Fight Card Presents: Iron Head & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  Mendoza got up and walked over to Donny’s corner. Sister Luisa fingered her beads. Adrienne looked on anxiously, her eyes filled with the light of terror.

  “You’re doin’ just fine, kid,” Mendoza said. “Just outlast Reynolds and you’ll take the match on points.”

  “Get out of here, Mendoza,” Vinnie said. “He’s not winning on points.”

  “It’s his footwork,” Mendoza said. “He’s out boxing the hell out of Reynolds.”

  Vinnie waved Mendoza away and the bell rang.

  Donny stuffed his mouthpiece back in his mouth and stood up on jellied legs. He wobbled to the center of the ring, the cuts on his face stinging with the astringent daubed on by Tom Poston. His eyes were still watery from the blows he had taken in the previous round.

  Reynolds, with his shaved head and sweat-glistened body, waded into Donny with a roundhouse right. His fist knocked Donny’s nose off-center as it swished past, just clipping the tip.

  Donny side-stepped and drove his right hand into Bushwhacker’s side. His glove bounced out as if it had struck rubber and Donny lost his timing and balance. Pain shot through his wrist as he stumbled away from Reynolds. He felt it go weak, as if from a sprain.

  No body was that hard, Donny thought. Instead of flab or muscle, the blow had felt as if he had struck concrete beneath the layer of fat he was sure ringed Reynolds’ gut.

  Donny regained his balance and sprang away from the flailing left arm of Reynolds. He executed a series of quick, precise, foot movements designed to take him in close then back away from the opposing fighter.

  Reynolds looked slightly confused as he swung his body from side to side, his porcine eyes looking for an opening. His fists were cocked and ready to launch as Donny bobbed back and forth, just out of range.

  Reynolds dropped his left shoulder as he closed in on Donny, backing him against the ropes.

  Donny tried to slide along the ropes and get out of the way of Reynolds’ right hand, but Reynolds blocked him and drove his right in straight at Donny’s head.

  Donny threw up an arm and felt the blow crunch into his arm. He thought he heard a slight cracking sound. Pain coursed through his arm between his wrist and his elbow. Severe pain, as if he had been both burned and electrocuted at the same time.

  He ducked his head as Reynolds towered over him and drove his right hand downward in a rabbit punch to the back of Donny’s neck.

  The canvas in the ring blurred as Donny fought to retain consciousness. Colored lights danced in his brain and he staggered away from the ropes, his knees were loose and his feet a pair of awkward appendages clad in clown shoes.

  He lifted his head and saw Reynolds wore a grin on his face as wide as a dinner plate.

  Mendoza rose from his seat, a cry of protest issuing from his mouth..

  “Ref, are you stone blind?”

  Sister Luisa crossed herself.

  Adrienne hid her face and shrank in her seat. “Oh, Donny,” she murmured.

  The referee shook his head as if to deny all the jeers and angry shouts. He circled the fighters, his neck bent, head extended, eyes wide.

  Donny drew in a deep breath. He tried to concentrate on breathing and his footwork. His arms were leaden and he didn’t know if he could throw another punch, at least a damaging punch. His fists felt numb inside his gloves.

  When Reynolds came at him again, Donny spread his arms and grappled with the powerful boxer. He pinned Bushwhacker’s arms with his own and wrestled him over to the ropes, where he hung on until the referee pried them apart.

  “Break,” the referee said. He stood between them so neither boxer could throw a punch, then backed away from the two of them.

  He nodded and clapped his hands together, indicating the two men could begin to box again.

  Reynolds charged at Donny like an enraged bull, coming at him with rapid left jabs. Donny danced backward to avoid being struck and raised both arms, trying to both to defend himself and get in position to deliver blows with either hand.

  He bounced off the ropes as Reynolds swung a right hand, narrowly missed Donny’s jaw. Donny sailed a fist into Bushwhacker’s midsection and it was like striking a pillow. He did not feel the force of his blow and didn’t think Reynolds did either.

  Ruiz was on his feet. He shouted at Donny in both Spanish and English.

  “Pegalo. Pegalo en la panza. Hit him in the belly, Donny.”

  Other Mexicans in the audience offered their own shouted advice to both fighters as the intensity of the battle increased.

  The shouts were wasted on Donny. He was looking at Reynolds, seeing the hate in his eyes, bringing back memories of the same look in his father’s eyes when he was beating Donny and cursing him. It seemed to him, as a child, that something broke inside him, some part of his brain fractured and left him mentally crippled and filled with an unnameable fear.

  Reynolds did not resemble his father at all, but the voices from the audience seemed to be coming from his mouth and behind every telling blow. One of Bushwhacker’s fists grazed Donny’s chin and he felt the sting of the glove, the scrape of leather also reminding him of the cuffing his father often gave him when he was angry over some small and petty incident.

  If Donny didn’t take out the trash, or remove the slag from the furnace fast enough, his father assailed him mercilessly, both with scornful, demeaning words, and slaps of his open hand square in Donny’s face. First, the slaps, then the balled-up fists to his body, where they hurt all day and all night, but were invisible to his classmates at school.

  Reynolds bobbed and crouched. He circled Donny. And, always, he threw rights and lefts at Donny to duck or evade. Some of the blows hurled by Reynolds were right on target. He felt the pain of those relentless fists in his ribs and abdomen.

  Reynolds landed a solid punch to Donny’s gut and the younger boxer felt the air rush from his lungs. Pain surged through his stomach as if Reynolds had landed a firebrand deep in its pit. Donny felt the bile rise up in his throat as he staggered backward into the ropes. He thought he might vomit right then and there.

  He brought his hands up to his face and spread the gloves to protect himself while he gulped in great draughts of air to quell the nausea in his belly. Sweat and tears streamed down his face, mingled with the streaks of blood leaking from a half dozen cuts.

  Donny did not know if he could hold on much longer. As Reynolds drove into him with flying fists, smashing into his sides and nearly to his groin, he felt as if he was on a conveyor belt with large tools smashing into him as he floated along in a dizzy haze.

  “Get away, Donny,” Adrienne shouted.

  Sister Luisa’s lips moved in a prayer that was sotto voce, a prayer to the Virgin Mary, Jesus, and God.

  Mendoza was shouting something neither woman could hear or understand because the voices around them were even louder.

  People rose to their feet as Donny slid along the ropes to escape the punishment from the flying, driving fists pounding his flesh to one black, blue and yellow bruise.

  Again, Donny’s footwork took him out of immediate danger. But his breath came hard and there was a sickness deep inside his stomach, a boiling, hot, nauseating morass of food and liquid that threatened to erupt from his throat in a disgusting and odorous explosion of acid-laced bile.

  He gulped in air and threw a weak left at the face of the advancing Reynolds. His gloved fist slid off Bushwhacker’s jaw as Reynolds turned his head to avoid the punch.

  Donny fled to the center of the ring as the referee circled the two fighters, his striped shirt rippling under the lights in black and white, his florid face streaked with perspiration.

  The crowd roared and hurled invectives and pugilistic advice to both combatants as if they were in a mindless collective fury.

  Mendoza looked at Donny’s legs, saw they were weakening and no longer reliable. His heart sank further as he looked at Reynolds’ legs and footwork. The heavyweight seemed to have taken all of Donny’s strength into h
is own body. He looked almost as fresh as he had been when the two fighters had touched gloves at the beginning of round one.

  Mendoza knew Donny might not last out the round. The fighter’s face was streaked with blood and bathed in hot sweat. Mendoza could see the bruises on Donny’s body, the ugly Rorschach images of butterflies and demons undulating and distorting with every move Donny made.

  And, Donny’s launched fists were without steam, as if he were just pawing the air with his heavy gloves. There was no longer any energy behind Donny’s fists. And, worse, they seemed to flail against empty air, unable to find a fleshy target, a lifeless effort by a drowning man to keep from sinking into a wave-tossed sea.

  Ruiz looked over at the timekeeper and the ring judges. They looked like frozen statues and the bell was silent as the seconds ticked away, so slow they seemed to be encased in quicksand, crawling through empty space like drugged, addle-brained snails.

  “Hold on, Donny,” Ruiz shouted, and his voice was swallowed up in the maw of the crowd. He knew his fighter was losing the fight. He knew Reynolds was pounding Donny to a pulp and taking his own sweet time, like a cat that had the mouse pinned and was pawing it to death with slow, steady swipes of its clawed paw.

  Donny felt his legs give way when Reynolds’s fist smashed into his belly with the speed and force of a trip hammer. One, two, three, four, five punches that pushed all the air out of his lungs and sent waves of pain through his lower body.

  He turned his head and looked toward his corner. His trainer was there, but blurred before his eyes. And, beyond him, the crowd was on its feet, a sea of colors and faces that made no sense to him.

  That’s when Reynolds stopped launching his body punches, drew back his right arm and smashed Donny in the side of his face with every ounce of his huge body behind it.

  Bushwhacker’s fist hit with all the force of a 16-pound maul.

  Colored lights swirled in Donny’s brain and then a darkness invaded the deepest recesses, blotting out all the colors and smothered all his senses. He did not even feel himself falling to the canvas.

  Donny’s head struck the canvas with great force.

  Adrienne was sure she heard something crack when Donny’s head bounced after he hit the canvas.

  The referee stepped up, shoving Reynolds toward a neutral corner. Bushwhacker jogged in place, his gloves touching together as he eyed Donny’s limp body on the canvas.

  The crowd seemed to hush for a moment as the referee stood over Donny and began to count.

  “One, two, three,” pointing his index finger downward with each uttered number. Until he reached the number ten and then waved his arms over Donny, turned and walked over to Reynolds. There, he lifted Bushwhacker’s right arm to signify he was the winner of the match.

  The crowd roared its approval.

  Adrienne sank in her seat. Sister Luisa patted the back of Adrienne’s hand.

  “There, there, Adrienne, it’s all over.”

  Mendoza rushed from his seat to ringside. He looked at Donny and knew something was wrong.

  “Is there a doctor here?” he shouted.

  He knew there was a ringside physician, but he could not think straight. There was something about the way Donny was lying, so still and lifeless, that alarmed him.

  Vinnie Spetaza, too, knew Donny was not just unconscious, but was badly hurt. Blood streamed from both of Donny’s nostrils and his lips were turning purple.

  A physician, Dr. Dwight Swinburne, climbed into the ring. He lugged a black satchel. Mendoza helped him through the ropes with a push on his back.

  Swinburne knelt by Donny. He opened his satchel and removed a stethoscope. He placed the listening disk to Donny’s chest, then onto his back. He shook his head and the crowd grew even quieter as the referee and Reynolds looked on from their neutral corner.

  “We need a stretcher,” the doctor said to the referee.

  Donny was transported by ambulance to Denver General where he was put on a gurney and wheeled into the emergency room.

  Dr. Swinburne and two other doctors examined Donny and one of them ordered blood tests and a cardiograph.

  Adrienne, Sister Luisa Ruiz, Mendoza, and Spetaza waited anxiously in a waiting room. Dr. Swinburne met with them after he had concluded his examination.

  “Mr. Farrow is in a coma,” he said.

  “Oh no,” Adrienne cried out.

  Sister Luisa embraced her and held her tight.

  Mendoza and Spetaza both looked crestfallen.

  “We won’t know anything for at least twenty-four hours,” Swinburne went on. But, it doesn’t look good at this point. My advice is for you all to go home and the hospital will notify each of you if there is any change in Mr. Farrow’s condition.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Adrienne asked. “Why won’t Donny wake up?”

  “There is a hairline fracture traversing the top of his skull. His brain may have been damaged.”

  Adrienne collapsed and Sister Luisa had to hold her up to keep her from tumbling head first to the floor. She had to be revived with smelling salts.

  Mendoza drove Adrienne home to her small apartment on Colfax. Sister Luisa returned to her quarters near Cathedral High School.

  Spetaza went to his room on Larimer Street.

  After dropping off Adrienne off, Mendoza drove to Cherry Hills where he lived near a golf course.

  There was a hairline fracture crossways atop Donny Farrow’s skull. Fluid leaked from the fissure. The physicians at Denver General Hospital decided to put a metal plate atop Donny’s skull to protect his brain.

  There were three physicians who performed the delicate operation. They sawed away the bone where the crack had appeared and sewed in a metal plate.

  Donny remained in a coma for several weeks, a breathing tube down his throat. He was fed intravenously and monitored constantly by a bevy of male and female nurses.

  Adrienne was allowed limited visits.

  “His fighting days are over,” Mendoza told her. “He’ll likely be a cripple for the rest of his days.”

  Adrienne continued to work at the Denver Dry Goods Company. At night, she stood or sat by Donny’s bed. She wept when she looked at his face, the weight he had lost, the emaciated arms and legs, the electronic graph of his heart rate.

  Donny regained consciousness one day. He had no memory of the knockout punch. But, he did remember the fight.

  “I want to fight Reynolds again,” he told Mendoza. “I dreamed about how to defeat him.”

  Mendoza shook his head. “Your boxing days are over, Donny. That plate in your head….can’t risk it.”

  Adrienne, too, tried to talk Donny out of ever stepping back into the ring.

  “You can’t, Donny. If you fight again, you’ll die.”

  Donny was released from the hospital on his twenty-second birthday, March 2, 1952. He was provided with a walker since he was still unsteady on his feet. Mendoza bought him a wheelchair.

  He was enrolled in a rehab facility and gradually gained upper arm strength, although he was still wobbly on his feet.

  One day, when he was lifting weights in his room at home, which was in the basement of a house owned by a kindly widow woman, Clara Bigelow, there was a knock on his door. He set down his 8-pound weights and opened the door.

  To his surprise, his father, Delbert Farrow was standing there in his rumpled sharkskin suit, scuffed shoes and an old felt hat that had long since lost its shape.

  “Son,” Mr. Farrow said. “I got bad news for you. Your mama died last week.”

  His father entered his room without asking permission and surveyed the wheelchair, walker, weights and barbells. He snorted at the sight of the training equipment.

  “How—how did my mother die?” Donny asked. He was dazed at the news and surprised to see his father there.

  “TB,” his father said. “What’s all this crap?”

  “What?”

  “The weights, the barbells. You ain’t tryin’ to box
again, are you?”

  “I am. I didn’t know Mother had TB.”

  “Well, she did. Her lungs just gave out and she smothered to death.”

  “Were you with her?” Donny asked.

  “Naw, we broke up a year or so ago. I couldn’t take her coughing, just like I couldn’t take your disobedience. I warned you about going into boxing and then I heard you got clocked and nearly died.”

  “You never came to the hospital,” Donny said.

  “I don’t like hospitals. Sick people.”

  “Like my mother,” Donny said.

  “Yeah, like Melba, always hawking up blood and spitting in the sink.”

  “You beat her, Daddy. That’s why she got tuberculosis.”

  There, it was out, the accusation. Donny wanted to cry, but he steeled himself. His father looked pathetic. His hair was thinning and gray. He looked like a bum.

  “She got what she deserved. Same as you, Donny.”

  “You haven’t changed,” Donny said. “You’re still mean and nasty.”

  “Don’t you ever talk to me like that. I can still knock your eyes out.”

  “If you ever raise a hand to me, Daddy, I’ll knock your block off.”

  Donny balled up his fists.

  He was almost hoping his father would try to strike him. All the pent-up anger and hatred rose up in him as he remembered the beatings and the curses of his childhood. He remembered his puppy, the one his father had strangled to death before his very eyes when he was only eight years old. The cruelty had stayed with him all these years.

  “I hear you’re going with that little tart from the orphanage,” his father said as he backed away. “Catholic girl is she? I hope you and she ain’t planning on getting married.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Oh, I’ve kept up with you since you ran away from home. Boulder ain’t that far away from where I live. You got the hell pounded out of you by Bushwhacker, didn’t you? Hear you got an iron plate in your head. Serves you right.”

  Unbidden tears welled up in Donny’s eyes. He squeezed them tight as fists as his grief welled up in him at the thought of his mother dying all alone.