One Good Punch

by Rich Wallace

  “Sure. Stuff has meaning,” I say. “Believe me. You know these obituaries I write? You talk to the families, and it’s always something simple that they remember most about the one who died. Their cookbooks or their bottle collection or the scarves they knitted for their grandchildren.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “that’s what I mean. We got shit in the attic here—my old man’s army medals, his old man’s tools, my grandmother’s buttons and sewing needles. I could never throw that stuff away. Haven’t even looked at it in years…. I ought to.”

  He sits back on the couch and burps. “Scuse me,” he says. “You hungry? The wife’s at some church thing, and God knows where Joey’s at. I got a stew cooking.”

  “Yeah, I can smell it. Smells good.”

  “I tell ya, I got this nice lean pork, browned it up in olive oil, threw in a bunch of spices…nothing hot, just parsley and garlic and something else—black pepper—and it’s been simmering for about three hours. The key is a bottle of beer—domestic stuff. If you use Heineken or Molson or something imported like that, it gets sour. I use Stegmaier; they brew it right over in Wilkes-Barre, you know. Anyway, you simmer that all together, and my God—you can smell it, can’t ya?”

  “Yeah. It’s ready?”

  “It’s ready. Oh, and a little can of tomato paste. You’ll see.”

  He goes back to the kitchen. I get the impression that he doesn’t work much. He always seems to be on call to do some sort of labor, but the calls don’t come in very often.

  I figure Mrs. Onager is out at some bar. It’s after ten; I don’t see any church events going on this late. Maybe Mr. Onager is lonely. He sure seems glad to have company.

  He comes in with two bowls of the stew and hands one to me. “Joey should be eating this,” he says. “He’s out every friggin’ night.”

  I dig into the stew, which is fantastic.

  “I can be a prick,” he says, acknowledging, I suppose, why his son and wife are missing. He laughs. “So how are you?”

  I don’t even hesitate. “I’m in trouble.”

  “Aren’t we always? Hey, you want bread?”

  “Yeah. Why not.”

  “I got some great bread.” He moves some of the postcards and stuff and sets his bowl on the coffee table, then quickly gets a couple of hunks of sourdough bread for us.

  “Sop up that gravy,” he says. “It’s the best part.”

  He clicks on the TV and switches to one of the sports channels, where two obscure middleweights are boxing. “You a fight fan?” he asks.

  “Sure. I watch some.”

  “Idiots beating each other’s brains out,” he says with a laugh. He looks over at me. “Firsthand experience. I know.”

  “You fought?”

  “Right here in Scranton mostly. I won a few fights. Long time ago.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You fight anybody good?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. We were all bums.”

  His face brightens. “Tell you what, though. I ran into Muhammad Ali once in New York. In an elevator at Madison Square Garden. Larger than life.

  “Funny, bright. The guy just glowed. I was in his presence for what, maybe eighteen seconds? But I never forgot that feeling. The guy was the greatest. So quick. Brilliant in the ring. I saw him fight in person once…. Never been another one like him. He stayed true to his heart, you know what I mean?”

  “I guess. Yeah…. So why’d you stop?”

  “Ah,” he says, giving a wave of his hand. “I had maybe ten fights. Eleven, actually. I won five times and had two draws. I only got knocked out that one time. My last fight. I didn’t know it was going to be my last fight, but it was.”

  He takes a bite of the gravy-soaked bread and continues talking with his mouth full. “Six-round fight. We’re in the fifth. Pretty close. I take a right hand to the temple so friggin’ hard you wouldn’t believe it.”

  He swallows and wipes some crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was only out for maybe five seconds, but that was it. It screwed my brain. After, I’m sitting in the locker room, and I can’t stop crying. I don’t even know why. I’m not sad about losing the fight or nothing; it ain’t that. I’m just shook up. Like I just faced death, maybe. I cried for an hour and a half.

  “Anyway, I didn’t think I was quitting. I went back to the gym to train, but I never had the desire anymore. I recovered physically from the knockout, don’t get me wrong, but I never recovered as an athlete, you get me? I took that one good punch, and it finished me.”

  He leans back and smiles.

  “Amazing,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Omar Medina,” he says. “That was the guy’s name. From Harrisburg…. I’ve never hit a living soulsince.

  “Anyway,” he says, scraping some pork from his front teeth with his fingernail, “what’s the trouble you mentioned?”

  “Just some shit at school,” I say. “I, uh, did some stuff. Kind of illegal.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it. That just means that we all do things we regret.

  We sit quietly for a minute, me thinking about my trouble and him thinking who knows what.

  He jabs a finger into the air toward me, and his eyes get wider, as if he’s got a big idea to share. “Onions,” he says. “I didn’t mention them. You should brown some chopped onions with the meat. You have to. It makes the stew.”

  I laugh. “Will do.”

  “You’ll make this recipe?”

  “I will. I definitely will.”

  “I could write it down,” he says. He stands and picks up his bowl. “You want more?”

  “No. But thanks. It was great.”

  “It’s a huge pot.” He takes my bowl and keeps talking as he makes his way to the kitchen. “I still got it simmering; the longer, the better. When Joey ever gets the hell home, he can have some. The kid’s too scrawny; he needs to eat.”

  Mr. Onager wants me to stay at least until the boxing match is over, but I tell him I’m tired and I need to go for a run to sort some things out in my head. He scribbles down the recipe on the back of an envelope, and I stick it in my wallet and walk out and down the hill.

  From a certain spot on Jefferson, I can see the institutions that have given me opportunities and now have taken them away. Over to my left about four blocks and down the hill, I can just make out the tip of the top of East Scranton High School. Nearly straight ahead, all the way across downtown, is the Observer building, one of the few that are lit up this late on a Monday evening. And behind me and a couple of blocks over (I can’t quite see it) is our house.

  Maybe I’m more like this city than I thought. Not just the resilience but the continual mistakes. I’ve just taken several big steps backward, and I’m on the verge of several more. Can I then move forward fast enough to wind up ahead of the game?

  I took that one good punch, and it finished me. That’s not something I’d want to be telling people thirty years from now.

  I’ve got too much invested in myself to let that happen.

  SECTION D

  BUSINESS and CLASSIFIEDS

  Downtown Renewal Plans Still Unclear

  NO DECISION YET, just a cold gnawing feeling in my gut and the back of my head. I’m waiting a few more minutes to start my run, until midnight. That’s symbolic, I guess, but of what I don’t know. The opposite of high noon, I suppose, the hour when my decision is due.

  I’ll cover my safest nighttime route, basically sticking to the roads on the perimeter of the downtown business area. Plenty of streetlights, even though the city is mostly sleeping.

  There’s an icy wind now, but I don’t care. I run the loop easy, along Jefferson to Vine, down past Lackawanna Junior College and the Cultural Center, over past the Observer building, then left one block to Lackawanna Avenue and past Quint’s Army-Navy store and under the overpass outside the Steamtown Mall, beyond the Coney Island Lunch and back up toward the Radisson Hotel. Each loop is a little
over two miles. I pick up the pace on the second one and really tear through the quiet streets, feeling the pressure of other runners on my heels, chasing me but never overtaking me.

  It feels like midrace, when you’re pushing the pace and daring anyone to follow, knowing that you’ve got plenty left for a devastating kick that will leave them staggering in your wake. For now, it’s a determined, steady drive.

  You get in this flow, almost like a trance. I’m in that state now: smooth, fast, deliberate.

  And instead of making the left on Vine, I keep going and work my way over to Woodlawn and make the sharp uphill right. I’m tired, and this is the longest, steepest hill in Scranton, but I’m running purely on emotion now, ready to test myself. We’ll see how tough I am.

  I’ve quit before in races and in workouts and in other ways, letting myself down any number of times. Losing races I know I could have won if I’d been a little bit gutsier, less afraid of the pain. Or if I’d been less afraid of failure instead of taking the easy way and finishing second or third when the other options were to go for broke and win or go for broke and break, finish fifth or eighth or last but at least knowing that I’d gone for it.

  This hill is insanely steep. My quads weigh a ton.

  No more playing it safe. I’m running to win this season. No more rationalizing. No more thinking that second best is almost as good as first.

  My shoulders and thighs are burning, and I can taste that stew starting to repeat on me, not digested yet, ready to come back up. I’ve only covered a couple of blocks of the hill, but suddenly I can’t run another step. I slow to nearly a walk and stretch my arms over my head. Then I stop.

  So maybe I’m not as tough as I thought.

  But it’s been a long couple of days. I’m exhausted physically and emotionally. I can lie and get off clean or tell the truth and be screwed out of everything. I’m sweating but feel suddenly cold; the wind is biting my face. I should walk back home, get some sleep. Give myself a break and get this over with in the morning. Start out fresh and be at track practice on Wednesday afternoon. Get my job back. Get tight with Shelly. Be the best I can be.

  I walk to the bottom of the hill and stand on the corner. It wouldn’t be fair for me to miss the most important sports season of my life so far. It’s not fair that I’ve worked so hard all winter, that I’m in prime condition and ready for more, and yet I’m putting myself in danger of missing out because sleazy little Joey doesn’t deserve what he’d get if I saved my own butt. Too bad. I’ve worked too hard. I want it too bad. I’ve got too much at stake this season. My last high school track season.

  I think back to another final season.

  Things were never quite as great for Syracuse after that championship run when Gerry McNamara was a freshman. And in his senior year, things hit a low point. They were only the ninth seed in the Big East Conference tournament, and it looked like his career was going to end on a sour note.

  But he nailed a last-second three-pointer in the first round to beat Cincinnati by one, then hit another to force overtime in the quarterfinals against Connecticut. Syracuse won that game, too. Connecticut was ranked number one in the nation at that point.

  In the semis, Syracuse came from fifteen points behind to upset Georgetown—with the fans at Madison Square Garden chanting, “GER-ry, GER-ry” through the entire game. Then they beat Pitt in the final. Needless to say, McNamara was named the tournament’s MVP. And again, everybody in Scranton felt like they were a part of it.

  They lost in the first round of the NCAA tournament the following week. But McNamara had cemented his legend. We’ll be talking about him around here forever.

  My heart is pumping hard, and I feel the sweat turning cold on my face. I feel the heat in my legs and the hard, steady pumping of my lungs. I taste Mr. Onager’s stew, but I also hear his words again, and they are at least as chilling as the wind: I never recovered as an athlete, you get me? I took that one good punch, and it finished me.

  Here’s a race where I quit on myself. District track championships last spring, seeded section of the 800 meters. I’m seeded sixth, but I’ve been coming on strong lately, and my coach tells me I can win. What I have to do is take it out hard and rob the favorite of his kick. Make sure he has nothing left for the final straightaway.

  So I go out fast for the first lap, coming through in fifty-eight seconds with him right on my butt. I lead through the first turn of the second lap, still pushing hard and feeling good. But I hit the backstretch and my mind starts taking over, telling me to ease up a bit so I’ll be able to finish fast.

  Exactly what my coach told me not to do. When it hurts the most, start pushing harder, he said. Do I listen? No. I try to relax, but I realize what pain I’m in. Three guys rush by me as we go into the final turn. That little rest I took is doing me no good at all; I’m tying up and dying. But I know I have it in me to stay with them, to fight back past them and win the race. But I don’t. I give up. I finish fourth and tell myself I did the best I possibly could. But deep inside, I know better.

  A car goes by and shakes me out of my daydream. I clench my fists and take a step toward home, then stop again and turn. No more quitting. One good punch, and it finished me.

  I could take a thousand hard punches. I look back up the hill, shut my eyes for a second, and start running as fast as I can.

  I’m dying by the time I reach Capouse, but I fight through it and battle my way up to Wyoming, churning my arms and my legs. One mouthful of puke comes up, and I spit it out hard, never breaking stride, cursing at myself to keep moving, to run even harder, to never quit on myself again!

  Keep it coming, I’ll just get stronger. Knock me down, and I’ll get right back up. Take away the things I desire, but the desire itself won’t go away.

  Getting in trouble—and trying to get out of it—has one thing in common with giving up in a race. You can try to rationalize your way out of it, but the truth comes back to get you. You at least have to be honest with yourself.

  Even if you decide to screw the system.

  Three East Students Expelled Following Weekend Drug Bust

  By TUCKER HAMMOND

  Observer Staff Writer

  SCRANTON—Three students were expelled from East Scranton High School on Tuesday following a weekend sweep of lockers that produced a modest amount of marijuana. Four others have been suspended.

  City police lieutenant Peter O’Dell said all seven students have been charged with possession of marijuana. The three who were expelled—Frederick Pasella, 19; Lucien Douglas, 18; and Michael Kerrigan, 18—were scheduled to graduate from the school in June. The four students who were suspended are all juveniles. Their suspensions range from three to seven days.

  Officials said the drug sweep was part of an ongoing program in which lockers are searched at least once each month. Principal Sonya Davis said the sweeps have been an effective deterrent against drugs in the school.

  “The sweeps are unannounced, of course, but I think kids have come to expect them,” Davis said. “I’m actually surprised that we found anything this weekend. The past few times, we’ve come up empty.”

  Davis said the three expelled students may be eligible to work toward general equivalency diplomas (GEDs) beginning after their class graduates in June, but they will not be readmitted to any schools in the Scranton district. Lieutenant O’Dell said charges against several other students are pending.

  South Side Businessmen Remain Active

  OH YEAH. I GOT FIRED, TOO, so I’ve written my last obituary.

  Got a letter of acceptance from Kutztown University this morning. Contingent on successful graduation from high school, of course. Not going to happen.

  And track practice starts this afternoon. Coach will have to name a new captain.

  I stayed in bed until after my dad left for work and Mom went to the library, just staring at the ceiling mostly. Then I got up and read the paper—I knew the drug-bust article would be there, but it still st
opped me cold. I heated some leftover Chinese food in the microwave. Now I’m sitting in front of the television in the living room, watching a rerun of Bonanza from forty years ago.

  I can hear freezing rain hitting the windows, and I get up to look outside. And I see Joey walking up the hill in the middle of the street, toward our house, hunched over in a big old brown coat, no gloves or hat.

  I open the front door and wait for him. He gives me a knowing frown and walks up the steps.

  “What’s up?” I say.

  “Nothing.”

  “You cut school?”

  “Yeah. Everybody’s giving me shit about what happened,” he says. “I’ll go back tomorrow.”

  We sit in the living room. I give him some paper towels to wipe off his hair, which is dripping from the sleet.

  “You want something to eat?” I ask, but he’s holding his stomach. He shakes his head.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “I got beat up pretty good.”

  “By your dad?”

  “No.” He gives me a sharp look like I’ve got some nerve saying that. “Some of my friends from the South Side paid me a visit.” He rolls his eyes. His drug connections.

  “Oh.”

  “They told me to be sure to bring you their best wishes,” he says.

  “Screw them.”

  “They just said to keep on keeping your mouth shut and there’d be no trouble.”

  “Assholes.”

  Joey leans back in the chair and rubs his arm. “They said this was just a sample beating, in case I talk.”

  “Just stay the hell away from them.”

  “I plan to.”

  He stares at the TV screen; Ben and Hoss are confronted by some bandits, guns drawn. “My dad sent you a note,” Joey says, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket.

  “You told him what happened?”

  “No way. But he saw your name in the paper.”

  “So what’s the note about?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I unfold the paper and read it aloud.