ROCKY MARCIANO

Me grandfather hated Italians....
instead of a backbone
they had a yellow stripe down their back
three miles wide.
he'd met a few during the war
and made out the waft of garlic still made him retch.
would rather starve than have spaghetti hoops in the house
and the frozen pizza's in Safeway......
he'd been thrown out once for spitting in the freezers.
all of this was so much shit though when he
got thinking on Rocky Marciano,
the only spic he wouldn't gladly have stabbed himself.
the only Rocky i knew was old Sly Stallone
but Grandad soon put me right.
'that Rocky was a brute...the last champion worthy of the name...took a
plane crash
to knock that fucker out....'
couldn't stand Ali......or Clay as he still called him..
'fuckin' nancy boy......the Rock would have took his head clean
off....would have been the first man in space he'd have hit him so
hard....'
i got the feeling he didn't like blacks either....
although i'm pretty damned sure he'd never even met one.
he told me two things over and over, my grandad ..
one - never carry an umbrella...they're for faggots and
priests......real men get wet, he said.
and two..
if you're ever in a fight close up and the other fellah goes to plant
his nut,
just bring your head down real fast....
that way BANG...he breaks his nose and you've got the cunt.
It's advice i've never had to use but
fair play to the old man......
it wasn't much but in his own, strange way it passed for wisdom.
i never really understood the old prick
and liked him even less.
i never understood why he'd get pissed and always slur his way through
'Amazing Grace' in a strong Scottish burr.......the fucker hated
Jocks.
i never understood why he sometimes cried out in his sleep or
why he insisted on going out in the rain
just so
all the little pricks with their brollies up could annoy him....
an unpleasant man all in
and it was me that found him,
slumped in his chair, the telly still blaring.
pneumonia did for him, too many wet walks
round town I suppose,
too many hours sat in front of a two-bar fire,
the damp steaming out of him.
it was me that found him slumped in his chair,
head bowed, chin to vest,
dribble running all down his chest.
mustn't have brought his head down quick enough i thought.
he'll up there now with Rocky , singing in his ear, boring the poor
fucker blind about Cassius Clay and gar-lick.
and I hope for Marciano's sake he's not carrying a brolly.
and as i cleaned out his pockets the letterbox rattled ... ..pizza
flyers and a menu from the chinkies up the road.
he wasn't that fond of chinese either.