Fight Card Presents: Battling Mahoney & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  By halfway around the ring, he was leaning forward, over-extending, even on the upper-cuts. For all the training he clearly had, I saw his enthusiasm stripping away his good sense.

  I took it. I ate the punishment. Stuck out my chin, always the gator, and waited till he leaned back and looped a right at my head. His fist roared toward my cheek. I ducked under it, let it glance off the top of my skull. When he leaned into the hook, I rose up inside his over-extension and stitched three short upper-cuts from kidneys to armpit with my right, and snapped a short left cross behind his ear. Rusty went down so hard his left heel spun around and hit me in the hip.

  He wasn’t out, but I’d served notice.

  ***

  We'd done our poking and prodding. We'd gauged our mutual talents. Both of us held back a thing or two, sure, but we'd shared enough to let the other know where we stood and enough to stir up the crowd.

  It was time to pound on each other.

  So that's what we did.

  Round two gave way to round three. The two of us stood in the middle of the ring and worked each other over.

  It was a good workout, but dull boxing. The crowd loved it at first, hooting and hollering, calling out our names and screaming for blood, which started flowing by the middle of round three. Those makeshift gloves lost their grease and tore at our skin and the smoke and dry air didn't help much either.

  The crowd got quiet in the third. That scared me more than a little.

  Fitz and Elmer conferenced then Fitz came over to me.

  “This is it,” he said. “They're getting bored.”

  I nodded.

  “You good?”

  I spit in the fire. It crackled.

  “I'm good,” I said.

  “Win or lose,” he said, “you still get paid.”

  “That's how it usually works.”

  “Maybe where you come from.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” I said.

  “You're welcome.

  I expected Rusty to come out fast and hard, but I really must've softened him up because her practically staggered toward center.

  At first, we went back to clubbing on each other, and I must admit I like a good mutual pounding. You don't get into the game if you don't enjoy punching and – argue with me, if you'd like – and being punched. Some part of every boxer's soul feeds on impact.

  We had a nice rhythm going. We were using more jabs than we had been. Arms were getting tied. He'd work me over and I'd shift or fade or otherwise break his routine. Then I'd take the lead and work him over. But even the breaks had a rhythm.

  Like skipping rope, pounding the heavy bag, or tapping the speed bag, the sweet science is all about rhythm…Do you have it? Can you find it? Can you use it? Can you break the other guy’s rhythm?

  But rhythm can kill you if you aren't careful.

  I fell into the groove. I might as well have nodded off in the ring and let him beat me in my sleep.

  There I was banging away at his guard, drumming away, bouncing the resistance – know what I mean? I was tired. I was maybe slouching a little.

  All that repetition.

  All that ease.

  All it took was a simple fade.

  And a step backwards.

  Rusty. In the middle of round four, he faded, stepped back, and I fell into him, chin out, arms wheeling. He took his time – sweet Heaven, did he ever take his time about it – setting his boots and squaring his shoulders, raising his right fist. I swear, I could see him aiming through my jaw, aiming for the far-side of my head, and he drove his fist down with the force of a native hardwood salmon fish club.

  It's easier when you're knocked out cold.

  My eyes were closed. My head dieseled. My body buzzed. The crowd did their thing, which included cheering and praising Rusty and cursing me and drifting away, back into the eternal night and into the bars and living rooms and alleys of the village.

  I got my thirty and Rusty got his hundred. Though I’m sure Elmer got a taste of the purse for himself, we drank and fought our way through the whole hundred-and-thirty dollars over to Elmer's cabin just outside of the village.

  Somewhere in there, my face and Rusty's faces dried up and scabbed over and Elmer started talking about setting up fights for us in Anchorage. The big time. Sanctioned fights.

  Rusty and I toasted Elmer's good head for thinking, and then trashed his place in a sloppy attempt to train.

  Dreams die hard in a hard land.

  JEREMY L. C. JONES ~ EDITOR

  Jeremy L. C. Jones is a freelance writer, editor, and teacher. He lives in South Carolina with his wife, daughter and four dogs.

  Jones got hooked on boxing watching Ali with his dad as a kid and by reading Ernest Hemingway, Jack London, Erskine Caldwell, and Harry Crews as a teenager.

  After years away, Jones has returned to his first love: making stuff up. This fall will see the debut of Mad Dog, a Western series created by Jones for Western Trail Blazers and written by a team of writers under the house-name William George Richards. Also debuting in 2014 is the Western Fictioneers Storytellers collections of essays about writing westerns co-edited with Troy D. Smith and the anthology Fathers: 12 Tales of the American West.

  ON THE WEB:

  www.jeremylcjones.com

  ROUND 6

  SAILOR TOM SHARKEY

  AND THE ELECTRIC GORILLA

  MARK FINN

  Nineteen Sixteen was a hell of a year for me. First, I lost my horse stables in Frisco, due to owing a number of gambling debts. Then, Florence left me when she figured out I wasn’t swimming in dough no more and she wasn’t going to ever be any kind of actress. She took off to Reno, and I didn’t see her until the divorce trial a month later.

  Somebody told me she ended up working as a spiritual medium or something along those lines. I don’t know much about that, but in the Vaudeville circuit, all of the women in the spirit medium racket were really just flexible con artists with the ability to hide large noisemakers in their womanly places. It sounded like something Flo would have been pretty good at, come to think of it. I never was any good at picking dames.

  Well, I was stewing in my own juices when I got a telegram from a guy who was putting on an exhibition of the scientific demonstration of pugilism and wanted me to be a part of it.

  I cabled him back sayin’ there wasn’t nothing scientific about my pugilism, and then he cabled me back sayin’ he knew that, but wanted my strength and staying power in the ring. So, I cabled him back to ask how much the job paid, and he cabled me back sayin’ if I went on the lecture circuit with him I could make at least five grand.

  Now, that wouldn’t put a dent in what I owed people. But it was a start. So I cabled him back and said okay if he coughed up the dough for travel. His answer was to cable me back train tickets to New Orleans.

  The last time I was in New Orleans was years ago when I was in the Navy. My memories of New Orleans were all mixed-up with my Navy days – watching John Sullivan lose to Jim Corbett, and stuff like that.

  I’d heard about the big hurricane that hit New Orleans the year before, and I was a little excited to see the place now they had rebuilt it. So I threw my gloves and trunks into my grip and bid a fond farewell to San Francisco – the city what hit me below the belt.

  The train ride wasn’t nothing to write home about. It was long, but it was first-class, so that helped.

  A few people recognized me and I signed some autographs for folks and they asked me about the big Jim Jeffries fight, and I told ‘em what they wanted to hear – I gave ‘em a run-down of the damage Jeff done on my carcass.

  Everyone always wants to know how I could have taken all that punishment – the three broken ribs and all of that – and still been on my feet after twenty five rounds. I always tell ‘em I just didn’t have enough sense to sit down.

  I got excited when the train pulled into New Orleans. It looked exactly the same as when I’d visited there over ten years ago, only it looked compl
etely different, too.

  There was a lot of new buildings and a new bridge and more boats and a lot more people all working on the docks, loading paddle boats and trucks and train cars. It reminded me of the Navy.

  I no sooner stepped off the Pullman when I was surrounded by a small clutch of duded-up looking swells, all top hats and tails. They was acting like I was still in the fight game, the way they clapped and cheered for me.

  I was too dumbfounded to do anything other than smile and nod. Eventually, all of the men had shook my hand and the last one introduced himself as Dr. Templeton Cain. I told him I was Tom Sharkey, and they all laughed.

  “So, what’s with all of this fanfare and hooey?” I asked Cain.

  He beamed down at me, and I noted he and the rest of the men were all considerably taller than me.

  “Mister Sharkey, these men are members of the Galton Foundation – our benefactors in the lecture circuit we are about to undertake.”

  “Undertake?” I said. “As in funeral arrangements?”

  This drew another round of laughter, but I didn’t join in. I was serious. What kind of a lecture tour had I signed up for?

  Cain ignored my question and continued, “Tonight, we will enjoy a sumptuous repast, and I will deliver the first part of my lecture on the advancement of human thought. Tomorrow, we will convene on the docks for the second part of the lecture for a physical demonstration of the principles I will expound.”

  Well, I took all of that in, but it really didn’t make a lick of sense to me, so I patted him on the shoulder and said, “You just tell me who you want me to spar with, Doc, and I’ll do the rest. I’ve done so many of these things, I coulda sleepwalk through ‘em.”

  Cain chuckled. “Come,” he said, taking my luggage from me and leading me back into the group of swells. “We’ll go to the hotel and freshen up before the lecture.”

  The thought of a hotel with food and a shower stomped all over the other questions I had for Cain, so I let him lead me to a taxi. I was starting to feel like a heavyweight again, and it got me awfully curious about what the Foundation actually foundated, so I asked Cain and he rattled off a bunch of names like Eugene Nicks and things like Friendology. I didn’t know anyone named Gene Nicks, but Friendology sounded okay in my book and I told him so. Cain spent the rest of the cab ride back to the hotel staring at my head and muttering to himself.

  These Galton Foundation yeggs weren’t kidding. We pulled up in front of a hotel that looked like the governor’s mansion. I gave Cain a look and he waved it off.

  “They’re taking care of everything, Mister Sharkey. All you have to do is what you do best.”

  I guessed he meant take a punch.

  We walked inside the lobby and got attacked by porters and other folks in red monkey suits, ushering us one way while my luggage went the other.

  This was better than the joints in New York, and that’s saying something. I was whisked to the elevators and fairly dumped into my room only to find my luggage had beat me there. That’s service, by heck!

  Cain started to rattle off more instructions for me, but I was exhausted from all of the travel. “Listen, Doc,” I told him. “All I need to know is when and where the lecture is tonight.”

  “Seven o’clock,” he answered. “In the main ballroom. But, Mister Sharkey, I want to make sure you understand...”

  “Belay that,” I said, as gentle as I could. “All I need is a little shut-eye before the big to-do. Don’t worry about me, Doc. I’ll be dressed and ready to impress at seven, sharp.”

  “Oh, well, that’s a relief,” he said.

  I left him to his muttering and went upstairs to flop for a couple of hours. When I woke up, I had a little appetite, so I ordered up some room service and polished off a chicken and some potatoes.

  After that, I took a quick shower and was feeling right as rain. So, I changed into my fighting togs, donned the special robe I used for exhibition matches with my motto, Don’t Give Up The Ship, across the back, and hung my gloves over my neck.

  I looked at myself in the mirror; not bad for an old dub. I took the stairs in order to warm up a little, and as I sprinted into the main lobby, I spied the double doors at the other end. The ballroom! I lowered my head and made for it at a steady gallop, stiff-armed the doors, and made my gallant entrance.

  I was in the main ballroom, all right. It was almost as big as Madison Square Garden, but there wasn’t no ring set up, I noticed. Nor was there any roped off area. In fact, all I could see was shocked, pale faces and stiff suits. The place was filled with high society types, all piled up hair and formal dresses, all making their way to long banquet tables. Everyone had been talking, but at my entrance, the whole room fell silent and they were all staring at me like I was a whore in church.

  Finally, I spied Cain running over to me. He was in a monkey suit, too, and I got the distinct impression I was maybe a little underdressed for this whole affair. “What’s the matter with you?” he hissed. “You said you’d be dressed!”

  “I am dressed – for fighting!” I protested. “I thought we were demonstrating tonight.”

  Cain made a growl in his throat, and whispered, “If anyone asks, tell them this was part of our publicity campaign.”

  He turned away from me, all smiles, and said to the room, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Tom Sharkey, one of the most colorful and storied fighters in boxing, as our special guest to help with our lecture circuit!”

  There was a smattering of applause, and then everyone started talking some, but I could tell whatever they were talking about before, they were discussing me now.

  Cain steered me away from the door and we proceeded to make the rounds on the way to the table up to the front of the room. Everyone had a Dutch name like Van Der Swiller or Von Frachus, and let me tell you, I’m not entirely certain about this, but there seemed to be an unusually high number of squareheads in attendance.

  This was not a real accurate repersentation of the New Orleans populace. The only black people I saw were all wearing waiters’ get-ups. Everyone else looked like well-dressed pitchers of milk.

  One of the pitcher-women regarded me through her glasses on a stick and made a snorting noise. “Really, Dr. Cain,” she said, “I don’t care for the so-called sport of boxing. I find the activity to be brutal in the extreme. Are you sure employing this...pugilist is strictly necessary for the cause?”

  Cain started to say something, but I beat him to it. “Madame, I didn’t catch your name, but I see you have your son with you.” I motioned to the rotund-looking squarehead boy trailing in her wake. “Mighty fine looking boy, madam, but I wouldn’t own him if he were a coward, nor would you. And furthermore, I think every boy oughtta be taught how to fight.”

  Seeing the expression of horror on her face, I quickly added, “I don’t mean he should go looking for it. But he ought to know how, in case anyone should insult his mother.” The woman made a weird sound, and Cain quickly marched us away from them.

  “I think that went well,” I said, pleased I’d got my point across and defended my chosen profession at the same time.

  Cain gave me an odd look and said, “Why don’t you sit down at our table, here? I’ll be back in a minute.”

  People were taking their seats and I noticed most of the welcoming committee from the train station was arranged at my table. The waiters came out and served us food in courses, which I never could understand. I prefer my chow on one plate, where I can see it all at the same time. One plate at a time feels too sneaky for me, and I’ve had more than one of these fancy dinners blow up in my face because I didn’t like the looks of what came after the spinach salad.

  This meal was okay, though, but I passed on the turtle soup. You only have to be shipwrecked off the coast of Pago Pago for three weeks once in your life to never want to eat a turtle again.

  I told my dinner companions that story, but they didn’t seem to appreciate it very much, until Dr. Cain spoke up and said, �
�You see, gentlemen? Ingenuity, adaptability, and resilience. Admirable traits, all, I would say.”

  They nodded in agreement and he went on. “Not to mention, Mister Sharkey’s legendary stamina and endurance in the sport of boxing.”

  One of the top hats asked me, “We’re very pleased to have you in this capacity, Mister Sharkey. How much do you know about our foundation?”

  “Oh, I’m all caught up, thanks to Dr. Cain, here.”

  “Really?” he said. “Then you’re familiar with Goddard’s work with the Kallikaks?”

  “Goddard?” My eyebrows shot up. “Kallikaks? I don’t know who they are, but I actually saw Joe Goddard knock Choynski through the ropes whilst I was on shore leave in Australia.”

  They all looked confused by my recollection. I don’t know why. I wouldn’t lie about a thing like that. Another one of the top hats said, “Tell me, Mister Sharkey, how far back does your family go?”

  “Go back? Buddy, they never left.”

  Cain laughed and I said, “They’re in Dundalk, Ireland, and they couldn’t be prouder of their son.”

  With that, two or three of the swells excused themselves from the table. Everyone else looked down at their strawberries and cream.

  Cain leaned over and said, real quiet, “I must apologize for some of my colleagues. The Irish question is far from settled within the foundation. You understand, I trust. Myself, I count no white men amongst my enemies. All the same, it would be best if we left your ancestry off the table during this lecture tour.”

  I nodded and sat there a while, looking at them all and thinking to myself. In all of my years of traveling, my Irish accent got kinda lost in the shuffle, but I remember what it was like when I first came to America.

  The Jewish kids used to throw rocks at us every day after work, and they called us names. Pretty mean stuff, if you want to know the truth, but it toughened me up considerable. Still, I was young and didn’t have anyone to stand in for me. That’s how come I originally went to sea for a few hitches with the Merchant Marine, and later the U.S. Navy. I figured if I was going to get called a bunch of names I didn’t understand, I wanted it to be by weird-looking people in foreign countries.