by Jack Tunney
She let her chin fall into a supporting hand. “Sometimes he seems older than his years. Other times…it’s like you said. Like he’s still a child.”
We didn’t say much more that day. She got up to go back to work. I paid and left.
***
I was back a couple days later. Then the next day, and the next. It got so it seemed she was pleased to see me. I asked if she needed a lift home after work. After a few such offers, one evening she accepted.
We spoke less and less about Tom on these visits. I took her to the movies, and dancing. She liked me, but part of her was always sad. We’d do the crossword puzzle together, and she read my column. But she never commented on the boxing news.
We caught sight of Tom one night at the bijou, with a different pretty girl on his arm. That night after I took her home, Judith asked me to stay beyond the nightcap.
I had been so wrapped up in the comeback of Long Tom Garrick, I hadn’t even noticed the rise of another welterweight who tore a swathe through the division and landed like a meteor in the Top Ten rankings. The undefeated Tab Hollis, a tall, rough counterpuncher sometimes called “the Battling Leatherneck,” with an impressive knockout of the number five contender, became an overnight sensation. The ranks shuffled around a bit, landing him at Number Seven.
“Now there’s a welterweight to keep our eyes on,” Jerry Dubois said.
With what Long Tom had been doing with the gloves on lately it was hard to argue he was just a tomato can, but we sure could ignore him. And with a welterweight like Hollis in the picture, it was easy to do.
But not everybody ignored Long Tom Garrick. Thalberg saw the Hollis phenomenon as a golden opportunity, and worked out a fight between the two contenders.
Ignoring Garrick was no longer an option. Fight fans everywhere were abuzz over the match. Since Hollis’s trademark warm-up robe bore an embroidered globe-and-anchor across the back, and Garrick’s corner man to date was his former platoon sergeant, perhaps it was only natural all the sportswriters played up the Army vs. Marines angle. And so the fight became about much more than the fighters. Bar room brawls erupted all across Michigan and Pennsylvania—from whence Hollis hailed.
Still a good month before Long Tom’s hand had healed sufficiently to renew training, he had a corps of new detractors. But he also picked up an army of supporters.
ROUND 10
I ran into Kilbane at a Tigers game one day.
We traded some news, then he asked me if I knew who Thalberg had hired to manage Soldier Garrick.
The moniker “Long Tom” had been scrapped just about universally in order to emphasize the Armed Forces rivalry between him and “the Battling Leatherneck.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Melvin Axler.”
I whistled low. Axler was a controversial character, so far as fight managers go. He had some unorthodox training methods, a legendary drinking problem and, allegedly, was once part of the Purple Gang.
“The Pollack is still in the corner, too,” Kilbane said.
“Thalberg doesn’t like that,” I said. “But the kid insisted.”
“Is it some kind of loyalty from that Korean deal?”
I shrugged. “Could be. Those might be the strongest bonds a guy can have.” Kilbane nodded. He’d been too young for the First World War, but too old for the Second. He took my word for it.
“Where are they training?” I asked.
“Down at Kronk. Of course, he’s not really hittin’ the bags yet. Axler’s got him practicin’ nothin’ but footwork.”
“He could use it,” I said. “And his hand still needs time, I would think.”
“That Garrick kid’s out with a different floozy every week,” Kilbane said. “Axler don’t say nothin’ about it.”
“Like you said, he can’t hit the bags yet.”
Kilbane shook his head. “No, it’s the same with all his fighters. He lets them sow their oats all they want, until the day before the bout.”
It was a nigh-unanimous practice among managers to keep their fighters away from women during the entire training camp. That meant weeks, if not a month or more, of monastic virtue before a fight; and a whole lot of pent-up energy and frustration to take out on an opponent during the fistic encounter.
I shelved this information for the time being. “How’s Hollis? You seen him fight?”
Kilbane nodded. “He’s good. Really good. Tough as nails and hits plenty hard.”
“Sounds like Garrick,” I said.
“Except he’s even taller. And has the reach on him.”
“What…? He has the height and reach on Garrick?” I’d never seen any welterweight as tall as Tom, or with arms as long.
Kilbane nodded. “And he’s unbeaten.”
“Yet,” I said. “Everybody’s unbeaten until their first loss. What’s his style?”
“Natural counterpuncher,” Kilbane said. “He fights smart. He can box; he can punch. He can dance; he can brawl. And he knows when to do what. He’s dangerous.”
***
My editor wanted a big pre-fight build-up, emphasizing not only that the marine was a better boxer, but that his service in Korea meant more than Garrick’s did.
“Think Pusan Perimeter vs. Chosin Reservoir,” he told me. “You’re good with that metaphorical stuff, Schwartz. And this is kind of like that Pearl Harbor comparison.”
I did some checking on Hollis, and it seemed Kilbane was right on the money. I talked with other sports writers who had seen him fight. Finally, I felt adequately knowledgeable to write it up.
After that edition hit the presses, Judith confronted me with it when I picked her up after her shift at the restaurant was over. She waved it at me, opening to the sports page and dropping it on the car seat between us.
“What do you mean about ‘accumulation of punishment’ and Tom getting hit too much?” she asked, accusingly.
“When did you start reading my fight columns?” I asked.
“You think he’s going to get hurt?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You sure implied it.”
My turn to use an accusing tone. “Are you still carrying a torch for him?”
She didn’t answer. I was pretty sure I didn’t want her to. We drove in silence the rest of the way to her house. She got out, but I stayed behind the wheel. She stopped and turned when she heard the car go back in gear.
“Where are you going, Gil?” Her expression seemed to be one of panic.
“Home,” I said.
She strode toward me. “Please don’t go, Gil. I’m sorry.”
I thrust the newspaper out the window at her. “Here. Read it again. It’s obvious I’m not what you want to think about tonight.”
One second she was pleading; then back to accusing: “You’re being childish. Come inside.”
“Childish, huh? I guess it’s going around.”
Pleading again: “Please, Gil. I don’t want to be alone right now.”
Truth was, I didn’t either.
“I don’t want to talk about Tom with you anymore,” I said.
“We won’t,” she said.
I killed the engine and we went inside.
ROUND 11
The buzz got louder every week about the fight. Predictably, the Army vs. Marines angle was widely played. And so the popular accounts of the Chosin Reservoir were rehashed ad infinitum.
The story already being engraved in stone about Chosin was that, after the defeat of North Korea and the subsequent intervention by the Red Chinese, 2,500 marines valiantly fought their way out of an encirclement of 120,000 Reds with no help from anyone, while cowardly soldiers from the US Army cut and ran.
The heroic-marine-vs.-cowardly-soldier angle played a part in a lot of predictions about the coming match, lent credence by the beating Garrick took toward the end of his fight with Braxton. This made no sense to me. How could a man who refused to give up be considered a coward? Nevertheless, that’s how a lot
of people wanted to view the match-up.
Three days before the fight, I paid a visit to Axler’s gym.
I walked in during Tom’s session with the heavy bag. Axler had the bag hung from a chain attached to a castor rolling inside a steel channel which ran along the roof. Axler pushed the bag toward Tom, who backpedaled while punching a huge dent in it.
When they reached the end of the track, Axler called out, “Now sideways!”
Tom shuffled around so he faced perpendicular to the track. Now he had to sidestep while throwing combinations. At the other end of the track, they reversed course again and Tom sidestepped in the opposite direction. Then Axler had him circle the bag while he moved it around, calling instructions out as they went.
Tom was breathing hard and sweating like a horse, but his footwork was as graceful as a dancer’s.
Kolodzei noticed me and strolled over. Remembering Judith’s reaction to my story, I wondered how the big Pollack would take it.
He extended his hand and said, “Hiya, Schwartz.”
With an exhale of relief, I nodded toward the kid. “His feet are poetry. But he looks worn out.”
Kolodzei chuckled. “I told Axler I’d been workin’ on his endurance. He said, ‘We’ll see about that.’ He’s been workin’ Tom almost to death for the last month.”
“He sweats a lot, now.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but his gas tank sure does seem to be growin’.”
“How’s his hand?”
“Good. Sawbones gave him a clean bill of health. Look at the way he’s pulverizin’ that bag—looks good as new to me. Axler’s been teachin’ me how to wrap his hands better, too, so they don’t break as easy.”
The potbellied old platoon sergeant seemed especially cheerful—like I had rescued him from boredom or something.
“How are you and Axler getting along?” I asked.
“I mostly try to stay out of his way,” he said. “There’s a whole lot about boxin’ I don’t know, apparently.”
“You did good in his corner,” I said, and meant it. “If you got time to burn, you want to have a drink with me?”
“Sure,” he said, and in four strides was pulling his coat and hat off the rack. “There’s a bar right down the block.”
***
It still being early, we both settled for beer in a depressing little dive with one patron besides us.
“Axler does most of the trainin’ in the gym,” Kolodzei said, wiping the foam from his lips with a satisfied after-gulp breath. “But I’ve been thinkin’ about what you wrote: Tom does get hit too much. So I’ve been workin’ with him on slippin’ and blockin’ when I can.”
“That’s good news. If he didn’t have a jaw made of iron, he’d have been decapitated a couple times.”
Kolodzei rolled his neck, as if loosening a cramp. “Have you seen this Hollis kid everybody’s talkin’ about?”
I shook my head. “But I’m going to Philly for the fight, and will get a chance to watch him work out the day before.”
“The day before means nothin’,” he said, frowning. “That’s just a keep-warm-and-loose day.”
“You worried about it?” I asked.
“I been hearin’ nothin’ for the last couple months but how this marine is gonna knock him into next week. It gets to ya after a while.”
I didn’t know what to say, and so changed the subject. “How well did you know Tom over in Korea?”
“I was a sergeant. He was a private. At least at first. He made corporal before it was over. But I guess you could say we didn’t really know each other until we got pulled back to the rear, and he started those exhibition fights.”
I nursed my own beer a bit. “You’d think the Army and Marines were on different sides, the way people are talking.”
The Pollack’s countenance darkened. “You know, there’s somethin’ I don’t get: Everybody has their minds so made up about what happened at Chosin that nobody wants to hear anything that doesn’t fit the official story.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“We were at Chosin, too,” Kolodzei said. “You know anything about the Thirty-First Infantry?”
“The Polar Bears,” I said. “They were one of the regiments in the expeditionary force sent into Siberia after World War One, right?”
Kolodzei nodded. “The Thirty-First was converted into a Regimental Combat Team for the Second War. You know—artillery and engineers added to the regiment, to make it more self-contained.”
“Yeah, there was a lot of that. I hear the Army’s doing away with RCTs, now.”
“Well, we were the artillery organic to the Thirty-First,” he said. “The whole reason the Marines were able to break out of Chosin and march to the coast is because we…a frostbit regiment of US Army cowards, that is…fought off a division-and-a-half of Chinese east of the reservoir.”
“I wonder if that will find its way into the history books?” I mused.
“Don’t look like it,” he said. “I guess the story sounds better the way they’re tellin’ it now.”
I finished my beer and wondered if this matter was a windmill worth tilting at. “How was Tom over there—good soldier? Bad soldier?”
“Just average, really,” Kolodzei said. “He learned the 155 well enough. He followed orders. But he didn’t really want to be there.”
“Who did?”
Kolodzei took another swig. “Me. I loved the Army. I mean, I hated the officers and some other stuff, but overall, it was for me. Garrick, though, he’s not real comfortable around other people. If wars were fought one guy against another with rules both understand, he’d probably be great at it. But he doesn’t play team sports too good.”
“I heard he’s with a different dame every night,” I said.
Kolodzei rolled his eyes. “Just about. And Axler is fine with it, so long as he keeps away from all of ‘em the day before the fight.”
“You know much about his old flame, Judith Kress?”
He finished his beer and shrugged again. “He doesn’t talk about her. But she still bothers him somethin’ awful. He called her after you gave him that number. Went out and drunk himself stupid afterwards.”
“I’ve been seeing her,” I said.
He squinted at me. “What?”
“You have to admit, he’s not acting like he wants her anymore.”
“Yeah, but still…”
“You think he’ll be sore?”
Kolodzei puffed his cheeks. “Inside, yeah. But I don’t think he’ll take it out on you, if that’s what you mean.”
Maybe he deserved to be sore, I thought.
“Might be best not to let him know,” Kolodzei said.
My turn to shrug. “He’ll find out sooner or later.”
***
And find out he did. I took Judith out dancing and Tom was there with a redhead who had more curves than a sack full of doorknobs. By her speech, I’d guess she was a hat-check girl from Brooklyn.
I felt Judith stiffen as I escorted her toward the dance floor. I turned to her, then followed her startled gaze to a table on our left. There sat Tom with his entertainment of the night. He glanced from Judith to me and back, taking a moment to put the pieces together.
“J-Judith,” he choked.
“Tom,” she said, evenly.
“Are these friends a yours?” the redhead asked Tom.
Tom blushed. “Um, Mr. Schwartz, Mrs. Kress, would you like to join us?” Had the redhead, Maggie, not been there, the awkward silence might have lasted for hours, but she was outgoing to say the least.
“Youze write for the papers? That’s so exciting, Mr. Schwartz. Maybe I’ve read your articles.”
“You read the sports pages?” I asked.
“Gil’s being modest,” Judith said. “He’s been a top, front-page reporter and you probably have read stories from him.” Then, under her breath, she added, “If you can read. If you’re even old enough.”
Maggie obviously missed t
his last remark. “Well I bet Tom has been giving you plenty to write about.”
Our pleasantries were cut short when yet another significant party discovered Tom’s table. A muscular, broad-shouldered little man in a tailored suit waved his hat at us and flashed a big smile.
“Gil Schwartz and Tomato Can Garrick,” Braxton crowed. “You just keep gettin’ demoted, don’t you, Schwartz?”
I was surprised to see Tom grin sheepishly at our new visitor. “Hey, I haven’t seen you since the fight.”
Braxton smirked.
“You want to pull up a chair?” Tom offered.
Still smirking, Braxton shook his head. “Next place I wanna see you is in the ring.” He noticed the girls, and took a lingering look at Maggie, from her eyes down to her bosom. “Hello, ladies.”
Maggie blushed. Judith scowled.
Braxton redirected his attention to Tom. “Trouble is, I don’t think you’re gonna make it, soldier-boy. I think that marine is gonna take you out of the picture before you even get to me. That’s the big question, Tomato Can: which one of us is gonna pick up where I left off at St. Nick’s?”
Now neither Tom nor Maggie appeared friendly.
“It really won’t matter for you,” Braxton said. “Either way, you’ll be on the wrong end of the worst whuppin’ the world has ever seen. Ain’t that right, Mr. Schwartz?”
“If it’s a lip-flapping contest, I’m sure you’ll do fine, Braxton,” I said. “But since it takes more than a big mouth to win a boxing match, I’ll wait to see what happens.”
Braxton raised his eyebrows. “You’re quick with the remarks, ain’t ya?” He turned to Maggie, pointing across the joint. “Hey doll, my table is right over there. Come on over if you’d like some quality company tonight.” Now he nodded toward Judith with a shrug. “Or you.”
Fuming, Judith said, “There are other parts of Detroit you need to visit if you hope to find a woman who could consider you ‘quality company’.”
Braxton chuckled and swaggered away.
Moments later, Judith turned to me and said, “Take me home, please, Gil. I don’t really feel like dancing.”
