Both of us huddled in our corners in anticipation of the opening bell. Tiger grabbed the mouthpiece and poured water over it. He motioned for Sal to step aside; he, along with Ralphie, and Izzy would take control.
My eyes scanned the front row. Just off to my right was Gia, Angela, Angie, and my beloved father. Now for him to see me in such a place of glory, with so many people watching, his pride seemed to be overflowing. I also saw that he was nervous enough for both of us. With a pained grin, he nodded to me; I felt every sinew, every muscle twinge; tonight was for him.
From behind, I heard the referee shout, “Fighters to the center of the ring.” It was time to attack; an unhuman-like intensity came over me. Every step I took towards the middle of the ring felt as though it was going right through the canvas floor. The ref grabbed each of us and gave his perfunctory speech.
Meanwhile, I tried to spear him with my piercing glare, it was meant to do great bodily harm, and now he too sensed that. At the last moment, the referee said, “Ok, men, touch gloves, and let’s have a clean, good fight.” As we touched, his gaze fell to the floor. That was it!
The bell rang!
We were both now in the belly of the beast; there was no turning back. I stood straight up and hesitated; wave upon wave of roars resonated through the roof of this modern Colosseum. As Weeden inched towards the center of the ring, I needed a moment to take this all in. I looked up for the first time; my eyes scanned the enormous roof of the Garden. Was this all a dream? From the corner, I heard Izzy’s nasal wine, “Kid, what da fuck are ya doin, sightseeing?”
I became that seething, crouching, bloodthirsty beast that nightmares were made of. I pounded my gloves together and slowly plodded into the center of the ring. I circled, deliberately, stalking him. This was to be a celebration of violence.
Unlike before, Weeden jumped onto his bicycle and began dancing around the ring. I remained in a crouch and chased after him. After a minute, the mob became impatient, they came to see a Battle Royale, and Weeden’s running infuriated them. They booed incessantly, but that would not change my opponent’s game plan. Unlike the first fight, he would keep me at arm’s length as long as he could.
Nearing the end of the first round, I cut him off and cornered him. I threw a series of savage hooks and uppercuts from my crouch; they hit their mark. He yelped in agony and scurried off again. (Damn it! Stand still and fight!) I lost my cool, I stood up and charged, Weeden was an experienced fighter, that precise charge was what they waited for, they planned for it. A split-second before I launched my overhand right, Weeden stepped aside and threw an uppercut that hit me square on the chin. It was so powerful; it slammed my brain into the back of my skull. It shut down all the messages to my extremities, my legs gave out, and I fell face-first into his corner.
The mob roared!
Kill him! Kill him!
The referee turned to Weeden, who was standing over me in an attempt to throw more punches and assure a knock-out. The ref shoved him, “Go to a neutral corner.” Weeden wasn’t listening; he knew this would be his best chance to finish me. The ref hollered again, “God damn it, go to a neutral corner.” His reluctance took valuable seconds, and that was all the time I needed. As the referee turned to start his count, “One…two…”
The bell rang!
Tiger and Izzy carried me back to the corner; I couldn’t feel my legs. I was dizzy; everything in front of me was spinning out of control. I had no peripheral vision. Izzy grabbed the ice pack and shoved it down my trunks. This time it did nothing. He was screaming in my face, but it seemed like he was speaking a foreign language, I couldn’t make out a single word. I desperately needed more time.
The bell rang!
That I did hear! Sal tried to pull the stool out, everything was moving in slow motion, I looked over, and Sal was crying. It was too much for my brother to bear. His tears desperation seemed to awaken me, Tiger got in my face and hollered, “Hold him…do you understand, grab him and hold.”
The referee held Weeden back, he grabbed my arm and led me over to ringside, the doctor stood up, “Son, can you continue?”
“Yes, of course.” Those words had nothing behind them; they were robotic and spilled out helplessly. The doctor knew; he witnessed it all before. He flashed a penlight in my eyes; I began to hear the surrounding noise. The mob was booing so loud as to wake the dead. The doctor flashed his light again and peered into my pupils; he glanced over to the referee and nodded. At that point, if the doctor had done the right thing and stopped the fight, the mob would have torn him limb from limb. The referee understood as well as the doctor; the mob needed to be fed.
We came to the center of the ring, touched gloves, and then Weeden abandoned his carefully orchestrated game plan. The Philadelphia fighter in him took over, and he charged at me with reckless abandon. I immediately grabbed him and held for dear life. Amid the next three minutes, with enough boo’s and jeers to fill a lifetime, I began to get my wits back.
The bell rang!
Weeden had only been able to throw a few punches that round. The crowd was beside itself; how dare I postpone the looming execution! They demanded, Blood! Blood! And more blood! A seemingly insane woman, wearing a disgusting floral dress, sitting right next to my father, began to screech at the top of her lungs, “Weeden, knock the fucken bum out already!” It was a madhouse!
I looked over to Gia and my father. Although she was locked arm and arm with my father, she held back from exhibiting any apprehension. Instead, she stood, glanced over to the crazy lady, and yelled at me, “Kick his ass!” The Brooklyn in her was on full display for everyone to see. I pointed my glove at her.
Izzy got in my face, “Kid, how do you feel?”
I nodded, I could now hear him in his best Yiddish twang, “Well now, stop moving forward, let’em come to you. Stand ya ground and turn, keep him close, off-balance, forget about da jabs. Keep em at angles and throw hooks and uppercuts. Close! Do ya understand?” I nodded again. “Keep em so close, you keep dat guinea nose of yours on his shoulder, understand?”
I understood him perfectly.
The bell rang!
I had my wits about me. I slowly shuffled to the middle of the ring; I wanted him to think I was still hurt. He did precisely as expected; he lowered his guard and charged in. I step aside and threw a hook to his kidneys; I felt him suck all the wind out of the Garden. The explosive punch slowed him, yet he charged again! This time another vicious hook caused an audible yelp; the crazy lady now exclaimed, “The kid hurt him…the kid hurt him! Come on, Marino, knock the bum out!”
The referee and I also heard it. It slowed him further. Weeden, the sly old veteran, hesitated, half-hoping that I now smelled blood and would charge in with reckless abandon. Instead, I waited for him in the center of the ring. He began to bounce around and throw feeble jabs; they had nothing behind them, a sure sign that I had injured his liver. He began to hang his jabs out lazily, I timed them, one…two…one…and then I stepped under two and threw two uppercuts and a hook to the head. Every missile of the combination found a landing spot. Direct hit! He staggered, but I could hear the words resonating in my head; Patience, my boy, patience.
I stepped back and within seconds…
The bell rang!
I sat back on the stool; the mob was on their feet; they were ecstatic; this battle was unfolding as advertised. Tonight, the mob would be fed, with one or the other.
“Kid, dat was beautiful! Now, keep throwing those uppercuts and hooks, they’re a ting of beauty.” He grabbed some petroleum jelly and smeared it over my face, “Now, near the end of the next round, begin to throw jabs, setting him up for da overhand right. But kid, keep ya cool and, most importantly, keep ya goddamn balance.”
I could have kissed him; Izzy was the wisest of the wise. He was always right; he laid out for me how to finish the fight perfectly; I just needed to keep my wits about me.
The bell rang!
I leaped up, but so did Weeden. He didn’t look as injured as I thought, and somehow, he began to dance around as he had done before. It was another round, I chased, and he ran, jabbing again and again to my face. My eyes began to get red and sore.
The bell rang!
--ending the damn round much too fast for my liking. He stole another round. There was no doubt that he was ahead on the judges’ scorecards. Time was running out; “Kid, keep your cool!” Yeah, I thought, but for how long. I couldn’t allow this fight to slip away.
The bell rang!
I walked towards the middle of the ring, and again he began to dance. Here we go again, a damn see-saw of me chasing and him fleeing. As he moved around, he kept flicking jabs to my head; I could feel my face getting redder and redder. My eyes began to swell, and then nearing the end of two minutes, a vicious jab opened a cut over my right eye. The blood trickled into my eye, making seeing my opponent difficult. Patience, my ass! I knew I had to finish this quick. I charged, and…
The bell rang!
Shit!
I refused to sit; Tiger was pressing the icy end swell, a flat piece of metal invaluable in reducing swelling against my brow and cheeks. Izzy again was pleading for patience, but only two rounds remained. That minute of rest seemingly took only twenty seconds; everything was now in hyperdrive!
The bell rang!
I charged again and again. Weeden sensed my urgency and paused for a moment, and like a skillful matador, he held that red cape out and stepped aside as this bull foolhardily charged in. He hit me with a vicious right that dropped me again. I crumbled to my knees, but I analyzed the damage, this time, I had my senses about me. I heard the mob screaming at the top of their lungs for Weeden, the floral caped mistress sitting next to my father again called for my blood, “Weeden, what are you waiting for? Knock this fucking bum out already!” There it was still, people who passed me by on the way to the supermarket, salivating for my demise!
Well, fuck you all, I stood as the ref grabbed my gloves, “Can you continue.” No words, I just nodded; the ref could see the rage in my eyes. “Ok, let’s fight!”
I allowed myself to stumble into a corner; this prey was mortally wounded and was offering itself up for slaughter. The mob roared; blood…blood…blood! Weeden sensed easy pickings. The Philadelphia fighter lowered his head and charged. He became unhinged, throwing left-right-left-right, missing punch after punch. The mob was beside itself! After nearly a minute of this mayhem, the prey suddenly came to life!
It was all a ruse! Weeden was spent, every muscle in his being was devoid of vigor. The lion sensed the moment, I roared like never before, throwing uppercut, hook, uppercut; Weeden attempted to escape from the corner, yet I caught him, he would not escape me.
Izzy, his voice almost gone, was hollering like a madman from ringside, “Kid-be careful!” I looked upon Weeden, he seemed mortally wounded, yet this lion heeded what his trainer had warned, and now the cat became a fox. I took a few steps back and fired a salvo--jab-jab, hook. Combination after combination, carefully thrown, not to allow him to leave my snare. The blood flowed freely from all parts of his face. Jab-jab, and then, as though on cruise control, I threw that deadly overhand with all my might. As it landed, I could feel the bones of his skull give way, and so did my balance. As he crumbled into the corner, I fell on top of him. The mob was delirious, both fighters down! Two executions for the price of one! For this mass of bloodthirsty beings, this was better than pizza and two orgasms on a Monday night!
I sneered at the mob, sorry to disappoint you all. I wasn’t hurt; I raised myself and jogged to a neutral corner. I turned and looked upon my handiwork. There was this grand warrior, mortally wounded, a pile of flesh and bone. He hadn’t moved as the referee began his count, three…four, and then he stopped. He recognized a fighter in dire straits. He laid Weeden out as his trainer removed the mouthpiece. As the ring doctor struggled to get through the ropes and come to Weeden’s aid, the mob was in ecstasy! Glorious! Spectacular! Hooray--hooray!
(Yes, but is the guy breathing?)
I struggled to get close to him; I needed to touch this courageous combatant; I had such reverence for him. I glared momentarily at the gluttonous mob, they gorged themselves on our blood, yet would one of them have the courage ever to take our place? I think not.
Minutes passed, I knew not what the doctors were doing, but as the mob amused themselves as they stuffed their faces on peanuts and cotton candy, Weeden began to move his arms, then his legs. Slowly they lifted his body to a stool; he kept repeating to his corner that he was all right. I knew he was not, upon seeing Weeden rise, there was a smattering of weak applause from the mob. They could not care less. I pushed my way across the crowded ring and knelt in front of him; we looked deep into each other’s eyes, and then held each other. We raised each other’s arm, honoring one another. I could now celebrate.
This time, I wanted to take it all in, I would remain in the ring to have the referee raise my arm in victory, “The winner by knockout at two minutes and thirteen seconds of round eight, Anthony-The Kid- Marino!” The mob saluted me with a standing ovation. My father was bursting with pride; he never imagined that so many people would honor the name Marino in such a manner. He was beside himself.
As I stepped down from the ring, the mob swarmed me. They feasted and were now quite satisfied. The floral maiden even tried to hug me, “Marino! I knew it all the time! You kicked his ass!”
I shoved her aside and made my way to where my father and Gia stood. Gia rushed towards me and hugged me as tightly as she could. She promised she wouldn’t say how frightened she was, but now that I was victorious, the emotions came pouring out. She wept as I had never seen a person cry before, weeks of apprehension spilled out all over the arena’s floor. I noticed that as she showered me with love and kisses, she could not look at my face. What could I expect? My face appeared deformed from my injuries.
I could feel my father’s hand patting me on the back. His chest nearly burst with pride. Yes, he exclaimed to the mob, along with the floral maiden, Anthony Marino! He’s my son!
A slew of reporters and well-wishers were clamoring at the entrance of my dressing room. There was one in particular that Izzy allowed in, Joey Meyers from Ring Magazine. Ring was the bible of boxing, and a high ranking in next week's issue meant thousands of dollars. “Wow! Anthony, that was a terrific fight. You put on quite the show tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Meyers, but please call me Ant, all my friends call me that.”
“Well ok, Ant, thank you for considering me a friend, that’s quite the honor.” He pulled a pad from his back pocket and began to scribble, “You and Weeden were pretty evenly matched, although you must admit, he had you on the experience side. What do you think was the difference in the fight?”
I pondered the question; I knew the wrong answer would make me look like a braggart. “The difference? Without a doubt, it was my trainer and manager, Izzy Moischel. He saw things I didn’t and mapped out each round for me. He, along with Ralphie Blackburn and Tiger Williamson, had me ready for anything.”
Meyers took notice to Tiger, “Hey, Tiger, how did…”
Before he could get another word out, Izzy cut the interview short. Ring Magazine? Izzy didn’t give a shit. “Come on; it’s been a tough night for da kid. Let’em shower and celebrate a victory well earned.” Meyers bowed and handed Izzy his card, “Can I call you for a few quotes?”
“Yeah, very few.” I had to laugh, Izzy was an original, and he didn’t bend over for anyone.
Sa
l joined me in the shower, “Ant, the whole gang wants to celebrate your win at Romeo and Juliet’s. The entire neighborhood will be there.” How could I say no? I loved the place, besides my wounded ego needed some pumping up.
*****
Sal drove my car, Angie sat in the front while Gia and I sat in the back. As the car pulled in front of the club, I was like a conquering hero. Crowds of well-wishers who couldn’t get into the club were embracing my Monte Carlo. Sal got out and opened the passenger’s side, spinning the swivel seat around so we could get out of the back. I appreciated Sal taking care of me the way he did; the effects of the beating were starting to creep in. Instead of going directly to a hospital as I should have done, I decided to forgo it and accept my accolades. My eyes were swelling, and I had a pounding headache. The pain at times would throb so violently against the side of my skull I wondered how it didn't just crack open.
Vito was waiting outside for me, “Jesus Ant, you look awful!”
“Fuck you, Vito.”
“No, pal, I’m serious. I can see you’re hurting.” He reached into his pocket, “Look; normally, I would never do this, but take these, they’ll make you feel a little better.” He handed me a handful of Vicodin along with a bottle of beer. I never drank beer, but I needed something to wash it down.
As we pushed our way up the stairs to the club, I was feeling dizzy. The drug already began to take effect.
As I entered the disco with Gia on my arm, I felt like the Emperor of Rome. Danny Pooch on cue began playing the Rocky theme song, but for both the crowd and me, it started to get tired. I waved to him to play something else, and seconds later, he switched turntables, and the brilliant sounds of the love rollercoaster electrified the crowd.
Throngs of friends grabbed and kissed me. At one point I panicked, I thought I lost Gia, but I saw Sal and Angie had rescued her. I was handed a parade of drinks to toast my victory from nearly every person in the club. The combination of Vicodin along with the scotch, vodka, gin, and who knows what else was having a severe effect on me. Gia saw it in my face, she rushed to my side, pushing everyone away. She guided me to a table. I just barely made it. Along with the whirling white smoke and spinning psychedelic lights, my brain felt like a 747 losing control and was angling headlong into a crash landing--and then…
Say Goodbye and Goodnight Page 16