by Jack Tunney
It sounded silly to me, but I didn’t want to be rude. “Makes sense,” I said instead.
“All right, Tommy, Frank, you’re up first,” Father Tim said. The two boys shouted a cheer and ran toward the lockers where boxing gloves hung. With some help from their friends, the boys laced up their gloves, popped in a mouthpiece, and bounced around to loosen up after a hard day cleaning in the church.
“How do you fight with those on?” I asked.
“It’s not as difficult as you might think,” Father Tim told me. “Like everything else, it takes some getting used to, but once you learn how, it’s pretty easy. Didn’t they use gloves back where you’re from?”
“No.”
“Ooh, bare knuckle, huh? Impressive.”
“I guess.”
We watched as the boys took turns squaring off inside the ring. The fights were civil in comparison to what I’d witnessed back in Claytonville. There was no drive, no desire to put down the boy who stood opposite them. They knew how to stand, how to duck and weave, but to me they didn’t know strategy. I suppose Old Man Winters must have looked at me the way I looked upon these boys.
Father Tim noticed.
“You want to give it a go?” he asked, as a match ended.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Hey, Tyler,” the priest called out. “Sit this one out, okay? Let’s let Bones have a try.”
“Sure thing, Father,” the boy named Tyler said as he pulled a pair of gloves from the shelf and handed them to me. “You need help with these?” he asked me.
I was a stubborn teenager who trusted no one. Admitting I didn’t know something was not easy, especially with total strangers. Father Tim must have noticed that also.
“Why don’t you show him how to put those on,” he told Tyler.
“You got it, Father,” Tyler said and went to work.
“There’s no shame in asking for help, Bones,” Father Tim said. “Or in accepting it when it’s offered.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“Don’t mention it. Get on in there and show us what you’ve got.”
As I climbed in the ring, I could feel my pulse quicken. What these guys called boxing might not have been as brutal or exciting as the fights behind Mr. Jenkins’ barn, but I couldn’t deny the rush I felt inside those ropes.
The boy across from me was named Kenny. He was a big guy, a real rough and tumble sort, from what I’d heard about him since I arrived. Kenny was one of Father Tim’s special projects, a bad kid who he thought he could turn around and help fly right.
In a way, I guess I was also one of his special projects because, if I kept going the way I was, I would be just like Kenny. All I knew was Kenny rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn’t explain why, but I didn’t like him so the thought of knocking the smug smile off his face spurred me on.
The bell rang and Kenny made the first move. One of the first things Old Man Winters taught me was to let the other guy take the first swing. “You can size a man up by his first move,” he used to tell me. He was right. Kenny was unfocused, off balance. He relied too much on his size and reputation as a tough guy. It made him cocky, careless.
I landed an uppercut to his gut after easily sidestepping his clumsy attack. He dropped to his knees, gasping for air as I bounced back to my corner.
To his credit, Kenny recovered quickly and was back on his feet in no time. That cocksure grin was still firmly in place, but he was more cautious now. I had him worried, but letting him rebuild his confidence was not part of the plan. I moved in quickly, feinted right, then cut left when he fell for it. I brought my gloved fist around fast and slammed it into his jaw.
Kenny was staggered, but didn’t fall.
“Come on,” I taunted.
He did not disappoint. His eyes wide with anger, Kenny charged.
It was only then I realized my miscalculation. Unable to avoid him, I tensed just as he slammed into me. We fell until my back bounced off the taut rope. Kenny landed blow after blow to my stomach until I wanted to vomit. I heard Father Tim shout something, his voice drowned out by the screaming of the boys enjoying the fight from the sidelines.
I swung wild, felt my fist connect with something meaty and Kenny loosened his grip. I swung again and missed. The next swing caught him on the shoulder, knocking Kenny off balance.
“Stop this,” Father Tim shouted, but neither Kenny or I were listening.
He was staggered, but still standing. If not for the rope he held onto he would have hit the mat already.
I moved in, cocked back, ready to deliver the knockout blow.
My arm froze, unable to move.
I looked to the see Father Tim holding tightly to my arm. He had a grip like a vice.
“I said stop,” he repeated, his voice hard as steel and his eyes to match as he stared right through me. “This match is done.”
I said nothing, simply looked at him, my anger building.
“Am I understood?” he said.
Like a switch, the anger cooled. I relaxed and stopped straining against him. “Understood,” I said and turned to walk away from Kenny, pulling off my gloves. That was a mistake. I heard someone shout a warning, but it was too late. I turned just in time to see Kenny’s gloved fist coming straight toward my face.
The lights went out.
ROUND SEVEN
Kenny left St. Vincent’s that night.
After a stern lecture with Father Tim, which ended with Kenny shouting at the priest, the angry youth stormed out, slamming the door behind him. It was nearly three months before I saw him again.
It had been a long, brutal winter. Spring was only a few short weeks away, but the brisk Chicago winter was holding on for all it was worth. In the three months I had been at St. Vincent’s I became a changed man. I had just celebrated a birthday, my third without Mama around to share it with me. That had been rough, but not as rough as Christmas had been. I used to love Christmas, but now all it did was remind me God had taken my mama from me. Father Tim and I had many long talks on the subject. I know he meant well, but nothing he said made me feel better about her being gone.
Father Tim had coaxed me into taking classes in English and Math as well as Bible study daily along with all of the little lost sheep the church had rescued. Boys came and went, some of their own accord and other, those rare few who could not abide by the simple rules Father Tim had put in place. If I were a betting man, I would have put odds on me being one of those who wouldn’t fit in.
I would have lost big on that bet.
In the intervening months, I learned a lot about hard work and humility. Father Tim reminded me a lot of Old Man Winters in the way he treated people. Father Tim was a good man, but he had a fiery temper I had witnessed a few times.
He knew how to control his anger, though. It took a lot to push his buttons, but when he reached his limit you knew it. It had taken me some time, but I was learning how to reign in my anger as well. It wasn’t easy and my fuse was much shorter than Father Tim’s, but I was working on it. Thankfully, most of the boys at St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys accepted me and we got along well. That helped.
Father Tim had been a real blessing. Not only did he help me with school and with learning to respect myself and others, he helped me learn how to box properly. The lessons Old Man Winters taught me were a good start. I knew how to fight and how to defend myself. It was Father Tim who showed me fighting and boxing were not always the same thing.
Before he became a priest, Father Tim had been a rough and tumble kid himself. I recognized the type. Someone had done for him what he was trying to do for all of the boys living at St. Vincent’s.
“Boxing saved my life,” he told us once, while we were sitting around the gym after a lesson. “When you’re inside this square circle you learn a lot about yourself,” he said. “The biggest enemy you face in there is yourself.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The man fighting from me might disagree with you.”
It was that same day I learned Father Tim had not only boxed Golden Gloves, but he had also won. In his youth, he had fought as Tornado Tim Brophy. That was before he became Father Tim Brophy, the battling priest, of course.
It sometimes took a bit of prodding for us to get him to tell us stories from his days boxing Golden Gloves, but once he started, Father Tim could go on for hours about his time as Tornado Tim. We loved hearing the stories, even if we had heard them before.
It was late February when Kenny came back.
I was sweeping off the steps and the sidewalk out in front of St. Vincent’s, one of my chores for the day. I hardly recognized Kenny when he came up to me on the sidewalk. His time away had not been kind to him. His skin was pale, save for the long crimson scar running down the left side of his face. Obviously, he’d run into someone nastier than himself.
Kenny wasn’t alone. He had a gang of boys with him, four in all, and each of them was armed. I could see the bulges beneath their coats. From the looks of them, it was clear they weren’t there for old times sake.
“Kenny,” I said by way of greeting.
“You still here?” he growled. “I would have figured you for a short timer.”
“Yeah. Me too. Maybe I’m just too slow for my own good.” I smiled at my attempt at humor. I really didn’t want any trouble, not on the steps of St. Vincent’s. “What do you want?” I asked.
“I came to see Father Tim,” Kenny said. “He inside?”
“He is,” I said. “What do you want with Father Tim?”
“That’s between me and him, punk,” Kenny snarled. “You tell him I’m here.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. It was clear he wasn’t looking to have a nice, pleasant conversation with my favorite man of the cloth and I wasn’t about to see Father Tim get hurt.
“What did you say to me?” Kenny bellowed.
“Go away, Kenny,” I said, trying to stay calm.
He pushed against my shoulder, but I refused to move. Father Tim frowned upon us fighting outside of the boxing ring, but I’d be damned if I was going to let some two-bit hood like Kenny hurt him, so I pushed back.
For Kenny, that was all the excuse he needed to escalate things. He swung at me, his big beefy fist like a battering ram. I backpedaled out of the way. The punch missed, but not by much. He was faster than I remembered. I still had the broom and I swung it with all my might, popping Kenny on the side of the knee. He howled in pain, but didn’t go down. Using the broom again, I sliced his leg out from under him and he dropped to the sidewalk.
His friends leapt to Kenny’s defense, taking me as a group. I fought the best I could, but the odds were against me. It wasn’t the first time I’d faced such odds. For a moment, I was the same little scrawny kid in Claytonville, ol’ Barefoot Bones, being picked on by Bobby Jackson and his friends. Suddenly, those old angers, old fears resurfaced.
I lashed out wildly, catching one of them in the face. I heard bone snap and blood poured from his broken nose. That distracted his friends long enough for me to land at least one blow against each of them and get away.
Regrouping, but no longer as cocky as they had been before, Kenny and his friends circled me. This was not going to end well, I decided.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
All eyes turned toward the church entrance as Father Tim came out onto the stoop. His friend, Officer Warren was a step behind him, a hand resting on the sidearm strapped to his hip. Neither man was very happy.
“I asked a question,” Father Tim demanded.
“Father Tim,” I started, but Kenny interrupted.
“Surprised to see me, old man?”
“Not really, Kenny,” Father Tim said. “I expected you back months ago. What can I do for you?”
Tears ran down Kenny’s face as he shouted a string of obscenities toward the priest. Whatever had happened to Kenny after storming out of St. Vincent’s had not been pleasant. Kenny was a loudmouth before, but now he was dangerous. When he pulled the gun from inside his coat and pointed it toward Father Tim, I was already moving without even being fully aware of it.
I still had the broom and I slammed it into his fist, knocking the gun from his grip. It hit the concrete, bounced, and settled in the snow. There was a part of me that knew I should have stopped there, but there was the other part, the one that spoke with Old Man Winters’ voice. It said Kenny was a threat and threats had to be eliminated.
The rest of it was a blur. I remember throwing a punch and shouting, but not much else. By the time Father Tim pulled me off of him, I had beaten Kenny to a bloody pulp. He wasn’t moving.
Kenny’s friends decided they’d had enough and ran off. Officer Warren called after them to stop, but they weren’t listening. He knelt next to Kenny and felt for a pulse. “Someone call a doctor,” he shouted and one of the alter boys ran inside to do just that.
“H–how is he?” I asked.
“You could have killed him, kid!” Warren shouted. “I knew you were trouble just waiting to happen!”
“Now, Bill, there’s no call for that. Bones was just trying to defend ...” Father Tim started, but the cop cut him off.
“You can’t see past that blind spot you’ve got for these no good kids, Tim,” Warren said, pointing an accusing finger my way. “You don’t even know his name, do you? Bones, right? If he really trusted you, he would have told you his real name by now, wouldn’t he?”
“I’m…” I started, but my voice caught in my throat. Officer Warren was right. He was an ass, but he wasn’t wrong about me. I had only been kidding myself thinking I could make St. Vincent’s my home.
“I’m taking you in, kid,” Officer Warren said, fishing a set of handcuffs out of his pants pocket.
“Bill, don’t,” Father Tim pleaded.
“It’s the right thing to do, Tim. You know it. Please step aside,” Warren said.
When Father Tim stepped aside as he had been asked, I felt my world drop out from beneath me. He had promised I would be safe there. I had heard horror stories about jail. There was no way I was going to let Officer Warren lock me up.
I panicked and pushed him away once he was close enough. The fat cop hit the ground hard, cursing all the way down. Father Tim reached down to help him up. I knew that was my only chance.
I ran and didn’t stop until Chicago was just a memory.
Once again I was on my own.
ROUND EIGHT
Uijeongbu, Korea
Spring, 1951
I thought I knew what heat was.
Then I stepped off the plane in Korea.
Before the draft I’d never even heard of Korea, much less knew anything about the politics and beliefs that led to the bloody civil war.
All I knew was what they told us during basic training, which consisted mostly of saying the South Koreans needed our help and we had to stop the evil North Koreans. I wasn’t really sure of the whys, but I think the Army preferred it that way. I just went where they told me and did as I was instructed.
After my fight with Kenny in Chicago I ran for a long time. Even though it had been eight years since leaving St. Vincent’s I had not once returned to Chicago. I’d certainly thought about it a few dozen times, but I was afraid. I didn’t want to face Father Tim’s disapproving stare. How disappointed he must have been in me.
I finally settled in Maine where I worked a farm. It was as far as I had ever been from Claytonville, Georgia, another place I to which I had never returned, but missed desperately. One day, I planned to return to Mama’s house. Or so I told myself. Yet, I kept running in the opposite direction. I was happy in Maine. I probably could have stayed there the rest of my life.
Then I g
ot drafted and ended up in Korea, half a world away from everything I had ever known.
On orders from the lieutenant who greeted us when me and the other new arrivals got off the bus, we fell into formation and waited for the camp’s C.O. to come out to meet us and get our bunk assignments.
A few minutes later, Colonel Thomas Kellan walked our way. He was reading reports off of a clipboard before furiously scribbling his name at the bottom of each. By the time he stood in front of us, he had already passed the clipboard back to his clerk, a man I would soon come to know as Pinball Mitchell.
“Welcome to Korea, gentlemen,” the colonel said. “I’m the commanding officer of this camp, Colonel Kellan. I believe in treating everyone under my command fairly. That means, if you do your jobs and don’t start any trouble then we will get along just fine. Am I understood?”
A chorus of “yes, sirs” came back at him.
“Good.” He motioned toward his clerk. “Corporal Mitchell here has your bunk and duty assignments. He will get you squared away, but first, is there anyone here from the great state of Georgia?”
I looked around. No hands went in the air. Whatever the C.O. had in mind, it looked like it was going to be on me. I raised my hand. “Yes, sir,” I said. “I am, sir.”
The colonel chucked a thumb in the direction of a bank overlooking a small lake. “Park it over there for now, soldier. I’ll send someone to collect you shortly.”
To say I was confused would have been an understatement, but I said, “yes, sir,” as my training instructed and, with my duffel draped over my shoulder, headed off to sit by the lake. By the time someone came to collect me, I had fallen asleep on the grass, my duffel acting as a pillow beneath my head.
“Corporal Mason, Colonel Kellan would like to see you in his office now,” the company clerk informed me.
“Thanks, Corporal…?”
