On the dining room table were platters of my mother’s eggplant, she kept trays of it in the freezer for just such calamities. Next to it were aluminum dishes filled with sausage and peppers, baked ziti, and another with meatballs. Mourners upon entering the house would pay their respects and then make a beeline to the buffet, loading paper dishes full of food, then going off into quiet parts of the house to gossip. Yes, the food seemed to quell their pain, but I found it insensitive. My uncle would never enjoy my aunt’s food again; couldn’t you all have just waited a little longer?
*****
Nothing drove my uncle’s death home more than when my mother went through his clothes to pick out the suit he was to be buried in. It was a necessary chore, but there was something painfully final about it. My cousin Angela was supposed to help, but she was too distraught. It's insane how fragile life is. You see the person every day, and all of a sudden, they're gone, and when they go, a part of you goes with them too. Who knew where Tony would end up if there were even heaven? I wanted to believe that whoever was awaiting us, he or she would answer every question, lift away all the burdens of our life.
I could hear Angela in her room, her door closed, yet the wailing for her father was desperate and never-ending. Although I was also mourning, Angela’s cries were filled with such hopelessness. Why I thought? This question was better left for the philosophers of this world; I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it all.
The sight of my mother choosing socks and shoes for Tony seemed unreal; it was as though she was picking out garb for that evening's dance. I heard her say under her voice, “Here’s a package of new underwear for him.” She gingerly folded them all and placed them into a paper shopping bag; it was purely macabre.
Esposito’s Funeral Home was the last stop for most of the neighborhood. It saw more than its fair share of gangster’s garish wakes, those sad events of children burying their parents, and even the more tragic funerals of parents burying their children. Yet this violent execution of a man known and loved by all had never been witnessed before. People from far and wide were coming to gawk; there was a circus-like feel to this. They set television cameras up on the opposite side of 20th Avenue to get good shots of the mourners. Even the Mayor himself showed up to jeers from all the on-lookers; a few even threw the still uncollected garbage at him. This had nothing to do with Tony; his memory was lost to most. Many of the people stood on-line for an hour to shuffle past the body. They seemed upset when they discovered the casket closed. They wanted their money’s worth, nothing short of the charred remains of my beloved uncle would have sufficed.
In the evening, the funeral home was closed to the public, only friends and family could attend. As they led my aunt into the room, the sight of her husband’s coffin was too much, her knees buckled. They led her to the center chair in the front row, and for the next three hours, she unknowingly thanked hundreds of well-wishers.
In the back of the room were all my friends. Incredulous anger filled their young hearts. They, like the wiseguys, felt the same, not to one of ours, and not in our neighborhood.
By the time everyone filed past my aunt and paid their obligatory respects, all the mourners turned their backs to the deceased. They were more curious about the upcoming baseball season and the Yankee’s prospects to return to the World Series. Many returned to gossiping about the frivolous goings-on in their daily lives, while they left poor Uncle Tony with just his immediate family to stay with him in his final moments. In the corner, I saw my father, silently acknowledging the multitude that paid their respects, nodding, shaking hands, yet statue-like. He was grieving, not only for Tony but also for himself. He now had to march on without his beloved brother-in-law and his dutiful son.
*****
At first, I thought grief was something awful that takes you ten feet under, but then I learned it was just the price we paid for loving someone. Since my Uncle Tony served in the Navy during the Korean War, he would be buried in the National Cemetery out on the Island. They draped his coffin in the American Flag as they carried it into the church. His body stood in front of the altar, so alone in a church full of people. I tried not to look at the casket, I knew it was necessary, but it was so cold. The silence echoing in my head was the constant white noise that wouldn’t stop. I sat numb to the world as the priest stood and gave Tony his final blessings. I couldn’t deal with it; I had to leave.
I waited out in front of Saint Dominic’s as they organized the parade of limousines and solemn black cars for the long procession out to the cemetery. Many of my friends were again surrounding me; that’s what we did in tough times. My cousin Angela joined us; she regained a bit of composure; it was a sign of our family’s inner strength along with two Valium Vito gave her. I grabbed and hugged her; I wanted her to know I was not only her cousin but her brother and her guardian all wrapped into one. Saying it now might seem shallow, but I would protect her forever. She kissed me, and gazed deeply into my eyes, she understood even in the depths of her grief, that life needed to be lived. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and with a vain smile, she gestured to me, she wanted to introduce me to a girl she went to school with, “Gia, have you met my cousin Anthony?” As I turned to respond to Angela’s introduction, I was stunned. I froze. Holy shit! It was HER! She reached her hand out for mine, “Anthony, I’m so sorry about your uncle.” My tongue seemed glued to the roof of my mouth. "Yeah, ah, thank you. So, your name is Gia?” She flashed a devilish smile, even at this time of grief; she knew how to play the game, “Angela, I’ll see you next week in school.” She turned to leave, and hesitated, “Ant, will I see you in the club?” I was flush, “The club? Oh yeah, the club, of course!” As she walked away, I knew at once there would never be another girl for me. I am ashamed to say, as they went about burying my uncle with all the military pomp and circumstance, instead of thinking about Tony, my mind was consumed by Gia and little else.
Chapter 5
A Ting Of Beauty
That morning of Sal’s first day at the police academy seemed more like the continuance of the funeral rather than a celebratory event. While Sal showered, my mother ironed his gray shirt and dark blue pants. She lifted his shiny new black shoes she bought for him and gave them a once over. My mother would rather live on her knees than die on her feet; her love for us was the kind that would move heaven and earth. Yet we became used to it, and it was something we seldom appreciated.
My brother came down from his bedroom, all decked out in his spiffy police cadet uniform. Sal looked sharp, but that caused our father to storm out of the room. In his anger, his jaw seemed wired shut, even refusing to have breakfast. God forbid he wishes his firstborn well in his endeavors in life. All he needed to do to complete the picture was to stamp his feet. My father was wounded; it was as though Sal refuted my father’s life’s work. To Saverio, being a stonemason, as his father before him and his father and so on, was an honorable trade that Sal and I, for that matter, should embrace and be proud. For Sal to offer his life to protect and serve strangers was unfathomable to my father.
My mother was mute on the point. She allowed her husband to brood and licked his wounds, and then, and only then, would she render her ever-important verdict. I told Sal not to worry, I knew our mother, and if she came to approve of her oldest son’s quest in life, she would smooth it over with the old man.
*****
Izzy rarely ventured into the locker room; this was our sanctuary away from his ever-judging eyes. So, for him to foray into this pungent haven, it was something significant. Other fighters always made fun of my black leather sandals; I thought they made me look like an ancient Roman warrior. Besides, God-forbid I would walk barefoot in this slime, my foot might fall off!
Izzy found me sitting in front of my locker, going about wrapping my own hands. “Kid, ya need to get your h
ead back into the game. I know you’re mourning your uncle, but tis fight Friday will not be any walk in da park. If you’re not careful, tis guy could become your golem.”
(After so many years being with Izzy, I understood as much Yiddish as Italian!)
He was right, I needed to bury my most profound sorrow concerning my uncle, but it wasn’t only Tony who was invading my inner conscious, it was Gia. The fact the ice was now broken, I fell headlong through and was hopelessly gasping for air. Waves of euphoria gushed through my veins, a hurricane named Gia had landed and its vortex was pulling me in, causing concentration on the task at hand near impossible. I wanted her…no! I needed her to see me fight on Friday, but how? The fight would be at the Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City, not only would I have to ask her, but I needed someone to bring her. I had no choice, as cold and self-serving as it would seem, I needed to ask Angela.
*****
Personal hygiene goes out the window in a boxing gym; you must be prepared to swap spit, blood, and other bodily fluids without being squeamish. Izzy tightened the laces on the same gloves the previous two fighters used; they were disgusting, soaked in sweat. Ralphie wiped those bodily fluids that were dripping off the headgear on the side of his soiled pants and then handed it to Izzy. I jerked my head away, “Come-on fellas, use a towel, that shit is gross.” Izzy grunted and plopped the putrid-smelling leather helmet over my head, tugging it down even harder, “Listen, princess, forget about being so fucking delicate. You’re making me meshuggener.” Izzy grabbed a towel and continued, “Now, I want ya to watch your balance, every time ya throw dat overhand right and miss, you’re falling forward. You’re a sucker for a left uppercut. Take ya head out of your ass and keep your damn balance!”
Izzy was right, he was always right, and down deep through his gruffness and toughness, I knew the old boy loved me.
That electronic bell rang, instructed me aloud to take a deep breath, and begin my sparring session. I was to spar only three rounds; the fight was so close; Izzy didn’t want me leaving it all in the gym.
I was in with Jerry Roberts, a rough and tumble former Marine Corps fighter whose style mirrored Friday’s opponent. We both met in the center of the ring, touched gloves in a civilized manner, and then, politesse went out the window. His first jab smashed into the right side of my face. It was a great punch, but it wasn’t the pain that caught my attention. Instead, it was the clammy, disgusting wet leather from my headgear smooshed into my face. My God, what a stench. That was all the incentive I needed, that would not happen again. Over the next eight minutes, I jabbed, hooked and threw my vaunted overhand right, while Izzy hung over the top ropes and hollered at me; “Goddamn it kid, slip dat jab…come on, time it!” He turned to Ralphie and grimaced, “Damn kid, just won’t listen. Can’t slip a punch to save his life! I think he gets insulted if da other fighter misses!”
At the end of the session, I was astonished to see how bloodied Jerry was when Ralphie removed his headgear. I went over to see how he was, but Jerry had his pride. At one time, Jerry had been in my place, and despite my genuine disquiet, was having none of it. “You were great; keep your left up when you throw that right. Kid, that right will make you a champion!”
He had said it, he meant it, but I knew it. So did Izzy and the rest of the gym, my right could conquer the world. It could enable me to climb the mountaintop and provide my family with enough money my father would never have to work again.
A silence came over the gym as the shadowy figure of Calò Vizzini entered. Even Izzy knew to give him his due respect. “Isidora, my friend, it’s good to see you.” Izzy shook his hand unlike any other, “Calò, it’s so good to see you too?” What was it about this man that captured everyone’s deference? “Izzy, may I say hello to my boy?” Izzy bowed to him. Calò turned to me, “Anthony, may I have a word with you in private.”
“Of course.” We walked together to the far end of the cavernous gym, “Anthony, I didn’t want to interfere during your family’s grieving, but please let your father and the rest of the family know if there is anything I can do, tell them not to hesitate.” He leaned and kissed me on the cheek and left before I could respond. His mysteriousness came without reservation or apprehension. His offer was genuine and without question, yet I still wondered, why did I deserve all this generosity?
*****
Before seeing my cousin that afternoon, I swallowed a bowlful of guilt. I needed to ask, but with reverence. It was only a few days since we buried her father. “Angela, the friend you introduced me to the other…”
She smiled, “You mean Gia?”
I returned the smile, “Yes, Gia.”
“Cuzz, I know you like a book. I shouldn’t tell you this, but she really likes you. It’s funny the way things are; she actually asked me to introduce her to you.” Those words made me levitate; it was too good to be true.
“Angela, this Friday, are you still coming?”
She smiled, “At first, I thought my mother would have a problem with it, but she said I should still go. She also said whenever we needed anything; you were always there. So yes, Cuzz, I’ll be there along with my father…” As she struggled to say those comforting words, she broke down in tears. As much as I wanted to ask, her anguish brought me to tears. The pain was a large lump stuck in my throat, how insensitive of me to think of myself, Gia would have to wait.
*****
Often, people who knew I was a fighter asked me the same question; are you afraid of the other boxer? I can understand the query, but not the perception. Over the years, they trained me, maybe brainwashed is a better description, of how to handle the fear of another man. To be frank, I haven’t yet faced the fighter I’m afraid of. It’s not bravado or ego, I know my ability, and I can see other fighter’s weaknesses.
What I’m terrified of is losing, that fear drives me. As an amateur, I lost three fights, and that embarrassment was unfathomable. As I enter the ring, my senses are on high alert. Every color is brighter, every noise louder, the opposing human a cause to make my heart beat more fiercely still. Fear of another is baffling. I keep desperation hidden away as the last weapon in my arsenal. Should my hands break during a fight, I would beat him with my broken bones until he was nothing but dust. The worst flaws a person can possess is that of self-deception. With my speed and power, my opponent’s poise and confidence were only an illusion. I would never allow myself to taste that bitterness again.
There is one real fear I harbor, a concern I told no one before. Truth be told, it is extremely embarrassing. Before a fight, I stand alone in the bathroom for half an hour or more. Izzy and Ralphie always think I’m praying for strength and courage. Instead, I’m praying for piss and shit. Just before the bout, a fighter dramatically changes his diet, eating a lot of carbs, and drinking a lot of fluids to give him energy and re-hydrate. At that point, we are like a fine-tuned racehorse, and that altering of the regiment often turns a person’s stomach foul. Nothing frightens me more than the thought of getting into that ring and having that uncomfortable feeling of having to go to the bathroom. It terrorizes me! Now mind you, it has never happened to me, but I have seen it take place to other fighters. What a nightmare, imagine, what could you do? Once you walk down to that ring, you can’t wave to the referee and ask for a time out and run back to the locker-room to relieve yourself. In more ways than one, you’re shit out of luck!
“Marino…Marino, you’re up!” The usher just emphatically told me it was time to enter the ring and perform for the mob. Success would be measured by my ability to conjure magic for them, to entertain them; blood was a must! A bit dramatic? You’re damn right!
Since Izzy was already in the arena, it would be Ralphie and my brother who would walk me in. As Sal tied my robe, he kissed me. It was a brotherly gesture. He stepped back and the
n hesitated for a moment, “Angela wanted me to tell you something.”
I interrupted him mid-sentence, “She doesn’t need to say it. I know, Uncle Tony will be in the ring with me.”
“She knows that, but she wanted you to know something else.”
Ralphie had enough of that brotherly love, “Fellas, we have a fighter waiting to get his ass kicked, can we get the show on the road already.” Whatever Sal had to tell me, would have to wait.
Ralphie coated my face with Vaseline, making the skin more elastic and slippery, and hence less likely to tear during the fight. I had a good sweat going as I danced down the arena pathway to the theme song from Rocky. It became my favorite movie, and the fact we were both Italians told the crowd the entire story. The trumpeting of that song resonating from the rafters of the arena, and the sight of how that melody empowered me caused my opponent to have sudden waves of fright. I pounded my gloves together as the crowds of well-wishers and fans roared for The Kid from Brooklyn. I’m a fighter…I’m a fighter…. I’m a fighter.
Boxing in front of such a crowd brought a euphoria that’s hard to describe in words. I was like one my ancestors, a gladiator sauntering into the Colosseum with the multitudes bellowing for blood, any blood, whether it was mine or my opponents, mattered not. God, how I loved it so!
“I gave you both my instructions in the locker-room; I want a clean fight, and when you hear the bell, come out boxing.” As the referee gave us his perfunctory instructions, I stared into my opponents’ eyes, the moment he wavered, dropping his gaze down to the canvas, I knew it was over.
Say Goodbye and Goodnight Page 5
