by Jack Tunney
If it even got that far.
“Move!” Frankie yelled. “Stick and move!”
I straightened Krupa with a right then popped in two hooks to the head at the bell.
Between the second and third round Krupa’s corner men cleaned his face and tried desperately to control the bleeding but nothing worked. His nose was ready to burst. He had a huge mouse under his right eye that had changed from red to purple and was slowly blackening.
At the start of the third, Krupa charged across the ring and tried taking control of the fight. It was slipping away and he knew it. He used heavy rights and elbows whenever we got close, pushing me into the ropes where he could bang away at my midsection. I fought my way off the ropes with strong jabs and quick rights that took the sting out of his punches. He was starting to tire – his breath got heavy and he labored to suck in deep mouthfuls of air. I slipped two lefts between his gloves then found his ribs with my right, banging the punch into his ribs before bringing an uppercut between his gloves and tagging his chin.
Krupa wobbled, just a little, but it was enough.
The crowd jumped to their feet and I pressed forward, pounding my fists into his arms. Krupa’s arms slipped farther from his face and closer to his waist as he tired against my assault. He kept dropping his right hand and my punches found their mark.
One of my jabs opened another cut below Krupa’s right eye, drawing more blood - that mouse had swollen so badly he could barely see. Whenever he jerked his head away from the punches blood splattered me and sprayed the people in the front row, and I could sense an end coming soon.
The crowd could feel it too. There was a surge of excitement and anticipation rippling through the arena.
“Move in there!” Frankie hollered. “Hook off that jab and get inside those punches!”
Near the end of the round, I caught him with a short right to the side of the head – I put my whole body behind the punch and it staggered Krupa in the center of the ring. It was a sweet shot. The kind I would remember for a long time and the kind that would bring a smile when I talked about it later. Krupa’s movements slowed as he turned away, right into a tremendous left-right combination that dropped him to one knee.
The referee chased me to a neutral corner then picked up the ten count as Krupa struggled to his feet and tried shaking away the cobwebs with a loopy grin.
I knew I had him beat. There was no question now about who would win.
The only question was how much longer the fight would go on.
Krupa lurched forward and took an unsteady step with one hand still clutching the ropes to brace himself and the other waving away the referee.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Ain’t no problem.”
I moved after him, ripping punches through his gloves. By the end of the third his face was a bloody mess, with another cut under his left eye and one across the bridge of his nose. The mouse under his right eye had swollen to epic proportions. I buried a fist in his midsection that was so hard it forced the air from his lungs and left him gasping for breath. Two quick jabs and another right spun him around.
At the bell Krupa was reeling helplessly off the ropes.
“Tell me when you’ve had enough,” I muttered as we passed in the center of the ring.
This time Krupa went back to his corner without saying a word.
“This is the round,” Frankie said.
Across the ring Krupa was guided to his stool, almost out on his feet. He left a trail of blood on the canvas, and more puddled at his feet in the corner. “This guy’s taking a walk on Queer Street,” Frankie said. “You got to put him away.”
I nodded as Frankie wiped the blood off my gloves.
“Don’t let the ref stop it,” Frankie said. “You end it. Knock him out.”
At the bell, I bounced out of the corner, hammering Krupa with both hands and reopening the cuts his corner had worked so hard to close only moments earlier. Blood sprayed the ring again. Krupa stuck both gloves in my chest and pushed me backwards, then slammed that damn left to my ribs and a right to the side of my head.
It caught me off-guard for a moment and I felt the pain ripple through my breadbasket. But I shrugged off the two shots and regained my composure, peppering Krupa’s face with a fast flurry of lefts and rights. A short hook to the midsection hurt him again and a right to the chin staggered him. For a moment Krupa looked like he was ready to drop, but he sucked up his courage and managed to stay on his feet. For a guy who had been around he had whiskers – he could take a big shot but stay on his feet. He tried a weak jab. I blocked and countered with four quick jabs to his head.
He retreated to his corner, but I followed, landing sharp rights and lefts that he was powerless to stop. His arms dropped, hanging at his sides as blood gushed from the cuts, streaming down his face and chest and pooling on his chest hairs. It looked like one of those horror movies from the Saturday afternoon double-feature at the Bijou. The blood that splattered me started to dry, and the hairs on my arms tightened and stiffened under the bright overhead lights. Krupa was finished. He could barely raise his hands to defend himself or even slow down my punches as I nailed his nose with a right cross.
Like everyone else in the arena, Big Jake Krupa knew it was over.
The will and spirit to fight left him.
Something that looked like resignation crossed his expression. I could see it in his eyes.
Looking pathetic and sad, he sagged against the corner ropes. Defeated and beaten. The ropes were the only things keeping him on his feet. I squared my shoulders and pulled back my right, ready to slam it on his chin again. Krupa could only stare helplessly and wait for the punch that he knew was coming - the one that would end his night and send him back to Western Pennsylvania. But in those last few seconds I remembered those other lessons I had learned from Father Tim – the ones about compassion for your opponent.
Letting a guy walk away with a little bit of dignity and honor, even when he didn’t deserve it.
That it took a man to show mercy when everyone else wanted blood.
I heard Father Tim’s voice in my ear and wondered what he would say if I unloaded that final punch on Krupa. Ten years since the last time I saw Father Tim and I was still worried about what he thought.
I took a step back and turned to the referee. “It’s over,” I said.
The ref looked at me with a weird expression. Like everyone else, he was waiting for the knockout punch that would finally drop Krupa. But when he looked at Krupa – really looked at him - he saw how helpless and vulnerable Big Jake was as he leaned against the ropes.
The referee turned back to me and nodded. He stepped between us and put a hand under Krupa’s armpits to hold him up, and with the other hand signaled the time keeper to ring the bell. The crowd went wild.
I heard later it took over thirty-five stitches to close all the cuts on Krupa’s face – if nothing else, by the time his career ended his face would look like a road map with all the scars and lines zigzagging across the skin, and Big Jake Krupa would keep ring doctors busy in every town where he fought.
“You ain’t stopping this fight,” Krupa said. “I still got a couple of rounds left.”
His corner men rushed towards the ring, taking up his cause. “Let him finish the round,” his corner yelled.
Krupa nodded his head and begged, “Give me another round.”
“I got that coming to me,” he said although there was no emotion in his voice – just resignation. “At least another round.”
The referee shook his head.
He helped Krupa stagger back to his corner where he dropped onto the stool and let his chin fall to his chest. He closed his eyes as his corner poured water on his head and wrapped a towel around his shoulders. The referee checked to make sure he was okay, then came to me, wiping his hands on his pants and trying to clean away the blood before it dried.
He raised my arm in victory.
Frankie put his arm around me in
the center of the ring. “Thought I told you to put him away?”
I shrugged. “Had him beat,” I said with a smile. “What’s the difference? A win’s a win.”
Frankie just shook his head. “You ain’t never gonna get to the top if you can’t finish a guy off when you have the chance,” he said. "That’s the thing that’s gonna get you noticed.”
I kept smiling. “Didn’t see Sugar Ray in the crowd tonight,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting him to come up here and offer me a shot at the title.”
“Something like that never happens.”
