Fight Card: CAN'T MISS CONTENDER

by Jack Tunney

  If you were in the infirmary it was because somebody did something to you. You didn’t wind up in a bed there if you had a runny nose or a fever.

  I had been inside almost three years and never once been to the infirmary. When I got sent up, a guy told me to never show any weakness.

  “Be tough. Be strong,” Big Mike McCoy said. “But don’t make waves.”

  “If you do your whole hitch without nobody knowing who you are or anything about you, that’s a good thing,” he said. “You don’t want nobody knowing your name.”

  I stayed to myself the first six months, just like Big Mike told me. After the riots in ’54, most of the cons spent the next six months locked up any way. The few freedoms they’d had were taken away and when I got there a year later, nothing had been given back. The only thing on my plate was doing my time. I didn’t ask for nothing and I didn’t want anything.

  When the Warden revived the prison boxing program everything changed.

  I had been a pretty good middleweight before they caught me stealing cars, and in the couple of years since turning pro, I built a decent record. Okay, some of the fights were against tomato cans and palookas, but that was the road you had to take. Nobody gave an unknown kid a shot, you had to earn it. I was willing to do whatever it took to make my way through the ranks.

  I worked a string of fights from Chicago to Milwaukee to Cleveland. I was a contender on the way up, until I wound up in St. Louis and fell in with a bad crowd.

  I can’t say that Father Tim didn’t warn me, but when you’re a kid you think you know everything.

  I saw things so much clearer at twenty-four.

  I did my time and tried not to think too much. The worst part of prison was all that time to fill. You were supposed to think about your mistakes and what you had done wrong. Figure out how to become a meaningful member of society when you got out.

  I had a hard time getting past my mistakes.

  Other than boxing, I didn’t have much else waiting for me on the outside.

  I didn’t even know if I had that.

  I was afraid I had thrown away everything because of a stupid mistake. School had always been hard. My knuckles had been beaten raw by the nuns wooden rulers at Our Lady of the Glass Jaw. Chemistry, math, and science never made much sense. But I understood boxing. There was something about it that made sense. The first time I laced up the gloves inside The Walls, I had a purpose again.

  The bobbing and weaving, the way sweat ran down your chest, and how it felt landing a punch on another guy’s chin were familiar. I took on anybody willing to scrap and won a lot more times than I lost, but nobody had ever put me down like Knuckles had. I also picked up a few tricks inside, things not in the rule book. I learned about stepping on my opponent’s feet, using elbows when nobody was looking, and lacing cuts to make them bleed.

  I got the kind of education nobody else ever showed me.

  The more I fought, the more attention I got. A lot of the cons knew my name and learned who I was and, despite what Big Mike said, it wasn’t so bad. I kept to myself and didn’t make waves. But I put on a good show when I was in the ring. I was a solid bet for the cons wagering on my fights. That got me extra perks, like fruit in the food line and easy laundry details. There were always guys willing to do something for me, even though I never asked for favors.

  Guess they figured the packs of smokes they won on my fights were worth the extra laundry time they picked up.

  “Told you to watch out for that right hand,’ Muldoon said. “Didn’t I tell you it was sneaky fast?”

  I took a deep breath and nodded. “Should’ve listened.”

  Muldoon shook his head. “You should’ve stayed back and not got so close,” he said. “You went at him, thinking he was gonna lead with his chin. He ain’t that kind of pug.”

  “Only way to beat him is to go the distance,” he said. “He’s got a head as hard as a rock and a steel chin. I don’t think he’s ever been off his feet. Never. You know that.”

  I sat up and wiped the sweat off my face. “Guess this is where you tell me I should’ve listened, huh?”

  Muldoon clamped a hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You got all the tools,” he said. “But you don’t listen to nobody. You always want to do it your own way, no matter what anybody says. That ain’t always gonna work.”

  There was a pitcher of water on the table and Muldoon poured some in a glass. He took a swig, wiped a hand across his mouth, and then poured more for me. “You can be a contender when you get out, or you can watch your career go up in flames.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means you got the tools, but you ain’t ready yet,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Did pretty good before I wound up here.”

  “It’s gonna be different. The fight game’s changing,” he said. “You want to be more than some journeyman on the undercards, fighting shopworn catchers and has-been’s, you got to listen to your corner and do what they tell you.” He nodded and added, “Learn how to follow instructions. That’s what it takes to be champion.”

  I was ready with an answer, but the curtain got thrown open. The light was quickly blocked out by the big frame of Tommy Knuckles. He stepped slowly inside and stared down at me.

  “Hey kid,” he said. “You okay?”

  I looked up. “Hi Tommy,” I said. “Good fight.”

  He smiled. “You know how to take a shot,” he said. “I’ll give you that much.”

  “Never ever been hit like that before. You hit me as hard as I’ve ever been hit,” I said with a sheepish smile. “My head feels like I got kicked by a mule.”

  “That’ll clear up,” he said. “Until then, take it slow.”

  “Don’t think I can do anything else,” I said.

  “I like you,” he said with a smile. “You ain’t afraid to mix it up. Shows a lot of guts. And heart.”

  “Thanks , Tommy.”

  “Heard you’re getting out in a couple of weeks,” he added.

  I nodded. “Week after next. Thursday, May first.”

  “This ain’t the kind of place for a guy like you,” Knuckles said. “Keep your nose clean and don’t come back.”

  He yanked back the curtain and went toward A Hall without another word.

  I watched him go then closed my eyes again.

  ROUND THREE

  When they walked me through the big gates onto West Main Street, I could feel the eyes of every screw watching from the towers. Every prisoner who ever took that walk outside swore it was the last time. Nobody planned to return. The guards knew it usually didn’t work out that way. Most cons were back sooner or later. I knew I would be different.

  I was never going back inside.

  I had fifteen dollars from working in the laundry and prison factories, and a one-way bus ticket to St. Louis. Jefferson City was halfway between St. Louis and Kansas City. They gave you a choice between the two cities. Kansas City offered a clean slate , but my car was parked in St. Louis. The fresh start would have to begin there.

  I wore the same loose-fitting navy suit and blue striped tie I had on during my trial. In my bag , I carried everything else I owned – some tee shirts, jeans, my old leather jacket, a book, some letters, and a pair of boxing gloves. An old cross from one of the nuns at St. Vincent’s was wrapped inside a sock. In my pocket , I had the rabbit’s foot Muldoon pressed into my palm when we shook hands for the last time.

  “For luck,” he said. “Can’t hurt, right?”

  I nodded. “Always good to have a little luck.”

  “I get out in September,” he said. “Got to go back to KC and take care of business. Make things right, you know? But if you need a guy who knows how to wrap hands – somebody who knows a thing or two about training fighters – look me up.”

  A guy like Muldoon would be as good as anybody. I smiled and told him I would call.

  “What about you, Billy? Where you heading?”

  “Back t
o St. Louis to pick up my car,” I said. “I’m putting gas in the tank. Then I’m hitting the road and driving as far away as I can.”

  “When the needle hits empty , I’ll pull off the highway and see what kind of work I can find,” I said. “Get my feet back on the ground and stay on the straight and narrow. Then I’ll get back in the ring.”

  “Keep your nose clean, kid,” Muldoon said. “You’ll be okay.”

  I sat on the bus, watching the world pass the window as I rubbed the rabbit’s foot. I was a free man, thinking the kind of thoughts free men were allowed to think. The gray walls, dark corridors, dirty cells, and burned out buildings were behind me. The blacktop passed beneath the wheels of the bus and I thought about what was ahead.

  When I got sent away , Bobo Olsen was the middleweight champ. Sugar Ray Robinson vacated the title and Bobo won it. Then he beat both Kid Gavilan and Rocky Castellani to hold on to the crown. I went to sleep at night dreaming about how I was going to lick him and become middleweight champion.

  But while I was inside, Sugar Ray came out of retirement to win back the title, then lost it to Gene Fullmer. Fullmer didn’t have it long enough for me to dream about taking it from him. Sugar Ray won it back again, lost it to Carmen Basilio, then took it back a third time.

  The champ may have changed in three years, but my dream stayed the same. I would be the kid from the wrong side of the tracks who became middleweight champion against all odds.

  Newspapers and fans would eat up that kind of story.

  Except for the part where I got caught stealing cars and sent away for three years. I wasn’t sure how that would go over with anybody.

  I left Chicago because somebody who knew something told me about a promoter who could get me better fights and more exposure in Kansas City. I was ready for the next step. I wanted a challenge. No more palookas in clubs, beer halls, and local armories. I wanted bigger fights, and Kansas City was supposed to be the place to find them.

  Then I got to St. Louis and everything changed.

  It was all because of a girl.

  ROUND FOUR

  She was a pretty young thing named Becky Marshall. Not much younger than me, and the first time I saw her, my heart skipped a beat. It sounds stupid , but it was true. A face like Janet Leigh, light brown hair down to her shoulders, and a smile that lit up the room. She was working the counter in a small town diner when I stopped in for coffee and scrambled eggs. She refilled my coffee, gave me a smile, and I was hooked.

  “Haven’t seen you before,” she said.

  “You remember everybody who’s ever been in here?”

  She winked at me. “Clayton’s a small town. We don’t get many strangers here. Not good looking ones anyway.”

  “I’m just passing through,” I told her. “On my way to Kansas City.”

  “What’s in Kansas City?”

  “Looking for work,” I said. “Something to put a little dough in my pocket.”

  “You know anything about cars?” she asked.

  I nodded. The only thing I liked as much as boxing were hot rods. I never had one growing up in Chicago, but I spent all my spare change on hot rod magazines and learned everything I could about cars. When I turned sixteen one of the older boys at St. Vincent’s put me behind the wheel of the Packard they used for errands. He taught me how to drive and showed me a little bit about what made cars tick. After I put together a couple of wins and earned a little cash from odd jobs, I’d bought a brand new 1953 Mercury Monterey 2 door hard top. That beast had a 125 HP flathead engine that would roar down the road like nobody’s business.

  I turned heads every time I rumbled into town.

  I was full of myself, always thinking not bad for a kid from the wrong side of the tracks.

  “I know cars. I know how to drive,” I said. “Know how to drive ‘em fast, too.”

  Becky told me her brother, Donny Wayne, worked at a garage a few blocks from the diner. If I could find my way around an engine and was handy with a wrench, he might get me a job.

  Donny Wayne was a couple years older – white tee shirt, faded Levi’s, duck’s butt haircut, with a pack of Marlboros rolled up in his sleeve. A tough guy with attitude and an Elvis swagger, who reminded me of guys from St. Vincent’s. We hit it off right from the beginning.

  He got me a job at Gleason’s Garage where he worked, pumping gas, filling cars with oil, and sweeping up at the end of the day. It was steady work, even if it didn’t pay a lot. After a while Old Man Gleason let me tinker under the hoods of the cars in the shop. I found out I was pretty good when it came to working on cars. Somebody would show up with a problem and pretty soon I figured out how to fix it. I got a room at a boarding house for ten dollars a week and after work I always hustled over to the diner to walk Becky home.

  She was polite, sweet, and generous. Pretty enough to knock your socks off and easy to talk to, not like some queens who never warmed up unless you came from the right side of town. The first time we kissed, I swore her lips tasted like cherry pie. I was on the hook.

  I even started thinking about settling down.

  I kept working my way through the middleweight ranks, taking on anyone who would give me a shot. Won enough times to get a fight lined up against a Cuban banger named Johnny Diamond. He was a top ten fighter out of Miami who had been around and had a solid reputation.

  A win against him would have been a stepping stone that could launch my career higher than a Sputnik rocket.

  Life was good.

  One afternoon, I was telling Donny Wayne how I wished I had a couple more dollars so I could buy things for Becky. At the end of the week I never had that much left over after rent, food, and gas. A movie or some chocolates left me broke. And the boxing purses weren’t bringing in as much cash as I hoped.

  That’s when Donny Wayne told me how he and some buddies made extra cash stealing cars.

  “Easiest job in the world,” he said. “You go to St. Louis and find a nice restaurant downtown. Wait for a couple to show up for dinner.”

  “Why a couple?”

  “Because if it’s a date, they’re gonna be in there for hours,” he said. “Gives you time to hotwire the ignition. By the time they finish their fancy dessert and figure out the car’s gone, we’re already home drinking Buds and listening to the radio.”

  “What happens to the cars?” I asked.

  “Got a guy we know. He chops them up for parts and pays us cash,” Donny Wayne said. “We make out real good.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  Donny Wayne eyed me cautiously. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”

  I nodded. I had learned a long time ago never to snitch.

  “Local guy named Big Mike McCoy,” he said. “He’s got a Ford dealership in town and another place downtown where he does repairs. Another lot out near the airport where he sells used cars. He can make things happen.”

  “If he can make things happen, why’s he need stolen cars?”

  Donny Wayne looked at me like I had two heads. “Big Mike’s the kind of guy you want in your corner.”

  Now, I knew right from wrong. You didn’t grow up the way I did without those lessons getting drilled into your head. And if you forgot, one of the nuns would always help you remember, but the thought of extra bucks was too tempting. I wanted to be the kind of guy who bought things for Becky and took her to nice restaurants, not just the Howard Johnson’s. I was never going to be able to do those things with the money I brought home from Old Man Gleason’s.

  Besides, growing up without a dime made the promise of easy money too tempting to resist. And there was that other thing – being on the wrong side of the law was exciting.

  The first time I hot-wired a Buick, I forgot everything I had ever been taught. I could still remember how cool it felt racing down the highway with the windows open and a Bill Haley and the Comets song on the radio. It was a huge thrill, just like the first time I knocked out a guy in the ring. You’re on top of the wor
ld and you think that feeling will last forever – and that you’ll never get caught.

  It didn’t happen that way.

  The Missouri State Police caught me speeding late one Friday night in a stolen Ford. The thrills and excitement of stealing cars disappeared around the time they slipped the cuffs on my wrists and hauled me off to jail.

  The judge gave me three years and told me I was going to serve every day of that sentence. No parole. No time off for good behavior. No breaks. I might have gotten less time if I talked, since they knew a kid like me wasn’t working alone, but I’d kept my mouth shut.

  I thought Big Mike McCoy was the kind of guy who could make things happen, maybe pull some strings and make the whole thing disappear, but that never happened. All my buddies, especially Donny Wayne, stopped coming around. None of them stood up for me, and none of them came to visit. Nobody said nothing and I took the fall. But I kept my mouth shut.

  My fight against Johnny Diamond dried up and disappeared.

  The promoter told me to look him up after I got out, but guys like him were snakes. You couldn’t trust anything they said. All I could do was hope the fight would still happen one day.

  I wrote to Becky a couple of times my first year inside , but she never answered. I did get one letter from Donny Wayne after nine months.

  Hey Billy:

  Sorry about the tough pinch old buddy. Sometimes your luck just runs out, unless you don’t got it none in the first place. Ha Ha. Glad you know how to be a standup guy. Be glad to see you when you get out. Maybe we can do something together again , although , your old job at the garage went to some other guy. Mr. Gleason needed a guy in here who could work on cars , so he hired some Clem off the street. Said he wanted somebody he could trust. Guy’s okay , but he don’t have your touch with the cars.