The Bruiser

by Jim Tully

  Soggy gloves ripped by soggy gloves. Their muscular bodies writhed and reeled under the burning sun. They slugged desperately in a neutral corner.

  The champion started a blow. He was unable to stop it when the gong rang. Shane dodged. The momentum of the blow threw Sully across the ropes. Shane hurried to his corner with the hope of getting a few seconds more rest than his antagonist.

  “Have him go in his shell this round, Tim,” advised Gill.

  Shane was in the champion’s corner before the echo of the gong died away. His arms were close to his sides, his face buried in his gloves, his eyes peering through. His body weaved like the upper end of a rattler being teased.

  Sully might have stared at a ghost on a country road. He began to step back. Shane let loose suddenly. Caught unawares with such savagery, the champion retreated, his flying gloves bouncing from Shane’s weaving body.

  Successfully dodging or blocking the terrible right, Shane attacked with four perfectly timed blows, two in the solar plexus, a right and left to Sully’s jaws.

  As though his feet had been shot from under him, the champion went to his knees. Before he dropped, Shane whipped another right to his jaw. Sully rolled over twice. Roars of applause followed. Shane missed. Sully jumped to his feet. Shane charged.

  “There goes Roarin’ Rory,” shouted Hot and Cold Daily.

  Sully clinched against the ropes. The sweating referee, his white shirt blood-bespattered, loosened the tangle of their powerful arms. The battering became more terrible. Their heads crashed together. Blood drooled from their mouths. They danced furiously for a second under the rigadoo of pain. The sun-scorched enclosure was again hushed into silence for a second.

  “Oh, my God,” panted Jeremiah Dodge, “my God, my God,” and slumped in his seat.

  Joe Slack glanced hurriedly at him. “Don’t faint now,” he sneered.

  Shane dodged low. A ripping right landed on top of his head. The pain shooting to his shoulder blades touched him with madness. He crashed three powerful rights in a clinch…. “My God, he’ll break him in two,” yelled Jeremiah Dodge.

  “He don’t break so easy,” snapped Joe Slack.

  The sun scurried behind a cloud. The glaring outline of the ring was soft for a second. The voices of the mob died down in the presence of the fury that followed. Blinky Miller gripped the ring-post until his hands ached. Silent Tim mumbled to Jack Gill. Al Wilson twisted a towel and looked at Sully’s chief second. A haze enveloped the fighters. They were tangled as the gong rang. The referee pried them apart.

  “What round is it?” one reporter asked another.

  “I don’t know,” was the answer, “the eleventh maybe.”

  It was the thirteenth.

  Seconds and managers encouraged their fighters.

  “Get him under the heart with your right—you got him goin’,” said Wilson.

  Sully’s chest heaved up and down. He said nothing.

  In the fourteenth, Shane worked his famous trick. Now feinting Sully to lead a straight right, he started one at the same time and moved his left foot a few inches.

  Sully’s right missed. Shane’s landed. Sully went down for nine. He stretched out in a crucified position, the blazing sun in his eyes.

  Screaming and gesticulating, the audience rose.

  “Down, down,” yelled many.

  The gong rang. He was dragged to his corner.

  The last round was coming up. The audience moved forward on their seats, numbed into silence.

  The bell sounded.

  The gloves of the fighters touched. They began to circle. A fusillade of leather followed. To save himself, the champion worked in close. A vicious right caught him under the heart. He grunted. His head fell on Shane’s shoulder. He clung until it cleared, then squared for action.

  Shane pushed his gloves aside. The gesture infuriated Sully. He lashed in.

  An insect flew between the fighters. Caught on Shane’s glove, it was smashed against Sully’s forehead. The champion pounded Shane’s sides. A hard left swished across his jaw.

  Sully clinched.

  The referee broke them.

  He threw a whizzing right. Shane caught it in the air. The champion lambasted furiously.

  Shane began a circling right. Sully moved away. Again Shane started the blow. Sully clinched.

  Over Shane’s shoulder, he saw Wilson’s signal. “A minute to go.”

  As they broke, two rights were started. Sully’s glove tore the skin from Shane’s cheek as it whizzed over his shoulder.

  Shane’s left foot moved. Every muscle quivering with the fury of snakes on a griddle, Shane landed. The blow fractured Sully’s chin. He staggered back, his hands dropping. Shane chopped with furious rights and lefts. Blood and water swished from his gloves as they hit their target.

  Touched with the enormous madness of the scene, the huge audience was once more a punch-bowl of silence.

  Sully staggered and rallied. His relentless antagonist moved in.

  Two terrible rights crossed. One missed. The other landed.

  A howl as of many winds started.

  “Get up, Rory,” a voice roared from a far seat.

  The audience rose.

  “Be seated.” The words came from a gigantic megaphone.

  “It’s not Rory,” snapped Hot and Cold Daily.

  Sully squirmed and lay still.

  At the count of ten he was dragged to his corner.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” came the announcement, “the new Heavyweight Champion of the World.”

  The ring swarmed with people.

  The police entered, “Clear the way—let ’em out.”

  Above the clamor could be heard, “Say a few words in the microphone, Mr. Rory.”

  The bulbs of photographers’ cameras snapped on the scene.

  During the mêlée, Sully’s chief second came across Blinky Miller.

  “You rat—I’ll take that five grand outta your hide.”

  “G’wan and look after Sully.”

  Daily’s story written and telephoned, he called, “Here boy, take this typewriter. I’ll be in Rory’s suite at the Royal—now don’t forget.” He said to another reporter, as Berniece joined him, “Take her with you.”

  The police made way for him as he followed Shane and his contingent from the ring.

  “Take him, Blinky,” Silent Tim commanded. Cheeks hollow and eyes tired from the strain of the battle, Shane’s hands were still taped. A wound was above his eye; an abrasion was at the edge of his jaw, where Sully’s blows had torn the unshaven hair away.

  As in the ring, his lips were still tight pressed.

  Blinky stripped him quickly and placed him under a shower, where two muscular men in bathing suits waited.

  “Hold your hands out, Champ,” Blinky said.

  As the water touched the victorious fighter’s shoulders, Blinky removed the tape, and rubbed the hands with satisfaction.

  “Every knuckle in place, Champ.”

  The muscular men place Shane on a rubbing table. Blinky watched every movement.

  In another room, a group of men talked the fight over.

  “The boy has a heart of oak,” said Daniel Muldowney.

  “I knew he had Sully after that first round, eh, Tim,” put in Jack Gill.

  “It was a scorcher— I lived nine years in that three minutes.” Silent Tim shook his head as if to drive away an evil memory.

  “When he got Sully under the heart in the fourteenth—that was the wallop—he got me that way and I didn’t know where I was till the fight was over.” Bangor Lang was now heavier. “I’ll see how he’s comin’.”

  Shane smiled wearily, “Hello, Bangor.”

  Lang ignored the greeting. “Feeling all right, kid?” he asked, and continued, “That was a battle—Sully can sure as hell take it.”

  “And give it, Bangor,” said Shane.

  “Yep, how’d you ever figure he was a sucker for a right? I tried that on him and he dam
n near knocked my head out of the ring.”

  “I had to try something,” returned Shane.

  Jack Gill came in.

  “Lord, Mick, I’d of fought the semi-windup for nothin’ if Buck Logan could of seen you in there with Sully. I’ll bet the old boy tried to get out of his coffin— I nearly had heart failure a dozen times—but I won ten grand—and you had to do all the fightin’.”

  “I’d go in there again to win money for you, Jack—remember Wichita?”

  “I’ll say so, Shane, remember Gunner Maley—poor devil. I saw him in Chicago—he was on his heels, walkin’ up and down North Clark Street punchin’ shadows. It won’t be long now—he’ll be with Jerry Wayne.”

  “Yeap,” Lang acquiesced, “he was one of those fellows who always wanted to take a couple on the chin to give one. Too bad!”

  Shane’s mind was on Jerry Wayne. He became silent.

  “Fight make you drowsy?” asked Jack Gill.

  “A little, Jack.”

  Blinky patted Shane’s arm.

  “Come, Champ, we’ll get you into your rags.”

  “Blinky won ten grand too, Jack,” Shane smiled.

  “That’s more’n he ever won in the ring.” Gill winked at Shane.

  “Who?” snapped Blinky. “I could lick the both of you—in my day.”

  “I bet the dough in his name,” Shane said to Gill.

  “It’s just like the sucker—he ain’t happy unless he’s doin’ somethin’ for someone—he’d even loan Sully dough.”

  “Well, you’re set for life now, Shane—a million’s not hard to take,” said Bangor Lang.

  “He earned it, Bangor,” said Jack Gill.

  A crowd still waited to watch the champion emerge. Newsboys cried, “Rory wins heavyweight title.”

  They were hardly in the hotel when the clerk announced a gentleman to see Mr. Daily.

  “Send him up.”

  Daily opened the door. The reporter and another man stepped in followed by Berniece.

  Shane watched the door. Peter Lund and Lyndal entered. Shane hurried to her. Silent Tim stared in surprise. Lang and Gill exchanged glances.

  “Not bad,” murmured Gill.

  “Not at all,” from Lang.

  Shrewd in the ways of women, Gill said to Lang, “She’s no pick-up,” as she stepped close to Shane.

  “Did you see the fight?” he asked bashfully.

  “Yes.”

  “You brought me luck,” he smiled.

  “You needed it,” grunted Old Peter.

  “Why, you’re all bruised,” Lyndal looked at his eye.

  “Yes, Babe, it’s not ping-pong in there,” Old Peter again grunted, before Hot and Cold Daily could introduce them.

  “What’s all this?” Silent Tim Haney frowned at Shane.

  “What would you think?” cut in Hot and Cold Daily. “She’s not challengin’ him for the next fight.”

  “Well, well,” Silent Tim looked at Daily, “did you do this?”

  “Me and God,” answered Daily.

  “You would blame it on God,” snapped Tim.

  Shane put an arm about his irate manager.

  “Listen, Tim,” he said. “I’m retirin’ in favor of Torpedo Jones. If Sully wants the championship he can fight him for it.”

  “But Torpedo’s licked him already,” exclaimed Tim, nonplused.

  “That’s Sully’s business—he made me eat dirt.”

  “But that’s foolish,” said Daniel Muldowney.

  “Sure it’s foolish,” shouted Tim.

  “Maybe so, but a million’s enough, besides—” he looked at Lyndal, “I just wanted to prove that I wouldn’t run when the locusts came, either.”

  “Is your mind failin’?” Tim asked in alarm.

  Lyndal answered, “No, it’s a secret we have between us.”

  “All right, to hell with it. I had a champion for a minute.” Tim scowled at Daily.

  “Yeah—you and poor Daniel Muldowney—you’re both down to your last few million.”

  “But it’s wrong, Daily—it’s not practical—it’s the act of a poet.” In Tim’s voice was a sob. “It’s crazy—why he can make several million more.”

  “No, Tim, that’s what Jerry Wayne thought,” Shane put in. “I’m through.”

  Lyndal looked from Shane to his manager.

  “He’s right, Tim,” put in Bangor Lang. “He’d be no good to you anyhow, feeling the way he does.”

  “It’s still looney,” objected Tim. “It’s the thought of a madman.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Hot and Cold Daily clapped his hands. “It’s a great story—Champion retires in favor of Torpedo Jones on night of great victory. A Negro given championship first time in history of the world. Jones and Rory once road kids together. Champ to marry heiress … they’ll eat it up.”

  Hot and Cold Daily snapped his fingers and smiled with satisfaction.

  “Pose for a picture.”

  Berniece crossed to Lyndal. “I’m happy for you,” she said.

  “Thank you so much.” Arm in arm the girls stepped aside.

  “Mr. Daily and I have been sweethearts a long time,” Berniece confided—“he’s awfully fond of Shane—we just know you’ll be happy.”

  Hot and Cold Daily could be heard telephoning his story.

  “I’ll still go with you, won’t I, Champ?” asked Blinky Miller.

  “Sure thing, Blinky,” said Shane.

  Turning from the telephone, Daily took Berniece’s arm, “Let’s all go to the Tavern—that story’ll knock ’em dead.”

  “All right,” agreed Shane, “let’s go.” Humming,

  “Every painted lady

  Is some lonely mother’s baby—

  But on Broadway

  She’s a wild, wild rose.”

  Daily, still holding Berniece’s arm, followed the crowd slowly.

  “Brace up, Berniece, it’s all in the game. If you win, you lose.”

  “I know,” responded Berniece.