by Jack Tunney
I nodded. “You got it, Harry. Thanks.”
He left and I moved over to one of the heavy bags in the back corner. I didn't have the energy left for much, so I concentrated on form, extending through each punch, envisioning my opponent's ribs caving in. As I jabbed at the bag, I imagined it was the big robber, the one who got away. Don't do it, champ, he had said. If I had been a second quicker, an uppercut to his chin would have dropped him and stopped this whole mess. Then again, I wouldn't have thirty-five thousand dollars if I had done so.
After about fifteen minutes, long enough to ensure Harry wouldn’t return for some forgotten item, I doused the lights and quickly worked at hiding the package of money. It had worked well to hide it in my heavy bag at home, so I did the same thing here. There were three bags hung in the corner, and the farthest back was an old, lumpy bag the rookies used. I thought it would be the best option. It had a zipper, so I opened it, pulled out some of the stuffing and then jammed the bag into middle. I pulled the wadding around it as best I could, and zipped it back up.
I jumped rope for a few minutes to round out my workout, then changed and headed out. I locked the door and checked it more than once before leaving.
When I got back to my place, the light was on. I got out, shut the door quietly and crept to the door. I thought I heard rustling inside, but when I tried the knob, it was locked. I put the key in and turned it. As I opened the door I saw Tess sprawled across my bed, still in her clothes and on top of the blanket.
As I shut the door, she stirred.
"What are you doing here?" I said.
“Where have you been?” she asked sleepily. “I came over because I figured you probably shouldn’t be alone.”
“I went to the gym to work out. I couldn’t sleep, and I just needed to be by myself for a while.”
She rolled over and pushed herself up to sit against the wall. She ran her fingers through her long auburn hair to get it out of her face. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to probably call in sick. I can’t imagine they’ll mind, and I think I might finally be able to sleep.”
“I didn't mean that,” she said. “I’m sure the big hero can take as much time off as he wants. I mean about the money. How much was there? How are you going to spend it without getting caught?”
“I didn’t count it,” I said.
“OK. I don’t believe you about not counting it, but that still doesn’t answer the second question. What are you going to do?”
“I don't know," I said. "Honestly. I can't say whether I'm even going to keep it, let alone spend it."
"Well," she said, "you had better think hard about it. Whatever decision you make, I'll support you. But if you keep it, it will change you."
ROUND 5
If you think the term hit like a ton of bricks is a cliché, you’ve never been caught stepping into the punch when your opponent connects with a savage right. It might not really feel like a ton, but as I laid on the mat waiting for the lights hanging above the ring to come into focus, I guessed it was close.
“You gonna lay there all day, Griff?” Harry yelled. “I got real fighters out here waiting to get in the ring.”
I ignored the crack and rolled onto my side. I slowly climbed back to my feet, using the ropes to steady myself.
“You okay?” asked the guy who had laid me out. He pulled out his mouthpiece. “I didn’t think I had that much on the punch. Felt like I caught all of your chin, though. I think I was so worried about your left that I panicked and got lucky.”
I told him I was fine, then pulled up the top rope and stepped out of the ring. I held it up so the guy could follow. We grabbed water cups off a counter along a wall of the gym and sat on a long bench made from cinder blocks and an unfinished board.
“By the way, I’m Frank,” the guy said. He unlaced the glove from his right hand and stuck it out. I let him grab my still-gloved hand and shake it. “Kind of strange to introduce myself after I knocked you down, but that seems to be the way Harry runs the gym, huh? Grab whatever two guys don’t look like they’ll kill each other and stick ’em in the ring.”
“That’s pretty much it,” I said as I pulled off my gloves and then pulled at the tape with my teeth to get it started so I could unwrap it. “He was close to messing it up this time. You damn near put my lights out with that right.”
“I tell ya, it was a lucky shot,” Frank said. He took a swig from the water cup.
We both looked up as a guy in a suit walked through the door. He was winded after climbing the stairs to our second-floor space over a downtown dry cleaners. He had something in a brown tube under his arm, which he sat on its end so he could pull out a handkerchief to mop his brow. He pocketed the white square, then looked around and saw us.
"Hello there, gents," he said as he walked toward us. "A couple of prime specimens, I see. Just what I'm looking for. Let me introduce myself."
He took the homburg from his head and gave a slight bow. "Conway Richards. You fellas can call me Connie."
"All right, Connie," I said. "What can we do for you?"
"I'm looking for the owner of this fine establishment. I have something I think he'll be interested in."
"See the old guy over there in the gray sweatshirt?" I said. "That's Harry."
"Of Harry's Gym?" Richards said.
"The one and only."
Connie nodded his thanks, then walked over to where Harry was watching a couple of younger kids spar in the ring. They were junior high kids, beanpoles who were as likely to stumble into someone with an accidental elbow as they were to land an honest-to-God punch, but Harry seemed to see potential. Connie waited until the round was over, then tapped Harry on the shoulder. When Harry turned, Connie stuck out his hand and began talking what sounded like a mile a minute.
Harry stared at the outstretched hand for a moment, before it was clear he wasn't going to shake it and Richards retracted it. Instead, he used it to pop open the tube under his arm and pulled out a poster. He set the tube down and used both hands to stretch out the paper. We could see Harry reading it while Richards spoke. I could see Harry starting to boil, and just before I could turn to Frank to warn him of the impending show, Harry grabbed the poster and started crumpling it.
"Get outta here ya bum!" he yelled. "These are real fighters, not some sideshow act!"
He grabbed Richards by the lapel, the crumpled poster still in one hand, and dragged him toward the stairs. I was afraid the old man would toss the suit right down them, so I went over to supervise. Harry pulled up short, let go of Richards and pointed down the stairs.
"You aren't wanted here. And don't come back."
He tossed the poster in a nearby garbage can and stomped back to the ring, where the two gangly teenagers stood, jaws agape. Richards straightened his suit coat and seemed about to go back to retrieve his posters when Harry spotted them and kicked the tube across the room to him.
"Get this garbage outta here!" he said, then turned and barked at the fighters to get back to work.
Richards picked up the poster tube, looked over at us with a shrug of his shoulders, and headed down the stairs.
"What the devil was that all about?" Frank said.
"I don't know, but Harry just made sure we'll all work hard to find out."
"Well, you can be the one to go dig that out of the trash," Frank said. "No way I'm gonna. Crusty old bastard would probably take a swing at me."
"And trust me," I said. "It would hurt. I've been on the receiving end of a couple of those. He may be old, but he's as fit as anybody in this gym."
Frank stood.
"I'll go talk to him and keep him turned away. You go check out the poster."
"Why don't I go..." I said, but Frank was already halfway across the gym. I waited for him to draw Harry's attention, then walked quickly over to Harry's desk, where the crumpled poster sat in the garbage c
an. I pulled it out and tried quietly to smooth it out enough to read. In the middle of a red field was a picture of a hulking boxer, a mean-looking old pug. Over top in bold black letters it said, HE-MAN CHALLENGE, and below him it said, $25,000 purse to the man who lasts three rounds. I felt like I was tempting fate already, so I crumpled it again and dropped it in the can.
I saw Frank looking over Harry's shoulder at me, so I gave him a thumbs up and then walked over toward the speed bags along one wall. My hands were still taped, so I started tapping at a bag, slowly working up a nice rhythm. Frank wandered over and took the bag next to me. He tilted his head toward me.
"What'd it say?" he asked.
"It's some contest. They're bringing in some big bruiser and, if you can last three rounds with him, you get twenty-five grand," I said.
"Holy smokes! That's a lot of green!" Frank said. "Who's the guy?"
"The poster was too mangled to make out," I said. "Wouldn't worry about it, though. Harry would never go for it. You saw how he gets. Wouldn't even let the guy put the poster up."
"You fighting tomorrow night?"
"Yeah," I said. "I'm on the undercard."
“What'll you make for that?"
"Nothing. I'm still an amateur."
"Exactly. How can Harry deny you the chance to make a living?"
"I'll go pro soon," I said, feeling defensive.
"And then what'll ya make for a fight? Fifty bucks?"
I looked over at Harry, up on the lip of the canvas shouting instructions to two fighters who had jumped in the ring after the bantam hawks finished.
“I made the mistake once of asking him if he'd ever fought in a smoker. Cuffed me on the ear and told me he won’t have anything to do with it. That’s not boxing, it’s a circus,” I said, mimicking Harry’s gruff bark of a voice. “When you’re done being a clown you let me know.”
Frank laughed. “I’ve only been here a couple of times, but I get the feeling Harry has watched a few too many boxing movies.”
“Watch out, he’ll make you go too, and then tell you the next day, This ain’t no movie, it’s real life,” I said.
“Sounds like you’ve had the pleasure,” Frank said.
“Too many times. And he never even buys the popcorn.”
“You two ladies done gossiping?” Harry shouted across the gym. “Why’n ya clear the way for someone who bothered to break a sweat before going down?”
Connie obviously had wound Harry up, and he was going to take it out on every guy in the place until he got it out of his system. I was glad to be done for the day. Frank gestured toward a heavy bag hanging in the corner, while I nodded toward the showers. I didn't want to admit it, but my head was still a bit foggy from his haymaker, so I figured I’d duck out while I could still see straight. I should have been more careful the day before a fight, but maybe Frank knocked loose a few cobwebs and I'd be in better shape come the opening bell.
"Griff!"
It was Harry. He shuffled over, reached up and grabbed me behind the neck, and pulled me close.
"You ready for tomorrow night?"
"Yeah, Harry. Of course."
"That crap from yesterday, it's not—"
"No," I said. "I'm fine.
"All right. Hit the showers."
"On my way," I said. "See you tomorrow."
Harry smacked me lightly on the back of the head and pushed me toward the locker room. I was ready for a nice long, hot shower. Sparring had taken my mind off the money for a bit, but Harry's question brought it right back. I had some thinking to do.
ROUND 6
At work the next day you'd have thought I was an elephant with two trunks. Everyone stared, from the customers to the tellers to Mr. Turner. They tried not to, looking away quickly if I glanced up and made eye contact. It was unnerving, but I couldn't blame them. Tess was right. I was the closest thing Ottumwa had seen to a celebrity in a long time, and I supposed I'd be looking at me too if I wasn't, well, me.
Mr. Turner had protested when I came in, saying I should take as much time as I needed. But I always worked the day of a fight, if only to take my mind off it. I couldn't work out, couldn't spar. And thanks to the robbery, if I was on my own somewhere, I'd just think about the money all day. That would be worse than the staring.
So, there I was in my usual post in the corner, watching everyone while trying not to actually look at any of them as they watched me. Now I knew how the animals in the zoo felt.
Mr. Turner seemed nervous. I wondered if he was afraid of another stickup. I had to admit, the idea had crossed my mind. Once cons know the place can be had, what's to stop them from trying again? Of course, this wasn't a big payday, so anyone who had done their homework would stay away.
Tess seemed distracted. I tried to get her to go to lunch with me, but she said she had promised to eat with Sandy. I had thought things were moving in the right direction, but her willingness to be seen with me the day before appeared to be an exception. I went by myself to the Canteen to get a couple of loose-meat sandwiches and a bag of Hiland potato chips. That was my pre-fight routine, and I never wavered from it. I guessed it was a good thing Tess wasn't here. I usually ate alone on fight day, so maybe she was doing me a favor.
The sandwiches were dripping with grease, which was just the way I like them. I know it's not healthy, but I like having something solid for my gut to work on while I'm fighting. I usually like them with cheese, but I skip it on fight day. Don't want to feel too full.
When I got back to the bank, Mr. Turner had my stool out for me. I usually stood, but I didn't want my feet and legs to get too tired, so he let me sit down a bit on fight days. It was an uneventful afternoon. By the time we closed at five, everyone seemed a little less on edge.
I told everyone goodbye and they all wished me luck. Some of them used to come out to the fights, but only a couple bothered anymore. That was okay with me. I'd rather tell them about it the next day, leaving out any bad blows I took.
I got to the Coliseum about an hour before my scheduled bout. There were six matches on the card, with a crew from a gym in Omaha coming down in two cars to fight a bunch of us from Harry's gym. I was a middleweight, and was matched against a guy who was supposed to be better than his eight and seven record indicated.
I sat in the stands and watched the bantamweight and featherweight fights, which we split with the guys from Omaha. I then went down to the locker room. Harry had to stay in the corner all night, so we helped to tape each other's hands. Frank was down there helping out. He was too new to get a fight, but wanted to be around it. He sat across from me on a bench in front of the lockers and finished running the white tape around my knuckles.
"Feel all right?" he said. He was asking about the tape job, but it made me think about how I felt in general. I was tense, still feeling strange about the robbery and the money stuffed in the heavy bag down at the gym. I knew I needed to put that out of my mind. I figured the first time the guy popped me in the nose would do the trick.
"Yeah, thanks," I said. He pulled the gloves onto my hands and laced them tight. I smacked them together a few times to drive them down onto my fists and then stood and shook myself out.
We heard a roar from the crowd outside, then a minute later, Clete Harris, our lightweight, came bouncing into the locker room, holding his arms aloft.
"I knocked 'im out!" he said, a big smile on his face. He turned to me. "And whatta crowd! Your turn, Griff. Take it to him!"
The other guys slapped Clete on the back in congratulations and then did the same to me to wish me luck. Eddie and Dan, the bantam and feather guys, followed me out to watch my match, leaving Clete and Frank to help our light-heavy and heavyweight to get ready.
When I exited the locker room, I was met by near-deafening cheers and applause. Every seat in the house was filled, and people lined the aisle to the ring, pounding me on the back as I went. Harry was there with a step to help me up through the ropes, then he followed me up and stood i
n front of me. He rubbed some petroleum jelly on my face so punches would slide off.
"Let's get this out of the way now," he said. "These people might think you're some kind of hero. Might cheer for you, make you feel good. But this kid wants to knock your block off, and if you start believing what these people tell ya, he'll have an easy time of it."
I nodded and then listened while he told me about my opponent. I knew everything he was saying, but concentrating on the sound of his voice allowed me to block out the noise of the crowd. It was soothing, something to bring my mind into focus on the fight and nothing else.
"Keep your hands up, kid," he said, rubbing my shoulders. "This guy is quick. When you go to his body, if you let your left drop even a little, he's gonna sneak in there and drill you. Got it?"
I nodded, then kept bobbing my head back and forth to get my neck loose.
"So, he's gonna be constantly watching for you to drop your guard. He keeps his hands low looking for his shot, so you can get a lot of jabs to the head in there. Enough of those, and he'll pull those gloves up. That's when you go hard to the body. All right?"
I nodded again, bouncing up and down on my toes now. I was ready. My opponent climbed into the ring then. I didn't know his name. Didn't want to know. I went inside myself when the ring announcer read our names, always had. Less I know about a guy, the less chance I'll feel anything other than a need to pound him. This one was a couple inches shorter than me, a little stockier. We seemed to be pretty evenly matched.
The referee brought us to the middle of the ring to tell us the rules. I could see the other boxer trying to catch my eye, but I looked down at our feet. It was something Harry taught me. Don't let the guy give you the stink eye and get you worried. Instead, make him frustrated when you won't look him in the eye. That gets him thinking about something other than the fight, and might give you a quick advantage in the first round.
At the bell, I stood in my corner for a couple of seconds, watching my opponent dance to the middle. He expected to meet me there, and seemed confused when I didn't join him. After counting a calm five in my head, I exploded out of the corner, bursting to the middle. Stunned, he took two quick steps back and nearly fell before I could touch him. When I did, it was with a wide-swinging left that connected with the side of his head, left open as he flailed his arms to keep his feet. Everyone in the crowd seemed to leap to their feet at once, yelling and whistling for me. I followed with a right jab to the chin, snapping his head back. He stumbled another step, finding himself against the ropes. I rushed in, working his body. By now, he was in a crouch, his arms pulled tight to his sides and his gloves in front of his face.
