Ringside Tales

RINGSIDE TALE



The only sound inside the stark, muggy dressing room came from the
drone of a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The only
furnished amenities was a blood stained sink, a long wood bench and a
large cracked mirror; fractured in anger by those unfortunate enough to
have added another loss to their record.

It was the same mirror "Gallant" Rock Galento sat staring at. Its
reflection returned the tragic figure of a worn-out man who battled for
twenty-two years in the ring.

But Rock might tell you that it wasn't all a tragic waste. After all,
he did make some decent money. Even had some tucked away for some hard
times. He'd tell you he made some pretty good friends, and enjoyed the
company of some pretty fair looking gals. Most everybody knew his
reputation, and at bars or restaurants, the house would usually pick up
his fare.

But at forty-two-years-old, even those rewards could not change the
fact that Rock was still just a contender. Oh sure, he could put on a
great fight, which is what people paid to see after all-paid to see
Rock get battered almost beyond recognition. In truth: Rock was just an
aging punching bag for those on their way up the pugilistic
ladder.

Make no mistake though, Rock was still tough as they come. His
combative instincts were honed during his youth as a street thug
running numbers in the South Bronx. Later, he caught the eye of a
neighborhood gangster called Jimmy "Big Nose" Dominick. He hired Rock
as a "rent collector," a euphemism for extortion. Jimmy's recruiting
pitch was simple-"If they don't pay, you break a couple of thumbs." So
that's how Rock made a living for a few years.

But Rock quickly grew restless with so much untamed energy, and became
increasingly violent. He found himself breaking more than the thumbs of
recalcitrant customers, raising the concern of Jimmy "Big Nose." If he
didn't curtail the Rock's enthusiasm, his customers would spill it to
the cops, and he didn't need the heat, or the loss of business.

Jimmy needed to stir Rock in a direction where his viciousness would be
more conducive, and allow Jimmy to continue to operate his business
without any problems from his over zealous hireling. That's when he hit
upon a solution.

Sitting in the front row next to Jimmy, Rock watched with excitement as
Joe Louis sent Max Schmelling to the canvas. Though it only took one
round to knockout the German champion, Rock was hooked for good. He
loved the animal ferocity, the blood wafting smell of the pit and the
delirious cheering from the maddening crowd. There was no question in
Rock's mind-he was going to be a boxer.

Jimmy was well known among the fight crowd, and was able to pull a few
strings. Rock was soon donning a pair of 16-ounce gloves. Jimmy asked
the pudgy ex-fighter, Willie Smalls to take him on as his trainer and
teach him the art. "Who knows," said Jimmy, "We might have another
Demsey on our hands." But Demsey he wasn't-with those two left feet of
his, but Rock had a nasty right hook that could derail a locomotive,
and Willie saw potential in his brawling tyro.

For the next two decades, Rock would close in on his
opponents until he cornered them-and then unleash a reign of terror
upon their bodies; like a battering ram-beating them senseless, until
they fell comatose-a merciful end to their suffering. He believed two
fighters should go toe-to-toe until the final bell, or until one was
carried out in a stretcher.

During Rock's twilight career in the ring, he would loose bouts to more
youthful and skilled boxers, but he was proud of the fact that he
always went the distance-a fact confirmed by the wreckage he bore on
his face.

Some people loved him, but most hated him-loved him because he was no
quitter-hated him because nobody could endure such punishment and still
be called human.

But the consequences of such pugnacity were pitiful; the once handsome
man was now a caricature of an over-the-hill punch-drunken and
disfigured has-been. His nose had developed into a deformed appendage,
bent flat downward at the tip, almost fusing with his upper lip-liking
him to a bulldog. His brow was scarred from surreptitious head butts,
the corner of his eyes were perpetually swollen-his ears a shapeless
blob from the constant pummeling.

Yet, even with his altered face and the heavy look of resignation, he
was still a fighter to be feared and respected-but he was still no
champion.

That was the situation Rock found himself in as he gazed at
his reflection in the mirror. He was struggling with an uneasiness he
had never encountered before. It was a dread that affects almost
everybody at some point in their life. It was that nagging specter of
doom-like something really awful was going to happen. For Rock, that
feeling was especially oppressive, and for the first time in his
life-he felt afraid.

Willie Smalls knocked hard on the door, startling Rock out of his
gloom.

"Come on in," said Rock.

Willie had a white towel draped over his arm and some boxing tape to
wrap Rock's hands. "How ya doin' kid?"

"Alright, I guess."

"You don't sound so sure. What gives?" he asked, as he started to apply
the tape.

"I ain't to sure about this one Willie. Somethin' just ain't
right."
"You feelin' sick, or what?"

"No, nothin' like that. Somethin' in my head just ain't right.
Willie started to make a joke about his head but realized Rock was
serious. "Okay, let's have it Rock. What's up?"

"I'm thinkin' this might be my last fight Willie. I mean-I'm not sure
I'll even make it through this one, okay? It's a weird feelin' I
got."
Willie's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You know somethin' I don't,
Rock?"

"Honest to god Willie, if I knew I'd tell ya. It's somethin' I just
can't figure myself."

"Look kid, it's just pre-fight jitters is all. Once the bell rings,
you'll be your old self. The smell of blood is what you need, my
boy."
"I ain't never been scared before Willie, but this is
different-different I'm tellin' ya."

"Look Rock, we've been friends for many years. We go all the way back
to when you were just some street punk runnin' numbers for Jimmy 'Big
Nose'. He told me a long time ago to take care of ya, and that's what I
aim to do. If you think we should call off this fight, then just give
the word. I'm sure I can get Slick Pete to cancel-"

"You know I can't do that Willie. I ain't never ran from no fight. I'll
be okay. It's just a feelin' I got-it'll pass."

"Just the same Rock. You just give me the nod, and I'll go speak to
Slick Pete."

"Speak to me about what?"

"Oh, hi ya Slick," said Willie a little startled. "Didn't here ya come
in."

"You know me Willie, always slinking in and out of shadows. Keeps
everybody on their toes. So, what's the deal?"
Avoiding the question, Willie continued taping while Rock just shrugged
his shoulders.

"Hey, come on guys, you can talk to me. If you can't trust O' Pete, who
can you trust?" he asked with his patented, disarming grin.
Despite the grin, both Willie and Rock knew Slick Pete was just as
sleazy as promoters come. He was a high stakes gambler who made his
living, matching champions against losers-always putting his money on
the winners. He made no effort to hide his success; impeccably dressed
in thousand dollars silk suits, and all eight fingers wrapped with gold
nuggets and diamonds. Short and narrow shouldered, with a Clark Gable
mustache, he carried a cane that pulled opened in the center,
concealing a two-edged dagger inside.

"Well Pete," Rock ventured uncomfortably, "I-I ain't sure about this
fight."

"What's that supposed to mean?" his smile turning dark.

"I don't think I got it anymore. I'm gettin' to old for this game and
these young fighters are hungrier than ever. I want to get out before
there ain't nothin' left of me."

"Look Rock," he returned, "You've got plenty of fight left in you. They
don't call you "Gallant" for nothing. Besides, let's not forget, your
still under contract for three more years."

"I don't think so Pete. You'll have to do somethin' else with our
contract. After tonight, I'm finished."

"Your finished when I tell you your finished," his smile suddenly a
threatening scowl. "You think you can just walk out on Slick Pete, do
ya? I got a lot of money riding on you, and nobody is going to stiff
me. So you just pay good attention to me, ya bum. You get that ugly
puss of yours out there and give the crowd what they came for. I don't
want to hear anymore of that quittin' nonsense from you."

Rock bristled at that last comment.

The room became silent for a moment until Slick Pete, satisfied with
his berating of Rock, patted a bead of sweat on his forehead with an
embroidered handkerchief. Then, before turning for the door, he smiled
icily and said, "See you gentlemen shortly-at ringside."

Rock leaped from his chair as if to chase after Slick Pete, but Willie
stood in his way. "Call me a bum, will he? That pencil neck little
gangster, why I oughta break his?"

"Never mind him, Rock. We both know what he's made of. The scum ain't
worth it. Save your anger for the ring. Your gonna need it."

Rock meandered his way through the raucous crowd, with Willie flanking
him, his hand on the back of his shoulder, guiding him safely through
the throng of spectators. The heavy smell of stale beer and tobacco
filled the arena-the smoke hanging over the ring like a thick cloud. A
great din of insults and praises were raised to the level of cacophony;
every word became lost in a stream of incoherent stridency.

As he stepped into the ring, Rock sized up his opponent; then the
inexplicable dread that seized him earlier returned. He felt as though
he knew the barrel-chested man who was busy throwing quick, short jabs
into the air; paying him no attention.

"Willie," Rock called out over his shoulder. "What do you know about
this kid?"

"His name is Jack Crane. He's a Texas dirt farmer I hear, but real
tough. For him, it's either a life in the ring, or back to the plow. So
he ain't gonna give ya no quarter, Rock. So don't fight his fight. Let
him punch himself out, then make your move on him and don't let up
until he's sleeping soundly at your feet.

"I feel like I know him from somewhere, Willie. He reminds me of
somebody."

"After years in the ring, they all start to look alike. He's just
another hungry fighter, so watch yourself. Stay off the ropes and keep
movin'. Like I said, he'll come out swingin' for blood. Let him tire
himself out."

"Yeah, sure Willie-whatever you say," he replied, as he scrutinized the
Texan.

At the referee's urging, the two came together in the center
of the ring and stood breast to breast under the glaring light above.
The no-nonsense ref quickly established the obligatory rules, while the
Texan smiled at Rock with a deadly grin; the grin of a killer shark
hunting for prey.

Immediately, Rock's arms and legs started to tremble and feel like they
were under a tremendous weight. Returning to their corners, the first
bell rang after a few seconds. Ding!

Before Rock made his way back to the center of the ring, the
Texan met him with a thunderous right to his chin, dropping him
instantly to one knee. The referee pointed the Texan back to his corner
while simultaneously performing the ten-count. Rock was clearly hurt by
the blow, but wasn't finished yet. After shaking his head to focus his
eyes, he rose at the count of seven and quickly moved to collar the
Texan against the ropes. Thrashing wildly with all the rage he could
muster, the Texan simply ducked under the careless swings and caught
Rock with a short left hook to his temple, lifting him off his feet to
collapse upon the ropes. But after a few seconds, Rock again recovered
his senses, only to charge the Texan like a mad bull; but after deftly
stepping to his right, the Texan unloaded a flurry of steel fisted
punches to Rock's head and ribs. Staggering backwards, he was pounded
relentlessly while he futilely held his arms over his face, receiving
savage blows to his head and body. He could hear the sickening sound of
his ribs cracking, and then the air go out of his lungs.

Then suddenly, time seemed to stand still and he felt a strange
tranquility as he looked in the eyes of the huge Texan. Through the
bloody curtain that now blanketed his face, he finally understood the
reason for his trepidation. The Texan was a mirror reflection of
himself-a reflection of the same youthful rage and hunger that he
inflicted upon so many others who fell before him. It was those same
eyes-mocking, fearless, confident. It was the same punishing blows-hard
and pitiless.

Rock knew his reign of terror would end someday. He finally understood
what the mirror on the wall was revealing to him-he was finished.
With a strange sort of peace, Rock stood motionless; like a monolithic
punching bag with his feet set in cement, oscillating to the momentum
of every punch. He was oblivious to the crowd's feral hysteria; even as
the Texan continued his bludgeoning, he felt no pain-for he was numb to
the world-numb to his own existence.

Then, just as Willie threw the towel into the ring, Rock grinned with
crimson defiance at his opponent, before falling dead to the canvas.
















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