Knocking Out the Odds

Redemption in the ring

"Kid, I'm going to have to stop this!"

This declaration came from the referee during one of my fights in the fall of 1967. His judgment appeared reasonable as my bloodied body slouched on a stool. Adding strength to his argument, my face had a mean gash above my right eye, and a lattice of cuts around my mouth.

Despite all this, stopping the fight seemed rash. After all, the referee, being from the neighborhood, must have had some idea of who I was, and what 'this' meant to me. I had been a homeless kid of 15 who was rescued from the streets by a local character who owned the Lansdowne Boxing Club. Two years had now passed, and at 17 I was undefeated in the ring, and something of a neighborhood legend.

Ray, my cut man, ignoring the ref, began to sponge me down. Bev, my trainer, shook his head and started working on me. For the first thirty seconds, of the one-minute break between rounds, I made a case for the ref not to stop the fight. Seeing this was going nowhere, I pleaded, "I just wanna hit Paul once" (Paul being my opponent). The ref glanced at Bev, who looked at me and simply shrugged when the whistle to clear the ring sounded. The bell took the decision out of the ref’s hands.

Earlier that day, at school, I was distracted, but pleased to learn that my geography teacher, Mr. Kirkpatrick, and a science teacher, Mr. Sled, would be attending the fight. I relished the opportunity to show off my prowess in the ring. This led me to skip a couple of classes in the afternoon and go home and try to take a nap. Finding this impossible, at 4:00, I grabbed my gym bag and took a taxi to Ciro's, the joint near the Lansdowne, for a steak. After the meal, I headed down the alley behind the restaurant and up the steel back staircase of the Lansdowne. Inside, I stretched out on the sofa and watched as the heavy bags were taken down and wooden chairs set up all the way back to the card tables near where I lay. The place began to fill up around 7:30, and Bertie's arrival prompted the card players to wrap up and arrange their seats to face the ring.

Some of regular crew: Dukey, Tasker, Sweet Pea, the Dipper, Weasel, Oochy, and Nick the Greek, began arriving through the back door and acknowledged Bertie before meandering over to shake my hand and mumble ‘good luck’. Bev came in, glanced at me, and went behind his locker and changed into his fighting clothes: white t-shirt, black trousers, and black shoes. From another locker, he pulled out a couple of towels, a bucket, a large sponge, a couple of rolls of gauze and tape to wrap my hands. He thought for a moment before adding a few glass vials of ammonia, which are broken under a fighter’s nose for stimulation if needed. He came over and tapped me on the shoulder and told me to get dressed and see the doc. (Seeing the doctor is mandatory before a fight). 

The dressing room was already filled with fighters in various stages of preparation. Some were struggling to pull boxing shorts over their protective cups, others tied their shoes, a few sat while their fists were wrapped and listened to their trainer. The doc had taken over one of the two bathrooms, as the fighters began to line up outside. The checkup was simple: first, the doc placed a stethoscope on their chest and listened before placing it on their back and telling him to cough. After a quick peek into the ears and eyes using a small flashlight, the fighter’s taped hands were checked for bulges around the knuckles. If all was kosher, the fighter's fists were stamped, and they were good to go.

In line, I tried to figure out who my opponent was, but was distracted when Paul Pappas, the main event fighter arrived, and, out of respect, was sent to the front of the line. Paul and I had worked together before, so we exchanged smiles, but before we could speak, loud voices erupted from the doc's bathroom. We were startled when the doc, Paul's manager, and the promoter, all looking grim, burst out in a huff and went into the dressing room. We were puzzled as the dressing room emptied and Paul’s manager came out and motioned him inside. Their voices grew louder but ceased when Bertie nudged past the line to join the fray inside. Those closest to the dressing room door hushed the rest and passed information back.

Evidently Paul’s opponent had a broken eardrum that hadn't fully healed, and the doc wouldn’t give him the okay to fight. The promoter argued, but the doc stood firm. A chair thrown against the dressing room door ended the conversation. Next, the promoter came out and announced that the evening was canceled due to the lack of a main event. All of us slumped in disappointment, as he added that the tickets would be refunded, and each fighter would receive twenty bucks.

While we processed this, we heard a voice from the dressing room say, "Oh hell, Bobby will fight Paul."

It was Bertie. Following a stunned silence, and thinking we had misheard, we then listened to a loud exchange. First, Paul's manager feigned an objection, saying, "No way. Bobby is good, but he’s a 177-pound, seventeen-year-old kid, and Paul is a 244-pound man. Paul will eat Bobby."

This was bogus, because he was aware that Bertie, though having no official capacity regarding the fights, still had plenty of influence in the Lansdowne.

Bertie replied, "Hey, ya wanna call off the whole damned night? Bobby will fight Paul—end of problem."

The decision spread rapidly through the crowd and ignited a flurry of chatter amongst the rounders at the back. On entering the dressing room, Bev shook his head at Bertie, who smirked and left. The preliminary fights went by unnoticed by the crowd who were discussing my impending fight with Paul. Bev looked all business as he told me not to "trade with this guy," and instead advised me to "stick and move." After a moment to reassess, he changed his mind, saying, "Nah, you fight how you fight. We can take Paul."

After the prelims were finished there was a brief intermission. The lights were raised for a few minutes, giving the crowd a chance to grab Cokes from the dispenser, and also allowing Bev and me to overhear discussions about the fight. The lights dimming prompted Bev, Ray, and me to make our way toward the ring. Passing through, we caught averted gazes, as if people were embarrassed. Stepping into the ring, I spotted my teachers, Mr. Kirkpatrick and Mr. Sled. They appeared tense, more accurately maybe concerned, yet managed to grin at me. Seeking out Bertie, I found him near the card tables in the back, looking relaxed as he shelled peanuts from a brown paper bag.

Following introductions and instructions from the ref, we went to touch gloves, and I was taken aback when Paul taunted me, saying, "This is business, Bobby. I’m taking you out early."