by Jack Tunney
I slapped him on the shoulder and left him there, hoping he would take me seriously.
I wasn’t back at ringside for more than five minutes before somebody grabbed me from behind by the collar and gave me a violent yank.
I turned, breaking the grip, and encountered the flushed visage of Billy Day. He had a shiner and a bloody lip.
“What the hell did you tell the Pollack?” he demanded.
“Not even half of the story,” I retorted. “I’m saving that for the paper.”
“You need to stick to your newspaper stories, and quit tryin’ to gum up the works.”
“What’s the matter, Billy—you afraid you didn’t do enough to make him lose this time?”
“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Schwartz.”
“I’ll give you credit for the water—that’s not petty sabotage, just colossal stupidity on your part.”
“Who are you callin’—”
“But the lazy patty-cake training, with no sparring,” I interrupted, “and the big, sweet tooth meals just before fight time…any manager who’s been in the game five minutes knows better than that. Even one as stupid as you.” Spittle splattered his face when I put emphasis on the word “stupid.”
“You’re drunk,” Billy said. “People can smell you three blocks away.”
“The most stupid people are the ones who are pleased with how clever they think they are,” I went on. “Like how you poisoned Tom without using any bottles with a skull and crossbones on the label. You must be so proud of how you pulled that one off.”
Some of the other writers began gravitating our way, no doubt intrigued by our stand-off, though even at the top of our voices we couldn’t be heard over the crowd roaring for the pending undercard bout. Some of them were jeering at us to sit down and shut up.
“I ought to flatten you right here, Jew-boy,” Billy said.
“Take your best shot,” I replied.
For a moment it appeared he might do just that. But then he turned, picked out Thalberg in the crowd, and made his way toward him.
I checked behind me periodically, and every time I did I could see Billy bending Thalberg’s ear. They both flashed me dirty looks. Well, Billy’s were dirty. Thalberg’s might just have been hard scrutinization.
It was a night full of knockouts, to the audience’s delight. Every fight was finishing early. All too soon, it was time for the main event.
Too soon. I remembered back to the Solomons and that agonizing trance of heat exhaustion. Long Tom hadn’t had enough time to rehydrate. Not the right way. He needed a salt tablet, too, probably. I cursed myself for not thinking of that when I spoke to Kolodzei.
Braxton was much more dangerous than the last time Tom faced him. What I saw in the gym that day was a man who could probably thrash the current champ. And now Tom was weak from dehydration, at least partially drained from a night of oat-sowing, and had two gluttonous meals churning around in his gut to make him sluggish.
Even worse: what if his stomach—used to a healthy balanced diet for over a month—couldn’t handle the sudden intake of so much sugar, fat and starch? I remembered how the dysentery made us dehydrate even faster on that miserable island and hoped Tom’s breadbasket was half as tough as his chin.
Perhaps even worse than all those handicaps, Tom didn’t believe he could win. Judging by our last conversation, defeat was a foregone conclusion in his mind.
The fighters emerged from their dressing rooms and made their way toward the ring. The mob went crazy. Braxton shadowboxed as he shuffled down the aisle. Tom followed Kolodzei, who walked backwards, squirting water from his bottle into Tom’s mouth every few steps.
Tom’s eyes were downcast. When Kolodzei stumbled to the side once, I saw something white in Tom’s wrapped hands. When they reached the ropes, I could see he was reading a letter of some sort. Irritated, Kolodzei snatched it from him and tossed it to the floor.
“You’re minutes away from the work bell!” Kolodzei cried. “It’s time to fight, not read!”
Tom was announced first. I missed most of it because I was busy retrieving the discarded envelope and paper. I glanced at it and had trouble with the handwriting.
“You’re gonna miss the main event, Schwartz!” one of my fellow newshounds warned me.
I stuffed the letter in my pocket and regained my seat.
“…And in this corner,” the announcer said, his amplified voice bouncing all over the arena, “weighing in at one-huuuundred-forteeeee-siiiixxxxx pounds…with a per-ro-fesh-inal record of forteeee-two victories…”
Even as the numbers were announced, I rehashed how deceptive they were in my mind.
“…Thu-reeeeee defeats, and tu-wenty-five knockouts…”
The Braxton I watched in the gym the other day was a fully evolved boxer, whose abilities far surpassed the particulars of the record earned while rising to his current level.
“…Johnny Buh-raaaaaaaaaaxtonnnnnnn!”
The referee watched, in turn, as each man’s seconds pulled his gloves on and laced them. Now he called them toward the center of the ring and gave them the usual spiel about neutral corners and a good, clean fight.
Tom wouldn’t meet Braxton’s eyes.
Both men returned to their corners. Kolodzei resumed squirting water in Tom’s mouth.
“Come on, kid,” he said. “Get sharp! This is your chance. Take it to him and get off first. Let him know from right now he’s in trouble!”
Tom nodded absently. I doubted he was even listening.
The bell rang.
ROUND 19
Braxton charged from his corner throwing leather. Every single punch landed clean. The crowd cheered at the opening violence with no preamble.
Braxton bored in and fired another salvo. Perhaps out of instinct, borne of training for previous fights, Tom backpedaled at an angle and returned fire, slipping what punches he could. Their exchange pleased the crowd.
Braxton kept trying to get inside. Tom kept up his fighting retreat.
Braxton’s punches were fast and hard. Tom’s were sporadic, though very accurate. Still, I doubt anyone would have given the round to him.
“You’re lettin’ him set the pace,” Kolodzei warned as he gave Tom more water between rounds. “He’s comin’ after you for some reason, but don’t let him make it his fight.”
Tom was not an attentive listener. He stared through the ropes to the right of Braxton, as if searching for something a great distance away.
Round two continued the trend, which was almost the opposite of their first encounter. Braxton was the aggressor, while Tom played strategic defense. Boxer-turned-puncher against puncher-turned-boxer. Again, Braxton was the clear winner.
“What are you doin’?” Kolodzei demanded in the corner. “I told you we need to pour it on early!”
I had to agree. Tom would fade fast in the later rounds, just like last time. He had to roll the dice and try to do what damage he could while he had the strength.
“You got the perfect opportunity to mix it up,” Kolodzei said while the cut man saw to Tom’s face. “He’s comin’ right to you, but you act like you don’t wanna trade. Let your hands go!”
When the bell opened round three, Tom fired a salvo of his own, hushing what had already become a pro-Braxton crowd and giving his opponent pause. Then Braxton fired back with a lightning combination. Tom showed him angles and resumed his retreat, but punching more frequently.
Two hard-hitting men with fantastic chins traded blows, landing some great shots. This was a lot closer round, though Braxton was still the most aggressive.
From my angle, I had a decent view of the kid in between rounds. His far-away stare was giving way to a knitted-brow squint…and I don’t think it was pain from the cut man working on his swelling.
Both men still had spring in their step in the next round. But by now, I noticed Braxton was landing an awful lot of left hooks on Tom’s face. For every jab Tom threw, Braxton counter
ed with at least one hook that landed hard. Tom’s pace had continued to pick up so that the crowd was now ecstatic at how those two were trading leather.
“Watch those counter hooks,” Kolodzei warned. “He’s scorin’ it on you like he’s Gene Krupa and you’re a snare drum.”
“I know,” Tom replied, between gulps of water. “But it’s too fast. I can’t get outta the way.”
“Keep showin’ him the angles. That part’s workin’.”
In round five, the tempo of the fight was furious. Tom was throwing just as many punches as were coming at him, but those counter hooks were landing with regularity. Also, Braxton had built a healthy lead, having won every round so far.
Tom needed to pour it on, but it was approaching the halfway mark. Winning four out of eight was not nearly enough for someone who would run out of steam after that point.
Not that he was outscoring Braxton convincingly. In fact, round five was too close to call. If the judges were influenced by the earlier rounds, as they sometimes were, Braxton could be ahead five-rounds-to-none as the bell rang.
Tom returned to his corner looking grim. The cut man went to work on the raw right side of his face, and a mouse forming over his right eye.
“He’s loadin’ up for those hooks,” Kolodzei said. “Watch his left knee. It swerves out when he’s cockin’.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
I watched Braxton close in round six. At first I didn’t see what Kolodzei was talking about, so subtle was the clue. But then I did notice it. Braxton was cocking that big hook after every break, because Tom opened every combination with a jab. As soon as Tom threw it, Braxton pulled the trigger, catching him with his arm extended and jaw exposed.
In round six, Tom, too, seemed to notice the subtle swerve of the knee. He tried working the body instead of jabbing upstairs and that took Braxton out of his rhythm a bit.
Tom capitalized with some hard combinations up and downstairs. He jammed them so close together that it had the appearance of one marathon flurry of punches. For the first time in the bout Tom was the aggressor and for the first time I think the judges probably awarded him the round.
In the corner, Tom’s chest and stomach heaved as he gulped for air. My gut tightened. If only his first few rounds had been like that. Now it was too little, too late, and would make fatigue catch up with him even faster.
“Good work, kid,” Kolodzei said, with a somber tone. I wonder if he also understood that the kid’s chances of surviving were fading fast.
ROUND 20
In round seven, I expected, and hoped for, another clear-cut win by Long Tom. But Braxton had adjusted to the body attack, and was countering with impunity.
Tom began to feint with the jab, trying to time the incoming hook so he weaved out of its arc and threw some counters of his own. This worked sometimes, but Braxton’s speed was terrific.
Tom’s eye was closing and with another round too close to call, there was no way for him to pull this one out.
In between rounds, while the cut man worked on Tom’s eye, Kolodzei sponged him down, gave him water and asked, “How you feel, kid?”
The kid was panting, but there was a hard glint in his eyes. His flushed skin shined from sweat and his hair was dripping as if he’d just finished swimming. “I’m okay, Sarge.”
“Yeah?” The big toad-faced corner man looked skeptical.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“You are good, kid. You’re the better man out there. I know it, but I don’t think you do. That guy over there sure as hell doesn’t know it. It’s time to prove it to him. You ready to do that yet?”
Tom nodded.
“Alright then,” Kolodzei said. “Feinting the jab is workin’ pretty good, but I want you to throw somethin’ else in the mix with it. When he loads up, throw that one-two with all you can spare. Left jab, right cross.”
“Feint the jab?” Tom asked.
“Sometimes, but use the one-two as often as you can. Keep him guessin’. Mix in some body work, but keep goin’ back to that one-two. Hard jab, hard cross. Read me?”
“Loud and clear, Sarge.”
Round eight was where Tom began his downhill slide last time. But aside from breathing hard, he didn’t seem unduly fatigued now. The retreat stopped. He met Braxton at the center of the ring and they traded toe-to-toe.
Tom fired the one-two. Braxton scored with the counter hook. Then the right cross landed flush on Braxton’s chin. It all happened so fast it was hard to follow.
Tom feinted the jab, bobbed under the counter hook and banged hard into the body. Braxton fired a combination that blurred my vision and sounded like a burst from a Browning Automatic Rifle.
Even taking those shots, Tom scored smartly with a hook of his own and an uppercut.
The audience was on its feet, going crazy. Both men threw punches from all directions, seemingly oblivious to the bombs they were absorbing.
The dopey, inattentive boxer from the first few rounds was no more. Tom followed Kolodzei’s advice faithfully, and landed the one-two over and over again. I gritted my teeth, waiting for him to slow down and fag out, but he kept punching right to the bell. In fact, the two of them kept the furious exchange going after the bell and the referee had to break them up.
Tom dropped to his stool and panted heavily while his corner men went to work.
“That’s more like it,” Kolodzei said, sponging him down. “Keep takin’ it to him like that, kid. I think he’s slowin’ down.”
I glanced at the other corner. Braxton was breathing hard, too. But he hadn’t seemed to slow down so far as I could tell.
“Keep throwing that one-two, Corporal Garrick. Feint the jab, go to the body…but keep throwin’ that one-two.”
Tom nodded, gasping for breath.
“You hear me, soldier?”
“Yeah, Sarge.”
“You’re the better man out there. You gotta pour it on.”
“I’m tired, Sarge.”
“Suck it up and drive on, soldier.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
They met at the center for the opening of round nine.
Braxton launched a frontal assault. Tom took an angle and blasted his flank.
They broke apart and circled as if they were bare-knuckle-era prizefighters sizing each other up before the first punch was thrown.
Tom threw the one-two and Braxton fired the counter hook. Both men were jolted.
Tom feinted the jab and avoided the counter, landing a hard combination to the body.
Maybe Braxton was slowing down. But you couldn’t tell it from the blurring flurry he answered with. Tom slipped what he could, absorbed the rest, and fired back.
They circled each other warily. The audience resumed its seats, settling in for a war that had slowed its furious tempo.
Having caught his breath, Braxton stepped in loaded up for a power shot. Tom timed a perfect uppercut that stopped him short.
I leaned forward.
Braxton charged in again. Tom sidestepped and threw the one-two. This time the counter hook missed. But the right cross didn’t. Tom followed up with a hook to the body and another uppercut, which missed, this time.
Braxton jabbed to the face, doubled up on the hook to the body, fired the straight right and finished with another jab.
Tom feinted with the jab, then tagged Braxton with a hook of his own.
They resumed the circling pattern, gulping for air.
Both men’s guard had lowered considerably, and they were rationing their power shots now. Most punches were becoming perfunctory. I was pleasantly surprised that Tom was still defending himself well. I hoped he could last another round. Maybe he could land a lucky punch that would end it before his tank ran dry.
The bell capped the round and they returned to their corners with much less bounce in their step than before.
Kolodzei reprimanded Tom for taking a breather for the round. Tom didn’t reply.
I would give Tom three rou
nds. Maybe four. If he managed to go the distance, it wouldn’t be enough. But going the distance was nothing to bet on.
At the bell for round ten, they circled some more. The first couple times they veered within striking range, both of them feinted, landing nothing.
Braxton loaded up with the hook again. Tom sprang forward with a one-two which had some conserved energy behind it. As he did so, he leaned forward so the counter hook sliced the air over the back of his head. While in advantageous position, Tom went to work on the belly.
Braxton backed out of range.
Tom stepped in with another one-two. I noticed Braxton flinch right before the cross landed. He stepped back again.
For the first time in the fight, Braxton was retreating while Tom advanced.
Exhausted though he may have been, Tom was really dishing it out, now. He was taking it, too, but still had sturdy legs under him. They traded light taps, but periodically Tom fired the one-two, which did sure-fire damage. The pace had dropped considerably, but the round belonged to Tom hands-down.
Between rounds this time, I focused on Braxton. That’s when I noticed his own face looked rather beat-up. He was also breathing hard. His manager spoke to him in a voice so quiet I couldn’t make it out. Braxton shook his head and smacked his gloves together—a frustrated gesture.
The bell rang and Tom went back to work. For the first time I had reason to hope Tom would survive to the end.
Then Braxton caught him with a haymaker from nowhere.
ROUND 21
Tom staggered back into the ropes. He was hurt. Braxton plowed in for the kill.
Braxton unleashed a storm of punches, with everything he had. Tom somehow managed to cover up, catching most of the blows on his gloves or forearms. He wobbled from side to side.
The referee moved in close, ready to force a cease-fire if Tom couldn’t defend himself.
