(the italicized paragraphs should be read in a 1930's radio punch-by-punch commentator)
His heart: pounding, stretching the limits of his breastbone. He heaved air into his lungs and looked
toward the lights, the smoky lights.
The air was tepid. Now amid his murky thoughts, he was done, finished, washed up as is said of all would-be heroes
who stay on too long. The cheers now jeers, the
money never enough, the women — the women and their guile and lips and his
wanting more than a beggar ever needs. He was flash once, a razor with gloves
and never had such a man so soundly defeated so many. It was a myth maybe, legend for certain, that each boxer swore going a round with him lasted a month. Those contenders the absorbed punishment given in valor, for to walk into the ring against him was heroic enough. He scanned the seats of Silas’ Broadway Ballroom. It was never booked for dancing, only for the sophisticated dance; the sweet science. It showcased Charlie “Basher” McGivney,
Jerome “Brown Sugar” Monroe, Tony Gastone, Willy “Punch’ Poutray, Rocky
Calaveto, and even the great Marcus Rand who once celebrated a knock out loss
to the much maligned Elijah McCormack by shaving his head and embarking into Buddhism. The new Buddhist didn’t last long and the rematch
was one that historians rendered ineffectual and lousy at best.
All their knock outs were legendary but no man held court more dubiously
then “Thunder and Lightening” Ben Johns, also known as TL. The fans loved hating him, his unshaven face,
his gaudy robe and arrogance. He spit in the face of boxing tradition and any
reporter who questioned his ethics in and out of the ring. He was champ, not a Rockefeller, he threw his fists for a living, not mud like Hearse.
Almost every opponent’s walk from their dressing room to the ring lasted
longer than the actual fight. Almost, he gloated. He got drunk and abused his
women. His jaw was set in granite, so
his manager Dickey Villard claimed, but no one listened to him much. He was a
shadow man, a stealer of souls, and one of the “good” ones in TL’s employ. But those days were blurry now and TL’s been
hit with much more than a one-two combination.
Round two ladies and
gentlemen and the former champ looks rusty and weak. He doesn’t have that
famous bull like physique anymore. His
arms look tired and his midsection resembles a barrel more than his chest used
to. Sad when you consider he may very well have been the greatest heavyweight of
his era. But those were years too far
gone and now the forty year old ex-con is staggering to meet the undisputed
heavyweight champ, Swanson “Big Oak” Hicks, in the middle of the ring. Big Oak took this fight as a warm up for next
month’s showdown with number one ranked contender Theo Furquah. Big Oak circles to his left and lands a
series of sharp cutting left jabs to Johns’ brow. Big Oak looks strong, impressive with arms
like cannons and legs to match. He
captured the belt in ’33 after knocking out then undefeated champ, Lenny Rueben,
in one round, a stunning yet foreseeable occurrence. He’s some fifteen plus years younger than
Johns, almost a head taller, and moving with ease, like he’s skating on the canvass
instead of stepping; in contrast, it’s almost like Johns is standing still
although his feet ARE moving. Another jab and Johns backs up. Big Oak has held
the belt for a little more than two years, not like the ten Johns held it which
now seems like eons ago. Big Oak is
peppering Johns with vicious tenacity. Sharp rights and straight armed lefts
are bouncing Johns all over the ring. In years past, Johns used to administer the
same type of punishment, but tonight is 1935, not 1923. But ladies and gentlemen we all know that
Johns is an unimpressive two and oh in his comeback and if my sources are
correct, both opponents were found sleeping under the Brooklyn Bridge. Back to the action, Big Oak just landed a
menacing three punch combination that has opened a severe cut under Johns’
right eye. It makes the gash Sammy Willow put on Hector Montez look like a
paper cut. Blood is draping Johns’ torso
and he is leaning mercifully on the ropes.
The crowd, almost to capacity now, is wild with anticipation of a knock
out. Just listen to them holler: “Big Oak, Big Oak,” over and over. Big Oak
Hicks looks ready to end this but you have to give Johns credit; that mythic granite
jaw of his is standing up. Ten seconds
left and Big Oak is pummeling Johns. Rights
lefts. Oh, there’s a mean uppercut to Johns’ ribs. Johns looks done. There’s almost no offense at all from the
former great save a few wistful right hooks which found their mark on Big Oak’s
shoulders. That’s it, the end of round
two and unless a miracle occurs or Swanson Hicks has a change of heart, Johns
looks all but finished…
The people laughed now, like they did when he went to jail ten years
ago. It was raining then, much like
tonight, and the drinks kept flowing. She knew him from another time, a place
where he fled to when things became like lead at home with the wife and kids. He was drunk again and looking to sink his
body into hers once more. But she had
other ideas as did all those loose-ends he slept with. She had pictures, receipts. She threatened to
go to the police, the press, to end his career. It was one thing to be reckless with yourself, it's another when a young wife and small children are involved. The citizenry maintained a moral compass. She wanted money; the stench of greed was all about her. Her eyes were darker.
The stool kept him upright. He was wishing he was anywhere but here, tonight, in this ring fighting for something beyond his need. The
audience was a roar, but he didn't hear them. They were never for him
anyway, just for the blood, and he spilled plenty. That night, that fateful night, she mocked and teased him with her legs, showing him what he would never have again. She
wanted five grand, manageable but not on this night. The bar was full of
drinkers who came to get drunk fast and stay that way as long as the good lord granted. It
was his bar, The KO Club. Most patrons
were lowly blue collar Joes or pimps and pushers. He didn’t care as long as the dough was
pouring in. She hiked her dress up a bit more and he grabbed her throat. That, he claimed,, was all that he remembered of the
night. She was dead, broken neck, and he
was sentenced to eight years. His
championship revoked, his belt apprehended, his career ended, his marriage and family…ended.
Round three and the combatants
circle one another. John is originally from Trenton but now lives in Baltimore, while Big
Oak hails from Detroit and is as brutal and talented as they come. Johns throws a wild right hook and follows up
with a left uppercut. Big Oak steps back,
throws a few soft left jabs of his own and quickly switches to southpaw. Johns shakes his arms and wipes the ointment
from under his eye. His cut man, another ex-con Ernie Ginetti, has done a
marvelous job between rounds to stop the flow of A STUNNING CROSS LEFT OPENES IT AGAIN! A RIGHT, LEFT, JOHNS IS HURT;
HE’S STAGGERING TO HIS CORNER, HIS MANAGER, ABY LUBER, IS SCREAMING FOR HIM TO
MOVE, BIG OAK CUTS OFF HIS ESCAPE AND IS THROWING BOMBS. JOHNS IS DAZED. OH
WHAT AN UPPERCUT AND JOHNS’ HEAD IS ALMOST KNOCKED CLEAN OFF! IN FORTYEIGHT FIGHTS HE’S NEVER BEEN KNOCKED
DOWN. BIG OAK LANDS A THUNDEROUS BODY SHOT AND THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! JOHNS GOES
DOWN! The referee moves in and motions for Big Oak to go to a neutral corner.
He picks up the count at four, five, Johns is struggling to his feet, six, seven,
and he’s up and shaking his head. His jaw is truly granite. He looks around the
audience as if in search for an answer.
He shakes his arms loose. Most
men would have been in the land-of-nod but Johns looks surprisingly steady. He wants to continue. The referee wipes Johns’ gloves, looks into
his eyes, there’s fifteen seconds left in the round. Remember, these are New
York City rules. There is no saving by
the bell. The referee is letting it go on. Big Oak looks dumbfounded. He’s knocked men out with less before. The crowd, standing room only now, is at a
fevered pitch. Big Oak looks cautious. He
throws a left hook to the body, an overhand right just misses, Johns pushes him
away and lands a solid right of his own. Ten seconds left. Oh, that caught Big Oak’s attention and NOW Big
Oak looks a little shocked. He steadies himself and JOHNS LANDS ANOTHER RIGHT
AND THEN A LEFT! Wow, the old man has
something left. Another straight left and Big Oak tries to laterally escape.
Three seconds left and that will end round three. Johns survived the barrage
but landed a few good power punches. As he walks to his corner, some in the
audience are beginning to cheer for him.
Cigar smoked wafted passed and he inhaled a good portion, held it, and
let it slowly leave his lungs like a deep sigh.
He settled onto his stool and gleamed over the crowd. There were all
types, just like prison, and just as ravenous for brutality. Winning was
secondary; the more pronounced and decisive a loss, the more they craved
bloodshed. He craved for relief in
prison. Not so much from the bars, the concrete, noise, or smells, but from his own
ego. He was beaten by the guards, by the
gangs, and stabbed once while the prison celebrated Christmas. He was
showering, alone, a Cardinal sin. No one
survived prison alone. They slipped the
guard a few bills to turn a blind eye and they went to work on Ben. Not a
sound; they clobbered him but he managed to get in a few good licks. Bodies were flying and once the blade went
in, the lights went out. He winced, his
eyes opened, the tiled wall once white was now dappled red. The warm shower pelted his body as he laid
crying and bleeding. Simon Pert, a taut black man was serving
life for double murder. He had already spent
forty years inside Mebane Morris Penitentiary, and now stood over Ben, a mop in
hand and smiling.
Round four ladies and
gentlemen and Johns is off his stool first, gloves by his sides. Big Oak looks toward his corner and chomps
down on his mouthpiece. Here we go. Big
Oak throws an overhand left that misses and Johns counters with a right jab
that lands squarely in Big Oak’s mug and straightens the massive fella up. Big
Oak counters with a jab of his own and the two trade body shots. Johns is breathing through his mouth, he
seems hurt, maybe that last body shot took the stea/ JOHNS LANDS TWO STRONG LEFT JABS TO BIG OAK’S FACE AND THE
CHAMP BACKS UP! ANOTHER LEFT HAS HICKS
REELING. HICKS THROWS A COUNTER RIGHT
WHICH MOMENTARILY STUNS JOHNS, AND JOHNS COUNTERS WITH YET ANOTHER LEFT. His
left is finding its mark at will. The
crowd is going wild; the once partisan Big Oak contingent is now doing
something these ears have never heard before…they are cheering for Johns. The chants of TL are melting into the cheers
for Big Oak and JOHNS LANDS ANOTHER STRONG RIGHT AND A LEFT UPPERCUT AND HICKS
IS SOMEPLACE HE’S NEVER BEEN BEFORE. HE IS HURT AND NOW STAGGERING BUT MANAGES
A LEFT HOOK TO TL’S MIDSECTION. TL is stopped in his tracks and now the two
circle each other measuring and assessing. Hicks has never, I repeat,
never been hit this much in any of his
twenty five fights, including the one against fast handed Joey Franks. Hicks seems to be regaining himself. He
stuffs a strong left into TL’s mug and TL answers with a stiff right hook that
finds its way to Hicks’ liver. AND
THERE’S ANOTHER RIGHT AND ANOTHER, AND A LEFT NOW A RIGHT AND…OH MY A
THUNDEROUS LEFT UPPERCUT HAS WIGGLED HICKS’ HEAD AND TL IS LOOKING FOR
BLOOD. Six unanswered blows and Hicks
looks bewildered. TL circles, staying away from Hicks’ storied right cross and
lands yet another stiff left jab and Hicks backs up. There’s twenty seconds
left and the crowd has absolutely drowned out Hicks’ manager’s cajoles. Ten seconds left and OH WHAT A SHOT BY TL AND
HICKS IS IN DANGER, A LEFT HOOK TO THE RIBS, A RIGHT TO THE TEMPLE AND HICKS IS
DOWN! HICKS IS DOWN FOR THE FIRST TIME
IN HIS CAREER AND HE DOESN’T LOOK LIKE HE KNOWS WHERE HE IS. WHAT A SHOCKING TURN OF EVENTS! The referee picks up the count at four, the
bell rings, the referee remains on the count.
Six, seven, and Hicks is on his feet, no way resembling the man in the
first three rounds. He looks unsure and wobbly.
The champ’s never been hit this hard. TL is showing just how much heart
he has and the crowd is loving it….
Simon Pert was the reason Ben survived and he became the reason Ben wanted to live . He listened to Pert’s story, the torturous night he saw his wife
being raped by two white men, the night he shot both to death. The night he
knew the law would betray him. In his younger days among the tobacco crops of South Carolina, he realized what had been gained by emancipation and was all lies. Delaware, a northern state served as his crucible and summarily sentenced him to life
without the possibility of parole. The
judge, jury, town didn’t care that the rapists were notorious for their ravaging ways, their malevolence. They didn’t care that
the two white men broke into Simon’s home, raped his wife, repeatedly, while the
neighbors became selectively deaf to her cries for help. Young and intelligent but more importantly
black, Simon Pert was as much a marked man inside South Carolina as he was when
he went to work for Pierce Industrials in Wilmington, Delaware. He was rare, like
the fabled white elephant; he was a black man with a college degree with an intrepid will. But his resolve and poise left him that night. His beloved wife never regained her former self. She was once vibrant, charming, affectionate. She was smart, keen. He loved her the very moment they met and only had the pleasure of her for a few years. The woman he thought he would build a future with was now the woman he'd wish would kill herself. One night, on the eve of his twenty-fourth
birthday, Eloise Octavia Pert answered his prayers and hanged herself. A note she left on the ground by her dangling
feet read:
To come back again black and do it all over again, to come back white and
never know pain. Please Lord, please let me stay where you keep me. I can’t take being black and alone anymore,
and I never wanted to be white.
For the first time since being a child, Ben earnestly listened to a person
who unfastened his thoughts and shared the reasons for his living
and loving. The more
Simon spoke, the deeper Ben relived the pain he’d caused so many. He was a bigot, womanizer, an abusive man who
fed his ego regardless of whom it hurt. The men inside the ring were lucky, they could defend themselves with moderate safety, there was always a referee. But the men who drank with him, the ladies who slept with him, and the bookies who tried to break him all felt Ben's ire.
Simon steadfastly mentored the ex champ and
did so because he knew he had one more chance to be free. A piece of him, if secured to Ben, could live
outside Mebane’s walls and endure. A small piece of him could live on and
change the very fabric to which Ben wove his torments. Ben
was Simon’s salvation and as years passed, Ben became soft of heart and strong
of soul. Redeemed.
The unthinkable may be at
hand. TL, once a hated champion then hated resident at Mebane Morris
Penitentiary, then hated parolee who claimed he’d atoned his sinful ways,
wanted to fight for the heavyweight championship once more with all proceeds
going to charity. This beaten man is on the cusp of a tremendous upset. Sources say he signed the contract but was
only given the chance for the belt in a winner takes all purse. Folks in the
sporting world considered this insane and pointless, but it looks like the
devil or should I say angel might get his due.
He exited Mebane a sounder thinker and church man, remarried his ex
wife, re-connected with his now grown children and opened a small church in South
Baltimore. A brave man indeed. Okay, Round five and TL is up on his toes
and bouncing like the TL of old. Hicks is sluggishly making his way toward the
center of the ring. His arms look heavy and he’s got the look of a desperation in his eyes. A desperate man is always dangerous. His left eye swollen shut and TL
EXPLODES WITH A FEVERISH FLURRY AND HICKS LOOKS CAUGHT UNAWARE. LEFT, RIGHT AND
the two men clinch in the center of the ring. Hicks is hanging on for dear
life, TL is poised for the knock out and he's the best finisher the division has
ever known. Forty six of his forty eight fights ended in ko’s and now the forty
ninth looks like a shoe in. They are still in the clutch, referee Johnny Basiglia tries to separate them. OH MY LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! TL HAS GONE DOWN, HARD, AND BY MY ACCOUNTS HE WAS SLUGGED BY AN ILLEGAL ELBOW! HICKS THREW A
RIGHT ELBOW TO TL’S TEMPLE WHILE THE REFEREE WAS SEPARATING THE BOXERS AND TL
IS HURT! Oh what a scoundrel! While the referee was in between the two,
Hicks let loose a vicious right elbow to the left side of TL’s face and now
he’s bleeding like a stuffed pig. Blood is everywhere but the referee didn’t
see the infraction, he only saw TL’s fall.
I did see it, and in my twenty years of watching and announcing prized
fights, I never miss a shot. Hicks looked
scared and desperate and now, THE REFEREE HAS COUNTED TL OUT! HICKS STAGGERS BACK TO HIS CORNER AND IS
BEING LIFTED ONTO THE SHOULDERS OF HIS CORNERMEN. THE CROWD IS INCENSED! LIT CIGARS AND PAPER CUPS ARE BEING TOSSED
INTO THE RING. A few ringside policemen
have stepped in and TL is still down. He
is not moving. The authorities are
trying to take control and clear the ring. Some brawling patrons attempted to
enter the ring but were turned away quickly.
Wellington Silas, the ballroom’s owner, is pleading with the patrons to
stop the madness. Let me remind the listening audience that TL is still down,
bleeding horribly and not moving at all.
Hicks is apparently still champ and is making his way, with the
protection of New York’s finest, to his dressing room. None of the judges seem to have caught the
elbow either, but we’ll find out more later.
I sure do hope some bloke with a camera caught what I saw and hundreds
of paying customers saw….TL is STILL not moving. It doesn’t look good, the doctor has been
summoned and now they are bringing in a stretcher. Oh this is very ominous for TL and his family
and corner. His cornerman, ex
middleweight champ William “Black” Blaxon is seen crying, oh this is bad. The
crowd is silent, the doctors are working on TL, I can’t tell exactly what
procedure they’re doing but nothing seems to be working. TL is not responding and now he’s being
carried out of the ring…
The night always seemed like a liar to Simon. Once it was magical, with stars for the naming and a future to be claimed. The screw's cigarette smoke wafted over Simon's head.
“Simon, hey boy, Simon, heard your white boy died.” mocked the screw. Simon didn’t look up, only mopped and made
sure the floor was cleaned.
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