by Jack Tunney
FIGHT CARD:
HARD ROAD
BY
JACK TUNNEY
FIGHT CARD
CREATED BY PAUL BISHOP AND MEL ODOM
TWO-FISTED TITLES IN THE FIGHT CARD SERIES:
FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS
FIGHT CARD: THE CUTMAN
FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION
FIGHT CARD: COUNTERPUNCH
FIGHT CARD: HARD ROAD
FIGHT CARD: KING OF THE OUTBACK
FIGHT CARD: A MOUTH FULL OF BLOOD
FIGHT CARD: TOMATO CAN COMEBACK
FIGHT CARD: BLUFF CITY BRAWLER
FIGHT CARD: GOLDEN GATE GLOVES
FIGHT CARD: IRISH DUKES
FIGHT CARD: THE KNOCKOUT
FIGHT CARD: RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE
FIGHT CARD: AGAINST THE ROPES
FIGHT CARD: THE LAST ROUND OF ARCHIE MANIS
MORE FIGHT CARD NOVELS COMING SOON:
FIGHT CARD: SWAMP WALLOPER
FIGHT CARD: BROOKLYN BEATDOWN
AND THE FIRST IN TWO EXCITING NEW FIGHT CARD SERIES:
FIGHT CARD MMA: WELCOME TO THE OCTAGON
AND
FIGHT CARD ROMANCE: LADIES NIGHT
FIGHT CARD: HARD ROAD – Published April 2012
Copyright © 2012 Kevin Michaels
Cover by Keith Birdsong
This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.
ROUND ONE
PHILADELPHIA 1957
It was the short left hook to the ribs that got my attention.
I slipped to the side and moved backwards but the guy chased me across the ring with two straight lefts then landed a stiff jab on my forehead before burying another punch in the same spot where he had left the last hook.
He came at me from all angles and it was impossible to figure out his next move.
He was a southpaw with a reputation for being an unorthodox fighter and that’s exactly how he went at it in the ring. There was nothing predictable about him or the way he fought. He was an old-time brawler out of some steel town north of Pittsburgh named Jake Krupa – a pug who had over thirteen letters in an unpronounceable last name before somebody got wise and shortened it.
I’d been around long enough to know how to use the ring to my advantage. At one time or another, most of the reporters who had covered my fights claimed I had great “ring smarts”. That was just a fancy way of saying I could anticipate what other guys were going to do - figuring out their two or three punch combos were setting up big rights and knowing most fighters liked to try a couple of weak jabs to the head before burying a short hook to the ribs.
It shouldn’t have been a problem to figure out what Krupa was going to do.
But he was different.
There was no pattern and no style to the way he fought. He led with a jab, followed with a couple of lefts, and came back with another left just when I expected him to use that right.
Then he would bury that left hook to my ribs when I was thinking he would try a right.
It made it tough to get into any kind of rhythm and it took the first round just to figure him out.
And he kept banging his left into my ribs so often in that first minute that I was dropping my right, which left me open for his own right hand. When he connected I could feel my insides explode.
They called him Big Jake because he was a couple of inches over six feet with a long reach, but he liked to mix it up inside. He was at least ten years older than me with more than two hundred fights under his belt between amateurs and the pros. Big and broad-shouldered with dark hair cut short in the kind of crew cut they gave out in boot camp – I figured he got it when he enlisted and never changed it. He had skin hardened by too many punches and scarred by too many cuts, with more stitches than a Rawlings baseball.
He’d spent fifteen years working the fight hall circuit, with countless bouts in VFW Halls, National Guard Armories, and small clubs on the side streets of major cities up and down the East Coast – the kinds of places you didn’t go unless you were looking for them, and certainly nowhere you brought your girl for drinks and a good time. He had a couple of fights against guys on their way up, and a few more against guys heading in the other direction. Most of his career, however, was spent fighting in the shadows of the main events against other palookas. He was strictly a preliminary bout fighter – the type of guy who put on a pretty good fight but whose name you forgot by the time the main event started. He was a fighter you wouldn’t remember when you got home unless you kept the program.
I didn’t want that kind of career. I wanted people to remember my name and talk about me the same way they talked about Elvis. Wanted them to say I was cool.
I wanted them to know when they saw a story in the sports section about some hot middleweight fighter out of Chicago by way of Philadelphia named Robert Varga they were reading about me.
Like every other middleweight, I wanted a shot at the title; but first I needed to put food on the table and pay the rent.
That’s why I took the fight against Big Jake Krupa.
I feinted and circled left, using my own jab to create some distance between us. Krupa liked to hang close, smothering my arms while he pounded my ribs and kidneys with punches from all directions and used his elbows like weapons. I took a couple of his shots and counterpunched with my own sharp jabs as he moved in close.
I pumped in two short uppercuts to the chin, knocking Krupa off balance just enough so he dropped his hands. It was only a few inches, but that gave me an opening. When the reporters wrote about me they also pointed out I had fast hands. My jabs found a way through his gloves and peppered his face. After laying the leather on his eye a couple of times, I could see the skin redden and swell. I moved in close and hit him with a combination of lefts and rights to the head. As Krupa tried pushing away I connected with a left to the nose then a right to the kisser. At the bell I was dancing backwards on my toes like Sugar Ray Robinson and shooting my jab at his head. Krupa lunged forward, but missed with his own roundhouse left.
“Ain’t got nothing,” Big Jake growled as he shouldered past me. “Just a punk kid.”
I returned to my corner and settled on the stool, spitting my mouthpiece into the bucket while one of the corner men wiped the sweat off my chest and face.
“Good round,” my trainer Frankie said. Frankie worked the corner like a beat cop, and everybody knew he was in charge. A small, wiry lightweight back in the Twenties, he had weathered skin, white hair, and ears that had taken their fair share of shots in the ring. “You came on at the end. Keep working your hook to his body.”
I nodded. “Got it.”
“Stay off the ropes and out of the corners,” he added. “Saw him back you up a couple of times. The guy’s too unpredictable. Don’t need no lucky one punch knockout.”
I swished a mouthful of water before spitting it in the bucket by the stool. “That won’t happen.”
“Don’t get cocky. You ain’t won nothing yet,” Frankie said. He had been up and down and all around the block – spent a lifetime in smoke-filled arenas just like this one. He knew not to count on anything until the referee counted ten or the time keeper rang the bell.
Even then there were no guarantees the result was going to come out the way you figured.
“Stick that jab,” Frankie s
aid as he slipped my mouthpiece back between my teeth. Somebody called out, “ten seconds.” I stood and the stool was yanked out from beneath me as the corner guys hurried through the ropes. “That eye is looking puffy,” Frankie added. “Get to work on it.”
Friday night fights at the Philadelphia Ice Palace and Arena were the kind that brought out the real boxing fans. The crowd was already divided into sides. Although I was the local fighter, Krupa had a number of people cheering him on. At the bell, I banged my gloves together and moved across the ring – focused and determined.
In that second round, I found my range, moving away from Krupa and shifting from left to right when he came at me, leaving him flailing helplessly with every punch he threw. I had learned defense from Father Tim, the fighting priest at St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys in Chicago. Learned how to slip punches from Frankie. He spent a year working in Joe Louis’ corner in the late Thirties and taught me the technique when I first hooked up with him.
My confidence was growing as the second round went on. I still couldn’t predict what Krupa was going to do, but I settled into a comfortable groove. It was all about taking charge of the fight and dictating the pace – you never let the other guy control the action if you wanted to win. Learned that from listening to Joe Louis fights on the radio when I was a kid, and watching Rocky Marciano on Friday Night Fights.
Krupa threw a right to the body and a left that glanced off my ear. He then tried wrapping his arms around me. He bum’s rushed me towards the ropes, using a forearm against the chest to pin me in place, with his back turned so the referee couldn’t see what was going on. He smacked two sneaky shots to the back of my head and tried punching my kidneys, but I landed a jab to his eye and slipped away, ducking under a right then coming back with my own jab.
Two hard hooks jerked back Krupa’s head and a straight right flattened his nose, sending blood trickling over his lips and down his chin.
He missed with a wild left, giving me a chance to unleash a rapid succession of jabs that quickly puffed up his right eye. A short left to the side of the head opened a small cut in the corner of his right eye, and two more jabs split open the cut.
“Stick it in there!” Frankie yelled.
I jabbed at the eye and pushed the glove into the gash. Leather and sweat mixed together with blood that ran into Krupa’s eye. He retreated towards a neutral corner, showing the first signs of concern as he shook his head and blinked away the blood. I stalked him across the ring and nailed him with a right hand and hard hooks to the body. When he dropped his elbows to protect his ribs, I popped my jab back in the eye and ripped open more skin. Krupa covered up, so I buried a hard combination to his gut.
Near the end of the round, I jerked his head back again with a thunderous right cross, then doubled him over with two hooks that found a tender spot in his ribs. The cut above his right eye split wider and more blood streamed down his face.
“Still think I got nothing?” I asked as he pulled me into a clinch. I leaned close to him and pressed my forehead hard against the cut. “Got any more names you want to call me?”
“You fight like a man instead of dancing like a fairy, maybe I can see what you got,” Krupa said, forcing out the words.
The referee stepped in and pushed us each in different directions. I closed the distance and landed jabs to the top of Krupa’s head and banged my gloves into his arms. Krupa had twenty years’ worth of experience – a lifetime of dirty tricks he could use to slow me down. He leaned a hard shoulder into my chest and wrapped those long arms around me. He stepped on my feet and tried bringing a knee into my thigh. Elbowed me in the ribs. A couple of rabbit punches to the back of the head. He tried digging a thumb in my eye then rubbed the laces of his gloves against my skin, but I turned my head to the side and got a hand inside his glove to protect my face.
Krupa clinched once more and banged his head into my face before wrapping his arms around me again.
His mouth was close to my ear. “Ain’t showed me nothing yet.”
The referee wedged a shoulder between us. “Break,” he said.
Krupa came right back at me with his head down, gunning with that left and looking to land a lucky shot. He could feel the fight turning with each punch I landed. He had to know hope, along with opportunity, was fading fast. Desperation set in.
I used my best Sugar Ray moves and danced backwards. I threw a left, a right, another left, another right. My breathing got heavier and sweat dripped down my face. Krupa brought up his forearm, pushing it into my chest as he lumbered us towards the ropes again. A few boos came from the crowd as I ducked under his haymaker right.
I dug my own right into his ribs and slid sideways along the ropes, using Krupa’s momentum to carry me out of the way and leaving him off balance when I popped a jab on his ear.
Krupa used a lot of energy shoving me around the ring – he was spending more time pushing me to the ropes and less time throwing punches. Most of the punches missed badly. Sooner or later that caught up to every fighter, no matter how hard they trained. I hoped that wasted movement would come back to haunt him in later rounds.
If it even got that far.
“Move!” Frankie yelled. “Stick and move!”
I straightened Krupa with a right then popped in two hooks to the head at the bell.
Between the second and third round Krupa’s corner men cleaned his face and tried desperately to control the bleeding but nothing worked. His nose was ready to burst. He had a huge mouse under his right eye that had changed from red to purple and was slowly blackening.
At the start of the third, Krupa charged across the ring and tried taking control of the fight. It was slipping away and he knew it. He used heavy rights and elbows whenever we got close, pushing me into the ropes where he could bang away at my midsection. I fought my way off the ropes with strong jabs and quick rights that took the sting out of his punches. He was starting to tire – his breath got heavy and he labored to suck in deep mouthfuls of air. I slipped two lefts between his gloves then found his ribs with my right, banging the punch into his ribs before bringing an uppercut between his gloves and tagging his chin.
Krupa wobbled, just a little, but it was enough.
The crowd jumped to their feet and I pressed forward, pounding my fists into his arms. Krupa’s arms slipped farther from his face and closer to his waist as he tired against my assault. He kept dropping his right hand and my punches found their mark.
One of my jabs opened another cut below Krupa’s right eye, drawing more blood - that mouse had swollen so badly he could barely see. Whenever he jerked his head away from the punches blood splattered me and sprayed the people in the front row, and I could sense an end coming soon.
The crowd could feel it too. There was a surge of excitement and anticipation rippling through the arena.
“Move in there!” Frankie hollered. “Hook off that jab and get inside those punches!”
Near the end of the round, I caught him with a short right to the side of the head – I put my whole body behind the punch and it staggered Krupa in the center of the ring. It was a sweet shot. The kind I would remember for a long time and the kind that would bring a smile when I talked about it later. Krupa’s movements slowed as he turned away, right into a tremendous left-right combination that dropped him to one knee.
The referee chased me to a neutral corner then picked up the ten count as Krupa struggled to his feet and tried shaking away the cobwebs with a loopy grin.
I knew I had him beat. There was no question now about who would win.
The only question was how much longer the fight would go on.
Krupa lurched forward and took an unsteady step with one hand still clutching the ropes to brace himself and the other waving away the referee.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Ain’t no problem.”
I moved after him, ripping punches through his gloves. By the end of the third his face was a bloody mess, with another cut under his left eye
and one across the bridge of his nose. The mouse under his right eye had swollen to epic proportions. I buried a fist in his midsection that was so hard it forced the air from his lungs and left him gasping for breath. Two quick jabs and another right spun him around.
At the bell Krupa was reeling helplessly off the ropes.
“Tell me when you’ve had enough,” I muttered as we passed in the center of the ring.
This time Krupa went back to his corner without saying a word.
“This is the round,” Frankie said.
Across the ring Krupa was guided to his stool, almost out on his feet. He left a trail of blood on the canvas, and more puddled at his feet in the corner. “This guy’s taking a walk on Queer Street,” Frankie said. “You got to put him away.”
I nodded as Frankie wiped the blood off my gloves.
“Don’t let the ref stop it,” Frankie said. “You end it. Knock him out.”
At the bell, I bounced out of the corner, hammering Krupa with both hands and reopening the cuts his corner had worked so hard to close only moments earlier. Blood sprayed the ring again. Krupa stuck both gloves in my chest and pushed me backwards, then slammed that damn left to my ribs and a right to the side of my head.
It caught me off-guard for a moment and I felt the pain ripple through my breadbasket. But I shrugged off the two shots and regained my composure, peppering Krupa’s face with a fast flurry of lefts and rights. A short hook to the midsection hurt him again and a right to the chin staggered him. For a moment Krupa looked like he was ready to drop, but he sucked up his courage and managed to stay on his feet. For a guy who had been around he had whiskers – he could take a big shot but stay on his feet. He tried a weak jab. I blocked and countered with four quick jabs to his head.
He retreated to his corner, but I followed, landing sharp rights and lefts that he was powerless to stop. His arms dropped, hanging at his sides as blood gushed from the cuts, streaming down his face and chest and pooling on his chest hairs. It looked like one of those horror movies from the Saturday afternoon double-feature at the Bijou. The blood that splattered me started to dry, and the hairs on my arms tightened and stiffened under the bright overhead lights. Krupa was finished. He could barely raise his hands to defend himself or even slow down my punches as I nailed his nose with a right cross.
