by Jack Tunney
ROUND 12
I should have been suspicious when Judith asked to come along with me to Philadelphia, but I couldn’t see past how nice it would be to have her company for the train ride. Indeed, it was a most pleasant trip, and didn’t even involve much alcohol.
When it was time to go, I bid her goodbye at the hotel room door and promised to take her to a nice restaurant afterwards.
Judith hated boxing, had never been to a match, but she accepted it was part of my job. I tried to ignore the worried look she had. She had been hearing how Hollis was going to take Tom apart.
The banners hung all over the arena read: “Tab ‘The Battling Leatherneck’ Hollis vs. Soldier Garrick.”
I set up my typewriter just outside what would be Tom Garrick’s corner. There were some lightweights and bantamweights on the undercard, providing enough action to rev up the crowd.
Axler, Kolodzei and the new cut man, Jessup, all stationed themselves at the corner when Tom stepped through the ropes and was announced. Jessup was a natty little guy with a pencil-thin moustache and a ridge of dark hair around the sides and back of his bare, shining pate.
Kolodzei gave me a nod, but looked nervous himself. Sal Thalberg, a tall, barrel-chested gent in an expensive suit, sat on the front row with his entourage, who whispered in his ear occasionally, but Sal never diverted his gaze from the ring.
Hollis, the favorite both with the locals and the odds makers, was introduced second. As he and Tom met to hear the referee’s instructions, Hollis growled, “Run away while you can, doughboy—just like you did at Chosin.”
They touched gloves and returned to their corners. Their robes came off and both men glistened with sweat, shuffling and shadowboxing to keep warm and loose. It was apparent Hollis’ long arms gave him a reach advantage, and he was a shade taller, too.
The bell rang. Instead of advancing to the center to meet each other, they both began sidling in at a shallow angle. This became a strange ballet, as they settled into a circling pattern. I heard a radio reporter to my right say, “These are both tall fighters. Each seems to want the other to make the first move, and it looks like a contest of will here early in round one.
Some in the crowd began to boo after half a minute of this, but I was mesmerized. Both men were coiled like springs, ready to unleash, but just waiting for the opportune moment.
The wait and the booing got to Hollis first, and he closed the distance. After a couple perfunctory feints, he let both hands go in a nice snappy combination.
Tom’s head weaved inside and outside of those long, streaking arms, never getting touched. His feet never stopped, just increased in bounce and tempo as he continued circling right. As he slipped a straight right, he positioned himself perfectly for a left hook to the body, driven with the added force of him straightening up from the leftward lean. The hook landed hard between the ribs and the belt, followed by a right to the breadbasket, then he danced back into his circling pattern.
“…Two thunderous counter shots to the body!” the radio announcer said. “The counterpuncher has just been countered effectively in the first exchange of the fight.”
Hollis’s next few punches also failed to catch anything but air, as Tom’s whole body worked in harmony to slip, weave, bob, and sway out of harm’s way, this time countering with a jab and hook upstairs. Hollis’ counterpunch to the body was the first blow to land for him. The first round continued much the same—Tom sneaking inside Hollis’s reach to land about three punches to each of his opponent’s.
Hollis’s corner must have given some good instructions because he wasn’t so fast to mix it up in round two. He made an effort to keep Tom at the limit of his reach, and there were some fantastic exchanges. It was shaping up to be a great fight.
With thirty seconds to go in the round, Tom suddenly stopped moving after throwing another hook, looking like a statue of a boxer in action. His gaze had left Hollis and fixed on something behind me. He never saw the uppercut that caught him right on the point of the chin. He dropped to a sitting position, his back against the ropes, his eyes glazed over.
The crowd inside the arena went berserk. Over the roar, I heard the radio announcer cry, “Soldier Garrick, who has never been off his feet in his entire professional career, has just been caught with a terrific uppercut that put him down and I don’t know if he can beat the count after a punch like that!”
I twisted in my chair to see what distracted Tom. In the second row, wide-eyed and blanched with terror, Judith posed frozen in the act of taking an empty seat. She stared at Tom’s fallen form, oblivious to everything else.
It took discipline on my part to tear my eyes away from her and turn back to the action.
Hollis ran to a neutral corner and the ref stood over Tom to start the count.
Tom turned his head from side to side, peering into nothingness with sightless eyes.
The count reached three and he blinked repeatedly. At four he began to shift. At seven he had his feet under him. By nine he had risen on quavering legs and stood wavering, but with his gloves up.
The ref wiped Tom’s gloves on his shirt and said, “Fight!” He backed out of the way and Hollis charged in swinging.
Tom covered up and tried to weave, catching some blows on his gloves, but also an alarming number on his head. The crowd screamed for a knockout, but Tom was still standing when the bell rang.
Kolodzei and Axler jumped through the ropes and pulled Tom back to where Jessup set the stool in the corner. The cut man went to work on him while Axler waved smelling salts under his nose and the Pollack sponged him with cold water.
Craning my neck, I could see Tom’s eyes lose the glaze and achieve focus again.
“The bell’s about to ring, Corporal,” Kolodzei told him. “He’s gonna pour it on and try to finish you. You got your legs back?”
“I…I’ll be okay…” Tom said.
“Move. Go backwards like Melvin taught you. But use your hands. Give him something to worry about or he’ll be all over you.”
The bell rang. Tom’s mouthpiece went in. Shoving against his buttocks, they helped him to his feet and he took wary steps forward.
“We should throw in the towel,” Axler said, pulling the stool back outside the ropes with him.
Kolodzei shook his head. “If he can hold on until the cobwebs clear, he’ll be fine.”
“He’s on queer street!” Axler exclaimed. “He might get killed in there.”
“He’s got a cement head,” Kolodzei said. “And a heart like nobody you’ve ever seen…so long as he knows what he’s fightin’.”
Hollis bored in, hoping to finish what he started. But Tom fought an intelligent rear-guard action, his legs regaining strength every second. By the end of round three, he was firing back with combinations.
In round four, his punches had considerable steam again, as he worked both the body and the head, frustrating the longer-armed Hollis with his bobbing and weaving. Amazingly, Tom seemed to be even sharper now than he was before the knockdown. He was faster, hitting harder and more frequently. When Hollis caught him with counter shots, they had little evident effect.
By round six, Hollis had a mouse over his right eye where Tom had dished out consistent punishment. They battled their way to the corner just feet from where I sat and I swear I heard Hollis’s ribs crack from one of Tom’s downstairs hooks.
Between rounds, Kolodzei confirmed it: “You hurt him with that body shot. Keep workin’ the right side of his ribcage. Double-up on those body hooks.”
“Okay, Sarge,” Tom panted.
Like a good soldier, Tom followed orders. Halfway through round seven, Hollis was wincing noticeably from every body blow.
Tom lured him perfectly by lowering his left, leaving himself open for a straight right. But when that long right poked out, Tom swerved under it and swung back up with another nasty hook that landed flush on the raw red patch over the injured area.
Hollis cried out and fell to one k
nee, where he took an eight count before resuming his feet. The fickle crowd was screaming again, not caring who went down, so long as there was dramatic carnage.
The Hollis team should have thrown in the towel then. Now Hollis was so busy protecting his body that Tom landed heavy shots to the head almost at will.
In round eight, Hollis had no significant offense, and a defense that was inadequate at best. His right eye was completely closed and he couldn’t see half the punches coming at him. He went down twice, causing the radio announcer to unleash more high-pitched longwinded descriptions.
Tom had him on the ropes, batting him around like a cat with a toy when the bell rang.
Hollis couldn’t answer the bell for round nine. His corner carried him to the locker room.
After the referee raised Tom’s arm in triumph, I finally collected enough nerve to glance back toward Judith. While the rest of the crowd, mostly on their feet, shouted, gestured and argued with each other, she sat there with both of those rawboned hands covering her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.
I left my typewriter and dodged through the crowd back to where she sat. I had no idea what to say, but still wanted to confront her.
Judith’s gaze fell to her lap where her hands were now folded.
Something slapped me on the back. I turned to see Thalberg standing next to me, all smiles, a Cuban cigar between two fingers.
“What a fight, huh Schwartz? I doubt even you could do that one justice.”
“But I’ve got to try,” I said.
He laughed—a rumbling, smog-filled noise that still managed to sound jolly. “So, who was Humpty-Dumpty tonight, huh? Gonna take a whole lot of doctors and some good corner men to put that sea-going bellhop back together again.”
“Humpty-Dumpty was the other reporters’ metaphor,” I said.
“Oh, right, the Daily News. You’re Free Press. You used that Pearl Harbor angle. I can’t wait to read what you say about this one.”
With another pat on my back, Thalberg joined his entourage and made for the exit, harrumphing and laughing smoke all the way.
I turned back to Judith. Her eyes met mine this time. “I still love him, Gil. I told you before.”
ROUND 13
Hollis still hadn’t come out of his dressing room. I should have been mobbing the door with the other sports writers, or at least calling the result in to the Free Press at the payphones outside. Instead, I slumped in a chair one seat away from Judith as the auditorium emptied.
Showered and dressed now, Tom appeared, with his corner men in tow. Judith rose to her feet and stared at him, looking as though she might cry again.
“I thought you hated boxing,” Tom said. “I thought you would never watch it.”
“I’m so sorry, Tom,” she said. “I almost made you lose the fight.”
“Why are you here, Judith?”
Tentatively at first, she stepped toward him. Then she closed the remaining distance in a lunge, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face against his shoulder. She said nothing, just clenched her eyes tight and held on desperately. At first Tom was stiff and helpless, but gradually he encircled her in his arms and hugged back with his own eyes closed.
I didn’t want to admit it to myself yet, but just seeing their embrace made things click in my mind. Things made sense that hadn’t, before.
Finally, Judith pulled away. Wiping her eyes, she said, “You were wonderful, Tom. You’re just as strong inside as out.”
She turned from him then, and with a meek glance at me, she strode for the nearest exit.
***
The train ride back to Detroit was a painful, silent one. I wanted to interrogate her, yell at her, make her cry some more. But I didn’t really want to hear her answers, and so I asked nothing.
Back in town she asked if I’d like to come over. I declined. She nodded, sadly, and went on her way.
***
The ring announcer’s last words back in Philly were practically still echoing when Thalberg began pressing for a rematch between Garrick and Braxton. I was on with the phone with him several times a week to check on his progress. Fight fans were clamoring for it; other sports writers were demanding it, and even the Braxton camp was making noise for it.
The only ones not chomping at the bit for the rematch was the Garrick camp.
His “Garrick is a bum” mantra now forgotten, Jerry Dubois tasked me with digging up the cause of the delay. After several phone calls and visits to the gym, I cornered Kolodzei and got him to agree to talk. He, his girlfriend, and I met at his favorite watering hole.
“I guess you know the kid is with Judith again,” the toad-faced Pollack said with a shrug as he lit up a cigarette.
I didn’t know. For sure. Until then. “That’s not what I came to talk about,” I said.
He studied me for a moment and nodded.
“What’s the hold-up on the rematch?” I asked. “The Braxton camp wants to play ball.”
Kolodzei frowned and took another drag on his cigarette. “A couple things. Thalberg got rid of Axler, and is lookin’ for somebody cheaper.”
I lit up my own cigarette. The girlfriend followed suit. Her name was Myrtle. She was about the same age as Kolodzei and almost as cute.
“Axler did great with the kid, from what I could tell,” I said.
Kolodzei nodded. “He wants too much. Thalberg wants to pay too little. It’s that unstoppable force meets immovable object deal.”
“They’re both Jews, aren’t they?” Myrtle asked.
“Us Jews,” I said, “we’re the only greedy people on Earth.”
“I didn’t know…” Myrtle stammered. “That is, I didn’t mean…”
“Save it,” I said, then turned back to the Pollack. “You said a couple things. What else?”
Kolodzei’s brow furrowed. “It’s the kid himself. It’s like he lost all his confidence. He doesn’t think he has a chance against Braxton.”
“What? After he destroyed Hollis the way he did? That was the best work I’ve ever seen from him—and that’s after getting knocked on his can.”
“I know, I know,” Kolodzei said.
“He’s not a coward. He fought like hell after Hollis put him down. He’s stopped everyone inside the distance since he began his comeback.”
Kolodzei shrugged. “I kinda’ wonder if it’s the dame. I mean, she’s always carryin’ on about him gettin’ hurt and stuff like that. Maybe it’s goin’ to his head.”
Nobody could get under a man’s skin like a woman, I knew. And a woman like Judith was so sincere in her worries, maybe it was having a psychological effect.
I remembered their embrace back in Philly. A casual observer might have decided it was only maternal nurturing—even though she was the one crying. But each was drawing comfort from the other in equal doses. They fit together so perfect it made my stomach ache.
I finished my bourbon and ordered another.
“She’s at least ten years older than him, you know,” Myrtle said.
“Things were goin’ so good,” Kolodzei said. “It’s like the wind was taken right from outa’ our sails. The kid don’t want to fight; don’t want to train. Now I’m wonderin’ if he’s gonna give it up altogether.”
Sadness loomed over our table as we sat there drinking and smoking. Myrtle was sad because we were such lousy company, I guess. I was pretty sure what had Kolodzei so glum. I wasn’t sure which situation was the source of my own funk.
Take your pick.
ROUND 14
Time passed and other sporting events took place. Then I got the skinny from Kilbane and was able to scoop the Daily News on the Braxton rematch.
Of all the trainers Thalberg could have hired to replace Axler, I never would have guessed Billy Day would wind up back in Long Tom’s corner. Dumbfounded by this development, I visited Billy at the gym.
“You’re just like a bad penny,” he said, upon spotting me.
“I figured I was more l
ike an old cliché,” I said.
The middleweight I had seen last time was on the speed bag, unable to keep it going for long.
“I’m busy, here, Schwartz. Bad penny, old cliché, whatever you are, you’re not welcome.”
“You can’t stop the power of the press. The people have a right to know. Rah, rah, rah and all that. Why are you training Garrick? To hear you tell it, Harpo Marx is a better boxer.”
“Beat it, Schwartz. Don’t make me throw you out.”
“That’s exactly what you’ll have to do…if you can.”
“Oh, I can.”
“That would make you look real good in the papers,” I said. “I’m sure all the promoters will want you after you ruin their free publicity.”
Billy sighed. “Alright: Judith is hysterical. She remembers the beating he took last time. I’m doin’ this for her—not for the lousy cut of the purse Thalberg’s makin’ me split with that Pollack.”
“How, exactly, are you going to prevent another beating, Billy? What are you doing differently?”
“Hey, I don’t tell you how to use your typewriter, do I?”
I watched the middleweight for a bit.
“All your fighters seem kind of dry,” I observed. “Not that the smell is any better, but this is the least-sweaty gym I’ve ever seen.”
“I don’t spoil fighters,” he replied. “I don’t cater to sissies at my gym. They learn to tough it out.”
“Except for Garrick, right? I mean, he trained at your gym prior to Pearl Harbor Night, but you’ve been telling me what a sissy he is.”
He took a moment. It struck me he was suppressing an angry outburst. “I told you: I’m doing it for Judith.”
“She asked you to?”
After a brief hesitation, he said, “That’s right.”
“So you know they’re back together,” I said.
Color darkened his neck and ears. He turned away to hurl profanities at the middleweight, who still couldn’t keep the bag going for more than four strikes.
I let it go. It’s not like I wanted to spend any more time thinking about Judith and the kid, anyway. I had a reason why Billy was back in the Garrick camp. It was good enough for the paper.