by Jack Tunney
McGhee looked horrified. “You’re not supposed to drink before a fight!”
“I fight better when I got a drink in me.”
McGhee shook his head. “You might think you fight better, but you don’t. It’ll slow you down.”
“Gimme a drink and shut your yap.”
Snorting, McGhee reached into his back pocket for his flask full of cognac.
“Aw, Sarge,” Cranepool said, looking sideways at Mahoney, “you know you shouldn’t drink before the fight. It’s okay to drink after the fight, but not before.”
“Who asked you?” Mahoney said, snatching the flask out of McGhee’s hands.
“But Sarge – all the guys in the regiment are rooting for you to win,” Cranepool said earnestly. “You can’t let them down!”
“What are they – crazy?” Mahoney asked, unscrewing the top of the flask.
“Naw – they think you can win! They’re betting all their money on you! Even you’re betting all your money on you!”
Mahoney shrugged. “Well, I got a little carried away at the beginning there. Are you sure the guys in the regiment are betting on me?”
“Sure they are,” Cranepool replied. “You should see them.”
“Don’t they know that Kowalski won ten professional fights?”
“Of course they know, but they think you can take him.”
“What makes them think that?”
“Because you’re so big and horrible.”
“Crap,” Mahoney said, staring mournfully at the flask.
“Don’t drink, Sarge,” Cranepool said. “Don’t let us down.”
McGhee leaned forward. “The booze’ll take the edge off your strength.”
“Aw, Hell,” Mahoney said.
“You can’t let the regiment down,” Cranepool said. “Everybody’s bet all his money on you.”
Mahoney screwed the top on the flask and handed it back to McGhee, who grinned like a baboon and pushed it into his back pocket.
“You can have some water,” McGhee said consolingly.
“Screw water.”
Cranepool finished counting the money, stood, stuffed it into his pocket, and then sat down again. “They say we’re gonna be in Paris pretty soon,” he said. “The extra money is gonna come in handy once we get there.”
Mahoney wiped his nose with the back of his hand. If he lost the fight he’d lose all his money, and he wouldn’t have any when they got to Paris. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than being broke in Paris. The whores wouldn’t screw him for nothing.
The tent darkened as someone came inside. It was a sergeant from Special Services, one of the guys who’d organized the fights. “Mahoney?” he asked.
Mahoney raised his taped hand. “Over here.”
“This fight’s almost over, so you might as well get ready.”
The sergeant left the tent, and Mahoney took some deep breaths.
“Maybe you’d better warm up a little,” McGhee said.
“If I get any warmer, I’m gonna be cooked.”
“You should get your muscles moving – shadowbox a little.’’
“Gimme a break, will ya, McGhee?”
“C’mon Mahoney,” McGhee said wearily. “If you’re gonna do it, you might as well do it right. You don’t want to get knocked out in the first round because your muscles aren’t ready, do you?”
Cranepool snapped his fingers. “C’mon Sarge, do what he says.”
Mahoney wheezed as he rose from the bench. He took the towel from his neck, tossed it into McGhee’s lap, moved to a corner of the tent and, dancing on the balls of his feet, he started throwing jabs and hooks at an imaginary opponent. He expelled air with every punch and danced from side to side, remembering Gleason’s Gym in New York and an old ex-pug named Hampton Williams, a Negro with cauliflower ears who’d taught him how to move in the ring.
“Whozat?” asked a soldier nearby, smoking a cigarette with a buddy.
“That’s Mahoney from the 15th Regiment!”
“Whoze he gonna fight?”
“Kowalski from the 27th.”
The first soldier grimaced. “They might as well measure this clown for a coffin right now and save time.”
Mahoney heard them as he danced back and forth and punched the air. His forehead was wet with perspiration and his armpits stank. He was thinking of how terrible it would be to get a three-day pass to Paris and not have any money to spend.
Somehow I’ve got to knock this cocksucker out, Mahoney thought as he delivered two fast uppercuts into the hot humid air.
***
“Okay Mahoney – let’s go!”
Mahoney was still in his corner, bobbing and weaving, throwing jabs. He stopped to turn around and saw the sergeant from Special Services.
“I haven’t got all day,” the sergeant said peevishly.
McGhee ambled toward Mahoney, holding out the gray-and-white-striped robe he’d scrounged from the medics. Mahoney put the robe on and McGhee covered Mahoney’s head and shoulders with a khaki towel, tucking it into the collar of the robe. Cranepool came over with the bucket and was followed by a medic with glasses who was the cut man. .
“Let’s go!” said the sergeant from Special Services, looking at his watch.
McGhee looked up at Mahoney. “You ready?”
Mahoney shrugged. “Yeah.”
Cranepool slapped Mahoney on the shoulder. “You look terrific, Sarge.”
“Screw you,” Mahoney grumbled.
They followed the sergeant out of the tent into the bright glare of the afternoon. Before them, a sea of men surrounded the ring which was set on a platform six feet high.
The sergeant from Special Services chewed gum as he made a path through the troops. “Get out of the way!” he snarled. “Move your ass!”
The men from the 15th Regiment cheered when they saw Mahoney.
“Kick the crap out of him!” one of them shouted.
“Yeah, Mahoney!”
“Kill the cocksucker!”
Mahoney jogged and worked his shoulders to keep his muscles warm and flexible. The men were smiling, clapping their hands, and jumping up and down. Some of them had been fighting in France since D-Day, and most had been through the bloody Battle of the Hedgerows which ended officially when the Hammerheads had been pulled back from the line.
The men reached out to touch Mahoney and give him good luck.
“You can take him, Mahoney,” one said. “He’s only a big tub of crap.”
“Knock him on his ass!” another shouted.
“You better win – I’ve got all my money on you!”
Mahoney came to the ring, where he saw the judges and reporters from Stars and Stripes. Cranepool jumped up on the apron and spread the ropes apart. Mahoney climbed up, bent over as he passed through the ropes, and stepped into the ring, dancing backwards and throwing a volley of left and right jabs as the men from the 15th Regiment roared their approval. Mahoney raised both his hands in the air and the cheers echoed across the grassy field.
McGhee placed the stool in the corner and the referee brought over the boxing gloves. Mahoney sat on the stool and McGhee pushed the gloves onto his fists while the referee looked on, making sure nobody slipped a horseshoe or a roll of pennies into the gloves. McGhee laced the left glove and Cranepool the right as the medic looked away at the crowd. They were all feeling the excitement of the big fight.
Cheers and applause erupted from the opposite side of the field, and McGhee turned around. “The scumbag is coming,” he muttered.
Mahoney looked around McGhee and saw a huge commotion. A man in a white robe plowed through the crowd and Mahoney knew it was Kowalski, the heavyweight champion of the 33rd Division. Soldiers from all the regiments, except the 15th, cheered wildly, basking in the glory of a championship fighter. Some said that Max Schmeling had been afraid to fight him before the war. Others thought he could take Joe Louis.
McGhee and Cranepool finished tying on the gloves, and the r
eferee checked their work. Then he moved away and bent through the ropes to accept the pair of gloves he’d give to Kowalski.
“Stand up and move around a little,” McGhee said to Mahoney.
Mahoney arose, danced, and threw some punches. The heat of the sun radiated through his robe and the towel on his head, and as he looked out into the crowd he noticed that all eyes were on the approaching Kowalski.
Kowalski’s handlers climbed onto the apron and parted the ropes for him. Kowalski jumped up, lowered his head, and charged into the ring. Flat-footed, he threw three punches that made the canvas tremble, and all the soldiers except those in the 15th Regiment cheered uproariously. His white robe had a hood and Mahoney could see a shock of blond hair in front. He noticed that Kowalski was bigger than he, and his face looked like it had been formed from handfuls of mashed potatoes.
He can be hit, Mahoney thought, dancing from side to side and looking at Kowalski’s misshapen features. Maybe I can knock the son of a bitch out. Their eyes met and Kowalski grinned confidently. He thinks I’m going to be easy, Mahoney thought. Is he in for a surprise.
The referee went to Kowalski’s corner and watched as the gloves were put on. Mahoney sat on his stool, working his shoulders and moving his head from side to side.
The sergeant from Special Services climbed into the ring, holding a big boxy microphone in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. The crowd was still cheering Kowalski and the sergeant raised his hands to quiet them, but they only cheered louder.
“Awright, let’s settle down,” said the sergeant into the microphone.
His voice boomed out of loudspeakers mounted on telephone poles, and gradually the troops became quieter. They elbowed each other as they tried to get closer to the ring, and some of them placed their final bets. The odds had risen to twelve to one in favor of Kowalski.
The sergeant gripped the microphone and looked at the sheet of paper. “And now we have our featured bout of the afternoon!” he said. “It’ll be six rounds of boxing for the heavyweight championship of the Hammerhead Division!’’ The troops cheered and the sergeant pointed toward Mahoney. “In this corner, wearing black trunks with a white stripe, weighing in at two hundred twenty-six and three-quarter pounds, from New York City, New York, representing the 15th Regiment of the 33rd Hammerhead Division, the challenger – the very popular Battling Mahoney – Mahoney!”
The men of the 15th Regiment threw their helmets in the air and screamed in delight. Mahoney danced backwards across the ring, his hands high in the air. He spun around, threw some fake punches, and danced back to his corner, where he leaned toward McGhee.
“Where’d they get the ‘very popular Battling Mahoney’ from?” he asked.
“I dunno,” McGhee replied. “You know how they try to make things look good in Special Services.”
“And in this corner,” the sergeant bellowed, pointing at Kowalski, “wearing white trunks with a black stripe, weighing in at two-hundred and thirty-five pounds exactly, from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the heavyweight champion of the 33rd Division, the sensational Terrible Tommy Kowalski – Kowalski!”
Kowalski stepped toward the center of the ring, holding his gloved hands in the air. Mahoney noted with chagrin that the cheering for Kowalski was considerably louder than the cheering had been for him. Instead of intimidating Mahoney, it only made him mad. “I’m gonna whip this guy’s butt,” Mahoney muttered.
“What you say?” asked McGhee.
“I said I’m gonna kick his butt.”
“That’s the way I like to hear my fighters talk,” McGhee said happily.
Mahoney wondered what fighters McGhee was talking about as the referee moved to the center of the ring and motioned with his hands, indicating that the fighters should join him.
Mahoney and Kowalski moved toward the center of the ring, accompanied by their trainers and handlers. Kowalski raised his chin in the air and looked down his mangled nose at Mahoney, who worked his shoulders and shifted from foot to foot as he glared into Kowalski’s eyes.
The referee was an old sergeant wearing a tan summer uniform with sneakers. He placed his hands on each fighter’s shoulder and said, “All right boys, you know the rules. I don’t want no butting, no low blows, and no thumbs in the eye. When I say break I want you to break clean. If you knock your opponent down, I want you to go to a neutral corner. Make sure you protect yourself at all times. Now shake hands and when you hear the bell – come out fighting.”
Mahoney and Kowalski leaned toward each other and clasped each other’s right glove. Then they separated and Mahoney walked back to his corner, spinning around so he could face Kowalski. Cranepool pulled away the robe and towel, and McGhee jammed the mouthpiece between his lips.
“Feel him out the first round,” McGhee said. “Don’t try nothing fancy until you know his moves.”
Mahoney nodded, letting his arms hang loose. Kowalski’s robe came off and he could see that Kowalski was huskier than he, but he looked fat rather than muscular, and Mahoney thought he could cut him down to size.
Cranepool rubbed Mahoney’s back. “Knock his head off, Sarge.”
Mahoney wagged his head from side to side as the referee stepped into the middle of the ring. He pointed to the time-keeper, who hit the gong for the first round. The referee stepped back and brought his hands together. Mahoney came out dancing, both his fists held underneath his eyes. Flat-footed, Kowalski charged toward him, one fist near his chin and the other one cocked. He held his chin close to his chest and his eyes glowed murderously. The fighters came together and Kowalski threw a left jab at Mahoney’s head, but Mahoney danced to the side, slipping the punch past his right ear. Kowalski jabbed again, and Mahoney blocked it with his left glove. He raised his guard to do so, and Kowalski snorted as he threw a sharp right hook to Mahoney’s kidney. Mahoney lowered his elbow in time to catch the blow, then danced back and to the side, throwing a left jab to Kowalski’s face, which Kowalski blocked with both hands. Kowalski charged forward, throwing a left-right combination, and Mahoney caught them both on his gloves, then moved inside and hit Kowalski in the gut with a hard uppercut. Mahoney watched in amazement as his glove buried nearly to his wrist in Kowalski’s gut, but Kowalski only grunted, covered quickly, and tried to bang Mahoney on the side of the head. Mahoney ducked in time and Kowalski’s glove flew over him.
“Stay away from him!” McGhee shouted from the corner.
Why should I stay away from him? Mahoney wondered, hooking with his left toward Kowalski’s head. Kowalski didn’t bother to block the punch; he reared back and threw a right lead at Mahoney’s head. It was a close, vicious chopping punch, and it connected. Mahoney saw stars and tried to cover, but Kowalski was all over him, throwing lefts and rights from all angles and grunting like a pig. Mahoney back-pedaled and Kowalski came after him, still throwing punches. Mahoney bobbed and weaved, blocking the punches as best he could, but a lot of them came through. He was dazed and heard the crowd screaming. Through slitted eyes he saw Kowalski swing again, and Mahoney lunged forward, grabbing his arms.
The crowd booed as Mahoney clinched and hung on. Before the referee could break them, Kowalski spun Mahoney around so that Mahoney was between him and the referee, and then butted Mahoney with his head. Mahoney saw stars again, and when the referee separated them Mahoney felt liquid dripping into his right eye. At first he thought it was raining, but then realized it was his blood. Holy crap, he thought, this is only the first round and this cocksucker is beating the crap out of me.
“Stay away from him!” McGhee shouted. “Hang on!”
Mahoney’s legs were rubbery as he danced from side to side. Kowalski cut off the ring and threw a feint to Mahoney’s right side. Mahoney lowered his elbow to stop it, and Kowalski threw the payoff punch at Mahoney’s temple. Mahoney saw it too late. It landed and the lights went out.
When the lights came on he was lying on his stomach. He raised his head and saw the referee pointing at him.
> “Six!” the referee said.
Six already? Mahoney thought.
“Seven!”
Crap, Mahoney thought, trying to get up. His foot slipped and he fell down again.
“Eight!”
I just lost my three hundred bucks, Mahoney thought unhappily.
The bell rang, and the referee stopped counting. McGhee and Cranepool jumped into the ring, grabbed Mahoney by the armpits, and dragged him back to the stool.
“You dumb turd!” McGhee barked, sponging Mahoney’s face with water. “You’re fighting his kind of fight. You should be fighting your kind of fight.”
“What’s my kind of fight?” Mahoney asked weakly.
“Stay away from him. Keep moving. Stick and jab.”
The medic bent over Mahoney and touched a swab of cotton to the cut on his forehead. There was medication on the swab and Mahoney flinched.
“The cocksucker butted me,” Mahoney complained.
“You shouldn’t get that close to him.”
Cranepool broke an ammonia ampule under Mahoney’s nose, and Mahoney felt his head clear out. “You can take him, Sarge,” Cranepool said hopefully. “He’s just a big tub of crap.”
“Listen to me,” McGhee growled into Mahoney’s ear. “You can’t slug it out with him because he’s bigger than you. You’ve got to box him, got it? You know how to box?”
“I think so,” Mahoney said.
“Make him miss. Keep your jab in front of his face. Wear him down and in the final rounds you can come on strong.”
“Right,” Mahoney said, although he wasn’t sure he could make it through the next round.
A G.I. near the ring apron cupped his hands and screamed: “You bum!”
McGhee rubbed down Mahoney’s chest. “Don’t listen to him.”
“Jesus, McGhee, do I really look like a bum out there?”
McGhee shrugged. “Stick and jab – stick and jab.”
The medic put some white goo over Mahoney’s cut, and the buzzer went off. Mahoney stood and McGhee put the mouthpiece over Mahoney’s teeth.
“Stick and jab – stick and jab,” McGhee repeated. “Go to the body and wear him down.”
The bell, rang for the second round and Mahoney came out dancing, although his head still was spinning. Kowalski charged like a bull, sensing a second round knockout. Mahoney tried to dodge out of the way but Kowalski cut off the ring and pounded his kidney so hard Mahoney thought he’d piss blood for the rest of his life. He grabbed Kowalski’s arms and hung on while Kowalski struggled to break loose.