Boxing, Bets and Borrowed Trouble

The Lansdowne Boxing Gym was where I spent the most formative years of my life, from the mid-'60s to the early '70s. Alongside a diverse group of fighters, ranging from rank amateurs to world contenders like heavyweight George Chuvalo, and welterweight Clyde Gray, as well as all the trainers and managers, there were the rounders. These characters primarily made a living on the softer sides of gangsterism, such as bookmaking and gambling. A few were involved in darker businesses like loansharking and fencing stolen goods. They were mostly of Italian and Jewish descent, with a smattering of Irish whose parents or grandparents had left the “old country” for a better life in an insular part of downtown Toronto, a city steeped in Protestant values at the time. Armed with a cavalier idea of right and wrong, they believed it was imperative to approach life with an attitude of “buyer beware.” They understood that people have different standards and motivations, and instead of judging anyone, they recognized it was best to be wary because ultimately, one was responsible for oneself. Over my years at the Lansdowne, I watched this philosophy play out in a myriad of ways. One significant proponent of this philosophy was Tommy Ciconne, known as Dukey to anyone who had even a passing acquaintance with him.

A year or so after turning pro, life was humming along. I was undefeated, and my income was more than adequately supplemented outside the ropes by running errands collecting and delivering money for Bertie, my manager, who had rescued me from the streets a few years earlier and was a local bookie. Occasionally, I made a run for my pal, Oochy, who, along with Palooka (Eddie Paricini), “worked the phones” for Bertie.

Each delivery, regardless of the recipient, ended with a hundred-dollar bill placed into my hand. If it was Bertie, he often gave me a conspiratorial wink before slipping in another fifty. These errands played out before my afternoon training about three times a week and took up roughly an hour. In the late '60s, earning three hundred dollars for three hours of work was better compensation than most attorneys could boast.

Seemed like a good deal, right? Well, it should have been, except that, like most who have had a taste for money without truly sweating for it, I fell into the trap of greed. Surrounded by a constant flow of gambling cash, I secretly began to engage in gambling behind Bertie's back. In retrospect, he undoubtedly knew about it; very little escaped his notice; yet he rarely spoke up, believing that life had a knack for meting out the requisite lessons. Soon, I was about to receive an enlightening, though more in the form of a spanking.