Tomato Can Comeback (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  But Tom stayed on his feet. His wobbling took on rhythm. Braxton was shooting the works, trying to finish him…

  Then it dawned on me: Tom was making him miss. Was he…?

  Braxton’s blows lost steam all of the sudden. He had gone wild and punched himself out of wind.

  Just as sudden, Tom rifled a straight right into his nose.

  Blood spurted from the broken sniffer. Tom scored with a double hook and an uppercut right on the button. Braxton stumbled backwards on legs of jelly.

  Had he been playing possum? Was he ever hurt at all?

  Long Tom came off the ropes and marched after his enemy.

  Braxton attempted a strategic retreat but could barely move his arms now. Long Tom kept at the very limit of his range and sniped at will—carefully picking his targets and scoring clean hits every time.

  If their first fight was Pearl Harbor, then this was Midway. The outcome was in doubt for much of the battle, but the matter was ultimately settled in a matter of minutes. Now it was a turkey shoot.

  How ironic I had chosen the Pearl Harbor metaphor over a year ago: For the Japanese Empire the sneak attack was a smashing tactical success, but a strategic blunder. Braxton had woken a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve.

  Or, at least, somebody had.

  Blow after blow rocked Braxton, then an uppercut hurt him bad. Eyes glossed over, guard completely down, his body leaned at a crazy angle. It was fitting that the coup de gras was another one-two.

  Braxton didn’t launch a counter hook…or anything else. The final overhand right snapped his head around as if his neck were a rubber band. He thudded against the canvas, and was still groping around for his mouthpiece when the count reached ten.

  Pandemonium broke out. There was no chance of getting to a pay phone. I scanned the mob and finally found Thalberg, but Billy Day was nowhere in sight.

  I reached inside my jacket for a cigarette and my fingers felt the letter I had picked up earlier. I pulled it out and unfolded it.

  The handwriting took me a minute to get used to, but I had time to be patient, now.

  Dear Tom:

  It has been so long since I’ve heard from you, I sometimes wonder if you’ve forgotten where you came from. Mr. Schwartz from the newspaper was kind enough to give me your post address, so I’m writing to let you know myself and the sisters have not forgotten you and keep you in our prayers.

  Your last letter arrived just before your first fight with Braxton. A very disappointing loss, son—especially considering how strong you showed for most of the fight. I know you must have taken it very hard, and I hear you may be fighting him again, soon.

  You remember how I used to take all the boys to the circus when it came to town? I can’t remember which of you it was, but we saw an elephant outside the tents one time, and I was asked how they could leave such a huge, powerful beast loose like that. I pointed out that it wasn’t loose, but one foot was tied with rope to a tent peg.

  The boy remarked that a creature as large and strong as that elephant could snap a bundle of such ropes, and rip that puny stake from the ground with a mere shiver. I’ll never forget what the animal handler told us in reply.

  That elephant was raised in captivity. When it was just a baby, someone bolted an iron shackle around its leg, and anchored it with heavy shipping chain to a pole set in concrete. At that small size, the little calf could rampage all it wanted but never budge that pole.

  Of course, the full-grown bull elephant probably could snap that chain or uproot that pole, but by that time he had learned that escape was impossible, so he didn’t even try.

  During your upbringing, I think you “learned” some things about yourself, your capabilities and limitations. May the Lord help me, but some of that “learning” may have even come from me. My mortal mouth rarely knows temperance, which is why I chose to write you instead of place a telephone call.

  You are far better than you ever gave yourself credit for, Tom. Not just as a fighter but as a man, too. There is nothing you can’t do. Despite what you’ve learned to think about yourself, you have more smarts than anyone could guess and more determination than anyone I know. You’ve got miles and miles of heart, as the song goes.

  If you’d only use that determination in the right way, you could snap that puny rope around your ankle and become the man you are meant to be.

  The sisters and I all miss you very much, but are cheering like Protestants at your every victory. We hope you will write or call someday soon because we long to hear from you.

  Your friend, Father Tim

  P.S: Please drink plenty of water.

  I re-folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

  Wandering toward the dressing rooms, I thought about how I would modify the story I wrote when convinced Tom Garrick was headed for another disaster.

  A mob of reporters swarmed outside Tom’s room, clamoring to get in and interview the victor. Some of them pounded on the door.

  After a few minutes of this, the door swung out forcefully, knocking a few of them off balance. They tried to flood inside, but were blocked by the bulwark of Kolodzei. His gaze swept over them before landing on me. “We’ll talk to Mr. Schwartz and nobody else. The rest of you beat it! The next one bangs on this door gets banged in the head!”

  I shouldered through them, then the Pollack grabbed my arm and hauled me through the door.

  Inside the room were Tom, Thalberg, and Billy Day, looking very uncomfortable. Tom’s face appeared half-made of raw hamburger, but he was grinning. I congratulated him and exchanged greetings with Kolodzei and Thalberg. Then I presented Tom with his letter.

  “I think this belongs to you,” I said.

  Tom took the letter, gratefully, pulled it from the envelope, unfolded it and stared at the page.

  “Sheez, kid, how many times you gonna read that?” Kolodzei complained. “Must’ve gone through it fifty times already.”

  “Maybe it’s important,” I said, shrugging.

  “Sure, sure,” Thalberg chimed in. “The kid showed ‘em all. I’ll write him a letter myself if it makes him happy. Now, Schwartz: before Tom answers your questions, we’ve got some for you.”

  The timbre of his voice made me uncomfortable. I waited for more.

  With a withering glare toward Billy, Kolodzei said, “Tell us what you told me, Schwartz. About the water.”

  “Billy doesn’t let boxers keep hydrated,” I said. “Ever notice why Tom was so dry and pale when Billy was in the corner? He usually finished his man early, but when Braxton made him work hard, and took him into the late rounds, Tom suffered heat exhaustion. Lost all his strength, and equilibrium.”

  “I let him drink a full glass of water on the day of the fight,” Billy said.

  “Wow—a whole glass,” I said, and turned to Thalberg. “How many glasses you think a man could fill with sweat during a hard, fifteen-round bout?”

  “I’m just tryin’ to toughen him up,” Billy explained.

  “How ‘bout I toughen you up?” Kolodzei retorted. “Maybe I should throw you naked into a snow bank in February. When you start to catch pneumonia. I’ll just tell you to get tough. How’s that?”

  “And that’s only what he did out of ignorance,” I said. “He did a whole lot more intentionally.”

  Kolodzei took a step toward Billy, loosening his shoulders. “Tell it all, Schwartz.”

  I gladly revealed what I had learned about Billy and his training methods.

  “This fifth-column rat started sabotaging Tom before the first Braxton fight last year,” I summarized. “His training was designed to soften Tom up; dull his edge; weaken his endurance. Meanwhile, he liked to plant ideas in Tom’s mind about how lousy he is—how he doesn’t stand a chance against top welterweights. In other words: Billy wanted him to lose.”

  “That’s crazy!” Billy protested. “What kinda’ manager wants his fighter to lose?”

  “Good question,” Kolodzei g
rowled.

  “You don’t question your managers, Tom,” I said. “That might be a good thing, if the manager is a good one and looking out for you. Like Kolodzei here.”

  “What!” Billy exclaimed. “This Pollack is a joke. He’s drunk half the time and barely made it here for the main event today!”

  Thalberg nodded. “That seems to be true, from what I’ve seen.”

  “He’s ten times the manager Billy’s been, drunk or sober,” I said. “And he hasn’t been involved in the training much because you two forced him out of the gym.”

  “The kid’s never lost with me in his corner,” Kolodzei said, “no matter who the opponent. And that’s with me makin’ mistakes, and not knowin’ the fight game like Billy should. Even with the sabotage that kept Tom from hittin’ his peak this time.”

  “Alright. Alright,” Thalberg said. “Granted. But like Billy said: it makes no sense for a manager to want his fighter to lose.”

  “Sure it does,” I said, “when there’s a dame involved.”

  Billy blanched, his pupils dilating.

  “He wanted Judith for himself. I’m sure it just ate away at his pride how much she liked Tom. Billy may be a half-wit when it comes to water, but he's no dummy about manipulation. He knew just how to drive them apart—how to make Tom feel worthless; how to use guilt and shame—”

  My words cut off in mid-sentence when Billy came at me with murder in his eyes.

  I prepared to defend myself, but Kolodzei’s ape-like paws wrapped around Billy and flung him skidding across the floor before he ever got to me. The big sergeant faced him with hairy fists balled, silently daring Billy to get off the floor and try again.

  “That’s enough rough stuff,” Thalberg said, then turned to me. “You’re saying he let Tom spend the night with the same broad he wanted for himself?”

  I nodded. “That’s just how sick he is. And how clever he thinks he is.”

  Tom moved to stand next to his sergeant. The letter was stashed away somewhere. His nostrils flared and lower lip trembled. He raised one wrapped hand to thrust his index finger toward Billy. “Mr. Thalberg, I’ve got nothin’ against you. But I’m never workin’ with Billy Day from now on. If that means you won’t promote me anymore, well, it’s somethin’ I gotta live with. As for you, Billy: you better not ever show your face to me again.”

  After an uncomfortable pause, Thalberg said, “You heard him, Billy. Beat it. I’ll have my secretary cut you a check.”

  Billy picked himself up off the floor, stared at us in bewilderment, then finally slinked out the door and into the mob of sports writers.

  Thalberg changed subjects, and moods, with alarming abruptness. He was all smiles and congratulations before making his own grand exit.

  The three of us left in the room exchanged glances silently for a moment before Kolodzei spoke. “Schwartz, sometimes I wanna kick your teeth in. But you tell the truth as you know it, and you helped us when we needed it bad today. Thanks.”

  We shook hands.

  “Kid,” Sarge went on, “I almost let you down. I’m sorry.”

  Tom shook his head. “You been a brick, Sarge. I couldn’t have won without you today.”

  “Speaking of that,” I told the sergeant, “why did you coach him to start throwing the one-two? You must have known Tom would catch that counter hook every time.”

  Kolodzei nodded. “Every time Braxton loaded up and launched one of those loopin’ hooks, he left his chin wide-open for a right cross.”

  When I later had the chance to see newsreel footage of the fight in slow-motion, I finally saw what the sergeant’s keen eyes had picked out: in swinging that counterpunch as hard as he was, the torque of the effort twisted Braxton’s whole trunk around to the right. But his head straggled behind in the rotation, leaving the broad side of his jaw fully exposed, and his left glove too far away to deflect a blow.

  “It was a gamble,” Kolodzei admitted. “I figured Tom could take Braxton’s punch better than he could take Tom’s.”

  “You were right,” I said.

  Tom stared at his sergeant. “He was so much faster than me.”

  “But you got the bigger punch and the stronger chin,” Kolodzei said. “And you fought smart. Real smart.”

  I shook their hands and made to leave.

  “You don’t wanna ask any more questions?” Kolodzei inquired, surprised.

  I gave them both a grin. “I think Tom’s answered all the questions about himself tonight. You two need to take your ladies out and celebrate.”

  I never saw Judith again, except when she was with her man. It didn’t exactly warm my heart to be reminded that one of those rare, good women had chosen somebody else. But two lonely people had found the one they needed, and that was a good thing.

  I wrote a book about Soldier Garrick. I knew people who knew people, so it got published. It’s selling well enough that I left my job with the paper, and I am working on another book—this one about the Lions winning back-to-back NFL Championships. Maybe someday I’ll write one about the Thirty-First Infantry at the Chosin Reservoir

  I run into Kolodzei quite a bit, and we have shared many a drink together. I’ve become quite fond of the big toad-faced Pollack, and cheered when Tom claimed him, and only him, as his manager for the fight with Kid Gavilan for the title.

  Maybe all the king’s promoters and all the news men couldn’t put “Tomato Can” Garrick back together again. But a good friend could. And did.

  OTHER BOOKS BY HENRY BROWN (THIS FIGHT CARD'S JACK TUNNEY):

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