The Bruiser

by Jim Tully

  He won again in sensational manner. His opponent went down three times in the fourth.

  He was next matched with a young miner from Bisbee. After training two weeks, the miner was taken ill. The fight was declared off. His purse against the Mexican had been two hundred and thirty dollars. With what remained, he left for El Paso, where Smith had said “the game was good.”

  Taking Smith with him, they loitered about the Texas city and its Mexican environs for several weeks.

  In Juarez, he met a boxing promoter from Mexico City. Smith, acting as manager, explained Shane’s defeat of the Mexican boy in Phoenix.

  The promoter watched Shane “work out” in a gymnasium the next afternoon. Impressed, he took him to Mexico City. Smith went along as manager and trainer.

  Shane’s match was the third on an “all star card.” The high altitude of Mexico City affected him. Unable to breathe properly, he lost in the sixth round.

  He parted with Smith the next day. “I’m headin’ for Vera Cruz,” said Smith, “then on to Buenos Aires—they throw gloves too fast for me in the States—”

  Smith looked about the ancient red railroad station where Shane waited for his train to be called. “Now don’t take this lickin’ to heart, kid,” he said, “No one’ll ever know you’ve been down here by the time you’re a top notcher—you can change your name a little later—or keep this outta your record—if you ever go far places it’s all right with me—I’m never comin’ back to the States anyhow—I’ve had enough.”

  “How long you been fightin’?” asked Shane.

  “Too long—all my life—but only in the ring twenty-one years—that’s older’n you are, kid. I’ve made a barrel of dough in my time—had dames in silks and satins, and smooth as new gloves. They’re all gone now—and I’m sneakin’ out of the picture with nothin’ to do but remember—it comes to all of us; so what-inhell’s the difference—none of it’s worth a damn.”

  The road had taught Shane observation. Smith’s eyes were sharp. His eagle-face had not been made shapeless by the many gloves that had battered against it.

  The train for El Paso was called. Shane held his worn handbag, and said, “So long, Old Timer, it was good knowin’ you.”

  “Same here, Kid, I’ll be thinkin’ about you—you’ll get somewhere—you’ve got a lot—you can take that Kid Pueblo if you ever get him off a mountain—and—if anyone ever talks to you about Spider Smith just don’t say a word. I’m just oozin’ out of the picture like I oozed into it. When a guy who ain’t a fighter brags about how good a man he used to be, nobody cares much—it’s like kids braggin’.”

  “You said something, Spider, about me keepin’ this outta my record—I won’t if this Pueblo’s good enough to get credit. Maybe that’s all he’ll have to brag about by the time I’m champion. He can stroll around this town and the little brown-eyed dolls can say, ‘There goes Pueblo. He stopped Shane Rory’ or whatever they say in Mexican—”

  “He didn’t stop you, Kid—you just couldn’t breathe.”

  “But I’ll wipe it out if I ever get him in the States.”

  The train started to move at last.

  “So long-”

  “So long-”

  After a few hours on the train, his fight with Kid Pueblo became clearer. With the ego of the great, born fighter, he did not realize that Pueblo had too much experience for him, and might have at least won the decision anywhere. “He never hurt me,” Shane thought.

  Smith had sent a telegram to the sporting editor of an El Paso paper, explaining the defeat. He would save the paper. He might get Pueblo in Phoenix. He had to do something soon.

  His mind rested on Spider Smith.

  He had been reading about him for years. “One of the cleverest men in the world—if he could only hit.” He wondered why some men could hit, and others couldn’t. Pueblo was a hard hitter. “He’ll never get to the top—he telegraphs his punches…. Just how does a fellow get to the top?” he had asked Spider Smith.

  “He’s got to have everything—and a lot of luck,” Smith had replied.

  Smith remained long in the boy’s thoughts.

  Next morning, another American boarded the train.

  He wore a blue suit, faded yellow from the sun, and a wide gray felt hat with a leather strap around it.

  After a day’s silence, Shane was glad to talk.

  “Which way, Mister?”

  “Indiana.” The man’s blue eyes, sun-faded like his suit, looked kindly at the young fighter. “And you?”

  “El Paso,” Shane answered.

  “Been down here long?”

  “Nope—a few weeks—had a fight down here—the climate got me—I’m goin’ back.”

  “Who’d you fight?”

  “Kid Pueblo.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “Yeah, I know,” returned Shane.

  The stranger was a mining engineer. His wife had left Mexico eight weeks before. Both thought she would have better care in Indiana. She was now dead in childbirth. The wire came the night before. They lived in a small cottage near the mine for two years. He had locked the door on it forever. He would return to Mexico though. “It gets you after a time—the stars and the sky and the night.”

  Shane wanted to ask a question. Finally he said, “And the little baby?”

  “It’s alive,” the father raised his eyes, “I traded one for the other,” his voice choked, “but that’s the way it goes.”

  Shane had bought a few curios. Taking a little stone image from his bag, he said, “Give this to the baby, won’t you?”

  “Surely,” the man’s eyes rested on Shane—“thanks, that’s kind of you.”

  “Well, you know, I just bought ’em. I ain’t got anybody.”

  “That’s too bad—we all ought to have something.”

  “Yes, I guess so,” Shane returned vaguely.

  They parted at El Paso.

  “I’m flying from here,” said the mining engineer.

  “Good luck,” said Shane. “I’m goin’ on to Phoenix.”

  He bought a paper that explained his loss to Kid Pueblo.

  “You’re a smart kid—you don’t need no manager,” the promoter at Phoenix said, “but I can’t get Kid Pueblo here—too much money. Freddy Garcia beat a pretty good boy last week. I can steam you two up again—winner to meet Kid Pueblo—that’ll go good.”

  Again he defeated Garcia.

  He loitered about Phoenix for several days. The hot season was approaching. There would soon be no more matches until cooler weather.

  The promoter said, “I can get you a few hundred over in Prescott against Garcia.”

  “I can’t go on lickin’ him forever,” said Shane.

  “You’ll not lick him this time—let him get a draw—that’ll build him up for Phoenix again—his manager tells me he’ll give you half his purse—for ten rounds.”

  “No, I don’t want to do that. I’d forget in there anyhow when the goin’ got rough—and then I’d be a double-crosser.”

  “Well, leave it to me. I’ll make the match—go in and fight.”

  “All right.”

  Though Shane tried all the way, Garcia not only stayed the limit, but earned a draw.

  Shane could not understand.

  When Garcia’s manager wanted to give him half the purse, Shane would not accept. “He fought hard for it—let him have it.”

  “You’re a mighty good sport,” said the manager.

  “Not so good,” returned Shane, who had learned one of the mysteries of the ring—that on an “off night” a champion might lose to a dub.

  “If you ever hit Omaha,” said the manager, “go to Buck Logan, sports editor on the Post—he’s good people—I’ll write him about you.”

  The urge of the road returned. He drifted about the country for several weeks, with money sewed in different parts of his clothing.

  His money about all gone, he arrived in Wichita, where a fight between two high-ranking l
ightweights of the Middle West was to be held on the last day of the convention of independent oil dealers.

  He applied to Jack Gill, one of the contestants, for a job as sparring partner. The training camp was pitched along the Arkansas River.

  “Think you can take ’em?” Gill’s manager asked Shane.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Well, get in there with Gill this afternoon—if you give him a good workout, I’ll give you a job—five bucks a day and your board. It’s ten days to the fight—that’ll get you fifty iron men.”

  The camp was crowded when he squared off with Gill. At once Gill began to “give him the works.” After a rapid exchange, it was Gill who “broke ground.” At the end of the four rounds, he patted Shane on the shoulder, “You’ll do, Kid.”

  Now a member of the camp, he did road work each morning with Gill who learned to like him.

  Gill was a steel worker from a town in Illinois. Like Shane, he became a fighter by accident.

  When one of the pugilists, billed for the semi-wind-up, hurt his hand, Gill suggested that Shane take his place. The purse was three hundred dollars, sixty percent to the winner.

  “You’ll have to give away about ten pounds,” explained Gill, “but you can’t do any worse than lose the decision. Maley throws a lot of punches but can’t hit hard enough to break an Easter egg. He’s rough-but don’t let that worry you—I beat him two years ago. Keep in on him—never stop punchin’—he’s got a six round heart—after that he wilts. He got a draw with Jerry Wayne and he’s been travelin’ on that ever since.”

  Shane always remembered the ten days with Jack Gill. A murderous puncher, he was cruel in workouts, but always fair. He did not play to the gallery. Neither did he ask his sparring partners to pull their punches. “If they’re men enough to whip me, I’ve got no business among the top notchers.”

  His manager knew little of the fight game. A fore man in a steel mill, Jack Gill had carried him along. Gill had worked in the mill until money was assured in the ring.

  Thirty thousand people were at the fight.

  “We’ve raised your six rounder to ten—just to give the folks a show,” the promoter explained to Shane—“and we’ve anted the purse up to five hundred. Is that okeh?”

  “You bet. Suppose I knock him out?”

  “You can get three to one that says you can’t.”

  “Well—even if I lose the duke I got forty percent of five hundred, ain’t I?”

  “Why yes.”

  “Will you bet a hundred of that dough that I knock him out?”

  Jack Gill spoke up— “Cut me in on another hundred of that—and another century that if there’s a knockout Rory here’ll land it. Phone it to the papers how I stand.”

  “Thanks, Jack—you’re swell.”

  Shane’s arm went round his employer.

  On the night of the fight, Gill said, “Now listen, Kid—throw punches till you die—you got a hundred bucks on yourself—three to one—suppose you click—and sixty percent of five hundred—now don’t spar a second. Throw punches—keep in—the minute he backs up, push right in again—I tell you he’s got a six round heart—he can’t hurt you if I couldn’t.”

  The western sky was still red when the first preliminary went on.

  Shane used Gill’s dressing-room.

  “Now make it snappy, Kid. I’ll wait here till you come back. I’ll want you swingin’ that towel over me.”

  Rory went down the aisle.

  “It’s one of those things,” Gill said to his manager. “That kid’s got a bulldog’s heart—and he’s fast as a greyhound—watch.”

  Other sparring mates from Gill’s camp attended Shane. Maley was contemptuous.

  “Gunner Maley,” he bowed to the introduction, “meets Shane Rory—ten rounds—moved up from six for your benefit. Rory, lest we forget, is a protégé of Jack Gill’s—five thousand dollars is wagered on the result of this fight. Three to one—if there’s a knockout, Rory will land it.” The announcer clapped his hands. The referee stepped to the centre of the ring.

  Maley, with bull neck, and powerful shoulders, the gloves already on his hands, stepped from his corner.

  A hush came over the gathering.

  Rory came to meet him.

  Lithe, his body sun-burned about the shoulders and neck, his ribs wash-board indented, a few freckles across his nose, his lips tight set, his hair a mass of packed curls, he slapped one glove against another while the referee gave instructions.

  The referee stopped.

  “Are you through?” Maley asked.

  “Yes.”

  “No fouls now—everything goes—this is a fight.”

  “Yes,” snapped Rory— “This is a fight.”

  Scowling, Maley dashed to his corner. The gong rang.

  Maley rushed. His blows failed to bring Rory from his shell. A few cracked against the top of Shane’s head hard enough to drive it between his shoulders.

  Rory came forward, ignoring Maley’s head. He stamped with his left foot, feinted with right and left hand, drew back, then planted his right foot deep in the canvas.

  Maley charged.

  An ox would have fallen under the battering. So did Maley. So swift and terrible were the blows that Maley caught them on the way down.

  The audience groaned from the sudden finish.

  “I knew it, by God, I knew it,” Jack Gill said— “throw some clothes on him—rub him off later—I’ll stall in the ring till he comes.”

  Before final instructions were given, Shane crawled through the ropes. Roars of applause followed.

  “Bow, Kid, bow”—Gill snapped.

  Shane acknowledged the applause.

  Gill, not so fortunate as Shane, received a close decision over his opponent.

  “You were up against a better man than me,” Shane consoled.

  “Not at all, Kid—it’s the game—a woman’s liable to lick you the night you think you can whip an army. You were right tonight—you could of licked Stanley Ketchell—that’s all—but I will say—that louse I fought’s nobody’s stumble-burn.”

  “I’ll say he’s not,” said Shane, “He don’t stumble even when you hit him.”

  “If he does,” smiled Gill, “it’s back for more. I thought my hands were bone dust, I hit him so hard and often.”

  “Oh well,” said Shane, “better luck next time.”

  “There’s no next time for that bird—he’s harder to lick than a champion—and he might lick a champion, and I’m goin’ to be the world’s champion.”

  Shane remembered his last fight with Garcia, and wondered until, rubbed down, he left the building with Jack Gill and his manager.

  “Come along to Chicago with us,” said Gill, “we’ve got two weeks in burlesque.”

  “Nope—I don’t like burlesque.”

  “But you won’t have to see it, Sap—you’ll be workin’ with me.”

  “Nope, Jack, I’m headin’ for Omaha.”

  “All right—say hello to Buck Logan out there for me—that guy’s heart’s in the right place.”

  “Another fellow told me about him—Mankerlitz out of Phoenix.”

  “So you know Mank, do you—he’s okeh—some good people in this racket—but don’t miss Logan. He’s worth a round trip. He was a fighter when he was a kid. He knows what it is to get belted around. Get him to talkin’ sometime. You know a lot of them writin’ saps are mighty dumb—they think because they can string words together they got the world by the tail, when all the time it’s got them. But they wouldn’t know what to do with a coupla cracks on the jaw. Everybody’s got somethin’, Kid—even that manager of mine—but I ain’t found out what it is—but go to Logan-he’s the bishop of us guys. He hears all our confessions. Get him to tell you about the time he fought the dinge in Winnipeg—and how he said to his second, ‘Throw in the towel, I’m retirin’ from the fray’—and the second says, ‘That wasn’t a hard wallop you took—just think what Battlin’ Nelson would
take’—and Buck says—’Well, Nelson would have quit had he took that one—you fight the next round—I’m through—’ Well, so long, Shane—drop me a line any time, care of the Chicago Tribune— you’re damn good people—you shoot square dice.”

  His green silk shirt wide open at the throat, his muscles bulging the shoulders, the wind blowing through his hair, Gill sat at the wheel. His manager climbed in beside him. The rear seat of his powerful car was loaded with many traveling bags. The car roared in the direction of Chicago.

  Shane watched the luxurious sixteen-cylindered car until it faded from sight.

  He was lonesome for Gill. He had learned a lot from him. He remembered his saying,

  “You’re the best man in the camp, Kid—don’t you never forget it. You’re growin’ or I’d have to fight you some day—and I’d hate that—you might lick me—and if I was mad enough to lick you I’d be sorry.”

  Gill had never taken a drink in his life—had never used tobacco— “I just didn’t—that’s all.”

  The words impressed Shane.

  “I wanta meet you again, Jack.”

  “We will—it’s in the cards—if it ever comes rough, let me know.”

  “You’re a pal, Jack.”

  “I like you, that’s all—you take it and lash it out—and you don’t whimper—a guy who can tear Maley to pieces is aces up with me—and I’ve never heard you say a word about it.”

  III

  Shane never had so much money before. Remembering Gill’s swagger and the powerful car, he walked about the streets of Wichita.

  The lad who had bought trinkets in Mexico City that he did not need was soon buying a large wardrobe trunk and loading it with clothes.

  He took a Pullman out of Wichita.

  It was filled with men who had attended the convention.

  All wanted to entertain the conqueror of Gunner Maley.

  Shrewd men, who had gone far in the world, they had not learned what Shane and Gill knew by instinct—to be temperate with food and liquor.

  To their amazement they observed that he who had been brutal as a strong wind against Maley was now bashful and awkward in his plush surroundings.

  “I’d give a million to be in your shape,” a bloated man said, “I wish you’d take me in hand. Too much flesh is like too much money—it makes you tired to carry it around.”