As fighters, we are taught to live with pain and fear. Whether it is a crushing punch that stuns and dulls your senses, or the intense burning in every muscle of your body as you push yourself as far as humanly possible, and then push again even further. Familiarity with those fierce sensations quells fear, and brainwashing does the rest. In time, constant pain becomes pleasurable, almost erotic. There’s a funny thing about hard and shattering punches during a tough fight, one blow can beat you, while another can redeem you… it’s like being in love.
Over in the far end of the gym were two full-size rings; once a day, we all were required to put rounds in sparring with one another. One afternoon I was in with Tyrone Weeks, a tenacious, experienced southpaw from Fort Greene. Izzy always griped about southpaws; “Southpaws are evil… they’re just not normal.”
The last thing one would notice was the smell of the gym - like nothing else in this world. It was a pungent, zoological scent, a familiar and soothing fragrance to a fighter, but a repugnant odor to an outsider. At times its nastiness could put its arm around you and lull you into a state of unconsciousness.
Eddie Al Saud, the then-current middleweight champion of the world, was born, raised, and trained here. Because of that, Izzy began charging $1 admission for fans and neighborhood people to come in and watch the training sessions. Izzy picked up some ancient stadium seating that used to grace the basketball gymnasium at Saint Dominic’s. He also put in a soda machine, although he forbids his fighters from buying from it. I understood his rhyme here, but not his reasoning. Some of the local wiseguys demanded to put payphones and a cigarette machine in, but Izzy wasn’t having any of it. They knew better than to push the issue, besides what were they going to do? Beat him up?
An audience made it fun to train. Hordes of hot looking, scantily clad young females filled the stands every afternoon. According to the elders of our society, slutty clothing such as hot pants, tube tops, and teeny tiny polka dot bikini tops was the death of the All-American girl, but hell, we loved it.
That day started differently for me; as I hit the speed bag, SHE walked in! As she and her friends took seats close to me in the grandstands, I became electrified. She was near enough that her sweet perfume cut through the foul odor of the gym. Her beauty was so heart stopping, the pallet God used to create her made Michelangelo shed a tear. She seized my breath away as she and her friends began cooing and cackling while covertly pointing at me. I was quivering with the three “e” words; excitement, enthusiasm, and an unbridled ego!
The chills I felt shooting up and down my spine were replaced seconds later by an explosion of uncontrollable energy. Her presences threw my timing off, and I missed the speed bag for the first time in my life. Izzy, who always had his eye on everyone, hollered from across the gym, “Goddamn Ant, what in the hell was that?” He then realized the cause; he barked loud enough that the avenue below took notice; “Girls weaken the knees, keep your goddamn head in it!” The girls giggled together.
(Thanks a lot Izzy)
At least she knew my name (well, at least my nickname).
I stopped the bag for a second, holding it still with both hands. I stepped back and posed; I wanted her to get a good look at me. I then began; the loud rhythm of my fists resonated throughout the gym; I violently took all my angst out on that damn bag. Eddie, who was sparring with Cornell Chavis (best light-heavyweight in the gym), stopped for a split second to see who was making the loud machine-gun-like racket. I looked from the corner of my eye. Yes! She was staring right at me; it worked! She studied my every move, sensing my heart, my courage, and my biceps! Deep breaths, buddy. I’m a fighter; I’m a fighter; I’m a fighter. Her friend, Michelle, grabbed her; her companions were itching to leave. (Wait, please, just a few more rounds!) The next time I see her, no more monkeying around, I’ll make my move.
Chapter 3
Saint Dominic’s
“You know, kid; you just don’t have a fighters’ nose; it’s too damn pretty.” Ralphie Blackburn, Izzy’s cornerman par excellence, sauntered into the showers to check on me after an accidental head butt I received during sparring. Ralphie was broad-shouldered, with the features of a B-movie heavy. He jutted his chin out, offering me a mass of flesh that at one time was his nose, “Here kid, go ahead and feel it.”
“Ralphie, get out of here, I’m not touching that mess.” His nose was broken so many times; they removed the cartridge, flattening it out like a pancake. “Ralphie, that will not happen to me, I’m just too good.”
“Bullshit! Every fighter worth a shit has his nose broken every so often.” Ralphie thought for a second, “There’s only once Cassius Clay, and you ain’t him boy.”
“Fuck you, don’t call me boy.” I pulled the towel from around my waist and threw it in his face. Ralphie exclaimed, “Who the fuck wants to see your lily-white ass?”
“You have no idea Ralphie.” In the locker room, nudity was the norm, and vanity went out with the trash. Believe me, when I say, all men in the locker room check each other out, not that I’m a faggot, but you want to know what the competition has to offer. Now I’m not saying I’m another Johnny Wad, but after surveying the landscape, I knew I had nothing to worry about.
*****
It’s hard for me to put into words the feelings I had for my father. He, along with my mother, provided both my brother and me a comfortable existence. My father was my champion, and through him, I realized a dream doesn’t become a reality without lots of blood, sweat, and tears. Yet, at times, while growing up, I resented him for not becoming a rich and powerful man. I looked around my neighborhood and knew “it” was there for the taking. Men from the same town as my parents drove Caddy’s and Lincoln’s, flashing wads of cash, and nobody fucked with them.
Danny Gallo hung his hat at the Dyker Heights Golf Store on 86th Street along with his crew of heavy hitters. Danny was slender, well dressed, and always sported a tan. He spoke loud enough for all of us to hear, and neither his slim build nor his receding hairline ever hindered his molten ego. His black caddy was omnipresent and warned us all to watch our p’s and q’s. No one ever stepped out of line. His right index finger was as adept at counting all the hundreds as it was in pulling a trigger. He ran a high-stakes card game on Wednesday’s upstairs from the Zig-Zag Record Store on Avenue U and his Friday night craps game in the basement of Mr. Sportsman was always brimming with deadbeats and degenerates. The monthly casino he and his fellow wiseguy, Gaspipe Renadi, ran out of the Red’s Toy Warehouse in Mill Basin, was a magnet for gamblers far and wide. All of this earned him the respect of the coaches and quarterbacks of Gangsterdom.
Angelo Terranova was his cousin and right-hand. He was short in stature, and even shorter when it came to his temperament. His was a life without humor, and it was rumored in the neighborhood that not a single person ever witnessed him smile. He would offer no outward sign of anger until he reached his boiling point, then all bets were off. If you were smart, without a moment's hesitation, you ran for cover. His volcanic rages kept everyone in line; he was the muscle, and no one ever fucked with Angelo.
There’s an allure to how easy things came to them, but as I matured, I also saw cowardice within their actions. They preyed upon their own people; the weak among us became easy marks. More often than not, it was the old story of forcing protection payments from small businesses. Why would a landscaper need protection? From angry squirrels?
The gangsters scrutinized those same marks, offering effortless ways to gamble away whatever was left. When the hapless victims couldn’t come up with their losses, they then provided their next convenient service. Without those messy credit checks, they’d loan the necessary monies to keep kneecaps from getting broken. Who needed layaway? Go to them for quick cash, and eventually, they’d lay you away!
Once t
hey got their claws dug in, you had no chance of escaping. It did not differ from when a python got his fangs into a rodent. The rat might tug and pull, but the snake will idly wait before wrapping himself around the poor rodent and swallow him up. Those feeble victims, trapped within the confines of our neighborhood (and to be honest, often it was their vices that got them in trouble in the first place), feared seeking aid from the police. No one in my neighborhood ever called the cops; they wouldn’t lift a finger to help you anyway. The police were just as much a nuisance; they also preyed upon the working man, shaking down stores, bars, and restaurants. Except for a badge, they weren’t much different than the wiseguys.
Despite my occasional twangs for the easy life, watching my father after a hard week brought absolute respect and immense joy; here was a man who did it all on his own. With sheer determination and backbreaking work, he lifted himself and provided a beautiful home for us.
It was Saturday morning, and he asked his two sons to help build a “Grotta” for a glorious new statue of the Virgin Mary at Saint Dominic’s. He wanted it done before the feast. The figure was a gift to the church from Calò Vizzini; he told my father he wanted to keep it a secret. The enormous stone cave that was to house the Virgin Mother was to be my father’s gift. (Knowing my father; that would include painstakingly painting the inside as though we were Michelangelo with white clouds, blue heaven, and a few doves). I couldn’t say no to him, although the feast wasn’t till August. That was always my father's way; nothing was to wait till tomorrow.
*****
Someone needed to tell my father; the question was who? Sal burdened me with his secret, and was half-expecting me to drop a dime? It was too big; he needed to find the inner strength to face the music!
You see, Sal went off on his own and joined the police force. The eldest son was always expected to follow in his father’s footsteps. In becoming a cop, my brother was breaking the centuries-old line of Marino stonemasons. This would be paramount to losing a son, and for my father, that was precisely what it would be. My God, he already painted his trucks with the logo;
S. Marino & Sons, Inc.
Sal took the police exam in late November, and his score was good enough that he had just been called up. In a neatly typewritten letter from the city, they wanted him to begin training at the academy in a week.
My brother was larger than me, and since working with my father for the past six years, he was built like a brick shit house. Yet inside, he was a floundering mess. He struggled with the most basic decisions, a perfect example, his problem with the opposite sex. Now don’t get me wrong, Sal is a handsome SOB, but asking a girl three or four times where she wanted to go on a first date is a definite no-no. His indecisions were signs of a much larger problem. My brother was frightened to death by life. Now I’m not talking about defending himself against another man; he kicked plenty of ass in his time. Instead, I’m talking about confronting another person over the most basic of issues. I love my brother and look up to him, but his complacency with my father’s wishes made his life a daily struggle filled with anxiety and growing resentment.
It rained that morning, so Sal and I got a reprieve from our Saturday goody-two-shoes job at the church. Our father decided instead to ride out to the Island (We refer to Long Island as simply the Island) to pick up a new fig tree. Southern Italians have a special place in their hearts for figs and their trees. If you surveyed every house in my neighborhood, there were at least two or three figs on every property. I don’t know what it was, but Saverio couldn’t allow himself to rest for more than an hour or two.
*****
“Sal, let me see the letter again.” He pulled it out of his back pocket and threw it across the table. As important as it was, it was all crumbled-up; maybe deep down, my brother figured if the letter became illegible, he was off the hook from telling the old man. I don’t know what it is about my older brother; I guess that some people never escape their childhood, not really. It's like a part of them doesn't feel secure in the adult world. “Sal, tell him when Pop gets back.”
“Yeah, he wants me to help him plant that damn tree.”
“So? Tell him while you’re shoveling the shit.” I could see by the distress on his face; he didn’t possess the strength within himself.
Two hours later, I heard Saverio’s truck rumbling into the driveway; there was no turning back; I couldn’t allow my brother another chance to escape his own escape. I met the old man in the driveway, “Hey Pop, nice tree.” His response was his usual grunt and a strained smile. Exhibiting happiness was hard for my father; he wore the difficulties of his life on his sleeve for the entire world to take notice. Like rings on a tree, with every passing year, I noticed a new crease in his leathery mask. Without a moment’s hesitation, he began untying his fresh fig, “Pop, wait a minute. I got something to tell you.”
“Nota now.”
“Yes, now Pop, it’s important.”
Always expecting the worst, “It’s a the drugga, no?”
“Drugs? No, have you lost your marbles? It’s not me, it’s Sal.”
“He’s a taken the drugga?”
“Hold it! What’s up with you and the drugs?”
(I see where people always thought our conversations were a rehearsed comedy skit.)
I placed my hand on my father’s shoulder as though I was the adult in this crazy heart-to-heart; we would both need each other’s support and collectively took a deep breath. Funny thing, even though this wasn’t about me, I nevertheless felt deep pains of anxiety and angst. There was no way to do this in dribs and drabs. The only way was to blurt it out, “Pop, Sal went and took the police test a few months ago, and he passed.”
“That’s good.”
“Good? Well, wait a minute, maybe not.”
My father’s mood began to change, a wave of apprehension came across his rugged face, “Pop, he’s taking the job; he will not be able to work with you anymore.” At that moment, I wanted my father to get angry, to change into a quasi-monster, and rant and rave. Instead, he lowered his head and in utter silence, continued what he was doing. It was as though my brother’s needs and wants were so irrelevant, he would choose to ignore them, and they would simply disappear.
He finished untying his tree and dragged it to its intended location. I followed him, “Pop, did you understand what I’m saying.” He would not look at me; my words didn’t garner a grimace or a frown. Instead, he just tuned out the world around him and concentrated all his anger and sadness on his damn tree. I went to take the shovel and begin digging the hole, but he stretched his arm out, blocking my hand from the trowel. He grabbed the shovel and plunged it deep into his woes. That garden of his, laden with tomatoes, eggplant, and basil was where he went whenever he wanted to escape the world. It was only last year when his younger sister Maria died from an aneurysm, my father spent weeks in that garden, silently going about caring for his tomatoes. I didn’t want to stand by and witness this ritual of futility all over again. I had enough of my father and brother for the day.
I made my way back to the kitchen table; my mother was finishing up one of my favorites, her “wedding soup.” Without a word, she cut a thick slice of bread and ladled a bowl of that wondrous goodness and placed it down in front of me. The steam coming from it would carry my troubles away. You see, no matter what, food in our house was the cure-all. Whether you fell and broke a leg, “Eat this, you’ll feel better.” You got laid off from a job, “Have a bite, you’ll feel better.” Even when I rolled in at three in the morning, my mother would silently get up and cook something for my friends and me. “Mangia” signaled the antidote to all life’s adversities.
The aroma of lunch swept upstairs; Sal never said no to food. When he was nine and got hit by a car, breaking his leg,
my mother’s constant parade of soup, pasta, and bread turned him into a chubby ten-year-old.
Sal sprinkled some cheese into his soup, “Hey Ant, are you going to the club tonight?” His cluelessness angered me (Club? What about the Adventures of Officer Marino?). I remained silent as I slowly spooned my mother’s soup into my mouth. I looked up at him with a certain amount of apathy, he took notice, “Ant, what’s up?”
“What’s up? I went ahead and told Pop.”
“Told him what?”
“I told him you would not work with him anymore, and you were going to become a cop.” Sal leaped from the chair in a panic! He tossed his chair against the wall, “Why the fuck did you say that.” My mother forbid cursing in the house, “Hey, oh!” As she made the sign of the cross, she chastised my brother, “Watcha you language in here!”
He ignored our mother, “Ant, why did you do that?”
“Because you didn’t have the balls!” Just then, I heard my Uncle Tony shutting the front door. He smelled my mother’s soup halfway across Brooklyn. She ladled a generous bowl for him as he pulled a chair up. He turned to my mother, “Rosa, don’t forget the bread!” That resulted in my mother giving him a look (her looks were fabled to do great bodily harm). Tony directed his attention to the drama unfolding, “What’s going on with my two favorite nephews?” I didn’t mince word, “Sal’s mad at me because I told Pop that he would not work with anymore.”
Say Goodbye and Goodnight Page 3
