Tomato Can Comeback (Fight Card) Read online

  When Tom came down the aisle, there were jeers, boos and chanting of, “Tomato can, tomato can!”

  After the opening bell, the two men charged each other and clashed in the center of the ring. Despite his unimpressive physique, Gallegos could really hit. He attacked Tom’s body with savage hooks to the stomach and a low blow the referee didn’t see.

  Tom stood toe-to-toe and traded leather. The bloodbath had already begun and the crowd couldn’t be happier.

  One of the reasons nobody wanted to fight Gallegos was that he was a small target and difficult to hit flush from angles that allowed any leverage on the punches.

  Something else I noticed early was the fallacy of Kolodzei’s advice to drive Gallegos back. That meant Tom had to keep advancing. That negated the reach advantage of a tall fighter like Long Tom, allowing Gallegos to get inside. And that made it Gallegos’s fight.

  FIGHT CARD: TOMATO CAN COMEBACK

  e-Book edition © 2012 Hank Brown

  Cover: Keith Birdsong

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part

  by any means without permission

  TOMATO CAN COMEBACK

  A Fight Card Story

  Jack Tunney

  ROUND1

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  1954

  I remember when Humpty-Dumpty fell.

  Sports reporters hadn’t settled on a nom de guerre for him yet, but with fists like his, we were sure he was going to need one. Soldier Garrick was the natural pick. But Long Tom – after the 155mm artillery piece – had more appeal to some of us.

  He was undefeated after twenty-four fights, twenty-one of them by way of knockout. His knockouts had all occurred inside of six rounds. The decision wins led us to believe there was nothing wrong with his stamina.

  He was a three-to-one favorite over Johnny Braxton on what so many assumed was his climb up to the welterweight crown.

  I was ringside that night, a year ago, at the Saint Nicholas Arena on December Seven. I remember thinking he looked awful dry when the robe came off. Braxton had a nice sheen of sweat and moved loosely.

  It was a better-than-expected matchup through seven rounds. Braxton was faster, though he didn’t hit especially hard. Long Tom was the stronger man, landed the heavier punches, despite his lanky frame – and with greater accuracy. Then, starting in round eight, he began to fall apart.

  Long Tom’s legs lost their bounce. His punches lost their snap. He couldn’t get out of the way of Braxton’s flurries. He just wobbled around like a drunk, absorbing an unending barrage of combinations. He never went down, but the merciful referee stopped the fight in round eleven after two successive standing eight counts. The blood specks all over our typewriters at ringside told the story of what a tremendous beating he suffered.

  Now, I finished poring over the stained pages I had typed over a year ago. In what, at the time, I had imagined a brilliant metaphorical device, I had drawn comparisons throughout the piece between Tom Garrick’s destruction at the St. Nick to the destruction of the US Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor.

  Oh, it was a grand literary device. Never mind that the kid had fought in Korea and most of us who survived the Big One were now thirty or older. He was caught sleeping by a merciless squadron of dive-bombing fists. Complacent from being the big kid on the block, he failed to recognize the threat. And just like the big, bloated vessels sunk along Battleship Row, he was overrated and obsolete.

  Other reporters latched onto the Humpty-Dumpty angle, with painful poetry like this:

  All the king’s promoters and all the news men could never put this palooka together again.

  They weren’t as slick with the metaphors, but they made up for it with cruelty. Soldier Garrick was nothing but a paper contender, they claimed. And they settled on a name: “Tomato Can Garrick.” That moniker stuck – tomato can being slang for a palooka who bled like a stuck pig; or got beat to a pulp.

  I was still writing for the same rag—something I wasn’t overly proud about. But when a guy starts compromising, it’s hard to stop. Sports writing didn’t pay much, but I was left alone and could manage to avoid politics most of the time. Me and Thelma parted ways a while back, I had run out of money for booze, and college football was done for the year. I heard Tomato Can was training again and figured maybe I could build a story out of it somehow.

  February was still cold in the Motor City. The cinderblock Police Athletic League gym was heated by some sort of gas heater shaped like a torpedo. The sound of leather on bags, yelling trainers, and rope slapping the cement floor filled the place. Mostly amateurs trained here. Pros went to the Kronk Gym, in the basement of the rec center downtown. So Garrick was trying to keep a low profile.

  Tom Garrick was tall, with long arms. His sad eyes and pug-nose on a freckled face belonged to a puppy dog. I spotted him working one of the heavy bags. A heavyset, toad-faced lug held it while coaching him. I made my way over, nodding to Jack Kilbane, who went way back in the P.A.L.

  Kilbane, a bald hunchback in cowboy boots and with a huge, gaudy belt buckle, stopped me for some pleasantries, before asking, “Is it true Ray Robinson is gonna retire?”

  I shrugged. “He’s thinking about it. It would be a shame, too.”

  Kilbane shook his head, sadly. “Can’t blame him. The only way to give him a challenge is to get him drunk or hung over. Have you seen him fight?”

  I nodded. “Words can’t do him justice. He reminds me of what the old-timers say about Benny Leonard.”

  Kilbane reflected on this for a moment before cursing at some Italian kid shadowboxing too close to the mirror.

  I nodded toward Garrick. “What’s his story?”

  “The horse bucked him off. He’s thinking about climbing back in the saddle for another ride.”

  “What do you make of it?” I asked.

  Kilbane sighed. “He’s a tough one to figure out, Gil. It’s like his heart is in it, but his mind ain’t. Maybe he’ll never get over that beating he took.”

  We watched Garrick change stations to the speed bag.

  “Look at ‘im,” Kilbane went on. “Great height; great reach; nice balance; hits hard and a chin of iron. And he’s not as dumb as you’d think, either. Still, there’s somethin’ missin’.”

  “Has he sparred yet?”

  Kilbane frowned. “No. And I ain’t got anybody here to help him with that. I told him he needs to train in Auburn Hills, or even down at Kronk.”

  “Who’s with him?” I asked, thrusting my chin toward the cigar-chewing toad-face.

  “That’s an army buddy of his,” Kilbane said. “Say, what brings you here, anyway?”

  “Boredom, mostly.”

  I meandered over to Garrick’s army buddy. His eyes narrowed and teeth clenched down on the cigar as I drew close. I extended my hand.

  “Gil Schwartz,” I said. “Detroit Free Press.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” Toad-face said. “You’re the wag wrote that Pearl Harbor story.”

  “No hard feelings,” I said. “It’s just part of my job.”

  “Crummy job,” he said, puffing out his chest as if he could make it bigger than his belly. “Kickin’ people when they’re down. Makin’ sure they’re good and humiliated wherever they go for the rest of their lives.”

  Sharp cookie that I was, I was figuring out this guy wasn’t my biggest fan. “Most fights have winners and losers,” I replied. “It’s not like I decide beforehand which is which. I’m just supposed to report the match for the people who couldn�
�t be there.”

  In my own ears, I sounded like the spineless editors I’d heard one time too many before I demoted myself to the sports pages: “It’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it. We’re just doing our jobs. We’re completely impartial and just report the news, that’s all. Yada yada yada.”

  Meanwhile, run this story but bury that one. Destroy this politician but give that crooked pol a pass. Make this whistleblower a hero; make that whistleblower a boogeyman.

  Sporting news wasn’t the same, which was why I covered the jockstraps. But I still felt slimy dishing out that journalistic integrity bit.

  “Are you his manager, then?”

  “Kolodzei,” the toad-faced blimp said. “Lester Kolodzei. I was his platoon sergeant in Korea. I took care of him there; I’m takin’ care of him now. I guess you could say I’m his manager.”

  “What happened to his old corner man?”

  Kolodzei sneered. “Same thing happened to everybody Tom had: they abandoned him. Desertion under fire. For icing on that cake, you newspaper vultures convinced everyone he was nothin’ but a joke.”

  I almost protested about him stealing my military metaphor technique. “You got a fight lined up?”

  “Might have one in a few minutes, you keep botherin’ us.”

  Lucky for one of us, that’s when Long Tom turned from the speed bag and approached me. He was a good-looking kid. I know his nose was busted that night over a year ago, but it set so straight you’d never know it. From the neck down he was nothing but skin, bone, and cablelike muscle.

  “Hiya, Tom,” I said.

  “Mr. Schwartz,” he said. “I remember you. Lots of people quote from your articles.”

  “Sorry, kid,” Kolodzei said. “He was just leavin’.”

  “It’s okay,” the kid said. “I stank up the ring that night. Compared to the other newsies, Mr. Schwartz handled me gentle.”

  “Are you getting back in the game?” I asked.

  He nodded, but struck me as kind of cagey.

  “Why such a long layoff?”

  Staring down at his toes, he said, “It took me that long to decide it’s what I should do, Mr. Schwartz.”

  The kid was so naturally polite it was hard not to like him. “You got a promoter?” I asked.

  Long Tom flashed a sad, shy smile and shook his head. Chet Brumek had been his promoter when Long Tom was a ‘comer. But he turned his back on the boy when the chips were down.

  Like everyone else.

  “No promoter yet,” he said. “No fight scheduled. Not even a sparring partner.” He pointed one bag-gloved paw toward Kolodzei. “Sarge has been helping me on my endurance. We just started working the bags a week ago. Once I start getting my form back, maybe we can find somebody to spar with me.”

  I turned back to Kolodzei. “You ever manage a fighter before?”

  “Sure,” he replied. “Your mother. I got her tuned up for her big match with John L. Sullivan.”

  About ten years ago this insult would have rankled me enough to take a poke at the big Pollack.

  The war had changed that.

  Instead, I chuckled and decided Kolodzei was okay.

  “She would’ve taken him, too,” I said. “But she forgot to wear her lucky combat boots.”

  The kid was obviously relieved this wouldn’t get ugly. I decided to leave before it did, through sheer determination on Kolodzei’s part.

  “You know where Gandy’s is?” I asked Garrick.

  “The boxing club? Sure.”

  “Go there and tell Ralph I sent you. He’ll find somebody to spar with you. Can get your first few fights, too, when you’re ready.”

  Both of them stared at me like I was pulling a gag. I turned and gave Kilbane a wave on my way out of the gym. At the door I craned my neck back. They were still staring at me, now speaking to each other. I put my hat on, tipped it to them and was on my way.

  Don’t believe any of the bilge about the press being objective. We’re more opinionated than anybody, and it’s only getting worse. Most of us get into the business because we want to “make the world a better place.”

  If that doesn’t bother you, it should.

  That’s another reason I exiled myself to the sports pages—opinions presented as fact there don’t normally affect elections.

  It’s not that I was any less biased than the others…though my flavor of bias cut against the grain…I just found it easier to be objective when reporting on athletic events. After that very brief encounter with Long Tom Garrick, what little objectivity I had started to slide.

  He was a good kid. There was something about him so decent, so innocent, that I couldn’t help but like him. The way he always called me “Mr. Schwartz,” for instance. It’s not that I preferred to be called that—It was just a clue to how respectful he was to everyone, unlike so many other pugs.

  In case you’ve never been warned: You’re not supposed to get attached to a pug, because sooner or later they’ll disappoint or embarrass you.

  I picked up some Old Harper that night and knocked a bottle back, possibly headed for a great fall of my own.

  ROUND 2

  Just less than a month later, Long Tom had his first comeback fight—a four-rounder at Gandy’s gym. His opponent was a never-was club fighter who drove a concrete truck during the day.

  Tom looked rusty, and reluctant to let his hands go. He got hit more than he probably should have, but seemed to settle in toward the end of the second round.

  Kolodzei was actually giving good advice from the corner. He spotted every weakness and opening offered by the concrete driver—and there were many. In round three Tom began to take advantage of the observations, and brought the small crowd alive with some smart combinations. Just before the bell rang he had his man in trouble.

  In the corner, he listened to Kolodzei with wide open eyes, as if he were scared. After touching gloves to start the fourth, he scored with a double jab and a straight right to put his man down. The concrete driver rose to his knee at five, and beat the count at nine.

  Tom dug the body with both fists, then brought a left hook up into the ear. The man staggered sideways, bounced off the ropes and into an overhand right that put his lights out.

  I typed up a pithy little piece about it, but my editor canned it when he saw who it was about. “Don’t clutter up my page with bums,” he growled, by way of explanation.

  “He won,” I said. “I just reported what happened—that’s all.”

  Dubois waved me off. “That’s why you didn’t make it in the front section, Schwartz. You got to learn the difference between facts and truth. Sure, the bum won a fight. But people read a story about it, they might get an idea he’s not a bum. Might think he’s going somewhere. But he’s not.”

  Jerry Dubois, a short, potbellied stiff who smelled like a human cigarette, must have developed that attitude in the news section. It certainly is in keeping with the people who control the press. I wondered how he wound up in the sports pages with me.

  His next time out, Long Tom dropped his man in round two. He looked a little less rusty. His punches were more accurate and his overall movement had improved.

  Long Tom’s third opponent was different—not a has-been club pug, but a young fighter with only five bouts on his record. What he lacked in experience, he almost made up for with energy and grit.

  From the opening bell of the scheduled six-rounder, Sonny Durban came out slinging leather. With what seemed to me like pure instinct taking over, Long Tom stuck his jab in Durban’s face and held him at bay. There were plenty openings, and Long Tom found a lot of them. But he got hit with some wild punches from that human hurricane, too.

  I was close enough to Tom’s corner to hear Kolodzei between rounds.

  “His body’s wide open,” the toad-faced Pollack said. “Dig in there and you’ll slow him down. What’s more, listen—he puffs hard right before he unleashes one of those bombs. It’s a warning he gives you almost every time.�
��

  The advice was dead-on, I noticed in round three. Before every punch, an explosive breath whistled around Durban’s mouthpiece. At first, Tom used this revelation to slip or block the incoming blow before peppering him with a hard counter shot. Then he must have realized he had time to beat Durban to the punch…because that’s what he started doing – first with that jolting left jab; then with a right hand lead.

  When clocked thusly, Durban’s blows either strayed into a harmless trajectory or lost steam altogether. Meanwhile, a nasty mouse appeared over his left eye.

  When the bell rang, Durban headed for a neutral corner until the referee steered him toward his own.

  I listened to Kolodzei.

  “Alright, that’s better, but don’t get stuck on this one-punch-at-a-time stuff you’re doin’. You got time to throw five or six at a time after you sting him with that first one. His guard goes down on both sides — he’s wide open. And keep workin’ on that eye, but don’t start head-huntin’. I want you to tag him up and downstairs in every combination.”

  Where had Kolodzei come from? He coached like a pro.

  Tom came out for round four with noticeable confidence. He hit Durban from every conceivable angle and didn’t get tagged once in return. His combinations merged into an almost seamless drumming staccato all over his opponent. Amazingly, Durban hung on without going down, though Tom wobbled him three times that I noticed.

  Tom dropped onto his stool breathing heavy. He was halfway to where he ran out of gas on that infamous night, and he had just put in an offensive round that would have severely taxed any fighter.

  “Okay, slow down,” Kolodzei warned him, sponging the back of Tom’s neck. “That was top-notch work. But this guy is tough—don’t punch yourself out. But when you sting him, I want to see hooks and uppercuts this time.”

  The first time Durban went down was from an uppercut. He hissed out that tell-tale breath right before throwing leather. Tom caught him with a straight right in the mouth. Durban’s arcing left fizzled out midway. Long Tom doubled up with the hook to the temple, then the uppercut caught him right on the button.