by Jack Tunney
FIGHT CARD:
BRIDGEPORT BRAWLER
ANOTHER TWO-FISTED
FIGHT CARD TALE
JACK TUNNEY
FIGHT CARD: BRIDGEPORT BRAWLER
e-Book Edition – First Published July 2014
Copyright © 2014 Dave White
Cover by David Foster © 2014
This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.
FIGHT CARD:
BRIDGEPORT BRAWLER
ROUND 1
CHICAGO, AUGUST 26, 1953
The Stadium, or the Madhouse on Madison as it had been dubbed, was sure living up to its nickname. I sat in the locker room getting taped up and ready for another title defense. The door was closed, and the lockers lined a long hall of brick and concrete beneath the stands. The noise and banging of feet from the fans made it seem as if I was standing directly under them, as the place actually shook and vibrated like an earthquake. The sound echoing through the place like a fierce thunder storm.
Homer Slade, my trainer, manager, and best friend since growing up at St. Vincent’s Orphanage for Boys was quiet. He was a lot tenser than I had ever seen him before. It was almost eerie, because for as long as I had known Homer, quiet, was not a word you normally associated with him.
I had been the heavyweight champ for a little over a year, and tonight marked the third title defense I was making. I felt great, on top of the world really, but I knew something had been off with Homer for a while now. I tried to tell myself it was just the daily pressures of the fight game, but I was kidding myself. Homer was using again, heroin, opium, it didn’t really matter. I suspected he had been since I first won the crown.
I was one of the youngest to do so – a feat, I was proud of. Me, Patrick, The Hammer, White. The Hammer of course was not chosen by my mother. Father Tim always told me I was something special. Six foot two and two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle by the time I was eighteen.
I had been gifted with size and strength, and a natural agility you couldn’t teach. Father Tim always shook his head in disbelief. The nickname came from the large paws I sported. At least that was what I thought. Homer always said it was because I hit like a twenty pound sledge. He would know.
Homer came to the orphanage, all 4 foot of him, when I was ten. Truth be told, he hadn’t grown much since then. He would barely top five-two. It didn’t matter though, Homer had size where it counted…his heart. At least he used to.
When Homer came to the orphanage I was easily the biggest kid there, having been large even at an early age. Homer introduced himself by attempting to cold cock me. I remember the look on his face after he came off the ground and hit me with everything he had, only to see me smile at him. Homer learned about my fist first hand that day.
Homer looked like an alien when he finally came out of it, half his face swollen and purple. It was the beginning of a binding friendship, even though Father Tim made me run till I puked for hitting Homer.
I was only five when I graced Father Tim’s doorstep. The sad part of it was I caused myself to be an orphan. The memories always stayed with me, haunted me at times. My father had left us that year. I guess six kids and a battle with the bottle had been too much for him.
I never minded him leaving. He was an ass, with a capitol A. Mom was the best though, always doing whatever it took in order to give us whatever she could. We got by. Luckily the place on Parnel, in Bridgeport, a vastly integrated neighborhood in Chicago, had two separate apartments to rent to provide us a small amount of income. Mom couldn’t work, having four young kids in the house to take care of, but she took in washing and mending when she could.
I was a twin, as well as my two other sisters, Eleanor and Elaine, who were three years my senior. My twin was my sister Patricia. So mom was stuck with four kids under the age of ten. We also had two older brothers, Ray and Don, also twins, but fifteen years older.
Ray was an alcoholic, and Don had been killed in a motorcycle accident. I still had his old Indian. I had restored it to its showroom appearance. It was the only thing, other than me and Ray, which survived the fire.
I remember it clearly. I was terrorizing my sister Patricia as she lay in the pull out bed where we slept. She yelled for me to go to sleep, but I wanted to read the new comic book I had.
I sat there with a lighter I had managed to swipe from my brother Ray, the low flame barely bright enough to see under the covers, let alone wake my mom. Patricia kept threatening to get up and tell. I told her to stuff it, I was almost done. I called her a brat and that’s when she slapped me, knocking the lighter from my grasp. I threw back the covers, trying desperately to get the flames out, but it was too late.
I was so focused on trying to put it out, I never noticed Patricia hung up in the sheets. The bed went up like an inferno, engulfed Patricia and quickly the curtains and couch. The house being small and cramped, was a trap for my mom and my sisters. I panicked and ran through the kitchen and out the back door before I ever realized my family was trapped.
The screams brought me to my senses, but by then it was too late. I tried to race back in, but was grabbed firmly in a set of strong arms, which pulled me away from the place, and out into the alley.
I watched in horror as the house quickly became a funeral pyre, never noticing it had been Ray who dragged my away. I had thought he was in bed sleeping, but it turned out he was out getting stoned somewhere.
I guess I should have been happy to have one less death on my conscious, but truth be told, Ray was already dead. He just didn’t know it. Years of drug and alcohol abuse had taken their toll.
I remember Ray dropping me off at the orphanage. I didn’t understand at the time why he couldn’t take care of me? Didn’t he love me? I was his brother.
I hated him for a long time, but eventually realized it was because he loved me that he gave me the best opportunity to survive. Father Tim and the orphanage did the rest. It was father Tim who eventually convinced me to go see Ray when he was dying from the big ‘C’. I made peace with Ray, and with myself.
Homer brought me out of my thoughts by pressing roughly on a shoulder nerve.
I barked at him. “What are ya’ trying to do, take me out of the fight before it even starts?”
Homer was sweating profusely, almost shaken like the grim reaper was hanging over his shoulder.
“What’s the matter with you Homer? You strung out again?”
Homer’s eyes bulged as he started nervously rubbing his hands together so hard I thought the skin was gonna come off.
“Listen, Pat. I got myself into some trouble. I need your help, you’re the only one who can help me right now.”
It was then the anvil dropped on me. A punch so hard to the gut I wasn’t sure I would breathe again.
I knew Homer was using. What I didn’t know was he was in deep with the mob. A guy by the name of Carmen Amello. They didn’t come any more mean and ruthless…well not that I had ever known.
I managed to coax the rest of the story out of Homer, but wished I hadn’t. Homer had promised Carmen a lay down, a dive! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, even as he was spilling it.
“Please, Pat. Just this once, and then we can start over, get ya right back in contention and take the crown back. I didn’t know what else
to do.”
Homer started crying. I felt like joining him, but my tears were tears of anger. I tagged him with a slap to the face sending him over the training table and crashing to the floor. His eyes lit up with fear as I advanced on him, grabbing his collar and yanking him off the grown and staring eye to eye.
“I won’t do it! You hear me? I worked too hard for this, Homer, I earned it. I deserve it!” I flung Homer away with all my might, sending him crashing into the wall, semi-consciousness.
I was fuming as I stood over him, spitting words rather than saying them. It didn’t matter, Homer was oblivious. I sat on the table and tried to think. How could he do this to me? I thought we were the best friends in the world.
I moved to the sink and filled a glass with water. I tossed it on his face bringing him around. I helped him up and sat him on the training table. A couple slaps to the face brought him completely out of it. The fear was still in his eyes as I stared in to them and spoke.
“Homer, this is the last straw, you understand? I will do this to save your miserable life, but afterward, you’re on your own.” Homer’s head sagged, as he meekly nodded. “Now, tape me up, I guess I’m gonna learn how to take a dive!”
ROUND 2
The noise was deafening as we walked down the hall toward the ring. I was a hometown boy made good, and the fans loved it. The previous fights had all been brawls, which had also whipped them into a frenzy. Amazing how the sight of two guys beating each other bloody could stir people up.
The bombshell of what Homer had laid on me had almost made me forget about my opponent. I wasn’t surprised the mob wanted this guy to take me down. He was a fellow Dago named Rocko. Not very original, but the mob was never known for originality, just brutality.
I made my way down the aisle as the announcer finished introducing Rocko to a loud chorus of boos. I was just climbing into the ring when he announced me. “In this corner, wearing green shorts…Patrick The Hammer White!”
He drew out my name loudly and the crowd, which was already raising the roof, erupted in an ear shattering roar – stomping their feet and whooping it up at the top of their lungs. I half expected pieces of the stadium to come raining down from all the thunderous foot stamps.
I raised my hands and moved around in my corner stirring the crowd up even further. I looked across the ring at my opponent. He was as tall as me, but a little thicker around the waist. Too much pasta. I chuckled to myself.
His hair was dark and greasy looking, and the unibrow he sported threatened to overtake the protruding cro-magnum forehead. He looked like he needed a shave, but maybe his five o’clock shadow was just thicker than most. I noticed the slight curl of his lips as I looked into the black like orbs, which somehow pierced the shadows of his eye sockets. His nose was thick and bent to the right a bit, obviously pushed in a few times.
I smiled as the ref called us to the center of the ring. I was smiling at my opponent the whole time, I barely heard the ref’s words. In truth they weren’t much different than all the other refs I had listened to in countless other fights.
It was strange, I was almost giddy…slap-happy maybe. I should have been angry at the world, but somehow something inside just pushed forward and I was okay with everything.
Maybe it was my way of coping with the fact that in order to save Homer, I needed to take a dive to this mook across from me. I couldn’t let it bother me. Homer and I were more like brothers than friends. If taking a dive meant getting him out of trouble, and hopefully off the drugs…well I guessed I was okay with it.
The bell sounded and Rocko and I moved to the center of the ring. Rocko charged ahead throwing some wild arcing jabs I swatted away as I danced around him. He continued the assault, as I avoided all the blows without so much as a glancing shot. I decided to give the crowd a bit of their money’s worth. I was gonna dive, but Rocko was gonna get some pain inflicted upon him before that happened.
I started hammering his forearms and shoulders every time he threw a jab. I watched the shock on his face as the pain registered, the numbing effect was always fun to watch when you pounded an opponent’s arms and shoulders into submission.
Rocko backed off a little, his arms sagging to his sides as he danced around and tried to shake the feeling back into them. I spent the rest of the first round just dancing around him and throwing some meaningless jabs until the bell rang and we headed to our corners.
Homer jumped in the ring with the stool, some water, and a bucket. I took a quick swig and swirled it around my mouth, before purposely missing the bucket and spitting it on Homer’s shirt. I smiled at him, but he didn’t return the favor. I could tell by the sweat on his forehead and the nervous twitching of the mustache that bounced on his upper lip as he spoke.
‘Pat, are you sure you’re gonna throw the fight. I mean if not, I will get out of Dodge now.”
I stood and jokingly jabbed him in the gut.
“Don’t worry, Homer. I’ll take the dive, but not until I’ve have a bit of fun, and my Neanderthal friend over there has taken a little punishment.”
Homer shook his head.
“Hey! I’m doing this because of your screw-up, Homer, not mine. Doing it my way, the crowd gets their money’s worth, and I don’t look like so much of a chump!”
I shoved him away as the bell rang for round two and headed out to the middle.
Rocko was a bit more cautious this time around, he tried to dance around and shoot jabs at me, but he was moving in slow motion. I danced around him like he was standing still, tossing a few half-hearted jabs at him then dancing away like I was avoiding him. He had little foot work and stumbled about like a Mack truck moving down an alley.
It was then that something caught my eye in the audience. It was the mobster Carmen Amello and a few of his goon squad. I caught his eye and he shot me a smile, tipping what looked like a brand spanking new fedora at me. He accomplished all this without ever removing what looked like a fine Cuban from his mouth. I felt a sudden bit of rage forming in me…right up till I saw the large fist hurdling my way.
It was too late to move completely out of the way, but I did manage to deflect a little of the blow, which still nearly took my head off. It was a funny feeling for me. I had never been knocked out before. I’d been sent to the mat once or twice, but this shot had nearly taken me out.
It was a strange feeling, almost numbing in a way. Time seemed to stand still and a ringing bounced around in my head. The mat approached me in a sea of blurred vision, then I kissed it.
I could hear the crowd oohing and gasping, but it was like an echo, a strange and distant echo.
I heard the ref counting, “One…two…three…” He reached eight before I managed to get up. I shook my head, holding my hands out.
The ref grabbed my head and looked into my eyes. “Son, you okay?”
I nodded and he waved for the fight to continue. I spent the rest of the round dancing around trying to clear my head and keep it attached to my neck. I managed to escape any further damage as the round ended and I moved to my corner.
Homer used the sponge to wipe water on my head, allowing it to roll down my body. It felt good, most of my senses had returned, but my head still throbbed. Homer stood in front of me and held up a few fingers as he spoke.
“How many fingers you see, Pat?”
I swatted them away. “Two you idiot, now get out of my way so I can get back in there.”
Homer grabbed the stool, ducked under the ropes, and out of the ring.
I stared across at Rocko who wore a huge grin on his face. I felt a twinge of anger welling up inside of me. I quickly suppressed, deciding me and Rocko were going to have lots of fun before I took my swan dive. He was gonna beat the champ, but he was gonna feel it for months afterward – months. I pounded my gloves together and headed out to the center of the ring.
Rocko almost ran at me, the bloodlust in his eyes as he sought to put me away. He threw jabs and hooks, I blocked, ducked, and danced
around him. He grimaced and chased me around the ring, trying combinations and finally seeking to bull me in to the corner.
I timed it perfectly, planting my foot while pivoting my hips and using his own momentum to toss him into the corner where he had sought to pin me. I stepped in and shot a few left handed jabs toward his face.
He naturally brought his hands up to deflect, so I planted a firm right handed shot into his rib cage, causing his breath and his mouthpiece to fly from his mouth.
I threw a few jabs into his face then stepped back allowing him come off the ropes. He wobbled toward me, his eyes almost rolling about in their sockets. I caught the look on Carmen’s face, the smile no longer glaring at me. The cigar had been removed, an animalistic snarl replacing it.
I winked at him and shot him my flashiest smile. I then turned my attention to Rocko. He had shaken the cobwebs out of his head, but I could see he was holding an elbow against his ribs. I allowed him to come at me again, absorbed a few of his jabs, even allowed him to land a few glancing blows, which I made out to be far harder than they were.
I danced around a bit again, moving away from Rocko like I was trying to clear my head. Truth was I was feeling sick to my stomach. Needing to take a dive to a piece of scum like Rocko was goading. He was worthless and had no business winning the title. I tried to push the thought from my head.
We danced a little more, threw a few more meaningless jabs, and then the bell rang.
I plopped on the stool as if exhausted, letting Homer worked on me while he vented.
“What are you doing, Pat? I understand you not wanting to do this, but I don’t think my heart can take much more.”
I turned toward Homer. I knew I must have looked scary. I always did when I felt the kind of rage coming over me like I felt at that moment. Homer knew as well and wisely backed away from me.
“I get it Homer,” I said in a low growl. “I understand perfectly. You couldn’t keep your nose clean, and now I have to clean your mess up again. But it will be on my terms. You got it? My terms.”
