This idolatry for the pug was no chance occurrence, but could be traced with unerring accuracy throughout the history of fighting. The people involved in the game now, as well as ever before, are those people who are subjected most often to manual, physical labor, those people to whom strength is money, is life, is the means of their existence. To these people the possession of strength is a blessing, and the possession of strength to the degree that is necessary for professional boxing is looked upon with awe. The fighter is revered because he can hit with power, can beat down an opponent in fistic, physical, combat. This man is tough, can protect himself well in the toughness of the society that he has been born into, is respected by the neighbors that he lives with, because they understand well what strength is. Youngsters in these groups grow with the desire and conviction, ingrained, that to be a fighter, to show the world one has strength, will, through the only means at their disposal, prove the worth of their being.
There is also involved in this desire to be a fighter the prospect that with success, through the only means at their disposal, will come relief from this life of drudgery to which so many friends and family find themselves strapped. Physical life is the only reality open to these people and they understand it, and use it, and sometimes die by it. The sharp decline can be noted in aspirants for physical violence in direct proportion to a group that has being more accepted into the realm of economic betterment and the enjoyment of a leisure life. When physical reality and harshness of life has become a memory, so, very often, does the desire to prove one’s worth by beating someone else’s brains out.
One of the younger fellows picked up Amelio’s bag and opened it. He took the boxing trunks out and held them up for all to behold. Lo, the symbol of freedom. The kid slipped the trunks over his pants and began to shadow box, making the forced exhaling sound through his nose that is associated with boxers as they punch. Amelio looked on benevolently, as the master looks down upon his apprentice, tousling the hair of the youngster. All the guys started to cheer, and Amelio, sparred very lightly with the kid.
“Put the trunks on, Amelio. Come on, let’s see how they look on you”, came the cries from the stoop. Amelio consented and slipped the trunks over his pants and took off his shirt, taking the boxing stance he had seen so many times in newspaper pictures. Everyone cheered, and one of the guys on the stoop got up and in a loud voice, announced, “and in this corner, weighing 145 pounds, wearing white trunks with black stripes, the middleweight champion of the world, Amelio Gonzalez—”
“Yeaaa”, a great cheer rang up from the steps, and Amelio danced about at the bottom of the stoop with the boxers bounce, on his toes, from one foot to the other, waving one hand over his head.
It was about six-thirty when Amelio left the stoop and made his way across the street to the stoop in front of his own building. He passed two men who were sitting there talking, opened the door and went in. The usual deep pungent smell that always assailed a stranger’s nose, with its acrid oiliness, was undetected by Amelio as he climbed the stairs two by two. This smell was part of his life, he breathed it, ate it, and never knew it existed. He reached the fourth that he sneaked out of the gym landing, walked down the narrow, unlit, peeling plaster, corridor toward the rear of the building.
There were two doors there. He turned the knob of the one on the left and went in. His Mother stood by the kitchen range cooking.
“Mama”, he said as he kissed her, then he went into his room to put his bag away. His father was lying in bed, in the middle room, sleeping under a sheet. He had worked all night as a porter in one of the buildings uptown and was getting his weekly day of rest. The front room, which really faced the back of the house, served as Amelio’s bedroom, as well as for his two little brothers and a sister. He slid the bag under the bed, and went back to the little kitchen. His Mother was standing there in her faded light green dress, which fell against her sagging bosom and protruding stomach tightly, making great swells in the outline of her body. He sat at the table and began to read the newspaper.
“What time are we going to eat?” he asked. “I’m pretty hungry from all that workout at the gym. Besides I’m going to meet the guys to go to the movies at seven-thirty”.
“Your father won’t be up before nine”, said she. “He worked all night, and he needs one day of rest, but you can eat now, and go out if you want. Maria, Gabriel, come in to have your dinner now”.
The two little kids came in and sat down next to Amelio; their mother began to dish out the food. When dinner was over, Amelio washed up, combed his hair, and went out. He ran down the stairs and met the guys in front of the usual stoop. He was the last one to arrive and they all started for the movies. The movie house was about four blocks away. It was a movie house that showed only Spanish pictures because there were so many Spanish-speaking people in the neighborhood. It had once been one of the better theaters in town, but the neighborhood had become less than it was. A big shiny Cadillac car passed the guys and their heads all turned quickly to catch a look at it. Each in his own little secret thoughts said to himself that one day he would have a car like that, and drive around town showing everybody his exhaust.
Yes sir, one of these days soon, thought Amelio, a yellow convertible. They reached the movie house and went in.
When the show was over, all the guys made their way home and again sat down on the stoop. They always hung around together, these guys, about twelve of them. They might be considered a gang by people, but really they were only a group of friends, who palled around together. Actually, it was a friendship both voluntary and valuable; valuable since abuse and derision are less hurled to twelve than to one, but nevertheless voluntary because the guys were all close friends.
Presently a patrol car came cruising up the block, and stopped in front of the stoop. Two cops got out, night sticks in hand, and walked over to the gang. One of the cops said, “Okay, let’s break it up, let’s get going. C’mon move—these little bastards don’t even speak English” he commented to his partner. “Boy, if we could only understand what they’re gibbering about—probably cursing the hell out of us”.
The gang got up and slowly moved toward their houses. “See you tomorrow guys”, said Amelio.
It was early the next morning when Amelio arose, shook the sleep out of his eyes, dressed, and started for work. In the kitchen he fixed a small breakfast of bread and jelly for himself, and started for the shop. He worked a few blocks away on the platform of a trucking company. He was treated well there, but there was always an attitude of non-confidence generated by his fellow workers, especially the foreman.
“C’mon Ami”, he would say, “let’s get that carton over here. No, no, what the hell is the matter with you? Can’t you do it the way I told you to, like this—now c’mon—that’s better. This kid, you gotta watch him every minute, otherwise he makes a mistake. They haven’t got too much brains, these spics”. This was the way it went all day, but Amelio was resigned and kept trying to be accepted as a competent worker, an equal, but it was hard. On his lunch break he met Jose, who worked around the corner. They went into the luncheonette, and sat down at the counter. The counterman was waiting on someone else at the other end of the counter.
“Well, how’s your work coming?”, asked Amelio.
“Ok, but I’m so tired always. I’m going to school for television repair at night. That’s why I work so hard over here, so I can make enough money to pay for the course. It’s hard though, when I get only thirty dollars a week, and I have a sister and brother to support. School is so expensive, and—hey, don’t we get any service in this place”, he said loudly, not knowing how else to say what he meant.
“Don’t get all excited bud”, said the counterman, who was walking toward them. “We’ve got a lot of people to serve in here beside you, you know. Just keep your shirt on. Whad-a-ya-wan?”
“Give me a baloney sandwich on rye”, said Amelio.
“I’ll have the same”, said Jose.
The counter man walked back to his sandwich board and began talking to one of the customers close by. “Damn spics, all of them are on relief, and they come in here an think they can order you around like you’re their servant or somethin’. I wish the hell they’d all go back to their little island and leave us all alone. Here you go, two baloney. That’s seventy cents each”.
The guys ate their sandwiches, and went out. They stood outside on the sidewalk and smoked a cigarette apiece, and then went back to work.
“See you tonight, Amelio”, said Jose.
“Okay, kid, see you later”, replied Amelio as he made his way back toward the trucking company platform.
Later that night, when he arrived home for supper, no one was in the apartment. His mother hadn’t arrived home from her job yet, she was a seamstress in the Bronx, and his father had already left for his job. Amelio sat down to a light meal he prepared for himself, and went on his way to the gym. As he walked he wished that someday this drudgery could stop for his family, that they could relax and not work so hard. They were always so busy they had no time to be together. His step quickened and his chest swelled. “There’s one way to do it”, he thought as he reached the steps that led up to the gym. He bounded up two by two, went in and saw Petey standing watching the other fighters. Petey was his trainer, his manager, and his friend.
“All set for a good work out”, asked Petey as he came over to Amelio.
“Sure, I’ll be changed in a minute”.
Amelio came out of the locker room and stepped into the calisthenics corner and began to limber up. Petey came over and began talking to him.
“Listen, kid, if we do all right today, I may be able to line up a fight for you on the east side next week”.
“No kiddin’, Petey. Who’ll I fight?”
“Angel Montez, he’s not a tomato can. He’s pretty good”.
“Just watch me go today, Petey. I’ll rip that Angel to pieces”. His arms began to flail the air, his mind began to think of the things he could buy with the money he would start to make after he began to fight—a car, nice clothes, money in the pocket. He would show everybody he was worth something. He’d show them.
“Hmps, hmps”, his nose snorted, his arms flew, and in his mind he was fighting for the championship of the world, and everyone loved him.
That night when he went out on the stoop to see the guys, they were all involved very deeply in conversation.
“What’s up, guys?” he asked.
“We’re trying to decide if we should go down to tenth street”, said one.
“There are some fights down there tonight, and we are trying to decide if we should go see them”, said another.
“Who’s fighting?” asked Amelio, “anyone we know?”
“Jose Hernandez is fighting Josh Smith, and Rafael Motara is fighting Angel Montez”.
“Angel Montez?” said Amelio in excited curiosity.
“Yeah, why?”
“He’s the one I will have my first fight with next week. Let’s go down there and see if he is any good”.
“OK, Amelio. Let’s go guys. We’re going to see Amelio’s first victim”.
“Yes”, said the gang collectively as they rose and moved off, down the street. They began to joke, and one of the fellows started a song which they all picked up as they walked along.
The night of the fight came upon Amelio as quickly as he had wanted it to be slow. He sat in the crowded dressing room nervously adjusting and readjusting the tape on his hands. The place smelled a mixture both sweet and pungent of wintergreen, analgesic balm, and perspiration. There were two other fighters in the dressing room both equally nervous as Amelio, and both equally enrapt over the state of their hand tape. Amelio was trying to remember the things that Petey had told him. He tried to remember the way he saw Montez fight that night downtown. “He’s fast and shifty, doesn’t have much of a punch”. His inability to fight was seemingly masked behind a subterfuge of picturesque feinting, ineffectual jabs, and horrible grimaces, which were more menacing that Angel’s actual ability to box. And yet, Amelio was nervous. Angel had won three fights before. He had knocked out another fellow on the west side only two weeks before. Perhaps there was something I missed in his style. No, I couldn’t be wrong, thought Amelio, that guy can not fight. He’s just a pretty picture who has a battle on his hands just keeping from running out of the ring. He thinks he’s tough, but it’s tougher for him to throw a punch at an opponent than to catch one. Still there was that doubt. That unreasonable feeling of doubt that crept in through a chink in his stomach armor, It crept in the stomach, and stealthily rose up the trachea, closing off the air passage as he breathed, making the palate work extra hard swallowing. The thought of the defenses and the counter defenses that he and Petey had worked on in preparation for this combat, were now infinitely more complex, more incomprehensible, than they had been at training. I should have trained more. I’m not even in shape, thought Amelio. He’ll come in fast. I’ll have to push him off, stalk him, hit and stalk, work slowly. Maybe he’ll cut me to ribbons. Maybe I won’t be able to push him off. If I had only trained more. All the things I have to do! I’ll never remember them. Left jab, right cross to the stomach, left hook to the jaw, right upper cut. Ave Maria, I’ll never be able to do all those things. He’ll either skip away and I won’t know what to do, or he’ll knock me flat. It’s pretty damn easy to feel like a fighter, and even easier to train, but how tough it is to get into that square. I should have stayed home. I’ll never even make it to the ring. That insidious, that underhanded, scheming, creeping, enemy had now invaded his legs. They felt cold, incapable of moving. From far off that silent void of thought he heard the familiar phrasing of his name. He focused his eyes, and there, by the door, was Petey, resplendent in greyishwhite work-out shirt, calling him.
“Come on Amelio, it’s time to move to the ring. You fight now”.
Amelio hopped off the table. His legs felt as if they were going to buckle underneath him. “Ok, I’m all set”, he felt himself saying, although he didn’t mean it. He crossed himself and kissed the thumb and bent index finger that formed a cross. Petey helped him on with the gloves and threw an old faded robe that hung in the dressing room for the use of pre-lim fighters over his shoulders.
The roar of the crowd swelled up in his ear, and as he walked down the aisle behind Petey. Amelio felt the eyes of the entire arena on him. They were all looking at him; at least it seemed they were, and they were all looking at him oddly, he thought. They seemed to look at him with humor. They probably knew he couldn’t fight well. They were trying not to laugh. Here and there a few people were laughing. This is terrible, he thought.
Down by the ringside Amelio met his foreman, to whom he had given two tickets.
“Hiya, Amelio, let’s go kid, let’s get that guy”, said the foreman.
“Yeah, good luck kid”, said the man next to the foreman.
That guy with the foreman—he looks awfully familiar, thought Amelio as he slid under the ropes and danced into the ring. The thought of that figure that Amelio could not readily identify roiled his mind tenaciously. Forget about it, Amelio said to himself, he had other things to think about at the moment; the fight. He danced into a position from which he could look through the ropes, observed the stranger again.
Of course, thought Amelio, he’s the counter guy at the luncheonette. He danced around again facing into the center of the ring.
Across the ring he sensed the presence of his adversary. He only sensed, for his attention was very consciously held to a spot on the canvas in front of him. A canvas he felt certain he would be reclining on in short order. With his head still directed downward, his eyes glanced upward and across the roped-in square, to where Angel Montez was warming up. Angel too was looking across the ring, each observed his opponent. Quickly they danced around so as not to look at each other. Don’t want him to think I care one bit, thought each to himself.
The refer
ee motioned each man to the center of the ring. They stood facing each other, moving their arms back and forth to limber them up. The referee went into the ritual-like speech with the inapt superlative, which is quoted everywhere fight men congregate. Neither paid attention to the words, they were known all too well, and besides, their minds were furiously thinking of all the things that they forgot, or will forget to remember about each other.
“… and come out fighting”, the referee droned.
They touched gloves, went to their corners, and took off their robes.
“Yeahhh, let’s go Amelio”, shouted the foreman.
“Where do you know that little spic that’s fighting from?”, asked his friend who sat next to him.
“He works with me over at the platform. You must-a seen him around. He always eats in your place—name’s Amelio Gonzalez”.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, I seen him aroun’, now that you mention it”.
“He’s the one who gave me the tickets for tonight”, said the foreman.
“No kiddin’, first time I heard a spic givin’ somethin’ away”.
“Na, he’s awright, this kid. Not like the rest of them. He’s awright”, repeated the foreman with a shake of his head. “You know, he hasn’t much brains—like the rest of them—but he’s awright”.
“Ah, I don-know. They’re all a same far as I’m concerned. Him too. Always bein’ smart with their talk—no friggin good”.
“Bronggg”, the great bell vibrated sonorously.
The two men advanced toward each other, hands extended in front of them. They approached the center of the ring, then began to move to the left in a wide circle, looking at each other’s defenses, waiting for the first blow to fall. Amelio swung his hand, which felt as if it were tied to his side. It sailed out into the air and slipped ineffectually past Angel’s shoulder. Angel countered with a short underhand left to the midsection, they danced away from each other, and the fight was on. They got into it in one of the corners, arms flailing.
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