by Jack Tunney
“Turns out I was pretty good at it,” I added.
He smiled. “Seems like that happens a lot with you. You underestimate yourself.”
“Just boxing and cars,” I said. “Not much luck with anything else.”
“That include young ladies, too?”
“Think my luck ran out with them a long time ago,” I said.
I told him about making a name for myself and how I got on some decent cards and stayed undefeated. Even told him how I had a fight lined up with Johnny Diamond before it all fell apart.
Mr. Roach’s expression never changed. He tipped back his head and drained the last drops in his bottle.
“You ever think about getting back in the ring?” he asked.
I thought about it every day. Boxing was an itch I had to scratch. It was something I couldn’t shake. Guys like Michael Boyle, Bobby Varga, Jimmy Wyler, and Tom Garrick from St. Vincent’s had done it. Some were just pugs – guys who didn’t get too far – but a couple had climbed the ranks and made names for themselves.
I wanted to be like them.
“Watched Sonny Liston fight up in St. Louis a couple years back,” Mr. Roach said. “Watched him lay out a guy with just one shot to the ribs.”
“Sonny’s an animal,” I said. “Guys used to say he was even worse inside when he fought.”
“People say he’s the devil in boxing trunks,” Mr. Roach said.
Probably true, I thought.
“The thing is, he started boxing when he got out of prison. Took what he learned and never looked back,” Mr. Roach said. “No reason you can’t do the same thing.”
“I have to get back in the gym,” I said. ‘Shake off a little rust.”
“You know, it won’t be hard. There’s a YMCA here in town,” he said. “Not more than a couple of blocks away.”
“Passed it once or twice,” I said.
“Don’t cost a lot to join. Can’t be more than a couple of bucks a month,” he said. “There’s an old ring in there. Some decent bags. A couple of jump ropes and maybe a medicine ball or two. Might even find a guy willing to lace up the gloves and go a couple of rounds with you.” He gave me a look. “Worth your time to check it out. If you’re serious about boxing again.”
I nodded, and knew he was right.
“Long way to go until I can work my way up the ladder,” I said. “Sugar Ray’s got nothing to worry about for a long time.”
I went back to work on the engine, but I wasn’t concentrating any longer.
Mr. Roach leaned across the hood of a Dodge. “Town puts on some boxing shows over at the VFW about once a month. Usually on Saturday nights,” he said. “They bring in a couple of pugs from St. Louis and Kentucky, along with some local boys, and let ‘em tear into each other. Be a good place to start.”
Mr. Roach scratched his chin and looked over at the Falstaff calendar on the wall. “I think there’s a fight night coming up the end of June,” he said. “Saturday the 28th. If you can get ready by then ...”
“Sounds great,” I said.
“I’ll make a few calls for you,” he added. “Talk to some of the guys and see what we can line up for you.”
And just like that, boxing became an important part of my life again.
ROUND TEN
June 28, 1958
The right hand came out of nowhere. It was a solid shot that caught me on the chin and snapped back my head. There wasn’t much behind the punch. It wasn’t like getting hit by Tommy Knuckles, but it got me on the stick and got my head back in the fight.
I should’ve known better. I got careless and dropped my gloves like a three fight amateur because I wasn’t paying attention.
Do that enough times and the other guy will take advantage of it. Even a big chunk of rock like Eddie Jasper can land a shot that will drop you to the canvas. Every pug who enters the ring has a puncher’s chance of turning around a fight with one big punch, even when the odds are stacked against him.
Jasper was an Arkansas hillbilly. A Lead Belt fighter with a record built on Saturday night bouts in VFW Halls just like this one. Somebody told me he weighed in at one-sixty, but I don’t think the scales were checked too closely. He had a tire around his middle that added at least fifteen extra pounds. His stat sheet said he was thirty, but he looked ten years older. A big, square jaw. A nose that had lost all shape and definition. And a face stitched together so many times it was more scar tissue than skin. He was all elbows and haymakers when he came out of his corner, firing punches and charging across the ring.
He had the whiskers to take a punch, but I didn’t think he would make it more than two or three rounds before running out of gas. In a six round fight that didn’t give me much time to get the job done.
I didn’t want the fight going the distance. You never knew whose cousin or brother-in-law was one of the judges. I wanted to take it to Jasper and leave no doubt about the outcome.
I shook off the right and popped a couple of quick jabs to his face. Jasper didn’t do anything to block them. He wasn’t that kind of boxer. Barely a minute into the first round, the skin around his right eye had reddened and the left looked puffy. He pushed forward, using his shoulder to bully me toward the ropes while he tried that right again. I spun him around and back peddled, using my jab to keep distance between us.
Jasper was an inside fighter, no different than a lot of guys I went against in prison. He came straight ahead and got close where he could smother punches and use his head as a third fist. I buried a right in his gut then banged two short hooks to the ribs. It slowed his charge long enough to come back with an uppercut to his chin.
Sweat flew off Jasper’s face as his head jerked back. Other fighters might have moved away, but Jasper only had one forward gear. He put his left in my face and I instantly came underneath with a hook of my own. I tagged his ribs with another solid hook then pumped a hard right to his gut. The punch slowed his charge.
At the bell, I was slipping from side to side and firing jabs between his gloves.
We bumped into each other as we went to our corners.
“Try mixing it up a little,” he growled. “Give these people a fight.”
I ignored him and went back to my corner. He sat down on his stool and glared at me.
We didn’t deserve more than the polite applause we got. There were probably close to one hundred people watching – mostly guys from St. Francois County – scattered throughout the hall. Some sat on metal folding chairs around the ring, but most stood at the back, drinking beer and chugging whiskey from flasks. The room was heavy with the smell of beer and cheap cigars. The smoke left a haze over the ring that burned my eyes. And the overhead lights were blazing hot.
Sweat dripped down my chest and collected in the elastic band of my trunks when I sat down on the stool. The corner boy handed me a water bottle and a towel to wipe my face. It wasn’t much, but I loved it. I soaked up the sounds, the smells, and the noise of the crowd.
The first time Jasper and I traded punches it was like I never left.
There were ten bouts on the VFW fight card – none longer than six rounds. Mine was near the end. I wasn’t sure if that had something to do with my pro career or Mr. Roach, but by the time I entered the ring the crowd was already drunk on Falstaff and Budweiser. They were rowdy and loud, and wanted action.
I knew how to give them what they wanted.
When the bell rang, I came out of the corner. I met Jasper in the center of the ring, shot a left at his head then a right-left combo to the midsection that moved him back a step. Jasper came over the top with a right that banged into my gloves. He was a one punch fighter – not much in the way of combinations or ring movement. I banged another shot to the ribs, then found a soft spot in his gut with my hook.
I saw Jasper’s expression change when it landed.
It wasn’t much, but something softened in his eyes.
I feinted with a left then slammed another hook to the same spot. This time it go
t more of a reaction.
Jasper grabbed my arms and pulled me into a clinch, trying to find my face with the top of his head. He worked a hand free and kept banging it into my ribs until the referee broke us apart. The ref wedged a shoulder between us, but at the break Jasper threw a left that barely missed my head and a right that sailed over my shoulder.
“Keep it clean, boys,” the ref said.
Jasper missed with another left on the other side. A couple of boos came from the crowd as he reached for my arms and tried wrapping me in a hug again.
As we broke, I connected with a right to his nose and another left to the body. When he lifted his chin, I nailed him with a hard right cross.
I’d found a comfortable distance to work my jab. Jasper dropped his elbows to protect his sore ribs, giving me a target on his face. I popped lefts in rapid succession, landing six punches before Jasper got his gloves up. Then I slammed a hook to the ribs and a straight right to his chest. He tried wrapping those big arms around me, but I pushed off with both hands. I moved left and fired a jab on his eye again, then connected with a right to the chin that made him take another step back.
Jasper said something, but the words got lost in his mouthpiece and crowd noise.
He took a wild swing and missed. I landed a three punch combo to the gut then pounded his nose. Blood sprayed the ring and Jasper jerked his head away, turning a shoulder to me. He took a step to the side, but his feet got tangled and he lurched forward instead. I landed a right on his ear and put a left into his bread basket for good measure.
His breath was heavy and labored as he grabbed my arms and leaned into me. The red welt over his right eye had changed to purple, and the skin around the other eye was puffy. Blood streamed from both nostrils and sprayed me with each sucking breath. When the ref pried us apart, I circled and flicked jabs at Jasper’s head.
I feinted a left again. When I dug my hook into his ribs this time, he softened. He moved back toward the ropes, but I crowded him so he couldn’t get off any punches. He tried grabbing my arms again as the crowd booed, but I popped a left to the nose and a right to his chin that had them cheering me. He came back with a weak right and tried elbowing me in close.
He was getting desperate as the fight slipped away. He reached into his bag of tricks for anything he could use.
I got an education on fighting dirty inside The Walls. Nothing surprised me. I blocked an elbow and brought an upper cut between his gloves. When he tried retreating, I stepped on his foot for good measure and nailed him in the ear with a right.
Then I got in close and buried a left-right-left combo to the gut.
I wanted to put him down. Nothing would have been better than connecting with a solid shot on the button or in the gut and then watching him drop to the canvas. It would have made a statement. And I loved the way it felt knocking out a guy. But the old hillbilly refused to go down, no matter what I hit him with. He couldn’t stop anything I threw, but when the bell rang he was still standing.
He staggered back to his corner. Tired and beaten.
Jasper sat with his head down, staring at the canvas between his feet. The fight had gone out of him, and he knew he had nothing left. So did the rest of the crowd who hooted and yelled at him.
I didn’t know much about people from the Show Me State, but I knew they didn’t like their neighbors to the south.
When the bell rang, Jasper stayed on the stool. The ref looked at him and waited, but Jasper never raised his head. He just shook it slowly from side to side. While the referee lifted my hand in the center of the ring, Jasper made his way down the aisle, back to the dressing room. He never once lifted his head.
I shook the sweat out of my eyes and managed a smiled as the crowd cheered.
It felt good to be back.
ROUND ELEVEN
I was back at work on Monday like Saturday’s fight never happened. If the regular customers at the Esso had been at the fight, nobody said anything. Nothing was any different.
Just another week in Flat River, like all the others so far.
Except this was the week I fell for Sally Barnes.
It started normally. All around town everyone geared up for the 4th of July. Independence Day was big, especially in small towns like Flat River. Parades, picnics, band concerts, and fireworks filled the day. Everything closed by noon – if stores even bothered opening at all. There were baseball games, flag waving ceremonies, pony rides for the kids, and a barbeque sponsored by the American Legion.
“I’m closing by twelve, but I’ll pay you for the full day,” Mr. Roach told me. “But I got one thing you have to do.”
“What’s that?”
“My wife and I want you to join us. Close up here then come to the park for the picnic,” he said. “It’s a holiday. I don’t want you wasting the day reading hot rod magazines in Mrs. Lester’s place. Or sweating and training by yourself at the YMCA.”
“The Y’s closed,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “Then you’ve got no excuses.”
I smelled a rat, or more likely, a set-up. “This have something to do with you and Mrs. Roach matching me with your niece?”
Mr. Roach smiled and walked away.
There weren’t more than a handful of customers on Friday. By noon I had swept the floors, cleaned the front windows, turned off the pumps, and totaled the register. I hung the Closed sign in the window. It was a typical summer day in Missouri and I walked to the park, hoping to find a cool breeze along the way
It was crowded. Hardly anybody left town for the Ozarks. Kids played tag and ran back and forth between their parents blankets. I wandered around, saying hello to people I knew or recognized. One old veteran in his doughboy uniform chewed my ear off for fifteen minutes before I shook free.
I found Mr. and Mrs. Roach sprawled out on a blanket near the band shell. The checkered cloth was filled with plates of food – friend chicken and potato salad to cole slaw and chips. They laughed as they handed a plate to a pretty girl sitting next to them.
She was stunning. Audrey Hepburn, with long blonde hair, an hour glass figure, and a smile that melted my heart fifty feet away. The first time I saw Sally, I was hooked before hello.
“Uncle Archie says you’re a boxer,” she said after introductions. I settled down on the blanket. “He said you’re going to be champion one day.”
Mr. Roach grinned while his wife elbowed him in the ribs.
“Soon,” he said. “Billy’s a can’t miss’ contender.”
“Not yet,” I said, feeling my face redden. “But hopefully one day.”
She smiled and my insides twisted in knots as she leaned close. “I bet you can do anything, if you try hard enough.”
By the time we made it through the fried chicken and biscuits, I had completely forgotten about Becky Marshall as well as any other girl I ever fancied. It was like they never existed. Didn’t even notice when Mr. and Mrs. Roach went off to join friends and didn’t return for hours. We sat in the shade of an elm tree and talked like we had known each other for years. She told me she was twenty-one, a student at the local junior college, and worked part-time at a local insurance office. A small town girl who loved to read, thought Elvis was neat, and went to church most Sundays. I talked about Chicago and St. Vincent’s and all the towns I’d visited. Sally told me she had never traveled too far from Flat River. She couldn’t imagine a better place to live.
“How do you like it here?” she asked.
“Never felt more comfortable in my entire life,” I said.
The afternoon turned into evening. Young families and their kids drifted home while the older folks gathered in familiar crowds to share stories. When the music changed from big band to Elvis, we danced with the high school kids at the bandstand. And when the fireworks started, we stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the explosions overhead.
At the end of the night, after we helped Mrs. Roach pack up her basket, I offered to walk Sally home.
�
��It’s a long walk,” she said. “Way on the other side of town.”
“I don’t mind,” I told her.
I caught the look and smiles that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Roach when Sally said, “Sure. That would be nice.”
On the walk home, she asked me if I was planning on sticking around for a while.
“A lot of guys can’t wait to get out of town,” she said. “They think there’s so much more, waiting someplace else. They don’t want to get stuck here”
“It’s different for me,” I said. “I’ve been looking for a place like Flat River ever since I was a little kid. Like I said, it feels like home.”
Somewhere along the way, Sally slipped her hand in mind.
We made plans for a Saturday night date at the movies. I tried impressing her by seeing the movie Gigi, but it didn’t work out so well. Fifteen minutes into the flick, I fell sound asleep. Instead of getting annoyed, Sally nudged me when I snored too loud and laughed about it later.
“Great first date,” I said quietly as we walked to my car.
“That’s okay,” she said. “You’ll pick a better movie next time.”
Afterwards we went to Woolworth’s for Cokes and cherry pie, and then I drove her straight home before it got too late. I did everything I could to show I was a gentleman. When we got to her house, I opened the car door and walked her to the front porch. At the door, she lingered for a minute before we kissed. It had been a long time since I kissed a girl, but I swore I saw sparks fly when our lips touched.
Later, when I walked back to my car, I was floating on air.
Life quickly became a routine of work, boxing, and spending my free time with Sally. There was no time for anything else.
I would help close up the garage at six, head to the YMCA to train and spar for a couple of hours, then swing by Sally’s house every day. I did my roadwork in the morning. I learned how to squeeze every hour out of the day. There was another fight card at the VFW in August. I didn’t know who I would fight, most likely another palooka like Eddie Jasper, but it didn’t matter.
