The Bruiser (4 page)

Shane experienced none of the stage fright common to those who first enter the ring. The enclosure was so heavy with smoke that faces in the audience were indistinct.

“Just remember,” his second, a withered old fighter volunteered, “the other fellow's scared as you.”

“He's not much scared if he ain't,” Shane grinned.

He sat in the ring, in borrowed canvas shoes too large for him, and tights that hung loosely about his loins. A pair of worn leather cracked boxing gloves were fastened upon his hands.

He could hear the priest saying, “Good luck, my boy.”

The second grinned as he patted Shane's gloves, “Yeah, Kid—say one ‘Our Father' and one ‘Hail Mary' that you knock his block off quick.”

“I don't need to pray for that—you watch.”

“You're a cocky little devil—but that's what it takes.”

The gong rang.

He went toward his opponent with hands in hitting position.

Instinctively, his first time in the ring, he did not step to the left, or lead with one hand and chop with the other, but glided gracefully in and out of striking distance.

In less than a minute, his rival, a formidable looking Mexican boy, was on the floor.

Shane was given twenty-five dollars.

He was amazed at the amount. He would work two weeks for that much. And he had earned it in a couple of minutes.

The course of his life changed. He was a combination of road kid and wandering fighter.

The boy he had whipped was from Phoenix. Waiting until the newspaper came out next morning, he bought several copies and went to that city, and located the leading newspaper. The Mexican was known as a promising fighter in his home town. Within a few days he was again matched with the boy he had knocked out.

The matchmaker gave him an advance of fifty dollars. It was a good match for him. Thousands of Mexicans would come to see a fellow-countryman.

Shane made his headquarters at a small gymnasium on Centre Street.

The newspapers printed stories of his exploits in other cities. Soon he was a celebrity. He bought a new sweater and other articles of clothing to go with his changed position in life.

Training at the same gymnasium was a one-time well known fighter named Spider Smith. Shane absorbed his mannerisms, and boxed with him daily. After each encounter, he realized how much stronger he was than Smith, who was a middleweight. Shane was lighter.

On Sunday, an admission of twenty-five cents was
charged to see him box with Smith. This helped to defray the small expenses of training.

Each morning he would run for five miles. He learned to know each sign along the road. He would often wave at people as they watched him.

He won again in sensational manner. His opponent went down three times in the fourth.

He was next matched with a young miner from Bisbee. After training two weeks, the miner was taken ill. The fight was declared off. His purse against the Mexican had been two hundred and thirty dollars. With what remained, he left for El Paso, where Smith had said “the game was good.”

Taking Smith with him, they loitered about the Texas city and its Mexican environs for several weeks.

In Juarez, he met a boxing promoter from Mexico City. Smith, acting as manager, explained Shane's defeat of the Mexican boy in Phoenix.

The promoter watched Shane “work out” in a gymnasium the next afternoon. Impressed, he took him to Mexico City. Smith went along as manager and trainer.

Shane's match was the third on an “all star card.” The high altitude of Mexico City affected him. Unable to breathe properly, he lost in the sixth round.

He parted with Smith the next day. “I'm headin' for Vera Cruz,” said Smith, “then on to Buenos Aires—they throw gloves too fast for me in the States—”

Smith looked about the ancient red railroad station where Shane waited for his train to be called. “Now don't take this lickin' to heart, kid,” he said, “No one'll ever know you've been down here by the time
you're a top notcher—you can change your name a little later—or keep this outta your record—if you ever go far places it's all right with me—I'm never comin' back to the States anyhow—I've had enough.”

“How long you been fightin'?” asked Shane.

“Too long—all my life—but only in the ring twenty-one years—that's older'n you are, kid. I've made a barrel of dough in my time—had dames in silks and satins, and smooth as new gloves. They're all gone now—and I'm sneakin' out of the picture with nothin' to do but remember—it comes to all of us; so what-inhell's the difference—none of it's worth a damn.”

The road had taught Shane observation. Smith's eyes were sharp. His eagle-face had not been made shapeless by the many gloves that had battered against it.

The train for El Paso was called. Shane held his worn handbag, and said, “So long, Old Timer, it was good knowin' you.”

“Same here, Kid, I'll be thinkin' about you—you'll get somewhere—you've got a lot—you can take that Kid Pueblo if you ever get him off a mountain—and—if anyone ever talks to you about Spider Smith just don't say a word. I'm just oozin' out of the picture like I oozed into it. When a guy who ain't a fighter brags about how good a man he used to be, nobody cares much—it's like kids braggin'.”

“You said something, Spider, about me keepin' this outta my record—I won't if this Pueblo's good enough to get credit. Maybe that's all he'll have to brag about by the time I'm champion. He can stroll around this
town and the little brown-eyed dolls can say, ‘There goes Pueblo. He stopped Shane Rory' or whatever they say in Mexican—”

“He didn't stop you, Kid—you just couldn't breathe.”

“But I'll wipe it out if I ever get him in the States.”

The train started to move at last.

“So long-”

“So long-”

After a few hours on the train, his fight with Kid Pueblo became clearer. With the ego of the great, born fighter, he did not realize that Pueblo had too much experience for him, and might have at least won the decision anywhere. “He never hurt me,” Shane thought.

Smith had sent a telegram to the sporting editor of an El Paso paper, explaining the defeat. He would save the paper. He might get Pueblo in Phoenix. He had to do something soon.

His mind rested on Spider Smith.

He had been reading about him for years. “One of the cleverest men in the world—if he could only hit.” He wondered why some men could hit, and others couldn't. Pueblo was a hard hitter. “He'll never get to the top—he telegraphs his punches…. Just how does a fellow get to the top?” he had asked Spider Smith.

“He's got to have everything—and a lot of luck,” Smith had replied.

Smith remained long in the boy's thoughts.

Next morning, another American boarded the train.

He wore a blue suit, faded yellow from the sun, and a wide gray felt hat with a leather strap around it.

After a day's silence, Shane was glad to talk.

“Which way, Mister?”

“Indiana.” The man's blue eyes, sun-faded like his suit, looked kindly at the young fighter. “And you?”

“El Paso,” Shane answered.

“Been down here long?”

“Nope—a few weeks—had a fight down here—the climate got me—I'm goin' back.”

“Who'd you fight?”

“Kid Pueblo.”

“He's a good man.”

“Yeah, I know,” returned Shane.

The stranger was a mining engineer. His wife had left Mexico eight weeks before. Both thought she would have better care in Indiana. She was now dead in childbirth. The wire came the night before. They lived in a small cottage near the mine for two years. He had locked the door on it forever. He would return to Mexico though. “It gets you after a time—the stars and the sky and the night.”

Shane wanted to ask a question. Finally he said, “And the little baby?”

“It's alive,” the father raised his eyes, “I traded one for the other,” his voice choked, “but that's the way it goes.”

Shane had bought a few curios. Taking a little stone image from his bag, he said, “Give this to the baby, won't you?”

“Surely,” the man's eyes rested on Shane—“thanks, that's kind of you.”

“Well, you know, I just bought 'em. I ain't got anybody.”

“That's too bad—we all ought to have something.”

“Yes, I guess so,” Shane returned vaguely.

They parted at El Paso.

“I'm flying from here,” said the mining engineer.

“Good luck,” said Shane. “I'm goin' on to Phoenix.”

He bought a paper that explained his loss to Kid Pueblo.

“You're a smart kid—you don't need no manager,” the promoter at Phoenix said, “but I can't get Kid Pueblo here—too much money. Freddy Garcia beat a pretty good boy last week. I can steam you two up again—winner to meet Kid Pueblo—that'll go good.”

Again he defeated Garcia.

He loitered about Phoenix for several days. The hot season was approaching. There would soon be no more matches until cooler weather.

The promoter said, “I can get you a few hundred over in Prescott against Garcia.”

“I can't go on lickin' him forever,” said Shane.

“You'll not lick him this time—let him get a draw—that'll build him up for Phoenix again—his manager tells me he'll give you half his purse—for ten rounds.”

“No, I don't want to do that. I'd forget in there anyhow when the goin' got rough—and then I'd be a double-crosser.”

“Well, leave it to me. I'll make the match—go in and fight.”

“All right.”

Though Shane tried all the way, Garcia not only stayed the limit, but earned a draw.

Shane could not understand.

When Garcia's manager wanted to give him half the purse, Shane would not accept. “He fought hard for it—let him have it.”

“You're a mighty good sport,” said the manager.

“Not so good,” returned Shane, who had learned one of the mysteries of the ring—that on an “off night” a champion might lose to a dub.

“If you ever hit Omaha,” said the manager, “go to Buck Logan, sports editor on the
Post
—he's good people—I'll write him about you.”

The urge of the road returned. He drifted about the country for several weeks, with money sewed in different parts of his clothing.

His money about all gone, he arrived in Wichita, where a fight between two high-ranking lightweights of the Middle West was to be held on the last day of the convention of independent oil dealers.

He applied to Jack Gill, one of the contestants, for a job as sparring partner. The training camp was pitched along the Arkansas River.

“Think you can take 'em?” Gill's manager asked Shane.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, get in there with Gill this afternoon—if you give him a good workout, I'll give you a job—five bucks
a day and your board. It's ten days to the fight—that'll get you fifty iron men.”

The camp was crowded when he squared off with Gill. At once Gill began to “give him the works.” After a rapid exchange, it was Gill who “broke ground.” At the end of the four rounds, he patted Shane on the shoulder, “You'll do, Kid.”

Now a member of the camp, he did road work each morning with Gill who learned to like him.

Gill was a steel worker from a town in Illinois. Like Shane, he became a fighter by accident.

When one of the pugilists, billed for the semi-wind-up, hurt his hand, Gill suggested that Shane take his place. The purse was three hundred dollars, sixty percent to the winner.

“You'll have to give away about ten pounds,” explained Gill, “but you can't do any worse than lose the decision. Maley throws a lot of punches but can't hit hard enough to break an Easter egg. He's rough-but don't let that worry you—I beat him two years ago. Keep in on him—never stop punchin'—he's got a six round heart—after that he wilts. He got a draw with Jerry Wayne and he's been travelin' on that ever since.”

Shane always remembered the ten days with Jack Gill. A murderous puncher, he was cruel in workouts, but always fair. He did not play to the gallery. Neither did he ask his sparring partners to pull their punches. “If they're men enough to whip me, I've got no business among the top notchers.”

His manager knew little of the fight game. A fore
man in a steel mill, Jack Gill had carried him along. Gill had worked in the mill until money was assured in the ring.

Thirty thousand people were at the fight.

“We've raised your six rounder to ten—just to give the folks a show,” the promoter explained to Shane—“and we've anted the purse up to five hundred. Is that okeh?”

“You bet. Suppose I knock him out?”

“You can get three to one that says you can't.”

“Well—even if I lose the duke I got forty percent of five hundred, ain't I?”

“Why yes.”

“Will you bet a hundred of that dough that I knock him out?”

Jack Gill spoke up— “Cut me in on another hundred of that—and another century that if there's a knockout Rory here'll land it. Phone it to the papers how I stand.”

“Thanks, Jack—you're swell.”

Shane's arm went round his employer.

On the night of the fight, Gill said, “Now listen, Kid—throw punches till you die—you got a hundred bucks on yourself—three to one—suppose you click—and sixty percent of five hundred—now don't spar a second. Throw punches—keep in—the minute he backs up, push right in again—I tell you he's got a six round heart—he can't hurt you if I couldn't.”

The western sky was still red when the first preliminary went on.

Shane used Gill's dressing-room.

“Now make it snappy, Kid. I'll wait here till you come back. I'll want you swingin' that towel over me.”