An Old Boxer (standard:Psychological fiction, 2816 words)
Author: Joe E.	Added: Aug 12 2006	Views/Reads: 3375/2478	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An Old Boxer is a story about a high school student who reflects on the life of his grandfather who finds the meaning of life in his career as a professional boxer.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Once while making deliveries, he was hit by a car. The police had to
jack up the car to get him out from under it. His father settled out of 
court for two hundred and fifty dollars. "He never even replaced the 
bike. Drank it all up. I never drank myself. Not even one beer," my 
grandfather told my dad. 

Great Grandma got tired of taking the abuse and neglect from her
husband. She moved out with the whole family to Yonkers, New York. 
Grandpa started mailing her the best part of his earnings. He moved to 
New York City, and got a job as a baker with Horn and Hardart's. I 
remember my dad telling me that Grandpa use to take him to the Horn and 
Hardart's in Philadelphia. "It was a big treat. They had these little 
slots that you put coins in. Then you opened this little door and took 
out a sandwich, or a piece of cake, or slice of pie. You could see the 
workers behind the little doors filling up the empties. It was a big 
job to be a baker back then," my dad told me. 

Grandpa became totally captured by the American dream; work hard, save
every penny, get your body in shape, don't drink, smoke, or gamble. 
Though I'm certain he never even heard of Horatio Alger, much less read 
his novels, he lived his life as part of that myth. He worked full time 
as a baker on the night shift, and spent his mornings working out at 
the local Y.M.C.A. Soon, a guy from a small boxing club recruited him. 
This was the time of the prizefighter. There was no amateur boxing. You 
fought four and five round matches. The winner would get a gold watch. 
"You could hock the watch for five bucks. The loser got nothing, but a 
good lesson from the guy who beat him," my grandpa said. 

He explained that he was what you call a slow learner. He lost his first
four fights. The fifth was a split decision. "You can't believe what a 
feeling it is winning. The announcer reads off the scorecard. The crowd 
comes to their feet. Hundreds of people cheer you when you win. And, if 
you lose, they boo you. I fought mostly out'a Atlantic City. I was what 
they called a crowd pleaser. I never backed off no matter how much 
punishment I took. Never knocked out. They called me the boxing baker. 
That was back in 1924," he said. I sat on the living floor pretending 
to play with my cars and trucks, but listening to every word. 

"After a couple dozen fights, we started booking some semi wind ups out
a the coal region. There was this one fellow who lived in the next town 
from Mt. Carmel, Tommy Maher, a real good boxer. He had a good left 
jab, but I could always beat him to the punch. The first time we fought 
in my old hometown. You wouldn't believe it. There was standing room 
only. They were cheering every punch I landed and even the ones he 
blocked. I got a unanimous decision. The crowd went crazy. 

We were a real good draw so they booked us two weeks later in Shamokin.
My manager tells me I have to lay off a little let him take the fight 
in his hometown. We'll get another rematch. We fought each other five 
times. He got two split decisions in Shamokin. The fifth time we fought 
in Mt. Carmel. I gave him a real boxing lesson. I'll never forget the 
way they treated me. I was the town hero....   After that, we started 
getting semi wind ups in Atlantic City and Philadelphia. I even fought 
a semi wind up in Madison Square Garden.... 

"That was the biggest fight of my life. Johnny Jadic later became
featherweight champion of the world. I fought three world champions, 
Johnny Jadic, Toni Calingeero, and Benny Bass. I beat the three of 
them. But I was never a contender myself. If you don't have the right 
manager.... He doesn't book the good fights. Everyone takes advantage 
of you when you're not educated. That was the biggest mistake in my 
life. I never got no education. I had to quit school in sixth grade. 
Over two hundred fights. Never knocked out. I broke my left hand 
fighting Jadic. I didn't even know the hand was broken. I got a 
unanimous decision. I felt like I owned the world.... 

"We had a fight already booked two weeks later in Mt. Carmel. I didn't
wanna back out because of my hand. They would'a said I was chicken to 
fight Galante. I already beat him once. We figured the hand was healed. 
Wrapped it extra tight. I broke it again in the first round. I had to 
fight a defensive fight, back away, and clinch. That wasn't my 
style.... I moved a lot, but I was always punching. Punching and 
counter punching. It hurt something terrible. My corner wanted to throw 
in the towel. The last round, I'm just holding on. I couldn't believe 
it when they booed me. My own hometown, and they 're up on their feet 
booing. 'Course they didn't know the hand was broke. That very same 
night I went down to the club and put my other fist through the wall. I 
said I'd never fight again," my grandpa said. 

Later, I heard the story differently. When I was in junior high, my
great aunt, Aunt Marian, came out to visit. I asked her about grandpa 
putting his fist through the wall, and did he fight after that. She 
told us the story she heard back then in 1926. He had just won his 
biggest purse ever fighting a main event in their little coal region 
town. Twenty four hundred dollars. "That was a lot of money back, then, 
at least a year's salary. He lost it all at a poker game down at the 
fight club where they all hung out. He lost every penny of it. Put his 
hand through the wall, and said he'd never fight again. That's where he 
learned to play cards. He never gambled at all until he started hanging 
out at the club. 

"It was around that time he moved back to Philadelphia. That's where he
met your grandmother. They soon got married. She was a beautiful woman, 
Jackie, but she drank. It's a sad story. Your grandfather couldn't 
stand to see her drinking, so he'd go down to the club to play cards. 
He gambled because she drank, and she drank because he gambled. He'd 
lose his whole paycheck every week. It's really a shame. He was always 
such a hard worker. He was a member of the Veteran Boxer's Association. 
All those years in Philadelphia he stayed with the club." 

After Aunt Marian's visit, I asked my dad why he never took up boxing.
He explained that he might have if his mom and dad had not broken up. 
His dad had taught him a lot, even bought gloves for him and Uncle Joey 
"He use to work with us out in the front yard. He called it the manly 
art of self-defense. I remember it was the old one two. Jab with your 
left and then follow with the right. They had boxing clubs for young 
kids all over Philadelphia. A lot of them were police athletic leagues. 
If we hadn't left the city, I'm sure I would have signed up." 

My dad explained that he moved out to the country to live on a farm with
foster parents. When his dad came out to visit, they always talked 
about boxing. Dad listened to the fights on the radio. He followed Joe 
Louis and later Rocky Marchiano. Then, the Saturday night fights were 
on T.V. Grandpa really liked Sugar Ray Robinson and Muhammad Ali. “Ali 
was a heavy weight who moved with the speed of a light weight,” Grandpa 
told my dad. Dad got the boxing photograph when he lived with his 
foster parents. Grandpa told dad's foster mother not to be frightened 
by the picture. "I was a boxer, but I was always a perfect gentleman. I 
never used my fists outside the ring," he told her. 

"When I was in boot camp with the National Guard, I almost got in a
boxing match," my dad explained when I asked him if he ever used his 
boxing skills. "There was this real big guy from Vermont. Kind of a 
bully. He was pushing this little guy around. I said, 'Pick on someone 
your own size.' He told me to mind my own business. And, then the other 
guy turned away and ignored us. It was his fight not mine. But, now, 
the guy was taking out his frustration on me. He challenged me to put 
on the gloves with him down at the gym. He would have killed me. He was 
twice my size. His best buddy, our squad leader, told him he'd never 
talk to him again if he went through with it. But, he couldn't back 
down either. 

"It must' a been the last couple weeks of camp, 'cause they let us have
an hour or so free time after chow. If you got caught fighting, you got 
a dishonorable discharge right on the spot. But, you could go down to 
the gym. In fact, one of the guys got beat up pretty bad. He told off 
one of the T. I.'s.  Challenged him to a fight. The T. I. bloodied him 
up pretty good before they stopped it. I figured the same thing would 
happen to me. Man, I was never so happy in my life when we got there 
and found the gym locked up for the night. Later, the big guy's friend 
and I did some open hand boxing. He said I was pretty good. 

"I came close to doing some real boxing when I worked at the airport.
This guy that worked with the maintenance crew managed a few fighters. 
They went up to this little town in the Catskills where they had a 
small gym. He told me I could earn fifty bucks for a three rounder win 
or lose. Said he'd supply the equipment, and give me a few pointers. I 
was all set to go. Then, one of the guys at work asked me if I ever had 
my nose broke. He told me that's the first thing they'd go for.  'A 
cherry like you? Man, they'll go right for the nose, first thing....' I 
figured it wasn't worth fifty bucks to get my nose broke so I backed 
out." 

I'd never be a boxer myself. Though, I do shadow box sometimes, and I
got pretty fast hands. I'm like my dad, though, I don't want to get my 
nose broke, or break somebody else's nose either. But, it is something 
how boxing was my granddad's whole life. That short period of time 
stayed with him forever. I remember just a week or two before he died I 
was riding in the back seat. We were doing our weekly trip to the 
doctor. Grandpa was all huddled up in his black sweater. He told my 
dad," I never thought I'd get old like dis....  When I was in the gym, 
training for a fight.... I thought it would last forever....  It seems 
like only yesterday...." When he died, my dad put on his tombstone, "An 
Old Boxer." And, he told me, "I'll bet his soul went straight back to 
Philadelphia." 

But what is it that makes a soul? Is our soul created by our history? Or
is there something in a man that goes deeper than that? Some times you 
wonder, you wonder what's it all about. 


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