JEEPERS, CREEPERS
Guns,
not fists, now settle some boyhood disputes. Minor conflicts often end with
tragic consequences. In my youth, arguments were resolved with punches, not
bullets. My resume shows the following results: a couple of bloody noses, an occasional
shiner and a bruised ego, a small price for the lessons learned.
My boxing career lasted from age eight to
thirteen. Most of my fights were bare-knuckle duels, staged on city streets or
in playgrounds. A few of them were formal ring appearances, replete with boxing
gloves and officials, conducted at a scout camp to which my parents sent me for
two weeks every summer during my pre-teen years.
My brother, almost fourteen years my senior, taught
me the rudiments of boxing. We would spar playfully using open palms, not
fists. “Don’t swing your arms wildly, just punch straight out from the
shoulder.” This skill helped make me a better than average boxer, considering
my tiny physique at the time.
I would describe my pugilistic style as a timid
counter-puncher, featuring a left jab, a step backwards, throwing another jab,
then sliding left to right, tossing out a few more jabs before pedaling out of
range of my opponent.
It did
not suit my temperament to slug it out, toe-to-toe. You can credit Joe Louis
for my classic footwork. I imitated his shuffling style after seeing a number
of his heavyweight bouts on Saturday matinees, thanks to MovieTone News.
One summer camp fight remains in my
memory. My opponent, an older and heavier boy, seemed invincible. After three
rounds, the judges deemed the bout to be a draw, although in my opinion, the
other lad had knocked my ears off. Once the fight ended, I rushed to the
latrine; where I began to cry, feeling quite sorry for myself. Exiting, my
opponent entered, crying in like amount. Perhaps the “draw” decision hurt his pride,
thinking he should have easily outclassed such a puny opponent. We did not
discuss the matter nor did he ask for a rematch, thank goodness.
I fought with a boy in grade school
numerous times. He hated me for some reason. It didn’t take much to set us to pushing,
shoving, wrestling and punching each other. Years after I had moved from Hoboken
Speaking of the waterfront, it
became the site of my last interesting fistfight. One hot summer day in 1939 a
number of my friends took a dip in the Hudson River , leaving me to guard their clothes. Three strangers,
boys about my age, came along and began to rummage through the pockets of the
pants my naked pals had left behind. After an exchange of pleasantries, I said,
“Stop, you . . . . (choose a curse word from your vocabulary).”
“Who’s gonna make us?”
“Me.”
“Wanna fight?” said the shortest of
the trio, a sporting gesture, considering they could have tossed me in the
drink without much effort.
After a few minutes of some good
boxing, my pals emerged from the river, at which point the three desperados
decided to undertake a strategic retreat, as they were quite outnumbered. It
proved to me that some thieves are honorable.
The last of my 'Put-em-up!-Who-sez?-Oh-yeah?-You-and-who-else?'
fights took place in a school playground during eighth grade. My friend, Thomas
Conrad, known to all his schoolmates as “Pickles,” swiped some marbles from a
youngster. He had shouted Cops Grab before snatching them off the
ground, imitating certain police officers in my hometown who often helped
themselves to candy and cash without paying the store proprietor.
“Give them back, Pickles.” What possessed
me to make this demand I cannot say. I did not normally play the role of the
good cowboy wearing a white hat.
“No. Wanna fight?” he responded, a
challenge frequently heard in Hoboken
Our fight proved to be brief and
decisive. Pickles threw a wild right at my jaw. I side-stepped and hit him with
my famous left jab. Unfortunately, I failed to make a fist and hit him with my
fingers outstretched, one of which accidentally poked him in his right eye. He
let out a yell, and put his hands over his face. That blow ended the war. He
returned the marbles to their rightful owner.
Pickles remained my friend
afterwards. Why, you may ask? Because while he was half-blind, I did not poke
him in his other eye, that’s why.
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