Tomato Can Comeback (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  ***

  The date for the fight was finally set. Kilbane tipped me off that Braxton was training down at Kronk, so I dropped by to watch.

  I hadn’t seen Braxton work since Pearl Harbor Night. He was just as skilled and agile, but sometime between then and now he had decided he could hit. He threw combinations with wicked intentions, and made the chain suspending the heavy bag twang with some of the power shots he threw.

  A little bit of legwork earned me some newsreel footage of his last bout. He murdered some strong young kid inside four rounds. All the sportswriters, myself included, had always opined that all Braxton lacked to be considered a great fighter was a heavy punch. Some of my colleagues even thought punching power might put him in Robinson’s class.

  He sure had a heavy punch now.

  I hung around until Braxton finished for the day. When he came out of the dressing room he spotted me and flashed a wry grin. “If it ain’t the smart-mouth reporter!”

  “Should I quote you on that, Braxton?”

  He shrugged, I suspect going for that devil-may-care look. But he appeared to sober up somewhat.

  “You’re hitting harder than you used to,” I said.

  “Am I?”

  “Play dumb all you want, but you’re not a P.O.W. and I’m not the Gestapo. All I can do is either build you up or tear you down regardless of how your fights turn out.”

  Braxton sighed. “We may not like each other, Schwartz, but you always been fair when you write about my fights. I’ve been workin’ on my power.”

  I nodded. “You ready to fight Garrick again?”

  “More ready than last time,” he said, with no bravado—just healthy confidence.

  “You think he might be tougher this time?” I asked.

  Braxton shook his head. “He’s the same old Garrick. So he beat some guys. He did last time, too.”

  “Have you seen how he beat some of those guys this time?”

  “Hollis was a fluke. Same with Gallegos. But luck ain’t gonna beat me.”

  “Then why the need to be more ready this time?” I asked.

  Braxton’s mouth flattened out into a hard line. “This time I’m gonna finish Garrick. I’m not gonna read about how I hit like somebody’s grandmother. No more questions about how Garrick was out on his feet but I still couldn’t put him down. No more.”

  Even though Braxton had won their first fight, he was the man on a mission, while it sounded like Long Tom didn’t want to fight at all. When we ran into each other at the club that night months ago, Garrick seemed more interested in making friends than fighting Braxton again.

  Since my editor encouraged pre-fight publicity, I dusted off the old Pearl Harbor metaphor. The advantage of surprise may not be as big a factor this time, I wrote, but the bombs and torpedoes Braxton was bringing to the battle this time were much more devastating than before.

  ROUND 15

  With just over a week left before the fight, who should pay a call on me in the bullpen but Tom Garrick himself.

  He pulled up a chair and sat facing me over the desk with a sheepish grin. “Hey, Mr. Schwartz.”

  “Tom. What brings you here?”

  I could tell he was fiddling with his hat below the edge of the desk.

  “I…uh, first of all, I wanted to apologize. I mean, for getting all sore with you that time. You didn’t do anything wrong, Mr. Schwartz. I’m sorry.”

  I dropped what I was working on and leaned back in my swivel chair. “Is it something you can talk about now, Tom?”

  “Judith?” he asked. “She’s back with me.”

  I broke eye contact, despite myself.

  “And that’s the other thing I wanted to talk about, Mr. Schwartz: I don’t hold it against you that you two…you know…”

  “I guess that’s good,” I said. “Because you’re the one who made her think you didn’t want her. So, what was she supposed to do—join a convent?”

  He nodded, with a pained frown. “I know. I know. But anyway, right now, I just want to make sure you’re not sore at her.”

  “For being with you?” I asked.

  He nodded, blushing.

  I exhaled, heavily. “She’s a big girl, Tom. She knows what she wants, and it’s you. It doesn’t matter if my feelings are hurt. What matters is if you want her.”

  “I guess I do,” he said, quietly.

  “Make sure she knows that, okay?”

  “Okay, Mr. Schwartz.”

  “So,” I said, changing tone with the subject, like who Judith was with made no difference to me at all, “you ready for the Braxton rematch?”

  Now he was really working that hat—rotating it, bending the brim back and forth, popping the crease out and back in. His gaze dropped to the desk.

  “I don’t even know why we’re doing this. I mean, everybody already knows he can beat me. He’s the better man. Maybe I shouldn’t even be fighting at all.”

  “Is that what Judith’s been telling you?” I asked.

  “What? No. I haven’t even seen her since the rematch deal was made.”

  This caught my attention. “Why not?”

  “Billy. Mr. Axler was different than normal trainers, I guess, ‘cause he let me have dates right up until the night before the fight. Billy Day is just the opposite.”

  It was typical for a trainer to limit a fighter’s romantic activities when training for a fight, reasoning that it would drain energy they would need in the ring. Doctors I knew agreed with this traditional logic. Axler was a maverick in that he only safeguarded that energy for the fight itself—not the training camp.

  I began to ask Tom why he was so convinced it was impossible to beat Braxton, but suddenly forgot that line of questioning as I fixated on his choice of words. “Opposite? What do you mean, opposite?”

  Tom shrugged. “I mean Mr. Axler would let me see a woman any night except the night before the fight. Billy won’t let me see Judith on any night except the night before the fight. Well, and the morning of. The best I can get during trainin’ camp is a phone call once in a—“

  I leaned forward, interrupting. “He’s going to let you see Judith right before the fight?”

  “Well, I think so. I mean, he let me do it last time he was my trainer.”

  “Before the first fight with Braxton he let you see Judith?”

  Tom shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “Why?” I demanded, forgetting to maintain my professional, detached reporter’s demeanor.

  He shrugged again. “He started doing that a few fights before Braxton. He said that way I wouldn’t be too tight for the bout.”

  “Too tight,” I said, staring absently at the worn down “E” and “S” keys on my typewriter. “What made him decide you were too ‘tight’ going into your bouts?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Schwartz. He’s the trainer; I’m just a pug. Why am I gonna question gettin’ to see Judith, when I ain’t been with her for over a month?”

  “Maybe because you were undefeated, and putting in great work from the opening bell, so it sounds screwy he would want to fix something that’s not broken. Am I wrong?”

  Another shrug. “He’s the trainer,” he repeated.

  “Does he enforce this…this method with his other fighters?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Schwartz.”

  “Did he have you do anything else different right before the fight?”

  His eyes roamed around as he thought about it. “Well, he did have me eat a lot that day. Usually it was steak and eggs every morning, then nothin’ but meat and vegetables for lunch and supper. But that morning he let me eat pancakes—all that I wanted. Then for lunch, all the spaghetti I wanted, and some pecan pie with ice cream. I couldn’t remember ever eating so good.”

  I pulled my notebook and pencil out of the drawer, deciding I must have some record of this conversation. “How did your stomach handle the change?”

  “Not so good,” he said, blushing. “I spent a lot of time in the was
hroom before the bout that night.”

  “Tell me something, Tom: Is the way he’s training you now any different from how he did it before?”

  He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I mean anything seems easy after the way Sarge and Axler worked me. But my training days have been kinda’ short. And I haven’t done much sparring.”

  “What does Kolodzei think of all this?”

  “Sarge? He’s not at the gym much. Billy got Mr. Thalberg to keep him from interferin’ with trainin’. He can be in my corner for the match, but not much else.” Now his expression became one of concern. “In fact, Sarge has been hittin’ the bottle more and more, the less he has to do. It’s hard to find him sober.”

  I half-heartedly began to jot down some notes, then just stared at my pencil silently for a while.

  Finally, I cleared my throat and said, quiet enough so nobody else could hear, “If you don’t want this fight, kid, don’t do it. If you don’t want to box for a living, now might be the best time to quit.”

  He studied me closely. “You know I can’t beat him, don’t you, Mr. Schwartz?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I know, Tom. Just think about it, okay? You don’t want this. Judith doesn’t want this. She wants you just the way you are. You don’t have to prove yourself in the ring for her. You can use your GI Bill; go to college…”

  “But Mr. Thalberg has already paid for the venue,” Tom said. “And Sarge has been there with me all this time. If I quit now, that means I’ve just been wastin’ his time.”

  I raked my fingers across my face. I already knew more than I wanted to know and had said more than I should have. “Neither of them have to fight Braxton, Tom. Just think about it— that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  ROUND 16

  The sleep I got for the next few nights wasn’t worth a plugged nickel. I was in an ethical pickle made none-the-more-bearable by my conscience. I played with writing it all up as a story—a big exposé that should earn some accolades for the paper.

  Finally I sought out the Pollack.

  I found him with his female friend at Waistgun Charlie’s, ruddy from liquor. “Schwartz!” he slurred, boisterously. “Pull up a drink, and have a chair with me.”

  “Look, Kolodzei,” I said, leaning in close so I could speak discretely. “Your pal’s in trouble. I think Billy Day—”

  His smile faded. It looked like his eyes were having trouble focusing on me. “Tom’s in trouble?” he belched, interrupting. “What kind of trouble?”

  “He’s not ready for Braxton,” I said. “He’s not training right. Braxton’s got a lot more power than last time—”

  “Tom’s twice the fighter Braxton is!” the Pollack bellowed, interrupting again. “I’d put him up against any welterweight in the world. Nobody’s got heart like that kid! ‘Ju see how he came back after Hollis put him down?”

  Beyond the Pollack, I noticed a sports writer from the competition taking an interest in our conversation. I leaned in closer and lowered my voice a bit more. “You’ve got to keep him away from Judith before the fight. Hear me?”

  He snorted, spraying a mist of hard stuff on me. “Even I know you gotta keep him away from dames before a fight.”

  “Then do it,” I said. “If Billy Day lets him go, you gotta stop him.”

  The other reporter left his seat and approached us. I couldn’t let him know I was trying to influence the outcome of the fight, instead of just asking about it.

  “Keep your voice down, Kolodzei, and listen to me. Listen real close.”

  The Pollack paid slack-jawed attention.

  “You’ve got to get Tom ready for the fight,” I said. “Don’t trust Billy. Find a way to get Tom tuned up. Find him a sparring partner. Watch what he eats. Don’t let him near Judith until after the match.”

  Kolodzei stared at me and I hoped my words had penetrated his drunken brain. The other reporter reached us and greeted me with a curious smile.

  “What’s the rumpus, Schwartz?”

  “Kolodzei here is in Garrick’s corner for the rematch with Braxton,” I announced, as if it were news. “Just asking him how the kid is shaping up.”

  “Oh, were you?” The reporter didn’t try to hide his skepticism. “Looked to me like you were doing most of the talking.”

  I slapped the Pollack on the shoulder. “Yeah, he’s like a steel vault, this guy. Nothing but name, rank and serial number.”

  “Is that a fact?” the reporter asked, turning his attention to Kolodzei.

  Kolodzei made a cutting motion with his hand through the air. “Radio silence, bub.”

  Either he was unusually savvy when inebriated, or he was merely playing along with what he thought was a game.

  The reporter sat next to Kolodzei, put his arm around him and made nice-nice. “How about I buy the next round and you tell me what you were talking about just now? I’m good with military secrets.”

  My heart sank as Kolodzei’s face brightened. “You got a deal, bub.”

  Feeling desperate, I used the only weapon at my disposal.

  Putting my own arm around the other reporter, I told the Pollack, “Yeah, Kolodzei: this here’s a stand-up guy. He’s one of them that used that Humpty-Dumpty angle you liked so much last year.”

  Kolodzei didn’t look truly sober, but his eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. “Zat so?”

  Then he smiled again, throwing a surreptitious wink my way. “You just keep those drinks comin’, bub, and I’ll tell you all kindsa stuff.”

  The farther away I got from Waistgun Charlie’s that night, the more clear my conscience got. I had done all I could…more than I should have, really. It was up to Tom and Kolodzei now.

  ROUND 17

  The day of the fight, I got up late with a nasty hangover from my own drunken binge. It was hours before I could move around much without feeling queasy.

  For some reason my dreams had taken me back to the Solomons, that time we ran out of water. I relived the thirst, then the dizziness, weakness, and drunken mental state. The dysentery so many of us suffered only made us dehydrate faster.

  Now awake, dully pondering the dreams, I kept seeing visions of Billy Day’s middleweight, and Tom, pale and dry, stepping through the ropes.

  It came to me suddenly.

  After all the evidence I had seen, it still didn’t add up until I saw those images in my alcohol-poisoned mind. I spent a few more hours smoking cigarettes and taking my home made morning-after remedies while I argued with myself over what should be done.

  Reporters are just supposed to report. We’re not supposed to get so involved that we become part of the story. It’s an aspect of being objective. Having already lost any modicum of objectivity, I placed a call to the gym.

  Neither Tom nor Kolodzei would come to the telephone. Understandable, on the worst possible day for distractions.

  I checked the clock—only two hours before the opening bell. I placed a call to Judith.

  “Are you all right, Gil? You sound strange.”

  “Just a little green around the gills,” I said.

  “Gil…I’m sorry for—”

  “Save it,” I said. “That’s not why I called. Look: I know you haven’t seen Tom for quite a while, but I really need to get ahold of him. ”

  “I wish you had called earlier, then,” she said. “But he left here late this morning.”

  I fought back waves of nausea. “He spent the night with you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, sheepishly. “Thanks to Billy, it was the first time in about a month.”

  I took deep breaths. So, the Pollack didn’t look out for Tom like I was sure he would. “Where’s Kolodzei?”

  “I haven’t seen him for some time either,” she said. “It was Billy who took Tom to breakfast today.”

  It’s happening all over again, I thought. “If you hear from Tom or Kolodzei, have them call me, please.”

  “Okay, Gil. Is ever
ything alright?”

  “Not by a long shot. I just wish you had never asked Billy to be Tom’s trainer again. If you only knew what—”

  “I didn’t ask him, Gil. I never spoke to him since…well, since the night you and I…”

  “He said you asked him to take the job,” I said.

  “I did no such thing,” she said.

  I spent time I couldn’t afford typing a story I titled: “Incompetence and Treachery Sink Long Tom’s Hopes For Redemption.”

  Other newshounds would be running for the telephones when the referee raised Braxton’s arm in victory, but I would already have them all scooped.

  Big shot reporter, me. The kid’s career might be destroyed, but at least I’d get plenty pats on the back for digging up the cause of it.

  ROUND 18

  The undercard was underway before Kolodzei staggered to the dressing room, looking like he had a hangover himself. I jumped from my seat and sped to intercept him.

  Before he could push through the door to the dressing room, I stopped him with a hand to his chest.

  “Are all you cannon-cockers deaf,” I asked, “or just ignorant?”

  Kolodzei’s toad face pruned up as he regarded me. “Schwartz. What?”

  “You didn’t listen to a thing I told you,” I accused.

  “What are you jabberin’ about, Schwartz?”

  “Listen, you dumb Pollack: Billy Day dehydrates his fighters!”

  Kolodzei’s eyebrows furrowed, but his jaw slackened.

  “That’s why Tom ran out of gas before,” I said. “One reason, anyway. You got to get him to drink. Give him as much water as you can now, and between rounds. Make it just a little cooler than lukewarm.”

  Looking uncertain whether he wanted to be confused or annoyed, Kolodzei said, “We don’t want Tom to feel like he needs to relieve himself in the middle of the fight.”

  I gesticulated wildly. “Billy is gonna make the kid lose the fight if you let him! Get him drinking. Get him sweating. Warm and loose, just like you did when Billy wasn’t in the corner. You gotta do it, Sarge. You’re the only one who can take care of the kid, now.”