by Triss Stein
“You could find out a whole lot by typing his name in a Web search bar.” He smiled. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at this?”
“I am good at it. I just happened to think of it while you are here. And I shouldn’t be investing a lot of time into it, either. So I’m doing it the old-fashioned way and asking a live person. My source for guy stuff.”
“Am I? Should I be flattered?” Now he was definitely laughing at me.
“Of course! Just like Leary is my source for Brooklyn unwritten history. And Darcy for finding whoever is needed to get a job done.”
“Your dad?”
“Uh, let me think. Yes, yes! Best route for getting anyplace by car. And knowing about a diner wherever that place is.”
He did laugh then but also handed me his cutting edge phone and there was a story about Isiahson. He was straight out of a Brownsville project. An old tradition.
Something clicked into place. The part of my brain that had real academic work to do just shook hands with the part that wanted to know more just because. Because it was now. Because real people I knew were involved and damaged. Because two of them were young girls.
I hadn’t looked into boxing in the twenties and thirties as a third way out for Brownsville boys. I should have.
“Anyway, I have a friend who is a serious fan. He could tell you what you need.”
“Is he a friend from your misspent youth?”
“Not at all. I renovated his house a few years back. Big time lawyer. And he’s the kind of guy who likes to always have the inside story on things. Tell him Joe sent you.”
“Now you are being silly. If you would…” But he already had his phone out again.
“Archie, it’s Joe.” “Yeah, too long.” “Hell, no, no one is suing me. It’s all good.” Finally, “I have a young lady here, name of Erica, who has some questions about boxing and of course I thought of you.” Listening. “Yeah, sure. Ever been to a Cyclones game? It’s not the Yankees but a lot of fun.”
He handed me the phone. “Meet Archie.”
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Erica. I’m getting ready to head to the office. What would you like to know? In two minutes?”
When I explained, he said, “Oh, hell, yes. The kid is a phenomenon.”
“Does he have any family? Any education?”
“Background? I don’t exactly know but I could find out. I’m thinking there is a large family. Anything else?
I took the leap. “I don’t understand boxing very well. Is it still kind of a sleazy business?”
A long silence, followed by a more thoughtful voice. “There were some sleazy people in it, yes. You know anything about early rock and roll? It’s like that. Slick operators and ambitious, naïve, very poor kids are always going to be a bad combination. But overall? It’s cleaned itself up a lot. Look, I got to run, but I can find about Isiahson’s family. Call me at this number seven sharp tonight.”
“Thank you. This is so helpful!”
“Your boyfriend is a buddy. Happy to help out.”
He hung up before I had time to correct him about Joe. Maybe I didn’t want to.
“You have been a life-saver this morning.” I waved my hand over the now littered table.
“I’m thinking of ordering a new business card.” His eyes lit up. “It could say Home Renovation. Manly Information. Life Saving. Good idea?”
He was joking but. There was definitely a ‘but’ in his expression. He was not moving. He was not laughing. He was just waiting, completely calm and completely focused on me. I was thoroughly unnerved.
“Joe, the other night?” I stopped because I had no idea what I wanted to say. “I’m not…” I felt myself turning pink, but he didn’t move. “I don’t…”
He finally smiled at me. “You’re an idiot but you’re cute. One day you’ll figure it all out. Don’t take too long.” He stood up. “Duty calls, before a hysterical home owner harasses my guys.”
He hugged me at the door and it was not at all brotherly. Which, it seemed, was fine with me. More than fine. Then he was gone and I threw myself back into work. I refused to think about that hug right now. I was sure I did not have the time or energy for a real relationship. And I was sure you cannot go back to being friends if it doesn’t work out. And I wasn’t even sure if I believed any of that.
The solution was to bury the questions under a blizzard of work.
First, I hit the ‘Net for a search on Jackie Isiahson and that up and coming boxer who was, perhaps, his relative. Nothing about Jackie but lots about Tyler. Lots of comparisons to Mike Tyson, not the only boxer out of a Brownsville project but the most famous. One jackpot of an article discussed the history of Brownsville boxers going all the way back to my time. The time I had begun to think of as mine.
So boxing in Brooklyn did have a long history as a road up and out for poor, badly educated young boys. And also, then and now, there was a constant need to defend yourself, defend your friends, or perhaps become the one who threatened. So every day provided lots of fighting practice.
All that was easy to pick up but what I really wanted to know was whether slippery young Jackie was a relative. Now I knew almost everything but that.
Some of the boxing stories, though, sent me back in a productive direction. I would need to add something about boxing to my chapter. The whole topic of the chapter was the choice of crime as a way to grab part of the American dream, in contrast to the way Maurice Cohen and Ruby and Lil and an army of others did it, through education. But apparently boxing was yet a third way. Or perhaps just a slippery false promise, an oasis of fame and fortune, shimmering out there.
And I did have a secret weapon when it came to all things about Brooklyn and its less glamorous walks of life. I went to buy Leary a good meal.
His response to my first question was, “Do I look like an athlete?”
“Hell no. But you do look like someone who liked boozing and smoking cigars at late night events in questionable venues. That might include boxing bouts?”
“You got me there.” He was slurping down lo mein using the included chopsticks with surprising dexterity.
“Did you know I wrote a series about boxing gyms?” He put the chopsticks down. “Try drawer seven for the clips. About half way back in the files.”
Leary might be a complete slob in every other way, but the second bedroom, his workspace, was immaculate and uncluttered. If he said drawer seven, halfway back, that is where I would find it. Not for the first time, I thought about how revealing this was of what mattered most to Leary.
Right there, files neatly labeled Boxing, Background, and Boxing, Clips, 1955- 1970. I flipped through the articles on great mid-century bouts, Louis and Graziano and LaMotta. And finally, a set of articles from the Brooklyn Eagle, bylined J. Leary. about neighborhood boxing gyms. I only recognized one name, Brennan’s. It was still around and located in some part of Brooklyn even I could not find.
Leary had fallen asleep after lunch so I got to work. It only took me a minute to fall down the rabbit hole, getting lost in the research, going way beyond what I needed, about a subject in which I had no interest. A whole strange world opened up to me. Time disappeared.
I tackled the background folder. This would cover the period I really needed, the twenties and thirties. So yes, there were many Jewish boxers coming out of Brownsville, including a number of champions. I couldn’t help wondering what their poor, immigrant parents thought of this. Were they grateful for the money that put food on the table? Or horrified that their sons chose this violent, foreign road?
And then, as other opportunities opened up after World War II, those young men lost interest in boxing, replaced by a new group of tough, ambitious immigrants from the Deep South. And now there were newer immigrants, from Asia, the Caribbean and the former Soviet Socialist Republics.
> Leary kept up with it, long after he retired. Here was an article from a neighborhood paper about Brennan’s moving to Williamsburg, a place I could and would find, and another about young Isiahson. He was big and handsome, all of twenty years old. A stepfather had taken him to his first gym. His mom hated his boxing, he said, but was getting used to it. Yes, he said it; the money was a big help to her.
I turned back to the oldest items, making sure I had not missed anything useful. And it turned out that I had.
There it was, an informal photo of the famous Brownsville boxer, Bernie Rosenblatt. He was dead at thirty-five but he looked like a teenager here. There he was, surrounded by a group of neighborhood friends. They all looked like kids. And one of them looked like Lil’s brother.
I said, to Leary, “Wake up, old man. I have questions and then I have to go. Come on, you lazy old thing.” But my hand on his shoulder was gentle.
“What?”
“Can I borrow the folders? I’ll make copies and bring them right back.”
He nodded, still half asleep.
“Come on! I need you to look at some photos. Do you need something? Orange juice? Water? Pills?”
He denied knowing anything at all about most of the photos, but when I showed him the one of Rosenblatt and friends he nodded.
“That’s Barach Rosenblatt. They called him Bernie.”
“Yes. It says so right there. What about the others?”
“I’m getting there!” He planted a stubby finger on the photo. “Maybe I know who this one was but it’s a bad photo. What do you want?” He shrugged. “It was a tabloid newspaper, meant for a quick read on the subway going home after a long day at work, and then used to wrap up the garbage.”
He waved his hand over the papers on the table. “You can take the folders, but I want it all back. And soon.”
I promised to get his folders back, I thanked him and then I had to go home. Before I opened the door I looked back at Leary. He looked off, too tired for midday, and breathing noisily.
“Are you all right? Is there anything you need me to do for you?”
“Oh, hell no. No more hovering. I won’t put up with it. And say hello to Tommy Brennan for me, if he’s still kicking around his gym.” He winked at me. He knows me too well. In fact I had already called Brennan’s gym and I asked if I could talk to someone.
I worried about Leary as I drove away, but then a clueless driver with Florida plates stopped short in front of me, taking his time to figure out where he was. I had to brake, zip around him, then aggressively reclaim my place in heavy traffic. All other thoughts flew away while I had to concentrate. Later, my only thought was “How did my dad do this day in and day out?” I could ask him sometime. I could do that. In the meantime, I was on the way to meet Tommy Brennan.
When I called, I got the man himself and he said, yes, sure, come on over, he wasn’t busy. When I mentioned Leary he said, “He that old reporter with the missing leg? Didn’t even know he was still around. Yeah, he was pretty smart. And hell raising? Woo. I kept him away from the boys. He was a bad influence.”
So off I went, to Williamsburg, the formerly old, rough, industrial community right on the edge of the East River. The abandoned factory buildings, with huge windows and huge space, attracted poor artists, which led to hipster coffeehouses and restaurants, which led to real estate development which led to artists being priced out altogether. A real New York story. Maybe the New York story.
Brennan had moved his gym there when no one wanted the derelict buildings and got a whole warehouse building for less than the cost of a new studio apartment now. Did I know this before? Of course not. I learned it from Brennan himself.
He’s an old man now and he’s turned the gym over to his sons to run. They teach young kids to box and fund the ones who are promising. He told me emphatically they still train professional boxers too. I saw the photos covering one long wall, very young, very muscled men, trying to look fierce and sometimes succeeding. One was labeled Tyler Isiahson.
Brennan said he didn’t do a thing now except sit and watch and tell stories but in the hour I was there, he was up five times to correct a boxer or take a teacher aside for a conference.
In between he talked to me.
“So you’re interested in boxing? I’ve been around it my whole life. What do you want to know? I don’t remember just what you said on the phone. Are you a reporter?”
“No, not at all. I’m writing a history dissertation about Brownsville in the old days and I’ve just realized I need to include something about boxing because…”
“Dissertation? Well, well. I can’t even spell that word, but you want to talk to me?”
“I do.”
“Well, hell, yeah, boxing and Brownsville go together. We’ve got a different kind of operation now, but if I set up in Brownsville tomorrow I’d have kids pouring in the same day, begging for training.”
“That sounds like it’s still a poor kid’s sport?” I looked around at his gleaming, spotless gym.
“Always was, always will be. Don’t need a team to play on, don’t need a school, don’t need much equipment. And they make good fighters because they are hungry. They all got big dreams.”
“How does that work out for most of them? Those dreams?”
“You’re kidding, right? Mostly, they don’t get far, but a few? They got talent and drive. Plus luck.”
“Like Mike Tyson, going back a generation? Bernie Rosenblatt in the old days?”
“You been doing your homework. Yeah, that’s it. There were lots more, too.” He looked smug when he added, “Now we also get these hotshot Wall Street types, cause they live in this neighborhood. Plus we run a place now that has working showers and doesn’t smell like sweat, so it’s not so much slumming.
“Kind of funny, isn’t it?” He shook his head. “We charge them a bundle for the privilege. They’re paying for the free kids classes.” He winked at me. “Income redistribution.
“How far back you going? I knew some of those great old Brownsville guys back in the day.”
“You did? What day was that?”
“When I was a kid gym rat, trying to find a way in to the pros, and they were the geezers. Now that’s me.”
He told me some stories then. Highly entertaining, sometimes scandalous, and none of them useful for my work, but I had at least an idea now about how it all worked back then. And I’d spent more than an hour here, watching young men work out, and get yelled at and work harder. None of them yelled back, tough as they were. Interesting. But I had to wind this up now. A few more questions.
“So exactly how does it all work? Just an example, I’ve been hearing of this new Brownsville kid, Tyler Isiahson.”
“Yeah? He’s one of mine.”
“So he comes all the way here? How’d you hook up with him?”
“Cause we’re always scouting, visiting the other gyms, going to the little bouts to see who might be a comer. Like, Ty started out in a neighborhood place, and they gave him a good start but we knew we could take him further.”
“Did you steal him?”
He was amused. “Time was, we would have. All in the game. But that gym owner scouts for me. So we made a deal, money changed hands, and there’s no hard feelings.”
“Money changed hands? You bought him?”
He looked offended. “We didn’t buy him. That would be illegal. We bought his contract. And Ty was plenty happy about it. He knew he was going some big steps up the ladder.”
“So the first step is basic skills, and the next one is getting a top trainer? And then?”
“Small fights when they’re ready. Then bigger ones. And we train, train, train. Keep them working hard. Get them off their turf and maybe even out of town to train. Watch out they don’t get caught up in anything that will damage their health. No drinking, no
dope, no steroids, or I cut them loose.” He stopped. “Nothing we can do about the girls and trust me, they are a distraction.”
“So there was money to buy his contract?” I was feeling my way here. “And you don’t come cheap either. Who pays for it all?”
He pulled back, annoyed for the first time. “Why do you need to know that? You said you are some kind of student? You really from IRS?”
“What? No! Of course not! I am really just what I said, trying to put different pieces together. That’s what I do. It’s my own detective work.”
“And I’m a piece?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, tough. I’m not telling you who’s investing in Tyler. None of your business.”
“Really? Why is it a secret?”
“Now that’s what I don’t ask cause it is none of my business. They put up the dough and want to be behind the scenes, who am I to question? Maybe the wife don’t want him investing that way. Maybe he’s, uh, hiding some money.” He shrugged. “You know, it happens, whatever the law says. Don’t know, don’t care.”
He thought it over. “It’s like this, it’s like show business You put up some money to support a new show, hoping it’s a hit and you’ll make a fortune.”
“Really?” I could hardly believe anyone did something so risky with their money. “Do most investors even make it back, investing in boxing? Do any??”
“What do you think?”
“They lose it all?”
He nodded slowly.
“And they do it because…? Why? Why in the world?”
“They love and support the sport? Or show? Or they’re star f…Ahh, pardon my language.” He took a breath. “They like meeting stars. Hanging out with the champ, taking in a Knicks game, going for a beer. Pick one or all. And then sometimes the kid turns out to be Mike Tyson, or the show is Cats and runs forever. Which, by the way, I was dragged to by the grandkids and thought was the dumbest thing I ever saw. But Iron Mike? Him I would have spotted right away and got a piece of the action.”
I was scribbling notes as fast as I could. He had objected to recording.
