A buzzer sounded sharply in the room. I felt Spritzer’s hand on my back. “That’s us, kid.”
I sat up and swung my feet off the table. There was a lump of lead in my stomach. I swallowed hard.
“Nervous, kid?” Spritzer was smiling.
I nodded my head.
“It’ll pass,” he said confidently. “Every fighter gets it first time in the Garden. There’s something about the place.”
I wondered what he would say if he knew. It wasn’t the place that threw me; it was the fight I was going to throw. We came out of the dressing-room and stood on the edge of a ramp, from which I looked out into the Garden. It was a sea of anonymous faces awaiting decision on the bout just ended. Sam was somewhere out there, Fields too. And Nellie, even she had come. Only my father and mother—they had not come.
The roar of the crowd grew louder as the verdict was announced. “Come on, Danny,” Spritzer said. We started down the ramp to the white flood of light that was the ring.
I could hear them yelling. Some of them were even calling my name. I followed Spritzer stolidly, my head down, my face framed by the big white towel like bunkers on a horse. I could hear Zep’s excited breathing near me. His voice rose above the roar of the crowd. “Look, Danny!” he said excitedly. “There’s Nellie!”
I raised my head and saw her smiling at me, a tremulously sweet and anxious smile, and then she was lost in a sea of other faces.
I was at the ring now and climbing through the ropes. The bright white lights burned into my eyes after the dimness of the ramp. I bunked rapidly. The announcer called my name and I moved out into the centre of the ring. I heard his voice, but I wasn’t listening to him; I knew his little speech by heart.
“Break clean when I tell you…. Go to the nearest neutral corner in event of a knockdown…. Back to your corner an’ come out fightin’, an’ may the best man win.”
Ha ha! That was a joke. May the best man win! I slipped out of my robe. That lump in my belly was the five hundred bucks in my pocket.
Spritzer’s voice was in my ear. “Stop worryin’, kid,” he was saying. “The worst that kin happen is that you lose this one.”
I looked up at him in surprise. He was more right than he knew. My biggest worry was somebody’s clipping the five C’s from my trousers back there in the dressing-room. The fight wasn’t anything to worry about, I had already picked the winner.
I looked across the ring curiously. When I was out there in the centre of the ring listening to the referee, I hadn’t looked at the kid I was going to fight. He was staring at me with a tight, nervous look on his face. I smiled at him. He didn’t have a thing to be nervous about if he only knew it. He was Tony Gardella, an Italian kid fighting out of the Bronx.
The bell sounded. I moved out to the centre of the ring feeling curiously lightfooted and sure of myself. Knowing that I was going to lose this fight gave me a confidence I could win it that I never really felt before. I had stopped worrying about what might happen, since I already knew the answer.
I jabbed with my left to feel the kid out, wondering if he really had it. He was slow in countering and automatically I threw a fast right under his guard. The kid staggered on his feet. Instinctively I moved in for the kill. The crowd was roaring in my ears. I had him and I knew it. Then I remembered: I couldn’t finish it. I was supposed to lose. I let him slip into a clinch and tie me up. I faked some light punches to Gardella’s back and kidneys. As I felt his strength returning, I shoved him away, and kept him away for the rest of the round. I couldn’t take any chances on hurting him.
The bell sounded and I came back to my corner. Spritzer was boiling, he was shouting at me: “Yuh had ’im, why didn’t yuh follow him up?”
“I couldn’t get set,” I answered quickly. I would have to be more careful or he would get wise.
“Shut up!” he snarled. “Save yer breath!”
When the bell sounded, Gardella came out of his corner cautiously. I lowered my guard slightly and waited for him to come in. He hung back carefully, staying just out of range. I stared at him in amazement. How in hell did he expect to win this fight? By my knocking myself out? I moved toward him. Maybe I could lead him into it. He backed away. It was getting to be harder to lose this fight than to win it.
The crowd was booing by the time we went back to our corners. I sat down on the little stool, my head down, my eyes fixed on the canvas.
Spritzer was yelling again. “Rush him. Don’t give him time to get away. Yuh hurt him. That’s why he was bicyclin’.”
At the bell I came out of my corner quickly and was more than halfway across the ring when I met him. He was throwing punches wildly. He, too, had orders to fight. I blocked a few of them by reflex. How this kid ever got to the finals I would never know; he was easy. It was a shame to let a joker like this win, but I had to. I had made a deal. Purposely I dragged my guard for a moment. His punches tore past my arm. There was a strange, sweet pain in them, a kind of reward. It was as if I were two people and one of them was glad the other was taking a licking.
It was time for me to counter. I had to make it look good. I shot a wide, whistling right. It was blocked easily and I was jarred by a blow in the stomach. The kid smiled confidently at me. That burned me. He had no right to feel like that. I’d give him a few shots to teach him a little respect. I stabbed with my left and tried to follow through with a right uppercut, but he got away from it easily.
I was getting sore. I followed his dancing figure. Blows were stinging me, but I shrugged them off. I was going to give this baby one shot to let him know who was boss; then he could have the Goddam fight.
There was a sudden, blinding explosion in my face and I felt myself go down to my knees. I tried to get up, but my legs weren’t working. I shook my head savagely and caught the referee’s count. Seven! I could feel the strength returning to my legs. Eight! I could get up now, my head was clear again. I knew I could. Nine! But what for? I was going to lose anyway. I might as well stay down for the count.
But I was on my feet when the referee’s hand started going up. What the devil did I do that for? I should have stayed down. The referee had me by the wrists, wiping my gloves on his shirt. He stepped back and Gardella came rushing at me. The bell rang and I quickly stepped aside and went back to my corner.
I slumped on to the stool. I wished Spritzer, yelling in my ear, would shut up. There was no use in it. Suddenly his words were tearing into my gut: “What d’yuh wanna be, Danny? A bum all yer life? A nobody? You kin take this boy. Shake the lead out and take ’im!”
I raised my head and stared across the ring. Gardella was grinning confidently. Me a bum, a nobody? That was just what would happen. I would be like everybody else on the East Side, nameless, faceless, another guy lost in the shuffle.
I was on my feet at the bell and moved out into the ring. Gardella came rushing at me, wide open. He had thrown all caution to the winds. I almost laughed to myself. He thought it was in the bag. To hell with you, Gardella! To hell with Fields! He could have his five hundred back and go screw himself!
I felt the jarring pain shoot up through my arm almost to my elbow. That one had steam on it. One more. If you thought the last one hurt, you son of a bitch, wait’ll you feel this one.
I blocked his feeble blow almost lazily and brought my hand up in a right uppercut. My fist seemed to move jerkily in the blur of light. The kid suddenly slumped against me and I stepped back.
He was falling. I was watching him fall. It was almost in slow motion. He sprawled out at my feet. For a second I stared down at him, then I dropped my hands and jacked up my shorts and swaggered to a corner. I was in no hurry, I had all the time in the world. The kid was through fighting for the night.
The referee gestured toward me and I danced back toward him. He held up my arm. The crowd was yelling for me as I went back to my corner grinning. Champion! I was as nigh as a kite. The feeling stayed with me all the way down to the dressing-room. I was on a jag
, walking on air.
Abruptly it was all gone, the elation running out of me like air out of a pricked balloon. Leaning against the wall outside the dressing-room was a familiar figure. The roar of the crowd faded as I stared at him.
It was Spit. He was smiling at me with a peculiar smile. He had been cleaning his nails with a switch knife. Now he lifted it, still smiling, and gestured at me. I could feel the flesh on my throat crawl. Then he disappeared into the crowd. Quickly I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. No one had seen him. They were all talking. I let myself be carried along in their flow.
Sam was in the dressing-room, his face wreathed in a smile. His hand grabbed at mine. “I knew you had it, kid! I knew it! Way back that first time in school!”
I stared at him dumbly, I couldn’t speak. The only thing I wanted was to get away from here. Fast.
Moving Day
May 17, 1934
“GOOD night, Champ.” Zep was smiling as he left us in the dimly lit hallway and trudged up the stairs. We watched him disappear around the turn of the first landing.
We turned and looked at each other. She smiled up at me and put her arms around my neck. “First time tonight we’ve been alone,” she whispered reproachfully, “and you haven’t even kissed me yet.”
I bent my head to kiss her, but as our lips met, there was a creaking sound from the staircase overhead. I drew back and stood there listening tensely.
“Danny, is something wrong?” Her voice was filled with concern.
I looked down at her. Her eyes were watching me closely. I forced a smile to my lips. “No, Nellie.”
“Then what are you so jumpy about?” she asked, her arms pulling my face down to her. “Aren’t you ever going to kiss me?”
“I’m still excited,” I answered lamely. I couldn’t tell her what was on my mind, I couldn’t tell anybody.
“Too excited to kiss me?” she teased, smiling.
I tried to match her smile, but I couldn’t, so I kissed her instead. I pressed my mouth to her, hard. I could feel her lips crush beneath mine.
She smiled up at me happily. “Feel better now?”
I nodded. It was true. For a little while I had forgotten about everything else.
Her face was flushed and warm, her dark eyes dancing, her lips curved in a gentle smile. “Now maybe you’ll be able to go home and get some sleep?” she asked. “You’ve been so nervous all night.”
I nodded again. She was right, I had been jumpy and on edge all evening. In the restaurant where Sam had taken us all for dinner I had started at every footstep. I could hardly eat. I didn’t think anyone had noticed. I seized her hand and kissed its palm. “No matter what happens, Nellie,” I said quickly, “don’t forget I love you.”
“And I love you no matter what happens,” she replied earnestly. She held her face up to me to be kissed. “Good night, Danny.”
I kissed her. “Good night, honey.” I watched her vanish up the stairway, then I went out into the street.
I had walked only a few steps up the block when the sensation that I was being watched came over me. I stopped and looked back. The street was deserted. I started on again, but the curious feeling persisted. I paused at the street lamp on the corner to look at my watch. It was after two in the morning. Suddenly I thought I saw a movement in the shadows behind me. I spun around and my heart began to pound. I was poised for flight.
Out of the shadows came a small grey cat, and I almost laughed in relief. Next thing I knew, I’d be seeing ghosts. I went on again.
The lights of Delancey Street loomed in front of me. I stepped into the crowd, basking in their nearness. Nothing could happen to me here. Slowly I moved along with them and gradually began to feel better.
On the next corner a newsboy was yelling: “Mawnin’ papers! Gloves winners!” I dropped two pennies in his hand, picked up a paper, and turned to the back page, where the sports news was. I looked closely at the fight pictures there. Mine was in the upper right-hand corner. The camera had caught me as I was standing over Gardella, sprawled at my feet. A thrill of pride ran through me. Champion! Nothing could ever take that away from me. I wondered if any of all the people passing by recognized me, if they knew that I, Danny Fisher, was standing there, smack in the middle of them.
My smile vanished suddenly. I was looking directly into the eyes of one who had recognized me: Spit. He was leaning against the window of the Paramount Cafeteria, smiling at me. The paper slipped from my nerveless fingers into the gutter. I had been right all along: they had been watching me, waiting to get me alone.
Spit was nodding to a man standing near the kerb. I recognized him too. He was known to the neighbourhood as the Collector. Fields used him to go after people who refused to pay up. After he got through with them they were generally glad to square accounts. If they were able.
I turned quickly into the crowd, fighting an impulse to run. I was safe as long as I could stay with them. When I looked back over my shoulder, Spit and the Collector were sauntering casually behind me, just like two ordinary men coming from a late movie. Though they seemed to be paying no attention to me, I knew their eyes were on me every second.
I turned up Clinton Street, where the crowd was thinner, but I was still safe. The next block would be the bad one. It was usually almost empty at this hour of the morning. If I could make it, I’d be just around the corner from my house.
I peered over the crowd in front of me, and my heart sank. The next block was completely empty. My steps slowed as I toyed with the idea of turning back toward Delancey Street.
A backward glance chased the thought from my mind. They were too close behind me. They would block me off. The only way I could go was straight ahead. My mind churned desperately. I was almost at the corner. A picture of that block ran through my mind. About three-quarters of the way up it there was a small alley running between two houses. It was just wide enough to allow only one person through at a time. If I could reach it before them, I had a chance.
At the corner the traffic light was changing as a big trailer truck started to make its turn directly in front of me. I darted out into the street in front of it. The brakes squealed behind me as I reached the other kerb, but I didn’t look back. Spit was shouting at the truck, which had cut them off. I was almost halfway to the alley before I dared cast a nervous look over my shoulder.
Spit and the Collector had just reached the sidewalk and were running after me. Fear gave an added spurt to my legs. I almost ran past the alleyway in the darkness. Sharply I cut into it, my shoulder slamming against one side of the building. I bounced off the brick and fled deeper into the shadows.
It was dark in here, so dark I couldn’t see where I was going. I moved more slowly now, one hand feeling along the wall beside me to guide my way. The alley ran the full length of the two buildings, almost forty feet from the street, and ended in a blank wall. My hand suddenly touched the wall in front of me. I stopped, my fingers exploring it. There should be a small ledge a few feet up here. There was. Quietly I climbed up on it and turned, facing the street. I reached out in front of me, seeking a steel bar that I knew ran between the two buildings.
My eyes were getting used to the dark and I found the bar in the dim reflected glow coming from the street. My fingers grasped it firmly and I crouched there, waiting. My eyes strained through the darkness. Only one of them at a time could come after me here. My heart was bursting inside my chest. I tried to breathe quietly.
There was a murmur of voices at the end of the narrow alleyway. I tried to make out the words, but I couldn’t tell one voice from another. Then they were silent and I heard footsteps scuffling slowly along the alleyway toward me.
The light from the street framed the shadow of a man. He was moving cautiously into the dark, his hand groping along the wall as mine had done. I could see another shadow up near the entrance. Good. One was waiting in the street. I wondered which of them was coming after me.
I didn’t have to wonder
for long. A voice hissed huskily in the dark at me. “We know yer in there, Fisher. Come with us tuh see the boss an’ yuh got a chance!”
I drew in my breath sharply. It was the Collector. I didn’t answer. I knew the kind of chance they would give me. He was about halfway down the alley toward me now.
The Collector spoke again, about ten feet from me now. “Yuh hear me, Fisher? Come out an’ yuh got a chance!” The light behind him illumined his bulky frame. I drew myself up tensely, my hand gripping the steel bar. He was about six feet away from me. Five feet. Four. He couldn’t see me hidden in the dark, but I could see him.
Three feet. Two. Now!
My feet flew off the ledge, my hands holding the bar in a tight grip. I vaulted through the air, my feet aimed at his head. Too late he sensed the sudden danger. He tried to move sideways, but there wasn’t room. My heavy shoes caught him flush on the chin and face. There was a dull thud and something gave way beneath my heels. The Collector dropped to the ground.
Hanging from the bar in the air over him. I looked down trying to see him in the darkness. He was a crumpled shadow on the ground. He moaned a sighing little sound. I let go of the bar and dropped beside him. There was a stirring movement against my leg and I lashed out viciously with my foot. His head made a queer crunching sound as it snapped into the wall beside him, and then there was silence.
My fingers flew rapidly over his face. He lay there quietly, not moving. He was out.
I looked toward the entrance. Spit was still standing there in an attitude of listening. His body was framed against the light as he tried to see back into the darkness. His voice floated back to me. “Did yuh get ’im?”
I grunted as if in assent. I had to get him back in here if I wanted to get out whole. It was my only chance. I crouched low against the ground.
Spit’s voice came at me again. He was moving slowly into the alley. “Hol’ ’im. I wanna put my mark on the bitchin double-crosser!”
A Stone for Danny Fisher (1952) Page 20