by Jim Tully
The Bruiser is going over with a bang here—everyone is asking to read it, some getting half sore when I let someone else read it before them. The average reader gets to the Cyclone fight on the 1st night before the lights go out—and comes to me the next marveling and talking of it, I think ‘Wait until you reach the Sully fight’ sure enough they come out raving about it with a half dozen friends in tow asking to get on the line for it….The old fighters rave about it more than the rest—all agree that dad is the master of his subject.
In a lifetime of impossible odds, The Bruiser marked the triumphant comeback of an American writer who had learned early in life one important lesson: Never stop punching.
THE BRUISER
I
It was raining fiercely. The clouds roared with thunder. Water fell in long silver slivers. There was no escape from the driving water. Under the projecting roof of the section house, Shane Rory stood and gazed at the water splashing on the rails. His clothes were wet and wind-whipped.
He was about eighteen, and had not reached full growth. In spite of the rain, his hair still curled at the edge of his cap. A large blue scarf was tied about his neck. His coat collar was turned up. His hands were deep in his pockets. His jaws were set, his forehead wrinkled as he tried to penetrate through the rain-splashed air.
Engines shrieked about the railroad yards, their headlights burnishing the falling water.
He heard a voice coming near,
“It tain’t no use to grumble
an’ complain—
It’s jes’ as cheap an’ easy
to rejoice—
When God sohts out de weatheh
an’ sends rain;
Den rain’s mah choice—”
A young Negro tramp joined him. Coffee-colored, good-looking, and about Shane’s age, he removed a cap that was plastered to his head with water.
The light from an engine slanted across him, as he said, “Lordy golly—what a night!”
“Wet, huh,” smiled Shane.
“Wet ain’t de name,” he said, ringing the water from his cap, “I think some pipes is busted up theah.” His teeth showed white and even as he laughed. “It purty neah washed de train off de track comin’ in heah,” he said as the wind swerved and threw the rain in their faces. “Hold on theah, Mister God, quit slappin’ us wit’ dat wateh—we’s all had a bath.” The young Negro looked upward and laughed again. There was a smile in Shane’s eyes.
“I’d give mah home in Heaben for a drink right now—and believe you me, I’d never take it back neitheh.”
He wore a ragged, red sweater and a wide-checked coat much too large for him.
“I wondeh what all de pooh people’s doin’ tonight— heah we is nice an’ wahm afteh a big dinneh—an’ a lot of pooh folks is outen de rain.”
A switchman signaled an engine about fifty feet away.
Shane grabbed the Negro’s arm. “Come with me,” he said.
The water ran in rivulets from the switchman’s rubber raincoat.
“How far is it to the nearest saloon?” Shane asked the man.
He lifted the lantern in Shane’s face. “It’s about three hundred yards across the tracks,” he said, pointing.
“Thanks—let’s go.” Shane pulled the Negro’s arm.
A few minutes later their shoes squished with water across the dry floor of the empty saloon.
The bartender’s eyes narrowed at Shane’s companion.
“We don’t serve Niggers in here,” he said.
“But, Mister,” Shane said, “I never thought of that—he’s been in the hospital, sick—and he’s been outen the rain. There’s nobody here—won’t you?”
“Well, I’ll sell it to you, and you give it to him—let’s see the color of your money.”
The bartender took the dollar, filled two glasses to the brim, and rang up twenty cents. When he turned from the register, the glasses were empty.
“Fill ’em up,” Shane ordered.
The bartender’s eyes widened.
“How old are you kids?”
“Twenty-one—what’s the difference?” Shane said.
“This Nigger kid’s not over seventeen.”
“Sure he is,” said Shane— “Do you want to wire back to his home and find out?”
“Where, Africa—?” The bartender laughed, and filled the glasses.
Shane pushed a half dollar toward the Negro. “We might get split up,” he said,—“keep this.”
“I shuah will—thank you.”
The liquor tingling, they turned from the bar.
“Have one on me,” said the bartender. “I wouldn’t want to see even a railroad dick out on a night like this.” He looked sharply at Shane. “You’re a nice lookin’ kid—how long you been a bum?”
“Ever since I can remember,” was the answer.
“And you?” He turned to the Negro.
“Afore that.”
He placed two full glasses in front of Shane, who handed one to his dark companion.
The switchman who had directed them to the saloon entered. “All the crazy people ain’t in the bug-house,” he said to the bartender, looking in Shane’s direction.
The bartender drained a glass and said, “Here’s good luck, ‘boes.”
“Is it still raining?” Shane asked the switchman.
“Nope—it’s about cleared up—which way are you fellows headed?”
“West,” was Shane’s answer.
“Well, there’s a fast freight through in an hour. She’s headed West, and she slows up over the trestle.” Again he pointed.
Shane bought a half pint of liquor.
As they left the saloon, the bartender again said, “Good luck.”
They had not gone far when the rain began again. With heads down, they hurried onward. The thunder roared. The rain splashed.
“This’ll make us grow,” laughed Shane.
“It’ll wash me so white my ma won’t know me.” Again came the Negro boy’s musical laugh. “It’s too wet foh ducks eben.”
He turned to Shane, “Gimme a drink o’ dat liquor?”
“You can have it. I don’t want any more.”
“Thanks.” The dark boy lifted the bottle.
The rain hit the bottom and rolled with the liquor into his mouth.
“May’s well get wet inside as out,” he said. He looked at the half empty bottle.
As if he had dropped from the clouds with the rain, another young fellow joined them.
The yellow headlight from a switch-engine revealed him as dark, alert, almost handsome, and not over twenty-five.
“Which way, ‘boes?” he asked.
“Either way,” returned Shane, “mostly West.”
“Can I string along?” Without waiting for an answer, he saw the bottle in the Negro vagabond’s hand and said, “What’s you got there?”
“Puhfume,” laughed the Negro, “We’s scentin’ up the air.”
The light from the engine moved closer.
Both white boys looked at the powerful young Negro.
“I’se goin’ somewheah’s to sleep,” he said, “Torpedo Jones am all tiahed out.”
“What you tired out about?” asked the young fellow who had recently joined them.
“I wuz in a battle royal fouh nights ago—I done had to lick seben otheh Niggahs for five dollahs—an’ I ain’t got rested yit—I ain’t.” He shuffled a few feet with an ominous grace. “I’se goin’ to be a prize-fighteh—it’s easier’n gittin’ caught’n de rain an’ nowheah’s to sleep.” He chuckled deep in his throat. “Boy—did dem Niggahs trow dem punches—dey kep’ a whizzin’ by like bullets wit’ grease on ’em—dey was moah Niggahs in dat ring den dey is in jail—ebery time I stahts to poke, some Niggah’d wham me on de jaw—an’ dat las’ Niggah befoah ah knock ‘im dayd—he buhns one acrost ma ches’ like a red hot pokah—but dat was de las’. I hits ‘im so hahd I jes’ blas’ his brains right outta de top o’ his head—if dem ropes haden been deah
—he’d be a rollin’ yit.” He looked at his brown fist— “Yes suh— boy—when I hits ’em dey stays hit—when dat battle royal was ober dem Niggahs wuz layin’ aroun’ dat ring like dey’d been shot—”
The rain pelting his wide shoulders, he sauntered, cat-like, away.
“I’ll bet he can fight,” volunteered Shane.
“What’d he call himself?” asked his companion.
“Torpedo Jones.”
The two white boys drifted together westward for about a week before arriving in a town of ten thousand people.
“Let’s look the place over and meet at the depot in a couple of hours,” Shane’s companion suggested.
“Okeh,” returned Shane.
He waited for the young fellow at the depot.
“Well, how did you make out?” he asked.
“Fine. I’ve got a job,” he said, “The priest gave me ten dollars to put gilt on his altar. It’ll take me a couple of days, and you can help me. He’s giving me twenty dollars altogether for the job. I told him I was an interior decorator.” He showed a ten dollar bill. “Let’s get some grub first—then I’ll buy the stuff and we’ll go to work.”
An hour later they reported to the priest. He took them into the church and explained what he wanted done; then left.
No sound could be heard inside. Even their footsteps were indistinct around the heavy carpeted altar. The Lamp of the Sanctuary burned low, and in late afternoon threw faint shadows over them.
At the finish of their work, Shane’s companion took him by the arm. Together they walked around the church, stopping at each painting that depicted Christ on His journey through life and death to the final resurrection.
At the last picture, Shane’s comrade, solemn until now, said quickly, “He didn’t have so much luck either.”
The priest entered, going slowly to the altar. The boys moved toward him.
Standing beneath the Lamp of the Sanctuary, he rubbed his hands together, and with a rapt expression, said, “I am pleased indeed. You have made it shine like the glory of God.”
He was a roly-poly man, who waddled slightly as he walked. He had two heavy chins, a florid complexion, and wore heavy glasses over his eyes.
After he had paid the rest of the money, he shook hands with each boy, saying, “Return to your homes, children—you are both too bright to lead such lives.”
They had not gone far, when Shane’s companion said, “I hope he don’t get next before we get out of town.”
“Next to what?” Shane asked.
“It was radiator gilt I put on the altar. It’ll turn green in wet weather.” He looked up at the clouding sky.
“That’s a shame,” Shane said, “he trusted you.”
“Well, real gilt would of cost ten dollars. I got enough radiator gilt for three.”
“Well, let me go back and tell him—it’ll only make it hard on someone else that wants a favor from him.” Shane started back.
The young fellow held his arm and said, “It’s done now. If you tell him we may both get pinched.”
Clouds covered the moon. The rain could be seen coming over the mountains. It continued steadily for more than an hour.
Shane and his companion stood in front of a well-lit store.
Two policemen approached them.
Shane’s companion said hurriedly, “Let’s go,” and ran swiftly away. Shane stood still.
The older policeman held him. The younger one chased his companion.
They were taken to the jail.
“Why did you run?” Shane asked his companion, after they were booked on suspicion, and placed in a cell.
Ill at ease, he answered, “I thought the priest squealed.”
They were brought before the Chief of Police, and questioned next morning. When finished with Shane, he said, “We’ll hold you a while for further investigation.”
His companion stepped forward. The Chief looked at him and grunted, “Ever see that?” He showed the youth his portrait.
The youth’s face blanched.
He had escaped from an Eastern penitentiary while serving a term for burglary.
“Take them away,” commanded the Chief.
They were put in separate cells.
Shane heard his companion sobbing.
When they were turned loose in the yard for exercise, Shane said, “I wish I could do something.”
“I wish you could too,” he said, “but it’s too late now.” He became more hopeful, “But five years ain’t so long.”
The priest held services in the jail on Sunday.
The boys hung their heads as he came toward them. He greeted them kindly, with a sad expression in his eyes.
“Do not be afraid,” he said, “I will say nothing.” He looked at Shane’s companion, “You have trouble enough.” The priest’s lips trembled. He concealed with an effort the agony in his heart.
Shane was sent for the next morning. The priest was in the office of the Chief of Police.
“We’re turning you loose,” said the Chief. “Father Downey here has given you a job.”
“Yes,” said the priest, “I would like to have you gild my altar. It has turned green.”
“All right, Father, I’ll be glad to,” said Shane.
When Shane had finished, the priest paid for his room and meals and gave him ten dollars.
“Come with me to the jail,” he said. “The poor boy is going East tonight.”
Arriving there, the priest put an arm about the youth, and said, “Too bad.”
Shane and the priest stood for some moments upon the depot platform after the train had gone.
When it had faded from sight, the priest said slowly, “May he find mercy in the bosom of Christ, our Lord.”
The Chief of Police approached. “You know in our ‘Smoker’ tomorrow night, Father, the boy in the first preliminary’s sick.”
Shane spoke up. “Let me take his place. I can fight.”
The Chief looked surprised.
“What’s your name, Jim Corbett?”
“No, Terry McGovern.”
The priest’s eyes twinkled. “I wonder if you’re lyin’.”
The stern policeman smiled.
“You look like you might be able to go some.”
“He does indeed.” The priest’s eyes went over Shane. “You’re a whelp of a boy.”
“Well, I won’t let you down, Father.”
“Can you really box?” asked the Chief.
“Quite a bit,” answered Shane.
The engine that took his companion to the penitentiary whistled far away.
“Dear, dear,” said the priest, “it’s such a sad world.”
II
Shane experienced none of the stage fright common to those who first enter the ring. The enclosure was so heavy with smoke that faces in the audience were indistinct.
“Just remember,” his second, a withered old fighter volunteered, “the other fellow’s scared as you.”
“He’s not much scared if he ain’t,” Shane grinned.
He sat in the ring, in borrowed canvas shoes too large for him, and tights that hung loosely about his loins. A pair of worn leather cracked boxing gloves were fastened upon his hands.
He could hear the priest saying, “Good luck, my boy.”
The second grinned as he patted Shane’s gloves, “Yeah, Kid—say one ‘Our Father’ and one ‘Hail Mary’ that you knock his block off quick.”
“I don’t need to pray for that—you watch.”
“You’re a cocky little devil—but that’s what it takes.”
The gong rang.
He went toward his opponent with hands in hitting position.
Instinctively, his first time in the ring, he did not step to the left, or lead with one hand and chop with the other, but glided gracefully in and out of striking distance.
In less than a minute, his rival, a formidable looking Mexican boy, was on the floor.
Shane was given twenty-fiv
e dollars.
He was amazed at the amount. He would work two weeks for that much. And he had earned it in a couple of minutes.
The course of his life changed. He was a combination of road kid and wandering fighter.
The boy he had whipped was from Phoenix. Waiting until the newspaper came out next morning, he bought several copies and went to that city, and located the leading newspaper. The Mexican was known as a promising fighter in his home town. Within a few days he was again matched with the boy he had knocked out.
The matchmaker gave him an advance of fifty dollars. It was a good match for him. Thousands of Mexicans would come to see a fellow-countryman.
Shane made his headquarters at a small gymnasium on Centre Street.
The newspapers printed stories of his exploits in other cities. Soon he was a celebrity. He bought a new sweater and other articles of clothing to go with his changed position in life.
Training at the same gymnasium was a one-time well known fighter named Spider Smith. Shane absorbed his mannerisms, and boxed with him daily. After each encounter, he realized how much stronger he was than Smith, who was a middleweight. Shane was lighter.
On Sunday, an admission of twenty-five cents was charged to see him box with Smith. This helped to defray the small expenses of training.
Each morning he would run for five miles. He learned to know each sign along the road. He would often wave at people as they watched him.
