by Tom Schreck
“Boy, they takin’ care of you, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess-hey, what do I do to get my short-legged Muslim brother to settle down? He’s making me nuts.”
“Shittin’ and pissin’, huh?”
“Actually, I’ve kind of gotten used to that. It’s the crazy running all around the house.”
“Take him tracking. Have him follow someone around or just take a walk without him and leave a hunk of food at the end of your walk. He loves to find where people went.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, it’s what hounds are supposed to do.”
“So pretty much get lost and have him find me?”
“Duff, people been tellin’ you to get lost for years, haven’t they?”
“Yeah-I’ve never done it though.”
“No, Duff, no you haven’t.”
I thanked Jamal and figured, what the hell. I got Al’s leash, flopped his fat ass up on my Eldorado’s passenger seat, and drove him over to TC’s house. TC lived in a cushy suburb of Crawford known as Londonville, which bordered the industrial section, just a couple of miles from AJ’s. On the way over, Al started to whine because I was listening to the sports radio station. I know that whine and it was Al’s way of saying he wanted to hear Elvis sing “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” He was crazy about the tune and there was no use fighting it. If I didn’t throw in the Blue Hawaii eight-track, the whining would get unbearable.
Elvis just got past the “Wise men say…” part when Al settled in, let out a big sigh, and relaxed.
We got to TC’s house and his car wasn’t there, so I figured he wasn’t home, which was actually what I was hoping. I didn’t knock on the door, I just had Al sniff the lawn chair by the garage that TC sits in on those rare occasions that he’s home and not at AJ’s. Al started to sniff all over the chair like it was covered in sardines and then he looked up.
“Go find!” I said, just like Jamal told me to.
Al bolted along TC’s front lawn, nose to the ground like an anteater addicted to cocaine. He continued along the street, pausing at telephone poles and street signs to sniff their bases. Occasionally, he would pause and then run around in a circle like he was creating a whirlpool of scent for his nose. Then, he’d be back on the trail, working his ass off to the point that I had trouble holding on to him. He was definitely into smelling where TC went and he just wouldn’t let it go.
He was almost on a dead run for a half an hour and we covered the distance to AJ’s in no time. We were coming up on AJ’s when he abruptly stopped, squatted, and let go. Nature was taking its course, and Al finished up by proudly kicking gravel over his trophy before sprinting off for TC. In about ten minutes we were at AJ’s front door.
I opened the door up and Al bounded through with such vigor that I lost the hold on his leash. He darted for TC, who was saying something about the fact that when ducks quacked it didn’t echo, and Al went airborne and caught TC right in the nuts. The B amp;B left his hands and covered his shirt while Al started to lick his prey’s face.
“Ughhhhh!.. Duffy-I’m going to get dog-related AIDS…,” TC said.
“There’s our favorite basket hound,” Rocco said. Al was pushing his ample nose into TC’s face, licking and nibbling on TC’s ears.
“Dog likes B amp;B,” Jerry Number One said.
“Rocco-he’s a basset hound. We’ve been over this,” I said.
“That’s right, he’s French,” Jerry Number Two said.
“He’s a frog dog?” Rocco said.
“I didn’t think he could swim. Where do they put the tanks?” Jerry Number One said.
“What the hell are you talking about?” TC said, wiping slobbered B amp;B from his cheek.
“Frog dog-like, you know, like in the Navy. Don’t they use underwater bassoon hounds to sniff out explosives?” Jerry Number One asked.
“He can’t swim. Basset hounds have the densest bones of all dog breeds and they sink,” I said, having watched Animal Planet.
“Shitty frog dogs then, huh?” Jerry Number One said.
“You sure it’s not the weight from the tanks?” Jerry Number Two said.
It was a little early for me to sit and pound a few Schlitzes, so I bid the guys a quick early afternoon farewell and walked Al home. Just as Jamal promised, he was remarkably more subdued. Maybe it was the tracking or maybe it was simply the exertion, but it didn’t matter to me. If it would mellow Al out, I’d take him for synchronized swimming lessons-with or without the tanks.
When we got back to the Blue there was a message from Smitty. Apparently, Jerry Perryman’s license had been suspended and they had to get me a new opponent. The new guy was named Rufus Strife from Oklahoma and his record was even worse than Perryman’s. Like me, Strife was a short-notice guy who would get paid more than Perryman because he was taking the fight on even shorter notice. None of it mattered to me; I knew the guy was coming in to be a stiff.
15
For the first time in my professional boxing career, I was excited about possibilities. Don’t get me wrong, I loved to fight and I got off on the thrill of it, but I never really allowed myself to believe that it was going someplace. This new opportunity wasn’t necessarily for a starring role in the game, but it meant being someone rather than just an opponent.
It’s a weird business. I felt like I stepped on the right Monopoly square, and I have to admit I liked what was happening. I’ve always played the guy who was being sent in for cannon fodder, and now they were finding me a setup. I didn’t feel bad over that-Strife would get his paycheck and go home just like I’ve done lots of times.
I couldn’t remember being in better shape. I wasn’t fooling myself, I knew the NABU was not a real championship, but even marginal titles meant more fights, more TV, and more money. I had been a pro for eight years and getting to wear a championship belt, even a goofy one, was a big deal to me.
The promoter loved the response I got at the Garden from the Irish. In boxing you can become a folk hero if a nationality gets behind you. He was talking about plans for Chicago, Milwaukee, Boston, and even Belfast or Warsaw down the road, maybe not as a headliner but as a co-feature or added attraction that would get the crowd going. It sure beat fighting in front of disinterested crowds who had no idea who you were and cared even less. Irish and Polish fans came out for their countrymen because of their nationalistic pride and because of the fact that the beer was pretty cheap at the fights. That was cool with me.
So it was pretty clear: win this fifth fight and get a chance to fight for a belt. Win the belt and every fight means a bit more money. The fight with Strife at the fair was going to be broadcast on the Gotham Cable Network, which featured weekly TV fights that weren’t what you’d call “world class.” Honestly, a fight card where Duffy Dombrowski is the feature attraction is not exactly world class-not yet anyway.
Fight night came and I was walking on clouds. There were several thousand fans from the area and for the first time ever, Crawford was seeing me as their guy. It felt a little weird but I loved it and it charged me up. I got to the fair a couple of hours before my bout during one of the early prelims and found our makeshift dressing rooms were in the cinder-block building in the center of the fairgrounds.
Smitty wrapped my hands in his usual deliberate fashion, all the while reciting his mantra of fundamentals. They were the same pre-fight things he’s said for the last fourteen years to me and to everyone else he’s trained. It’s not that he’s not creative or doesn’t know the game inside and out-he definitely does. He believes down to his bones that boxing is a matter of doing the right things over and over, every training session, every round and every fight. He, of course, was right.
Strife had the dressing room right next to mine and, unlike a lot of fighters before fights, he was quiet. I saw him briefly at the weigh-in and the pre-fight physicals, and let’s just say, he was less than imposing. Simply put, he was fat, slow moving, and he looked disinterested. These weren’t the characteris
tics of a champion, which was okay by me. If ol’ Rufus wanted to get a payday and go home, that was going to be just fine.
While the preliminaries were going on on the Gotham Network, announcers came into my dressing room to get some comments they could air during our introductions. It was the usual TV shit-actually, who am I kidding? I’ve been on TV a couple of times but never as a feature fighter, so this was hardly usual for me. What was usual were the idiotic questions about my strategy, what the fight meant, et cetera, et cetera. My strategy was to hit the other guy more than he hit me, and the fight meant a chance to make some cash. Of course I didn’t say that, but that was the real deal. The commentator was a guy named Bobby Briggs who had held the middleweight title for a month or so in the ’70s. He was a fighter and a decent guy.
“Duffy, can you tell us what this fight means to you?” Briggs asked.
“It means a chance at a belt but more importantly it means a chance to show my hometown who I am and what I can do,” I said.
“Do you have a game plan to handle Strife?”
“Well, he won’t have to find me-I plan to be right in front of him, pressing the action.”
“Thanks, Duffy. Good luck.” Briggs finished up with me and spoke with the camera guys about some technical stuff before moving on. They left me and I presumed they went over to talk to Rufus, who was still silent in his room. He didn’t even bring a cornerman, instead he was going to use a local guy and pay him fifty bucks from his purse. That wasn’t unheard of, but it was pretty sad even by boxing standards.
Smitty started to have me loosen up with some pad work. Before fights he spent most of the time drilling the recoil again and again to burn it into my mind even more just before I went in the ring. The goal was to get me to break a light sweat before I went in the ring and it was a good strategy. Guys who went in cold and dry often got caught with a punch they weren’t expecting.
Smitty had me take a break and I heard Briggs outside the door arguing with some producer type wearing a head set.
“I don’t care what you say,” Briggs said. “It ain’t right and I ain’t using it.”
“C’mon, Bobby it makes great stuff,” Headset said.
“The fuckin’ guy’s mom dies two days ago and he takes the fight for funeral expenses and you think that’s cool? Fuck you.” Briggs said.
The headset guy walked away with his arms up in the air for maximum dramatic effect. I walked over to Briggs against Smitty’s protest.
“Kid, get your head where it belongs,” Smitty said.
“Hang on,” I said.
I walked up the hallway to find Briggs. I called to him to slow down.
“Hey, Bobby,” I said.
“Yeah, Duff?”
“That shit about Strife’s mom-is that true?”
“Kid,” Briggs said. “It’s not your concern. Go warm up,” he said.
“But-”
“Look, Duff, I got to get to the ring.”
He walked away and I stood there, not sure what to think. I turned just in time for Strife to leave his dressing room to make his ring walk. Handwritten on his terrycloth robe was “For Momma.”
Smitty scolded me back to the dressing room and told me to get my head into the fight. I tried and got ready to walk out to the ring. I felt sick to my stomach, but it wasn’t the usual pre-fight jitters-this was different. I walked out to the strains of Elvis’s opening, the 2001: A Space Odyssey theme, and tried to get ready. The crowd cheered my entrance and I heard them, but it was like I was removed from it at the same time. Something wasn’t right.
In the ring, Strife’s robe was off and it was clear he wasn’t in any kind of shape at all. His gut hung over his trunks and he had “Laney RIP” written on his beltline. The sickness in my stomach grew. The ref brought us together for instructions and Strife looked to the ceiling. Tears trickled down his cheeks, and we touched gloves and went back to our corners. As he turned he said, “Momma, for you.”
I almost threw up.
In the corner, Smitty put my mouthpiece in and told me to concentrate. The bell rang for the start of the fight, and I came out of the corner doing my best to be instinctive. Rufus was fat and didn’t move well. I hit him with the first jab I threw and his knees actually wobbled a bit.
“Move in!” Smitty yelled. “He’s hurt!”
I didn’t move. I threw another jab. Strife wobbled again.
“Move in, God damn it!” Smitty yelled.
I stepped toward Strife but no punches came. He threw a hook that missed and he went off balance. I have no idea who this guy had been fighting, but I couldn’t picture someone losing to him.
My third jab landed on his nose pretty hard and it forced him back to the ropes. This time I did move in, and as I did I heard Strife let out a wail, like an exhausted cry. I tried to go on automatic.
“Finish, Duff, finish strong!” Smitty yelled.
I hit Strife twice to the body, which doubled him over, and then I hooked him to the head with my right and he wobbled into the corner. I loaded up with my straight left to put him out and I threw it hard and straight. He was hurt and there was no way he was going to last, but just when I thought the ref might call it, the bell rang, ending the first round.
Back in my corner, Smitty was furious.
“What the hell are you waiting for? You had him, now take him out!” he said.
Round 2 started and Strife was breathing heavily; he already looked exhausted. I tried not to think and I moved forward. My jab went through his gloves and sent his head back. I followed with a body shot that made him moan and double over. Then, I caught him with an uppercut. I knew the end was near and I threw my straight left.
I never saw it land.
I never felt it land.
Instead, the world went from vertical to horizontal instantly. A light shot through the inside of my head from side to side and there was a loud ringing. Noise sounded different and things looked like they were underwater. I blinked hard four or five times. I was looking at the lighting stanchions above the ring and they made me squint.
I realized I was on one knee and the referee was in front of me. He was in an exaggerated counting stance and the first number I heard was seven.
I went to get up. Nothing happened.
“Eight,” the ref said.
I went to push off my knee and my gloves slipped off.
“Nine.”
I tried again but wobbled backward in an awkward crouch and landed on the seat of my pants.
“Ten.”
The ref was above me waving his hand back and forth. The state doctor was shining a pen light in my eyes, there was a lot of crowd noise, and Smitty was lifting me onto the stool in the middle of the ring.
Across the way, Rufus Strife had fallen to his knees and was crying into his hands.
There were ring announcements, then the interviews, but the announcers spent most of their time with Rufus, who shouted and cried and hugged everyone he could. I congratulated him and he hugged me just before I went to the locker room. My head had cleared and I was fine. I’ve taken harder shots, much harder shots, but when you don’t see it coming, ten seconds isn’t a long time to recover.
The quiet in my dressing room was uncomfortable. Smitty didn’t look at me, Rudy left to get a beer, and I dressed in silence. I showered and dressed as fast as I could because I wanted to get out of there. It felt weird.
As was the tradition, Smitty drove me home after the fight. We were in the car for forty-five minutes before either of us spoke.
“Duff,” Smitty said. “How many years I been training you?”
“Fourteen, Smitty, you know that.”
“In the last fourteen years, you’ve lost a fair number of fights, right?”
“Yep, you know that.”
“In all those fights you lost, when have you ever been knocked out from a shot because you didn’t recoil your left?”
“Never,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” Smitt
y said.
We drove the last twenty minutes in silence, and I felt lousy about ten different ways, most of all because I let Smitty down. You see, winning fights and moving up is moving up for him too. It was a validation of all the work he’s done. And I lost.
He pulled up in front of the Moody Blue.
“Duff, for the last fourteen years, what have I told you after every fight?”
“That win or lose, you’re proud of me.”
“That’s right. I’m proud of you tonight too, Duff.”
“Tonight? You sure? I fought like shit,” I said.
“Yep,” Smitty said.
16
I was drunk by noon.
Legally, AJ’s isn’t supposed to open until noon, but a lot of times AJ will stay open all night for the guys who work the graveyard shift in the cookie factory around the block. At noon, the Foursome started to come in, and I was praying they wouldn’t grill me about my performance.
They had all gone to the fight, as did Kelley and some of the people from the office. It pissed me off-I finally got to a point where I get some hometown attention and I lose in the most embarrassing fashion imaginable. There was a lot on the line, I was fighting a fat, out-of-shape guy with a shit record, and he beats me in front of my hometown crowd. Check that, he knocked me out in front of my hometown crowd.
AJ’s always had the paper and it had a photo of me on the front section of the sports section sprawling to the canvas after I tried to get up. The cute banner above it read, “Dombrowski Falls Back to Palookaville.”
Sweet.
TC and Jerry Number One came in together like they often did. They didn’t come in the same car nor did they call each other, they just wound up always coming through the door at the same time. Less than fifteen minutes later Jerry Number Two arrived, followed by Rocco. They always came in the same order, always spaced by the same amount of time.
I was braced for questions about how it happened or suggestions on how they would have done things differently. I waited for some cockeyed philosophy about how getting knocked out was a good thing followed by a two-hour discussion about the brain science involved in rendering someone unconscious.
