“One-sixty-three.”
“Good. Feel okay? Won’t be for a while. You got plenty of chance to change.” He put his hand on Kelly’s neck and steered him to the locker room. It was a queer sensation, having one’s neck and face handled. Kelly had forgotten since he’d quit boxing, had to accustom himself again.
“Crackers will handle you—you know which he is? Well it don’t matter; he’ll know you.” Straws slapped Kelly’s shoulder. “He’s a bum. I’ll tell you confidentially they’re all bums, every fighter here not counting mine. You look okay. Nice to see an Irish boy still fighting. The fans’ll like that. There’re not many like you—just Irish fans, no Irish fighters. We could bill you as the last one: might go fine. We’ll see, we’ll watch and see. Pea, give this boy my fighting stuff,” he yelled at Peapod, and he took his hand off Kelly’s neck and began making dirty-finger signals at a buddy, flipped a greeting at another. Then he sobered and straightened his sleeves and French shirt cuffs which had gone awry.
The last Irish fighter! Kelly’s spirits sank. It was true: the Irish had gone on to better things; he was a freak. But right now coming to the gym fitted his life so perfectly—he was drawing unemployment and living snugly with a woman. It took so little time, half an afternoon, and a fighter got two thousand clear for network TV, after all the cuts, and being white and Irish would bring breaks because of the fans. He put a cup on underneath his trunks and removed his bridgework, and settled down behind the rings to wait, might be an hour. He sat beside China, who was talking with a friend, a studious-type sax player who came often. China went to his rehearsals. One ring was for boxing. The other was for shadow-boxers and was full. The flashiest show was being provided by a former welter champ, now just another tanker. No ordinary duck walk: a bouncing spring-legged exhibition, hands on hips; he went like a frog. Did standing-up gyrations like a top. But throw a punch and he couldn’t see it, and his legs and lungs went zombie-spongy in the first five rounds. Kelly was older than him, which was why China was encouraging. China still earned a living fighting and didn’t worry about injury and didn’t hate the sport and didn’t always have to fight upstate—New York City fans would watch him. He simply trained gently and then went out and fought his fights to the promoter’s satisfaction. Kelly’s hopes were modest like that. Kelly loafed and wondered who among the twenty guys sitting on the bench he was going to box. Crackers, the trainer, was pointed out to him, a small bowed bug of a man.
The walls of the gym were painted black, but light reflecting off the neighboring buildings through the windows glowed benignly off the floor. Somebody’s speed bag went like an outboard motor. The brown guy in the boxing ring put zing in every punch, dug them in like nails to last a century. All the power from his knees up and neck down wadded to his fist. No matter how far it had traveled he was adding steam to it when it hit. The sparring partner was jarred a good five feet by every punch; whatever he threw in an exchange he had to get off first. He was driven to the ropes and partly through and James DeJesus, owner of the gym, was standing underneath and jumped away like he’d been pinched. A manager next to him though, didn’t, even put a hand up to support the fighter. Jim grabbed his coat and yanked him back.
“Always get away when they’re knocked through like that, let ’em fall! Let ’em hit the floor instead of you, ’cause that’s what they’re liable to do, hit you. God protects ’em.” Jim swung around to tell a larger group. He chuckled with soft sarcasm and grinned obscenely. “God protects ‘em just like he protects the drunks.”
“Easy, Luis,” said a trainer. With each punch Luis’s feet scraped the canvas with a vicious noise and a sharp snatch of air came out of his nose. Accompanying his punching, the two sounds echoed louder than the speed bags’ roar. Now the pair touch-boxed; Luis in order not to hurt, his sparring partner not to make him mad.
Then Luis made gargantuan gargles with the water: mouth as big as the trainer’s hand; his thighs thicker than his buttocks; his calves like shillelaghs shaped of muscle—so much noise and size and vigor that the water seemed still clean when Luis spit it out.
This manager of Kelly’s couldn’t seem to rest. Again he called him, into the middle of a group. Kelly crossed his arms and fixed his face to be polite and calm.
“Where you fought?”
“Where have I fought?” Kelly repeated, looking around at the jury of managers as Straws adjusted his glasses on his nose and squeezed his lips. “Boston more than any place. I fought in Boston Garden and Revere and Chelsea, Worcester. I fought in St. Nick’s here as main event and I fought in your Garden once as last prelim.”
“Who’d you beat?” said Straws. They all watched Kelly when a question was being asked, then looked away as his mouth opened for the answer. He did too, looked down at the backs of his arms.
“Who? Oh, I fought some guys that would sound good. But I didn’t beat them.” He laughed. He didn’t make up stories. It was easiest to tell the truth.
“When was this?” Straws acted like a D. A. when he had a crowd.
“Oh.” Kelly paused to think. “Not so long. Off and on. I’d start and I’d fight and I’d quit. Two years ago was the last.”
“Well, you behave yourself.” Straws tapped Kelly’s cup to make sure it was on. “So what do you think of him, huh?” He put his hand on Kelly’s neck. “You were all asleep, huh? And I got him.”
The other managers shrugged noncommittally.
“Yeah, get in,” DeJesus told two featherweights. He dropped a rock of rosin in a box and crushed it under his shoe and dumped the powder in a corner of the ring, banging the box on the canvas. He strode back to his desk, pausing to bang a window shut he didn’t happen to want open. “I’ll open the windows,” he said grimly, picking his nose. The featherweights toed the rosin while they waited for the timer clock to work around to where they’d start. A trainer climbed onto the apron and gave them their mouthpieces, slicked grease on their cheeks. They went to opposite corners then. One took hold of the ropes and did knee bends, jouncing hard. The other hit his gloves together, readying them, and danced and tapped his head guard up so that it didn’t block his eyes. At the bell they circled to each other so their backs faced away from the corners they’d chosen and their ties to them were cut.
Two styles: One guy hung his left way out loosely at his side and rocked it with anticipation. His right was cocked more normally. He was a lunger. The other put his fists beside his cheeks and close enough to thread a needle and darted forward, back, and forward a few steps with continuous excitement. Of course in the midst of throwing combinations his fists didn’t always return there, but it was how he began and ended. The complication of fighting him came from his nerves. He would choose his spot and brush his nose with his thumb and bump the head guard up from his eyes and start his little frenzied bobbings and the frantic seamstress motions. But when the open-fisted guy waded in to make the fight, the seamstress broke it off, sidled to the side and chose another spot. He wasn’t afraid. He’d slug it out as hotly as the open-fister, but only when his jumpiness was stilled. Or else, another possibility, he’d work to such a climax of nervous and preparatory motions that he’d have to let fly.
Any number of fighters could use the shadow-boxing ring at once, and fast, because the real professionals moved fast. They’d done their rigamaroles a million times and went by rote. They pedaled backwards, caroming off the ropes and zigging in and out between each other; or slowly charged, launched heavy pulverizer uppercuts. Kneeing knees, kicking feet, shoulders shoving, foreheads butting—the ring rocked with a collective rhythm that the spectators could tap to. And there were no collisions. The kids went slow, attempted little, watched where they were going, but more credit went to the professionals. They missed a guy as skillfully as they’d hit him.
“Stay in. Chuck, ‘nother round’ll do it,” a trainer told a fighter who was climbing out. The fighter grunted disagreement. The trainer made a face. “Chuck, you need it.” No success. The t
rainer flopped his head disgustedly and threw the towel at the bench for the boxer to pick up himself.
“Whoa, Bessie!” came a yell. “What do we think we’re doing!” A bulky man in a pin-stripe suit with his tie flying, watch fob hopping, rushed the fighter. “Gettin’ the goddam hell out of the ring before our time is up?” He slapped the fighter twice across the ear and pushed against him, shoulder against chest, forcing him back to the steps to the ring.
“Okay! Yeah, okay,” the fighter said and got back in.
“Hey! Hey!” roared Jim DeJesus. “I don’t want no shoutin in this gym!” He spat and his voice hit the wall in echoes. “If there was a woman and a child up here, what would they think of that shoutin’ you did? Ya bum! Hit him again if you want instead of the shoutin’, but don’t shout, ya sonofabitch! It’s written right in the rules on the wall!” He spat and strode around his desk out of control. “Sonofabitch!” He unzipped his fly and straightened himself and zipped it up again. He muttered comments to surrounding managers and spat again. His eyes swept round the gym and fixed on that one shouting guy as if he had killed women and children wholesale. Jim was scary, yes, but fighters had nothing to fear from him as long as they kept their mouths shut and obeyed the rules. He sometimes even seemed to look on them with favor, when they had been exceptionally quiet. Same thing with trainers, as long as they did what he told them. It was the managers he had his hands full with, unless he joined in with his wolfish grin when they were kidding. Kelly, buried among twenty fighters on the bench, could listen safely. He cushioned his towel behind his head and stretched his legs and laid his arms across his lap. Close his eyes or watch what rounds he wanted to; that was Kelly’s “job.” Not only got him out of the house, it couldn’t be better.
Little half-pint chose himself a spot, brushed his nose with his thumb, went into his hovery knit-needle bit, elbows stuck out almost farther than his gloves, and waited for his man to come. But the other guy was slow; by the time he’d come the place had gotten hot or something for the seamstress and he’d strode away with stretching steps on ballet toes and taken his intent and bobbing pose elsewhere. Twice this happened, and the lunger, the loose-fisted guy who didn’t bother with a guard, was feeling miffed. When he got there this time they mixed it up like so much scrambled cat. The lunger hooked his left up hard to bust the seamstress’ chest. Again he did; again he tried. And down from up beside his cheeks the seamstress brought his gloves and stabbed lefts to the nose.
Kelly paced in order not to stiffen. Couldn’t sit all day. Two tough middleweights squeezed past him with polite excuse-me’s. Both were veterans—one’s face was smashed level like a welder’s hood except for his eyes, which had receded. They were through with the bags and carried their jump ropes, tapping the wooden handles briskly. And then they’d vault and shuffle in the shadow ring. The makeup of that ring would change from people who were starting the training session to people who were finishing. Kelly knew at least he wasn’t boxing either of them. He wondered who, looking around the benches; several middleweights were waiting. He seated himself again and let his eyes half close. Straws was tweaking the chest hair of the trainers he could reach where it stuck out above their undershirts. When they moved away Straws yawned and turned as if to talk and was disappointed: nobody was near. His regular crowd was pushing around and about among them a small Italian-looking guy, also a manager, his face a meager version of DiMaggio’s. They squashed his hat on his head for a joke and pushed him from behind whichever way he went. Kelly wondered how the manager’s fighters felt. Finally they stopped to check their suits for wrinkles. Straws went to one of the groups which had just formed to tell the story. The members fixed their belts and smoothed themselves, their eyes shining from their laughter. They combed their solid-looking, molded hair and tried to coax the pushed one over. Straws opened his belt and tightened his shirt, spat on the wall and took out his nail clippers.
Crackers, Kelly’s trainer, signaled.
“Ready?” Kelly said. Instead of answering Crackers snuggled the head guard over Kelly’s ears and strapped it under his chin. He checked his hand wraps and slid on the gloves and tied them with hard swift tugs; his lips bulged a bit from the exertion but otherwise his face stayed blank. Flashing a finger once down the lacing of each glove and once across the head guard’s strap, he finished with a slight okay sign, and quickly turned away.
“How’s this guy I’m fighting?” Kelly asked.
Crackers half turned and mildly spread his hands to indicate a shrug. He wasn’t far enough around to look at Kelly, but he made the effort of partly turning. Likewise, his mouth opened: didn’t say a word but opened partly.
“Which is he?”
Crackers angled with a thumb. The fighter was being laced: Kelly’s weight, all right, little taller, but a good physique, light coffee skin. He wasn’t a name. Looked tough, but who didn’t? His trainer was drilling him some: small gestures and murmured words, working him like a machine. In the ring now was a fight of reelings and thumps; you wouldn’t hear too many of them before a man went down. One man was fishing for the other’s head and trying to keep from getting cut in half. He landed painfully on the other’s eye and suddenly had no worries for his middle. A thicket of defensive whistling stuff was put in front of that eye. He should have changed his target then, but didn’t.
Two cutiepants had the ring for a round. Always popping their hands against each other and making adjustments of target before they’d trouble to throw a punch; and little downward conversational sorts of glove movements like a couple of deaf-and-dumbs. And any time a punch missed, the other guy, instead of counterpunching, was sure to stop and catch the arm and make it continue its course until the thrower had been spun around, just for the fun. As Kelly watched, one cutie sent the other head-first into the ropes with a glove on his elbow and a motion like helping a lady board a bus. Kelly was experienced enough to know the tricks, but it was just hard on the legs and a nuisance, always being fuddled and spun and adjusted and having to cover yourself from punches from the rear. Revenge or maddening a guy was the best you could do with them. He walked beside the benches unkinking his arms. His opponent had started shadow-boxing, one hand fronting for the other like a bag. Kelly and he exchanged nods when they passed. Kelly remembered seeing him on previous days, but not how he’d fought, which was frustrating. Santos was his name.
They were side by side now in the ring, toeing rosin, holding to the rope. They walked again, with longer lunging steps and stamping as if crushing bugs. “Lemme see,” Crackers called. He rubbed the grease on Kelly and handed up a mouthpiece. Kelly crossed himself because it would be foolish not to. The bell rang and they shuffled to each other, shoved their gloves out wary and wide to touch in courtesy, and cook up their stances. Each kept his punches under wraps at first. Kelly was a stand-up fighter who cocked his hands for slugging, not to guard. Santos was a picture fighter, doing everything correctly, and he crouched. He looked impressive. He looked good.
Santos fought by the numbers: left jab and so forth. Kelly’d hook to the ribs to counter his lead—block it with the right hand, which he’d have to bring up, and instantly hook with the left. When the guy started catching those on his elbow Kelly countered instead with a looping right slammed over Santos’ left hand as it came—didn’t pause to try to slip it, took the punch to give one. The looping right was ticklish, positioned like that, but even if it hit his shoulder its power gave the guy a scare. He’d want a defense and was unprotected on that side. So Santos began throwing flurries, which meant Kelly had a chance to turn straight on and slug: Santos would stay there. And Kelly got to Santos, kept his flurries short. The guy had one of the best physiques in the gym, but his punch somehow didn’t come up to what was promised. Kelly, as Straws had thought, threw heavy leather, but in a rudimentary, stand-up-fight-me, stoic style, and he was slowed down by being out of shape and old. To match Santos’ flash, Kelly tried to punish, using single punches; this was his defe
nse. His savvy partly equalized the difference, but he couldn’t string together combinations the way Santos could—a lead with a cross with a hook with a hook with a cross with an uppercut to the face. However, Santos had no bite, and didn’t look like he was going to grow it either, being already grown. Kelly: let him whang you to the gut a time or two with both his hands and he would bleed you, or at least that’s how he’d been. Santos moused from lower ones, bending down, and brought his elbows to his belly. He headhunted, Santos did. Kelly roundhoused rights like swinging a bucket at the head, to please the guy, but Santos would move back. Hadn’t tagged him yet, and Kelly felt the patter of his fists against his face—Santos must get mad, to land so many punches without hurting, although he was scoring points. Kelly did the coming in. Santos flaunted foot speed: let him flaunt it backwards.
At the bell they tapped each other friendly on the head and Kelly went to Crackers for regreasing and to have his mouthpiece washed. “Doin’ pretty well,” said Crackers. Kelly paced as soon as Crackers let him, too stirred up to stop for long. Felt like old times—and he remembered he’d been good—everything came naturally. He didn’t sucker for this joker and he punched regardless. Many of the managers were watching—oh, not with worship on their faces; he could imagine the usual “Bum” being passed around; but watching, still. The paying fans who were here might clap a little at the end. They sometimes did. Kelly was looking fine, even against a hit-and-run like this. Well, he was better than a hit-and-hold; Kelly wasn’t yet so old that he’d prefer a lover. And, to give Santos credit, he winged his left in well.
He likes to run: we’ll run him in the ropes, Kelly thought when they began again. Santos was hard to trap. Once he dodged so it was Kelly went against the ropes, and Santos figured that he had him then and rushed till Kelly frightened him by lolling there, arms spread. Kelly grinned insultingly, but couldn’t draw poor Santos close enough to slug. Yes, next time he did, and Kelly nailed him on the bottom rib and got a groan. He was the opposite of frail, but surely hated to be hit. He jumped up on his bicycle again and pedaled back, Kelly after him.
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