“We could have been up there for half an hour yet,” Joe said, sticking his fork in the sandwich, “though I guess it’s time to eat anyhow.”
“What do you care? Go on and see Molly.”
“Maybe I might as well,” Joe said. He ate the sandwich. Joe went eight blocks east to Leslie Street to see Molly Turner. He had been with Molly for four years and would have married her, but was uncertain of boxing professionally. She was so eager for him to work hard at training that he often imagined he really liked it. He had tried to explain to her that he got tired of sparring and roadwork because he was interested only in the big moment in a fight.
He went in without knocking. She was sitting in a rocking chair near a floor lamp, reading a paper, and eating chocolates. The box was on the arm of the chair. Joe saw the chocolates and looked at the box but didn’t actually suggest having one because he didn’t want to argue for five minutes about training before eating it. The chocolate wasn’t worth it. She had on a black skirt and a neat gray sweater. He kissed her, then kissed her again.
“You’re a little early, Joe.”
“Maybe a little, but the earlier the better; we won’t have to line up for the show.”
He watched her put on her coat, and pale-blue hat, wondering why he had expected some kind of argument.
She asked questions about Doc Barnes. He answered agreeably, so she kept on asking questions till he said, irritated: “Molly, you know how this bothers me.” They didn’t quarrel openly, and for the rest of the evening talked politely, but when he left her he felt unhappy. He lived with his father and mother. When he opened the door, his bull pup, coming clumsily along the hall, jumped at him. He tapped it lightly on the skull and slapped its back, going on through to the kitchen with the pup biting at his heels and ankles.
His mother and father were in bed. Sitting at the end of the table, he bit his nails and worried about Molly. He pushed the chair back from the table. Molly wanted to talk about big purses, opportunities, contenders, and hard work. Her ambition bothered him. He was making good money fighting preliminary bouts at the Coliseum and main bouts at the Standard Theater. He was Soldier Harmon, a favorite, a reliable fighter. The engagements at the Coliseum were more profitable, but he preferred the Standard where the crowd, friendly and close to the ring, cheered every time he climbed through the ropes. He was earning a living and was satisfied. Molly was not satisfied. Doc Barnes wasn’t satisfied. His father and mother weren’t satisfied. He got up, gave the dog something to eat, put it in the cellar, and went to bed.
In the morning he put a chain on the dog and walked as far as the church with his mother. Every Sunday morning he and the dog walked to church with his mother. At the church he left her and stood on the curb, while kids going into church looked at him respectfully, noticing the dark bruise under his left eye, and older fellows said: “There’s Soldier Harmon.” Men had seen his picture in the paper. He stood near the curb, dressed smartly, a handkerchief tucked carelessly in his breast pocket. He snapped his fingers at the dog but it wasn’t feeling playful.
On Sunday evening he walked with Molly in University Park, and though it was chilly, and frost still in the ground, they sat down in the shadow of a university building. Carefully avoiding asking any questions that would irritate him, she sat close to him on the bench, a plump and pretty little girl in a dark-blue overcoat. Sitting there he was so pleased and good-natured, and she was so intensely interested in his work, that he kissed her and told her he was matched with Harry Greb, the middleweight champion, in September, out at the Coliseum. She was enthusiastic, but it was too cold to be sitting on a park bench, her nose was red, her feet were cold. So they got up, both shivering, to look for a café where they could get coffee.
He remembered that Sunday evening, because he had felt like suggesting they get married, but was glad he had hesitated, for in the hot summer months, every time he saw her she seemed to be looking at him critically, ready to ask about training and roadwork. At times he wished she didn’t know so much about fighting. She was working at a notion-counter in Woolworth’s and in the afternoons he used to go in and see her.
One afternoon, leaning against her counter, he said: “I think I’ll get a real job, Molly.”
“My heavens, what do you mean?”
“I’m getting tired of doing nothing.”
“Nothing!”
“Sure, I don’t think much of workouts and sparring and all that stuff.”
Her boss came along the aisle and Joe left. He walked all the way home. He had intended to tell her how eager he was to get a job and just fight when he felt like it. She would not listen seriously. He had had an argument with Doc, who was trying to teach him footwork, and he had said: “Look here, Doc, I’m a fighter, not a boxer; I don’t ever want to be a boxer.” The Doc had told him he had a thick head, that was the trouble. For the first time he had been disgusted with Barnes, and the idea of being a professional boxer. He understood finally that he was a business investment for Barnes.
In August he fought twice at the Standard Theater and wasn’t interested in his opponents. He defeated Indian Sam Burns because the Indian was afraid of him, and the other man fouled him. Joe told his father he was losing interest; too many things were getting on his nerves. His father suggested that he get married and settle down, and Joe felt unhappy.
“I think maybe Molly’s a little too much for me,” he said.
Alone in his own room he felt sorry for Molly and disappointed in himself. He had been going with her for four years and knew he ought to marry her. He liked her, but felt it would be unfair to marry her, knowing he would only disappoint her. She was a businesswoman, and a lovely girl, but very determined.
For two weeks he trained seriously for his fight with Harry Greb. Greb was a smaller man than the Soldier, though always impressive against a slow, awkward man. The crowd enjoyed watching while he pounded a slow man. Joe was eager to meet him because he thought he might knock him out. Only very good men beat Greb.
After training an hour at the Adonis in the evening, Joe took the streetcar to Molly’s house and together they went out to Sunnyside, the amusement park on the lakefront. They had two hot dogs and stood on the boardwalk listening to the orthophonic victrola. Joe wanted to buy some French-fried potatoes, a few glasses of pineapple juice, and some toasted waffles, but Molly insisted it would be hard on his wind. They argued. She was considerate, understanding, but firm. She reminded him how important it was to them that he should knock out Greb. When he stood in front of the waffle stand, arguing, she took him by the arm and they walked out of the park, along to the road that led into High Park, a natural park with hills, a pond, many bridle paths through trees, and benches.
They sat down on a bench in a hollow between low hills. There was a moon. Molly looked pretty, her clothes seemed to fit her, and she was neater than when he had met her four years ago. He was silent a long time, knowing she was feeling irritable. To get her to feeling good, he began to talk about big purses he would get, if he knocked out Greb.
“What do you think of that?” he said.
“You know what I think.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure; I suppose we’ll get married at once and take a trip,” she said.
“Sure we would, Molly.”
“Yes, we would.” She looked very sad. He felt uncomfortable. It was a time to suggest getting married at once, but he could only stretch his legs, feeling unhappy. Then he felt that he owed a great deal to her, a sincere feeling, and his thick fingers were running through her hair, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Her silence embarrassed him as he watched automobile headlights on the road.
She got up and said angrily: “You’re an old slowpoke, Joe; that’s all there is to it.”
They walked back the way they had come.
When he left her, he kissed her roughly, but he was unsatisfied because he couldn’t think of a solution. Instead of going home he went into a soda-foun
tain and had two chocolate sodas, sitting on the high stool, his elbows on the counter, trying to feel good. He wanted to marry her. Sooner or later he would marry her, and then she’d see that he got many bouts and good purses. He decided to tell her that he had no use for boxing matches, and would rather have a job, getting into a fight occasionally. He rarely got the right feeling out of one of the boxing matches.
On Saturday night Harry Greb beat Soldier Harmon out at the Coliseum. The Soldier fought with such distinction his name was in all the papers. He knocked Greb out in the third round but the bell saved him. His seconds worked over him so he could stall through the fourth round and then he punched Joe so often he got tired. The Soldier’s face was badly marked, but on Sunday morning he walked with his mother to church.
Molly couldn’t understand why Joe was so pleased with himself.
“I hit him dead on, didn’t I?” he said.
“That’s not the point.”
“He was really out, wasn’t he?”
“But if you could have finished him.”
“It was wonderful, really wonderful,” he said.
The third round was the only part of the fight he seemed to remember. Many people talked to him about it — Doc Barnes, his father and mother, sporting writers — and he reminded them of the third round, grinning happily. Doc Barnes was so impressed by Joe’s durability he consented to a bout with Tommy Goldie, a big, Negro heavyweight, a graceful boxer, whom he had carefully avoided because of his speed.
Joe shook hands with Barnes when he heard of the match with Goldie. He was interested in meeting the Negro, not because of local rivalry, although Goldie had been jeering at him for months, but he had watched him working out at one of the gyms, a big lean body working smoothly, and he had been aware of a nervous eagerness, the old feeling that came to him when watching a man he wanted to knock out. He rarely saw a man who was to be his opponent until they met in the ring. He liked the surprise and satisfaction of looking across the ring and seeing someone who excited him. Some were disappointing. He knew Goldie would be satisfactory.
Two weeks before the fight he quarreled with Molly. She had become nervous and irritable. In a temper she had used some words that had surprised him. When his father and mother stubbornly insisted that he was being unfair to the girl, he tried to make it clear for everybody concerned, explaining carefully his feeling that marriage with Molly would mean a long, tiresome effort to become a champion, till he had lost all interest in fighting. They were sitting in the kitchen. His father had his feet up on the stove.
“You’re lazy, Joe; mighty damned lazy,” his father said.
“You’re all wrong, Pa; I’ll get a job tomorrow, but that won’t please anybody.”
“But good Lord, Joe, what about the big money?”
“It just don’t appeal to me. I want to fight when I feel like it,” Joe said. “And I can’t do it and get married.”
Three days before the fight with Goldie he developed an unusual interest in roadwork, jogging along five or six miles a day. Doc Barnes, becoming enthusiastic and eager to encourage the Soldier, talked about the absolute necessity of strong legs and good wind, and offered to accompany him. But Joe went alone, leaving the Adonis at two o’clock in the afternoon, running with a clumsy, jerky stride. He had never done much roadwork. Now he jogged up Broadview Avenue, slowing to a walk occasionally, his eyes always on the ground. The steady pounding of his feet as he ran helped him to think clearly, and he had long imaginary conversations with Molly. Outside the city limits there were trees and open fields. He lay down on the bank at the roadside, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed. He wondered if Molly would be at the fight.
He felt strong and very confident the night of the fight. He was sitting in the dressing room talking to Doc Barnes, waiting for the last of the preliminaries to finish, and the Doc, wearing a new silk shirt, was leaning against a table, giving him advice. Barnes always gave him advice before a fight, though he knew it didn’t help him. The Soldier was more interested in his bull pup. He was holding the pup on the table. He was worried because it looked as if the pup’s legs weren’t going to bow sufficiently to give him a really ferocious appearance. He grabbed the legs at the joints, hunching up the shoulders. He pulled down the lower lip, showing strong teeth. The dog liked it and looked splendid as long as he could hold the position. Doc Barnes went on talking. The Soldier studied the dog carefully. They could hear the crowd shouting.
Doc Barnes stepped out of the room. He came back quickly and said: “All set, Joe.”
“Yep.”
“How you feelin’?”
“Fine as silk, Doc.”
The Soldier wrapped his green dressing gown tightly around his waist and they walked down the aisle to the ring. A crowd of nearly eight thousand was in the Coliseum, an arena with tiers of seats around a surface sometimes used for horse shows. Before the Soldier reached the ring Goldie climbed through the ropes, both hands held high over his head. The crowd cheered. The cheering was louder when the Soldier skipped lightly along the ropes. Then the crowd laughed and kidded him.
When they were being introduced, he glared at Goldie. He waved his hand three times at someone calling to him, but concentrated on Goldie’s black body, glistening under the arc lights.
The crowd yelled at the sound of the bell and Joe walked slowing from his corner, staring intently at Goldie’s chin. He crouched, his head forward, most of the weight on his right foot, his right hand held steadily at his hip. He rocked gently back and forward on the balls of his feet. Goldie danced, hitting him twice with his left, once on the side of the head, once on the chin. Joe grinned. He stood up straight and grinned. He hadn’t touched the smooth black body that slid by him. He settled to a crouch, sticking his chin out farther while he pawed with his left hand. Then he laughed and the crowd yelled and Goldie got sore, smashing him over the eye with his right hand. Joe shook his head. Blood was in his eye. He swung his right hand for the first time but didn’t really expect to land, or get the old feeling, the emotional release. It would come later, everything working up to that point, the inner excitement growing but not yet strong enough. The black body, glistening with sweat, swung in close, and the Soldier flailed it with his left hand. Goldie hit him six times in the body, twice just over the solar plexus, and he felt sick. The crowd laughed.
“Oh, Soldier.”
“Take aim, Joe.”
The Soldier half-turned his back on Goldie and stuck out his tongue at the crowd. Catcalls didn’t bother him; they warmed him up. Goldie, slightly puzzled, stared at him suspiciously. The bell ended the round. Joe skipped lightly to his corner.
He sat on the stool, his gloves on his knees, listening to Doc Barnes talking excitedly. He stared at the arc lights, blinking his eyes, then at the small yellow lights over the crowd. He wondered if Molly were out there under the small yellow lights. The thought of her was utterly unimportant at the moment. He couldn’t be bothered thinking of her.
In the second round his weight held Goldie on the ropes, but Goldie swung both hands to the head, jarring, jolting, till the crowd yelled for a knockout. The Soldier’s knees sagged; dazed, he stood up straight, dropping his guard. He swayed, shook his head, and crouched, rocking gently on his feet, his big body tense as Goldie jabbed prettily. The Soldier got it on the chin but swung his right hand from his hip. He felt the impact stiffen his arm, his heart pounding, his breath held in, the emotion carried to a peak, then slowly subsiding as Goldie toppled, his head banging against the canvas, his right leg twitching, trembling.
The Soldier waved to the crowd. He ran over to his corner. The crowd kept on roaring as he tried to climb through the ropes and his seconds pushed him back. The referee had counted six when Goldie rolled over and got up on one knee. The Soldier saw Goldie trying to balance himself on the one knee. Bewildered he watched him, then rushed across the ring and pushed aside the referee, eager to hit Goldie. The timekeeper stopped counting. The referee held o
n to Joe, trying to push him away. Joe could think only of Goldie attempting to get up after he had knocked him down.
Goldie was on the floor for thirty seconds but the Soldier should have retired to his corner, and there had been no count after six. Goldie got up, groping away from the Soldier. The crowd was booing and whistling. A hat fell in the ring, then a great many hats. Joe did not go after Goldie. He wasn’t anxious to hit him again. There could be nothing further in it for him. Goldie leaned against the ropes and watched the Soldier, then advanced. The Soldier stuck out his left hand and with his right glove tried to block Goldie’s left but he had no energy. He was making motions. Goldie came in, the glove came dully against the Soldier’s chin and he fell on the ropes. The glove came again and Joe fell over the ropes onto the knees of reporters. The crowd howled.
They carried the Soldier into his dressing room. He was heavy in their arms and aware of Doc Barnes swearing.
Barnes drove him home in his car. Joe rubbed his hand over his chin. He hadn’t shaved for five days. Barnes turned corners recklessly. Each time they turned a corner Joe knew how the Doc felt about it. Twice he opened his mouth to speak and said finally, “I’m sorry, Doc, but I guess, I’m through.”
“Oh, you’re all right,” Doc said generously.
“No, I’m through.”
“Hell, man, you can still earn a living at it.”
“No, there’s absolutely nothing in it for me.”
“Well, you have to do something.”
“I know it.”
The Doc was driving more carefully. A few drops of rain hit the windshield. The Soldier went on rubbing his chin. He tried to forget the aching disappointment that was heavy inside him.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” he said.
“How you figuring?”
“I’ll get a job.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. I’ve thought about getting a steady job before, Doc.”
The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan: Volume One Page 16
