just trying to get an angle on what makes the kid tick.”

  She nodded. “He doesn’t have to be a fighter. He could use his GI Bill and go to college. He’s smart enough.”

  “Is he?”

  “Oh, yes. People underestimate him because he’s so quiet and boyish. But he wants to fight. It’s like he needs to prove something. To whom, I never figured out.”

  I parked in front of her small one-story house, killed the engine, and got out to open her door for her. I walked her up to the door, and was surprised by who I saw sitting on her porch.

  “Billy Day?” I said questioningly.

  ROUND 5

  Billy Day was maybe a little below average height, with the burly build of an ex-jockstrap running to fat. His piercing gray eyes bounced from me to Judith and back as he rose to his feet. “Everything alright, Judith?”

  I tipped my hat. “You don’t remember me, Billy? I’ve written about enough of your fighters.”

  “I remember you.” He pasted on a quick smile and shook my hand.

  “Mr. Schwartz gave me a ride home from downtown,” Judith explained.

  “You two know each other,” I said, my meaning going far beyond the face value of my words.

  “Would you excuse us, Billy?” Judith asked. “Mr. Schwartz is doing a story on Tom, and needs to ask me some more questions.”

  I hadn’t said as much, but was glad to play along.

  Billy was wide-eyed for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Sure. I just wanted to see you got back safe, is all.”

  “You’re a good neighbor,” I said.

  Billy tipped his hat, turned abruptly and trudged over to his own car. In another moment, he was gone.

  Judith invited me to sit on her porch swing. We did.

  “Billy always had breakfast with Tom,” she said. “I met both of them at the same time.”

  I didn’t need a notepad right then. There was no chance I’d forget any of what was coming.

  “It was Billy who started talking to me at the restaurant,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “Tom was shy, like I said. We drew him into our conversations at first…”

  “And then?”

  “And then it was mostly us who talked, with Billy just listening. There had been nobody for me since my husband was killed in the war. I never thought there would be, either. But when Tom asked me to the Saturday dance, I said yes.”

  I lit up a cigarette and offered it to her; then lit one for myself.

  “Nothing illegal about that. You’re not married anymore.”

  She exhaled a stream of smoke and stared down the street. “I knew he was too young, but after a while that didn’t matter so much. There have been other men who showed an interest in me, but…” Her voice trailed off.

  “But what?” I asked, blowing a smoke ring. “Tom was different?”

  “Yes, he was. He’s sincere, and considerate. And innocent, as crazy as that might be for somebody who fought in Korea and makes his living beating on other men.”

  I couldn’t argue, since I had the same impression of Tom myself.

  “But once he was gone, you and Billy got chummy, is that it?”

  She fixed a hard stare on me before pulling another drag of her cigarette. “I wouldn’t put it in such a vulgar way. But when Tom disappeared and I couldn’t find him…Billy was there for me.”

  To comfort the lonely widow.

  “Whatever mistakes I’ve made,” she said, “and whatever sort of person you think I am, I still love Tom.”

  I stood and threw my cigarette butt over the porch rail. “Like I said, Mrs. Kress: I’ll pass your inquiry along to Tom. If he’s interested, I’m sure he’ll call.”

  I glanced back in her direction as I slid behind the wheel. She still sat on the porch swing, unmoving, a tendril of smoke wafting up from the stub of her own cigarette. Her cheeks shined from the tears ruining her makeup.

  I wondered if the tears were real. I’d met dames who could fake it pretty well.

  ***

  The next day I caught up with Billy Day at the gym. He was working with a green middleweight prospect, and tried to ignore me. At least he was yelling at him like he was green.

  I sauntered up to where Billy stood at the ropes, barking at the middleweight and his sparring partner. “Fancy meeting you yesterday,” I said.

  “Come on, put some steam on those punches!” he called to his fighter.

  He was trying to ignore me, but I’d been ignored by pros. I wasn’t fazed. “Quite the coincidence,” I said. “Your name came up the other day when I was talking to Garrick. And then I run into you.”

  “Step into it! Every time your elbow straightens, the foot meets the canvas!”

  “Even bigger coincidence is, I find you with Garrick’s old flame.”

  Billy finally turned to face me. “I’m busy here, Schwartz. Or can you not see so good?”

  “I see a lot of things, Billy. I don’t always know what to make of them.”

  “Make nothin’ of it. I check up on Mrs. Kress now and then. She’s all by herself over there in that house.”

  “Is she?” I asked. “Do you check in on other widows, too, or just her? How about orphans and invalids? You drive over to visit them, too, as part of your charity schedule?”

  Billy stood to his full five-foot-nine, shoulders squared, gut sucked in and eyes narrowed. “What exactly is your business with me, Schwartz?”

  “I don’t like coincidences, Billy. In my estimation, there aren’t nearly as many as we assume. What really happened after the Braxton fight?”

  Billy shrugged. “The kid quit. He quit on Judith too—just walked out on her one night. Not so much as a good-bye. After she’d been nothin’ but good to him.”

  “Why did he quit?”

  “I don’t know�
��ask him. He’s a strange duck.”

  “So, you have no idea why he just walked out on her?”

  “I think he was throwing a tantrum, like some little brat would do. He gets mad at the whole world, and takes it out on everybody around him.”

  “What are you saying—he beat her?”

  “No… More like the silent treatment.”

  “That why you gave up on him, too—‘cause he’s such a brat?”

  “You saw what Braxton did to him. Judith begged him to get out of the game. Poor woman worried sick about him. He wouldn’t listen, even after Braxton.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t have much faith in him to bounce back,” I said.

  Billy waved one hand dismissively. “He doesn’t measure up as a fighter.”

  “So, he didn’t walk out on you; you gave up on him. Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “Come on, Schwartz—stop lookin’ for some kind of story in all this. The kid is a washed up never-was who everybody took too serious for a while. That’s all.”

  “I guess you haven’t heard how he did against Bobby Drake,” I said.

  “Drake hits like a girl,” he said.

  “Garrick’s got a great jaw,” I said. “He’s never been off his feet. But he stopped Drake inside the distance, and not many men can do that.”

  Billy scowled. “We all saw what he was made of on Pearl Harbor Night. You said it yourself—in writing.”

  ROUND 6

  Sonny Durban had been a slugger, but he wasn’t as dangerous as Felix Gallegos. Nobody liked fighting Gallegos—a vicious body puncher who fought dirty even when winning, with a left hook even more devastating than his elbows and head butts. Gallegos was also becoming a right-of-passage for welterweights who wanted to move up into contender status.

  Brumek had gotten Long Tom into the top ten the first time without going through Gallegos. But Tom and Kolodzei had to take a twelve-rounder with Gallegos in order to secure Sal Thalberg’s promotional services. Thalberg was the only promoter who would touch “Tomato Can Garrick,” despite the convincing performance against Bobby Drake. And the Gallegos fight was his first condition.

  The bout was on the undercard of a Joey Maxim headliner in Milwaukie, so it was a big deal with lots of press coverage. I visited Tom’s dressing room before schlepping my typewriter over to ringside.

  Kolodzei acted downright civil to me. I would say he was pleased by my company, but that might be pushing it.

  “Hey, Mr. Schwartz,” Tom said upon seeing me.

  “Hiya, kid. How you feeling?”

  The kid shrugged. “As ready as I can be, I guess.”

  “You’re ready,” Kolodzei said. “You’re in great shape, and you’re better than this Spic.”

  The kid looked loose as he shadowboxed, with healthy color and a sheen of sweat.

  “Seems like he didn’t use to sweat so much,” I remarked.

  Tom bounced on his feet and worked his neck muscles a bit. “Sarge lets me drink a lot of water. So far, it hasn’t caused any problems.”

  “Just watch this guy’s dirty stuff,” Kolodzei said. “Drive him backwards into the ropes. He ain’t got much in the way of defense, so put him on the ropes and hammer him.”

  Tom nodded his acknowledgement and continued to move.

  “Hey, kid,” I said. “Can I buy you a cup of joe after the match?”

  “Sure,” he said. “If I’m still in one piece.”

  “Good luck to you,” I said, and turned for the door.

  I stopped short when one of the Pollack’s ham-sized mitts clamped down on my shoulder.

  “That was a good story you wrote, Schwartz, about the Drake fight. Good headline, too.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you liked it.”

  He stepped in close and lowered his voice. “I’m thankin’ you for it. Me and the kid can use all the fair shakes we can get.”

  “He’s been doing good work in the ring,” I said. “And you’ve been doing great in the corner.”

  We shook hands.

  “Sorry I was a sore-head before,” Kolodzei said. “I guess you’re okay.”

  “In that case, I’ll buy you a cup, too.”

  ***

  When Felix Gallegos made his entrance, I was a little surprised at his appearance. Most professional fighters are in superb physical condition as a matter of necessity, but Gallegos was chunky, with visible flab hanging on his torso. He was very short, and would probably be a flyweight without all that blubber tipping the scales.

  The capacity crowd cheered Gallegos. Probably resigned to a points decision in the main event with Maxim later, they might witness at least one bloodbath with Gallegos inside the ropes.

  When Tom came down the aisle, there were jeers, boos and chanting of, “Tomato can, tomato can!”

  After the opening bell, the two men charged each other and clashed in the center of the ring. Despite his unimpressive physique, Gallegos could really hit. He attacked Tom’s body with savage hooks to the stomach and a low blow the referee didn’t see.

  Tom stood toe-to-toe and traded leather. The bloodbath had already begun and the crowd couldn’t be happier.

  One of the reasons nobody wanted to fight Gallegos was that he was a small target and difficult to hit flush from angles that allowed any leverage on the punches.

  Something else I noticed early was the fallacy of Kolodzei’s advice to drive Gallegos back. That meant Tom had to keep advancing. That negated the reach advantage of a tall fighter like Long Tom, allowing Gallegos to get inside. And that made it Gallegos’s fight.

  Long Tom could punch just as hard, but at close range, the top of Gallegos’s head and shoulders were the largest target surfaces, areas that could absorb a lot of pounding without suffering much damage.

  At the bell to end round one, Gallegos swaggered back to his corner with a cocky grin and triumphant gestures for his cheering fans.

  Tom slumped on his stool, looking frustrated.

  “You’re letting him get inside,” Kolodzei told him. “That’s not a good idea. Use your reach. Keep him where you can do more damage than he can.”

  Good advice, I thought, but impossible if he persisted in his strategy of driving Gallegos backwards.

  In round two, Tom tried to hold the little man at bay, scoring with one solid shot before Gallegos slipped past to get inside. Once there, the mauling resumed. In addition to the rib-cracking hooks, Tom caught an elbow to the cheek and another uppercut south of the border. Blood was dripping from his chin at round’s end.

  In between rounds, Kolodzei seemed just as frustrated as his fighter. He concentrated on stopping the bleeding, and didn’t have much advice to give, besides, “Drive him back!”

  In round three, Long Tom began to adapt and improvise. As Gallegos charged inside, Tom stung him with a double jab and sidestepped into an oblique angle, keeping him at the most effective range of his reach. Before Gallegos could adjust his own angle, Tom threw a left-right-left combination into the side of Gallegos’s head that silenced the local fans.

  Gallegos came at him again and Tom answered in the exact same manner.

  Again Gallegos charged. This time Tom moved left instead of right, and beat a quick drum solo on the other side of Gallegos’s head.

  Gallegos lowered his guard briefly and flashed a grin meant to convince all that he couldn’t be hurt, even by heavy punches like those.

  The two men circled for a moment, Tom looking content to enjoy the respite.

  “Keep the jab working!” Kolodzei took the words right out of my mouth.

  Long Tom flicked the jab out. Gallegos ate a couple before he deduced the timing and slipped the next one while leaping in with a haymaker right.

  Tom stepped left again, outside the line of the punch, and bombarded the flank of his enemy.

  Gallegos twitched and stumbled back into the ropes.

  “He’s on the ropes!” Kolodzei cried. “Get him!”

  Tom moved in. Gallegos bounced off
the ropes and landed inside Tom’s reach. Suddenly they were back where the bout started, fighting Gallegos’s fight.

  The round ended with Gallegos earning back the points he lost earlier, and Tom taking some terrific punishment.

  “Y’know what?” Kolodzei said, working on Tom’s cut in the corner. “Forget what I said about drivin’ him back. Let him come to you. Do what you just did, to keep him from getting inside.”

  Tom was no Willie Pep, but he had decent footwork. Trouble was, he hadn’t trained to fight going backwards, and it showed. He scored nicely when moving at angles as before, but he fought clumsily when proximity to the ropes forced him to shuffle straight back. Still, the round was all his, as time and again Gallegos charged forward swinging, only to get tattooed on the kisser for his effort.

  There was no more showboating to the crowd when Gallegos returned to his corner. His manager advised him to get back inside any way he could.

  Kolodzei, obviously relieved that his adjustment in strategy was netting better results, urged Tom to keep moving backwards.

  In round six, Tom landed some great combinations, and kept the jab working when he had to retreat straight back.

  Then Gallegos reached back into his bag of dirty tricks. He stepped on Tom’s toe and unleashed a windmill combination starting with a looping left hook. Unable to back away from the onslaught, Tom took the first few blows flush on the face and the kidneys. They were vicious shots that would have put most men down. Another elbow opened Tom’s cut again. He was staggered by a haymaker that landed right on the button.

  The crowd noise threatened the stability of the roof when the blood flew and the favorite dished out some impressive damage.

  Tom was hurt. He covered up, then, perhaps remembering a contingency plan, began weaving so his head became a moving target. By that time, the ref finally broke them up to give Gallegos a warning about the feet.

  During the couple seconds that took, Tom stood with his arms hanging at his sides, grimacing in pain.

  The referee chopped with his hand in the signal for “fight,” and Gallegos launched himself across the ring, loaded up for a decapitating shot.