I used to watch my mom spin her LPs and sway to the music during her afternoons when work was right around the corner. She seemed to float away although she never left the living room. She swayed like trees riding breezes and she let her eyes shift to that point where the far off distances were within arm’s reach. I often wondered what went on in her mind when she listened to her music. I wondered why she looked so calm and so rhythmic but so sad too. Where was she where I wasn’t? I don’t know how old I was when it hit me, probably in my 20’s and lying on my bed with the headphones cupping my ears and no doubt some melodrama spinning in my head when of the sudden I knew. I knew where mom went on those afternoons when work was right around the corner. She was off from the here and now and experiencing the life she dreamt of and paining through the loss of whatever love she thought she had and how the real world wasn’t found in the home economic texts from high school. No one told her that men leave and kids suck every ounce of peace and calm from you. No one was there during most days when she needed an ear and shoulder and maybe just someone to comfort her from even the most mundane of worries like spoiled milk or bad television reception. She was ultimately alone unlike anything her elders ever told her. Loneliness was never discussed. Quiet and severe were the ways to be. So she swayed and floated away and I sat and sometimes looked at her and wondered where she was during those afternoons when work was right around the corner.
Now I went running the other day. It was hot and humid. My shirt stuck to me like heavy skin. The sun made my eyes squint. We two, the sun and I, aren’t so different I thought. It shines like I breathe – both unconscious actions. It had a beginning as I, a smallish being in comparison but growing larger the closer I am to death. Just like the sun which will turn from yellow blaze to red giant to white dwarf to ultimately collapse into the blackest of holes sucking in everything around it and absorbing so much light. I too will end gathering as much light as possible along the way and although I don’t know the exact date of my farewell, I know the sun will end too even if it doesn’t know exactly when either. The sun and I depend on one another. The sun needs me to be aware of its existence, in a manner of perception, and I need the sun for my own existence. My run was ending but not as brilliantly as I had planned. I panted and stopped a few yards from the corner, the exact spot which would have been just far enough for a good run, but stopping short no matter what the distance is never a good thing. It’s necessary far too often, but leaves me feeling incomplete. But I lifted my arms anyway and praised Jesus and told myself that I was proud of my running and so on. It’s always like that, the daunting run, the dragon, the monster, the plague. I must endure the trek, the beast, and become victorious even though my embarkation is an exercise in reluctance. I die at some point during the run, am reborn when I realize I have to walk a ways before I can sit. It’s better to run a couple miles home than walk; it takes too long. It’s always like that, always an epic like the hero’s journey but not as magnificent. A friend of mine used to tell me, about his running, that he never let anything suck until it had to suck. Told me he didn’t think of the mile long hill he had to climb until he was halfway up it. Told me he didn’t make the road harder or the course any more interminable than it actually was. I guess that’s what mom was doing when she was swaying to the music.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Boxer, a short story of redemption
His heart: pounding, stretching the limits of his breastbone. He heaved air into his lungs and looked toward the lights, the bright smoky lights. The air was tepid. Now even in his murky thoughts he was done, finished, washed up as is said of all would-be heroes who stay on too long or try to be who they once were. 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 defeated so many in such a short time as to make each encounter last (for his opponent) an eternity inside a minute or two or even just a few rounds. Those contenders absorbed punishment came to them in grand announcements which could be neither denied nor ignored. He looked into the seats of Silas’ Broadway Ballroom. It was yet filled and only used 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 on to 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. Almost every opponent’s walk from their dressing room to the ring lasted longer than the actual fight. 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 too real 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. She wanted money; the stench of greed was all about her. Her eyes were darker.
The stool kept him alive. He was wishing he was anywhere but here. The audience was still frenzied, but he no longer cared. They were never for him anyway, just for the blood, and he spilled plenty. That night, that fateful night, she mockingly 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 god willed. 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. He grabbed her throat and that was all he remembered of the night. She was dead, broken neck, and he was sentenced to eight years. His championship run ended, his career ended, his marriage and family…ended.
Round three and the combatants circle one another. Johns, originally from Trenton now lives in Baltimore, Big Oak hails from Detroit and he’s as tough 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, 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 sparkled red. The warm shower pelted his body as he laid crying and bleeding. He saw Simon Pert, a smallish black con who was serving life for double murder. He already spent forty years inside Mebane Morris Penitentiary and stood over Ben with 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 became the reason Ben lived and more importantly, wanted to remain living. 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. Early in his younger days among the cotton fields of South Carolina, he realized what had been gained by emancipation and that the majority was all lies. Still, he loved. Delaware, a northern state but by reference only, 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 menacing behavior. 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 and screams 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 Sterling Industrials in Lenox, Delaware. He was rare, like the fabled white elephant; he was a black man with a college degree and a mind that bent but never broke. Never, until his beloved succumbed to filth and failed to recover herself — in life. He prayed for Eloise to kill herself so the Lord could finally take her. 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, 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 want to be white!
Ben listened, for the first time in his life, he listened to a person who unfastened their thoughts and shared, unabashedly, the reasons for living and more importantly, 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 who it hurt. 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 will get his due. He exited Mebane a deeper thinker and a church man, remarried his ex wife, re-connected with his 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 beaten man in his eyes, swollen eyes at that. 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 is the best finisher the sport has ever known. Forty six of his forty eight fights ended in ko’s and now the forty ninth looks like a shoe in. WAIT, TL GOES DOWN HARD AND BY MY ACCOUNTS HE WAS SLUGGED BY AN 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 covering 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…
“Simon, heard your white boy died.” mocked the guard. Simon didn’t look up, only mopped and made sure the floor was cleaned.
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. Almost every opponent’s walk from their dressing room to the ring lasted longer than the actual fight. 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 too real 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. She wanted money; the stench of greed was all about her. Her eyes were darker.
The stool kept him alive. He was wishing he was anywhere but here. The audience was still frenzied, but he no longer cared. They were never for him anyway, just for the blood, and he spilled plenty. That night, that fateful night, she mockingly 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 god willed. 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. He grabbed her throat and that was all he remembered of the night. She was dead, broken neck, and he was sentenced to eight years. His championship run ended, his career ended, his marriage and family…ended.
Round three and the combatants circle one another. Johns, originally from Trenton now lives in Baltimore, Big Oak hails from Detroit and he’s as tough 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, 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 sparkled red. The warm shower pelted his body as he laid crying and bleeding. He saw Simon Pert, a smallish black con who was serving life for double murder. He already spent forty years inside Mebane Morris Penitentiary and stood over Ben with 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 became the reason Ben lived and more importantly, wanted to remain living. 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. Early in his younger days among the cotton fields of South Carolina, he realized what had been gained by emancipation and that the majority was all lies. Still, he loved. Delaware, a northern state but by reference only, 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 menacing behavior. 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 and screams 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 Sterling Industrials in Lenox, Delaware. He was rare, like the fabled white elephant; he was a black man with a college degree and a mind that bent but never broke. Never, until his beloved succumbed to filth and failed to recover herself — in life. He prayed for Eloise to kill herself so the Lord could finally take her. 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, 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 want to be white!
Ben listened, for the first time in his life, he listened to a person who unfastened their thoughts and shared, unabashedly, the reasons for living and more importantly, 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 who it hurt. 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 will get his due. He exited Mebane a deeper thinker and a church man, remarried his ex wife, re-connected with his 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 beaten man in his eyes, swollen eyes at that. 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 is the best finisher the sport has ever known. Forty six of his forty eight fights ended in ko’s and now the forty ninth looks like a shoe in. WAIT, TL GOES DOWN HARD AND BY MY ACCOUNTS HE WAS SLUGGED BY AN 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 covering 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…
“Simon, heard your white boy died.” mocked the guard. Simon didn’t look up, only mopped and made sure the floor was cleaned.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Honor among thieves
Did you hear what Jesse Jackson said about the Cavs' owner? Get this, he said the owner is acting like a slave owner and he's angry because LeBron is his runaway slave. Ridiculous. Jesse has to keep himself relevant. Sad really. Anyway, here's my take sans Jesse: LeBron led Cleveland on and didn't make his decision known till the last possible minute even though he knew since last November that he wasn't returning. This meant and means that Cleveland was out of the running for any other top tier free agent. Not fair, not right especially since LeBron was treated like a king there. Now, he has that right to move, no question, but the way he did it was dishonorable. It was deceitful. It's not the way to treat an owner who absolutely allowed him to do almost anything he wanted. Who was really the slave? LeBron held Cleveland hostage and then took the money and ran for an easier gig. I say took the money because even though he took a contractual pay cut to be aside his all-star bros, with Florida's lack of state income tax, he will actually make one million more than he would have with the offer in Cleveland or any other team. Think of it this way, why Miami? No state income tax, period. Those three could have gone anyplace else. I don't see anything honorable about the move to Miami. LeBron used Cleveland and then split on them like the Colts did Baltimore, albeit not in the middle of the night but on prime time cable via ESPN (who, by the way, is being chided and blasted for debasing journalism). There are accusations of collusion and underhanded dealings about Pat Riley and the Miami owner. In November, they met with LeBron and started laying the groundwork which was against league rules. They are all scum, BUT they have the freedom to be so. Question is, how many other teams are going to want to deal with Miami and Riley? ZERO. The more I think about it, the more I understand Gilbert's rant against LeBron, although as an owner, he should have had 100% more discretion.
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