(Wait, I thought I was one of yours?)
Somehow, I wrapped my arms around him and held on for dear life. The ref stepped in and forced us apart. (Hold it! What are you doing? He will hurt me?) Mercy did not exist here; I was the sacrificial lamb to this horrific scene. The mob was savage; things were out of control!
The bell rang!
Izzy leaped into the ring and grabbed hold of me. He guided me back to the stool, but that one minute would pass in a split second if he didn’t move fast enough.
He threw icy water in my face and shoved the ice pack down my trunks and onto my genitals! Wow! I regained a small semblance of my senses. I suddenly felt stinging in my left eye; a river of blood was streaming down my face from a terrible gash. Ralphie painfully spread the cut wide open with his two fingers and pressed a merlin-type magical potion of an epinephrine-soaked Q-Tip deep into the wound. It stung horribly, but it did the trick. He coated my face again with Vaseline. Doubt was changing to hopelessness.
Izzy was nose to nose with me, “Kid, tie him up again until ya get your wits about you. Don’t try to box him yet, listen for my signal! He’s dropping his left after he jabs, he’s prime for an overhand right, but wait till I tell ya!”
The bell rang!
Ralphie yanked on the stool while pushing me forward (But I’m not ready yet fellas). The ref hollered at the top of his lungs, “Seconds out!” (May I go too?) Suddenly a thumping headache started banging against the side of my head. It cleared the cobwebs, but now every punch would hurt.
Weeden stood the entire time, every muscle in his body was twitching; he hungered to finish what he started. I jumped on my bicycle, running from him as fast as I could, something I had never done before. He rushed in, trapping me, and as Izzy instructed, I tied him up. My efforts were awkward, I didn’t play the coward well, and the mob began to boo. I heard someone ringside yell, “Hey, Weeden, knock the bum out!” (But wait a minute, don’t you live up the block from me?)
Weeden was now screaming to the ref, “Come-on, do something! He’s fucking holding.” (So?) The ref struggled to pull us apart; he hesitated for a moment, “Listen, son, if this continues, I will deduct a point.” (What do I care, this guy wants to murder me!)
Weeden provided a resounding answer; he hit me with a right that hurt so much, it broke my nose and knocked me on my ass. The new agony of a broken nose replaced the dull pounding on the side of my head. A waterfall of blood flowed, hampering my breathing. (I never knew this was such a violent profession, why didn’t someone warn me?) I struggled to get up.
The ref rubbed my gloves against his shirt and looked deep into my eyes, “Son, are you ok? Can you still fight?” I nodded, yes. (Why in the hell did I do that?) Weeden charged in, and I flailed my arms in the air like a rag doll in a vain attempt to grab him again. The mob had tasted my blood, they savored every drop, and now they urgently needed more! They demanded a cruel and bloody end; the more horrific, the better! This was a massacre of epic proportions!
Oh sure, I was their son, their neighbor, but never mind, it was feeding time at the zoo, and I was on the menu!
The bell rang!
The oxygen was sucked from the arena in a giant woof! The mob plopped down in their seats, drained and disappointed. They would have to wait another minute for the finale of my execution.
This sport I relished my entire life had instantly become bitter and heartless. My nose was throbbing, and the moment my ass hit the stool, I was met by Ralphie, who shoved Q-tips soaked in adrenaline and hydro-chloride deep into each nostril. The now-familiar throbbing shifted to a stabbing pain that nearly made me vomit. Breathing became impossible, my mouth was agape, desperately gasping for air. Please, someone, take the mouthpiece out, I can’t breathe! Izzy accommodated; he was hollering like a madman! His unbridled instructions unnerved me. This scenario was not taught in the gym. I was panicking. (What do I do?) Seconds later, he shoved the damn mouthpiece back in. Fellas, how am I going to breathe? Their response; “Keep your fucken hands up!” This was insanity!
The bell rang!
I somehow survived another round, and after four, only a knockout would allow me to stay undefeated. My face, torn and tattered, was unrecognizable. The intense swelling numbed my face and dulled my senses to the onslaught, a false feeling which allows fighters to push go on and blindly plod deeper into oblivion.
As I sat aimlessly on the stool, I could hear Sal yelling from my right, but my eye was so swollen I couldn’t see what he was pointing to. Ralphie tried to coat all the damaged areas in thick globs of jelly, but it was too late.
The bell rang!
I charged forward, not out of bravery, but after the thousands of rounds of training, my brain instinctively propelled me further into battle.
Weeden had tired from landing so many punches. His left hook had slowed enough that I could sense it coming. I began to block them. My goal now was to finish the fight on my feet.
The bell rang!
Almost over! I labored to take a breath. As I hobbled back to my corner, there on the ring skirt was a face that looked oddly familiar. Through all the blood, sweat, and swelling, I struggled to see who it was. I could see it was female, but wait! My God, it was Gia, and she was sobbing! Did I look that bad?
Sal had called home and begged her to join him ringside; he knew the only way to save his brother in this bloodbath was to get Gia there as fast as he could. This was like a bad movie.
I refused the stool; she held my tattered face in her gentle hands and cried while Izzy lost control, demanding that everyone leave the corner, “For the love of Pete, will you ‘all get back to your goddamn seats!"
To hell with this, I would not allow her to see me defenseless and defeated. A different type of focus took hold. Bravado replaced doubt, while hunger displaced panic. From the shadows of the deepest jungle, the mortally wounded lion roared once again!
Gia’s anguish flowed through my veins; I turned and peered over at Weeden. He was sitting for the first time on his stool. Those trumpets began to sound mightily in my battered brain. He witnessed my swollen expression change; I was alive again! I heard his corner screaming at him, “just stick and move, the fight’s in the bag.” But he was a Philadelphia fighter, and they didn’t back down from anyone.
The bell rang!
The crowd would stand for the final three minutes. If Weeden were to beat me, he would have to kill me!
Within seconds I tore into him with a vicious hook to the body, I tasted his blood for the first time. Its sweet saltiness was invigorating. I charged in again and slashed into his flesh; I was rabid and untamable. Right, right, and right again. He was helpless, and I went for the jugular. My teeth dug deep into his flesh, he writhed and screamed in agony! His body’s organs were damaged! And just like that, the brave Philadelphia combatant crumbled into the corner. The referee leaned in, five…six…seven…
The bell rang!
Discontented, the mob sighed en masse. Why interrupt such a grisly, yet glorious finale?
Just like that, Marino was their boy again, and they cheered anew for me. Yet I was having none of it; I felt violated. During the bout, I was stripped naked and raped by the mob. I was a living conduit for their inchoate, demonic will of this mob: an expression of their collective hunger. And when I failed to perform to their desires, they ravaged me.
As they lowered the microphone down from the rafters and the announcer began his rhythmic chant, “ladies and gentlemen, we go to the scorecards…” Ralphie hollered in my ear, “No good kid, no good! You waited too long!” I knew it. I was under no illusion; even though I had knocked him out, the bell had rescued his victory.
As I exited the arena, people hollered from left and r
ight, “Marino, you were fucken robbed!” Another antagonist was more accurate, “Robbed? You weren’t robbed! You were fucken mauled!”
I asked that Gia be kept out of the locker room. Sal stayed with her. Inside, the room was solemn, morgue-like. Izzy and Ralphie had nothing to say. I sat alone; this was how we must face our heartache and disillusions in this sport.
In that moment of defeat, my world buckled - where there was once light, now became shadows; my bitter pain came and went like the waves on a frigid beach. I had been humiliated in front of all these people. I'd never lived this down as long as I would live. An adolescent hurt overwhelmed me, and I began to sob uncontrollably. There was no rescue from this embarrassment. It was absolute. Torture. Utter humiliation. I wanted my mother to console me. (Ma, please hold me. He hurt me Ma, make the pain go away.)
After twenty minutes of inconsolable sobbing, Izzy came and put his arm around me and drew me into the shower, “Kid, cleanup, I will take you to the hospital.”
“Hospital, I don’t need any hospital.” Did I need to endure further humiliation?
“Let’s have the doctor’s just look over you.” And that’s precisely what they did, and they concluded I would be their guest for a few days.
That night Gia was waiting when they wheeled me into my room. One of my eyes was swollen shut, and my nose was broken. As much as she tried to put on a brave face, the moment she laid her eyes upon me, the tears just welled up. Her weeping came from such a deep region in her soul; her anguish cut deep.
The truth was, our passion for each other was a contradiction. Her love for me was a cross to bear that, at times, caused Gia immense pain. I witnessed now how this sport I so loved was tearing her apart. Yet, my love for her was greeted by a passion with no strings attached. I was offered a love that was nurturing, healing; it was a gift that made me whole again. Continuing to fight would be wrongful to her.
What the hell could I do? Lying in that hospital bed, I didn’t make for a great argument. Without boxing, what was my future? Breaking legs on the dock for her father? Hauling bricks and mortar with my father? I was a fighter; that’s what I did. I’m a fighter…I’m a …
(Didn’t you see me in that last round?)
My reasoning became more self-serving by the moment. With Gia by my side, who could defeat me? I was dazed and confused by life. Then, a sobering reality check struck, an acute pain as powerful as a lightning bolt slashed through my brain and made me question my fighting future. At that moment, I did not enjoy the worship. Hell no! Instead, what I was enduring was as plain as day; m-i-s-e-r-y. As I had heard my entire life, on any given day, any man could be beaten. It just wasn’t my day.
*****
My father lay in a bed in the living room convalescing while his youngest son rested upstairs. By now, Gia had become an integral part of the family, and as my mother nursed my father, my little Gia nursed me. That Sunday, both bulls dragged themselves from their beds and joined the entire family at the table.
Cousins, aunts, and uncles united with us. There was Angela next to Angie; Mary was next to Rosa, Gia next to my cousin Gina, and Sal next to me, and my father, well of course, at the head of the table. As my mother stood and dished out the macaroni, it seemed more comforting than usual. Here was my family, who loved me unconditionally. There was order in the world, and such things as Romeo and Juliet’s, all my crazy friends, and the boxing ring, no longer seemed important.
There was one seat left empty, and they meant it for Izzy. It was unusual for him to be late. My mother’s Sunday meals waited for no one, so a few moments after we began, Izzy knocked at the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Marino, I’m terribly sorry for being late.” He had a bottle of Chianti in his hand as a peace offering. Izzy loved my mother’s cooking; he said her pasta made him forget his mother kreplach.
Sundays were reserved for idle chit chat; they kept serious matters for later, in the backyard over espresso. The reason for Izzy’s tardiness caused the table chatter to turn serious, “Ant, I spoke to Weeden’s people, and they will offer you a rematch.” The entire table became morose. Those words caused a sudden lack of appetite. I yelled with no thought behind it, “Oh yeah, great!” (Couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut?) My mother, ordinarily the silent one, couldn’t keep quiet, “I don’t want my son fighting anymore! Look at him, look at what they did to my beautiful boy!”
Although Gia wanted to jump in and join my mother’s apprehensions, she knew her place. Izzy was smart enough then to get into a verbal tussle with my mother; he lowered his head in reverence. The table became quiet, I glanced at Gia, she too had her head bowed, and my mother reigned supreme.
Even wounded, the old bull would yet have the last word. Saverio dropped his heavy hand on the table, causing a resonating thud. His piercing glare speared each person before him, “I think it’s up to Anthony.” He looked over to me, offering a much-needed lifeline, “My son if you want to quit,” he then carefully chose his next words, knowing full well that the word quit would cut quick, “then we will all support you. But listen well Anthony; I too fought when I was a young boy in Sicily.” My mother motioned with her hand at the opposite end of the table, vainly trying to hush my father, he waved her off, “Yes, your mother doesn’t want you to know, but I too loved to fight. It is in our blood, but my mother talked me out of it. To this day, every morning when I drag myself out of bed and drive my truck to work, I regret my choices.” He waited for a second, took a deep breath, needing more strength, “Remember, you can’t go back, and if you make a mistake, it will haunt you for the rest of your life…so choose wisely.”
No one dared to refute his advice; I regained my appetite, and the chit chat resumed, along with a much-needed measure of levity.
Vito and Sonny joined us in the backyard after dinner. They knew better than to enter my house empty-handed, so they bore gifts, and it was my father’s favorite, a big box of cannoli. My mother always had a dish of raw fennel, a natural digestif, for us to chew on before dessert. My father went back to his bed, a cannoli hidden from my mother’s view, while the rest of the men surrounded me as I rested in the hammock.
Vito was persistent, “Ant, you have to fight again. Even though Sonny and I were seated way up in the nose-bleeds, we could still see that during that last round, you had that tutsoon finished! Another few seconds and they would have been measuring him for a suit!”
On the other hand, Sonny seemed more concerned, “Hey Ant, he was tough, wasn’t he?”
“You have no idea.”
Vito wasn’t allowing any doubt to enter the conversation, “Fugetaboutit! That bastard is the only one standing in your way to the championship. I just bought Ring Magazine, and they have him ranked number one!”
That reinvigorated me; if I could get Gia to accept a few more bouts, her presence would energize me right to the championship. “You’re right Vito, if I had attacked the round before, I’d still be undefeated.”
Izzy joined us with a cup of tea and a cannoli in his hand, as he plopped into a chair, his joints ached, “Oy vey! I’m goin to go into a diabetic shock after a meal like dis. Ya know Ant, your family are special people.”
I wasn’t in need of warm and fuzzy words at that moment. I needed Izzy’s old-time Yiddish motivation, the kind that would grow back my claws and fangs. I would have to deal with Gia later, but a feeling deep within me could no longer be suppressed, “Izzy, finish the cannoli and make the fucken fight happen.”
Izzy’s eyes widened. “Well then, gentlemen, I’m off. I have some business to tend to.” He sucked down the tea and made off with cannoli in hand. The men all patted me on the back and cheered me on, but from the kitchen window, as she feebly looked on, Gia now knew I would return to the ring.
*****
S
unday evening was the Columbo’s family night. As Gia’s beau, they expected me to join them immediately after the Marino fete. After a light supper of macaroni, (get the picture?), he invited just me to the living room for a tête-à-tête.
He sat in an imposing dark leather armchair with a Cuban cigar in hand that formed a perpetual veil of smoke that at times obscured my view. Resting atop such a throne, he seemed regal. Up-close, Albert Columbo was a fearsome man. His dark features were stone-like, chiseled from the marble used by ancient Roman emperors for their effigies. His looks motivated men (more than likely out of fear), and with a flick of a finger, lives were altered. I understood his ease at keeping the docks in line. He was the type of person you tippy-toed around; a voice never raised beyond a mere hush.
As an outsider looking in, I understood the hierarchy of the street, and with little contemplation, I could see that Albert was on a different plane than Danny Gallo. Whereas Danny found it necessary to roam the streets endlessly, Albert seemed to hold court from the sky’s above over a vast dominion. Albert’s implicit clout was palatable, and a message sent down to his underlings was heeded without challenge.
Danny found an urgency to lure us all in; he needed more pawns to surround him, which in turn, empowered Gallo. He offered my friends and me not only a distorted sense of protection, but also absurd accolades of acceptance. A few of my friends happily joined Gallo’s merry band and now seemed distant and miserable. Deep down, Gallo was a Nosferatu-like figure disguised in an Italian suit who slowly drained the life from his followers.
Say Goodbye and Goodnight Page 11
