I’d like to explain things to you if I could, but I don’t think I can. I’m sitting in the blue corner of a 20 x 20 boxing ring. My cut man “Mouse” Wilson is rubbing Vaseline over my beat up face, my corner manager Chug Anastacia is hollering at me to keep moving and start throwing my left right cross as some buxom red head chick is strutting in front of me with a round announcement. The Sunnyside Garden Arena in Queens is about three quarters full and the smoke in the air is so thick I can’t even see the banners hanging from the rafters. I thought I had died in the last round, visited with a guy sporting a Jersey accent I swear was Saint Peter standing at the gates of Heaven, and now am about to commit the unthinkable sin for a fighter. I’m supposed to take a dive. Shaking my head to clear the cobwebs wasn’t making things any clearer. They say your life will pass before your eyes when you die, but I gotta tell you, my life needs a lot of explaining before I go. Let me start at the beginning.
My name is Michael T. Murphy. I don’t know what the T stands for if anything. My folks said that was all there was to it, a T! I started using the middle initial in my name for a good reason. The Irish population of Belle Harbor and Breezy Point in Queens sported hundreds of good Irish Catholic names, and I carried one of the most common of them. Mickey Murphy, Little Mike Murphy, Big Mike Murphy, and Michael “Spud” Murphy were just a few monikers that separated our persons. I was, as far as I knew, the only Michael T. Murphy.
My Ma and Pa came over from Ireland at the turn of the century looking for a better life. The same boat brought an extended family of both of them so there was a lot of Irish to look after each other. They all settled near each other in Queens and set about, like thousands of other immigrants, to find jobs to support the families. Pa was a carpenter, a good one, and gained favor with some of the borough bosses. In exchange for a remodel of one of the bigshots homes, he was provided with constant work in his trade. There were other families that didn’t fare so well. The unlucky and the unskilled suffered greatly.
I was born on Saint Patrick’s Day in 1920. It was cause for great celebration and was looked upon as a good omen. Why I wasn’t named Patrick T. Murphy I will never know. I was the first of what would be a typical family. When they were all done my folks had reared seven kids. There were three other boys and three girls. They all had middle names.
My early years were interrupted by constant packing and moving. We lived in several apartments. It seemed that after each baby was born the search for a bigger place was on. It was tough to make friends in the neighborhood then turn around and move away. The good part of all this was I continued to increase the circle kids that I knew. They were all Irish, of course, except for a few Dagos, Black Dagos and Kikes that had settled nearby. The kids were always accepted but I never saw their folks at the Irish get-togethers on the block. I spent a lot of time out in the streets playing whatever games we could play for free. There was a constant game of stickball going on. Sometimes the bigger kids and men would come out and compete. They often fought over some infraction. We yelled, laughed, and whispered. The world, in our exuberance and youth, was wide open to us.
Schooling was something I didn’t like, didn’t do well at, and didn’t do it. I was part of a bunch who worked at truancy. Elaborate planning was involved. Roll calls may have called off but for a few nickels could get someone to holler “here” at the proper time. We were then free to roam the borough looking for something exciting to occupy our day. I think my left ear is larger than my right as it was stretched to tearing by my mother guiding me not so gently back to the schoolhouse. If we were spotted by any of our mothers the word spread quickly and we’d try to leg it, but no hiding place was good enough to escape the wrath of a fire breathing Irish mother. I’m sure she wanted what she thought was best for me, an education, but learning arithmetic, history, and writing skills wasn’t a necessary part of my needs.
I never fancied myself as a ladies man like some of my pals, and thought chasing those skirts was just a waste of time. I would sometimes invite a girl to have a soda at Kilkennys when I had some extra money, or take one to a street fair or church bazaar. I wasn’t the prettiest face in town, I knew it, and accepted the fact I didn’t warrant a second glance from the opposite sex.
One day Lully O’Halloran, a tall buxom Irish lass must have got it in her mind that I would be a fine companion for the day. My buddies warned me that she had a slightly tarnished reputation and to watch out. The fact that Lully promised to cover the admission to the Bijoux and treats, was a good enough reason to take her up on the invitation. The treats, however, weren’t a soda and popcorn. I spent most of the time in the theatre balcony pushing her hands away from my crotch and pulling my hands away from those big bazoombas. She decided I needed kissing and it felt like her tongue was working my tonsils like a gym punching bag. I finally told her to quit that bologna and leave me alone. She got those Irish eyes blazing, stood up and hollered loud enough for the entire seated audience to clearly hear her.
“Well, I never!” she yelled, and walked out.
“I doubt that,” I countered.
I saw Lully in the community a few times after that, but she couldn’t turn away fast enough when she spotted me. So much for her chance to get lucky
I got a part time job as a swabby and stocker at a local Irish pub. The Lucky Leprechaun was the place where a different type of education was experienced. I worked after school hours until early evening doing whatever the owner, Paddy O’Donnell needed me to do. I offered to come in earlier but Paddy told me that the work would not interfere with my schooling and that was enough of that talk. I made some jingle and was able to bring home a few dollars to help with the household. Paddy would occasionally send me packing with a bucket of beer for “me old man” so he could enjoy it at the end of the day. Those were the days that all my pals were really my pals. I had to concoct some story of spillage by the time I made the apartment and stayed far away from ma so she couldn’t smell by breath. Splashing a little of the golden ale on my tunic would negate her suspicions, usually.
I ran errands for the bar, picking up corned beef, local bread, mustards, eggs, new bar linen, and the popular hangover remedy concoction from Kilkenny’s drug store. I don’t know what was in that dark brown corked bottle but a quick nip of the stuff sent me higher than a kite. I didn’t like that feeling.
I was called upon to run messages to workplaces, stores, and homes by the patrons. I became part of the Irish community and immersed myself in the ways of life.
“Hey, Michael T. Murphy, would ya be so kind as to run up the street and tell the missus I be along shortly, now would ya.”
“Boy, run this dollar down to the shoe shine and tell him Irish Red in the seventh to win.”
“Now Michael T. Murphy, I need some laundry picked up at Hop Sings. You’ll be making a dime for your fine effort, and another dime if you can be back in 20 minutes.”
Not Mike, or Michael, or Mickey, or Murphy, but Michael T. Murphy. I guess that was the way it would always be. I was wrong. That changed in a completely unexpected way.
Bar fights and getting fluthered was also part of the life. That’s what started a whole new chapter in my life. I continued to work part time for Paddy until I turned sixteen. My folks finally accepted the fact that formal education was not in the books, so to speak, for me.
I excitedly asked Paddy if he would hire me on as a pub tender. He said he would be delighted to have me. His gout had gotten so bad that he often sat at a back bar corner and let others pour their own. He taught me the proper way to draw an ale from the spigot, how to mix a fancy Irish whiskey drink, and how to know when to leave the customer alone with whatever was going on. He showed me the shillelagh underneath the bar and explained that just having a fierce look and that weapon in hand would quell many of the arguments and misunderstandings that happened almost daily. That didn’t always work.
Pay days, Saturday nights, and Irish holidays kept the Lucky Leprechaun hopping and in the black. Paddy would bring in an Irish band so husbands and wives could kick up their heels. People had extra money to spend and that is what they did. On alcohol.
The Irish neighborhoods, as well as any of the other corners of the city had toughs, gangs, and wannabe mobsters. They were always intimidating, stealing, beating people for no good reason, and busting into unoccupied homes to score some kind of treasure. They leader of this group was Patrick McGee. He liked to be called Tiger by his gang. Tiger was big, loud, and without a conscience. It was said that he bludgeoned a fellow to death in front of witnesses, but put the fear of God in them if they testified. I always thought that was probably a rumor he himself started. He got away with everything. Well almost.
He and a few of his pals came in to the Lucky Leprechaun late one evening just as the Saturday night crowd was getting a quite happy and boisterous. They pushed their way through the crowd to the bar and turned to survey the crowd. Paddy was busy at the other end making sandwiches and talking with some regulars. Tiger, I think, thought he demanded immediate service and started barking at Paddy for service.
“Get your fat arse over here old man and pull me and my friends some black.” Tiger yelled.
“Hold up just a bit fellows and I’ll be right with you.” Paddy said. “We’re pretty busy tonight.”
“You get over here now or I’ll come over and drag your carcass across the bar and start pouring our drinks myself”, Tiger blustered.
Paddy turned around, stared at Tiger and grabbed his shillelagh in one quick movement. He stood there slapping the end of that ironwood mallet into the other hand.
“Why don’t you and your bunch just go on your way? We don’t want any trouble and you seem to be wanting to send us in that direction”, Paddy said quietly.
“Well why don’t you eff off you old bog jumping mick!” Tiger said as he grabbed Paddy by his vest and dragged him over the bar.
The action too fast for old Paddy could react. All he could do is watch as Tiger’s big fist crashed into his face. Paddy went down in slow motion as Tiger and his buddy cheered and jeered.
Now I’m not a big fellow, a couple inches shorter than six foot. I weighed in at about 145 pounds soaking wet, and never considered myself a fighter. I had spent a little time over at Fat’s Gym, but only to watch a pal from the old neighborhood do some training. I got a chance to hit the speed bag a little and pump a few shots into the heavy bag, but not much else.
I had just come around the corner from the back room as Paddy was taking the brunt of Tigers blast. I don’t know what happened but I suddenly saw red. The next few minutes were a blur but I remember going in a rage against the gang boss and giving him whatever I had in my fight arsenal. When it was over, Tiger lay beneath me showing a bloody, bashed face, while other patrons were trying to stop my onslaught. The gang, without the bluster, hightailed it out of the Leprechaun enduring hurled insults from the crowd. A few fellows picked an unconscious Tiger up and deposited him in the alley trash bin then came back for some good fun. I got my bearings about me and looked for Paddy. He was standing behind the bar downing a good pint of Guinness. He had a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.
“Well Michael T. Murphy, I think I’ve just found a new name for you, he said.”
“Hey everyone, “Paddy announced,” I want you to meet me new bouncer. His name is The Mauler.”
“And,” he continued, “Drinks are on the house.”
Michael T. Murphy was gone, the Mauler, apparently had replaced him.
The next couple of years went by with only a few tiffs and fights. I was known to take a good lick but noted for dishing them out faster and harder. There was always someone who thought they could take the Mauler. Most of those fellows were either drunk or put up to it by someone backing with bets. When I did fight, I found myself going beyond a time when a normal fighter would quit. I ended up buying a cold one for the loser and there was back slapping all around. At least they had tried to go up against me and there was a certain pride in that accomplishment. I wanted something else though.
The war was raging in Europe and in the Pacific so I wanted to do my part. Myself and my pal, Tommy Bohlen went straightaway to the recruiting office and signed on to be Marines. They were the toughest and that’s what we wanted. We packed up a suitcase, said our goodbyes to family and friends and hopped a bus to Buffalo for initial testing. The physical exam was routine until some sawbones told me that I had flat feet and couldn’t make the grade.
“You’ve got to be putting me on me fella.” I protested,” Those feet have gotten me anywhere I wanted to go.”
He stamped a big 4F on my papers and they sent me packing. I tell you it was hard to show my face around the neighborhood for quite a while. That rejection sent me into a long and bumpy road of drunkenness and fighting. That behavior came to a screeching halt when I got a friendly kick from Officer Tully Dolan, a man who sent my life in a completely different direction.
I had been pulled into the 105th precinct on 222nd St. in Queens Village. It was the usual beef, that of being drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest, and ignoring the commands of the arresting officer. I spent the usual twenty four hours in the clink, arranged the bail, and was in woeful shape as I was leaving the building. My face was pretty well beat up and I was in need of an ice cold brew.
“Hold up there Mr. Murphy,” a quiet voice said.
I looked around to find a bear of a man behind me. He carried a big belly held in place by his heavy police belting, spit polish shoes, an erect stature, a shiny badge and a huge handlebar mustache. What I noticed the most, however, was his steely blue eyes penetrating right into me.
“I understand they call you the Mauler. That’s quite a moniker for a hard hitting bar thug,” he continued. “Looks like that lifestyle isn’t working out very well for you, now is it? I tell you what I’m going to do for you. You show up at this gym on Saturday for a little workout, and I’ll see if the higher ups will let this last dust up go by. Got that boyo, gym or jail, your choice.” He handed me a card and walked off.
I picked up the card that read Title Boxing Club. It was on Austin Street in Queens. I knew it was the workout gym for the cops but was also supported by the Police Benevolent Fund. The decision was pretty easy to make as it was laid out in simple terms. Show them what I had or do some jail time.
Title was established thirty years before by the city fathers, a good safe place for kids to hang out and have good clean fun. That lasted about 2 years as the kids had other things to do with a little more excitement. The police department, with the help of the New York Boxing commission, refit the place with all the necessary tools of boxing and fitness. The hall itself was the bottom floor and basement of an old apartment building. The entrance was a simple door that just said Title. Walking in there to the smell of years of blood, sweat and tears, hangs in my memory bank. The main entry had posters and pictures of past boxers, and boxing matches, along with action shots of well-known past champions. Jersey Joe Wolcott was prominent as it was said he spent some time in the gym. I looked around for Dolan but instead met someone else.
“Hey kid, whaddya want!” a voice shouted from behind me. That was my first meeting with Chug Anastasia. “Get over here.” I walked toward the voice.
“Dolan sent you, right? Did you bring some sweats? There’s the locker room, get changed and get your hot shot butt out here,” Dolan barked. I complied.
The next two hours were pure excruciating pain. From the sound of Chug’s yelling, to the routine of calisthenics, rope skipping, and bag punching, to the weight lifting, I was exhausted.
“Understand you’re not doing a damned bit of work, so that means I’ll see you here tomorrow at 2:00. And bring your own goddamned soap and towel, we ain’t the welfare squad,” Chug said in a passing bite. “And, ya lazy bum, find some work, cause using this gym isn’t free.”
That night was the best I had slept in years, excluding the times I had passed out from imbibing.
Chug worked with me on and off for several weeks, always deflecting my question of when would I get to hit someone. His answer was always to the fact that it would happen when I was ready. He had a way of truly frustrating me.
I got a job as a hod carrier for an old Italian bricklayer named Luigi. He couldn’t speak English and I didn’t know a word of his language. There always seemed to be a grandchild of his around who did the translation, otherwise sign language and hollering in Italian was our mode of communication. He was quite a colorful character, lived in Little Italy and did beautiful work. During a lunch break I was doing a little shadow boxing and Luigi watched me with interest.
“You a no dance,” he said. “You a slow.” And he walked away.
I was starting to get into good form, probably the best of my life. I’m not a big man standing about 5’10”, my weight around 165 pounds, and not a particularly long reach. A long reach was considered an advantage for boxers as they could flick shots out of the way of retaliation. Most of my weight was carried in a barrel chest and torso. I would never have a chiseled body.
I did at one time spend a dime to get the Charles Atlas “Dynamic Tension” booklet. The information in the book was going to help me sculpt my body perfectly. It had the same success as I had with growing sea monkeys. I quit looking at the ads in the action comics after that.
I finally got my chance to get into the ring and spar with another boxer. I had headgear and regulation boxing gloves. This was my big chance to show my prowess. I lasted twenty minutes. Chug was constantly telling me to get up on my toes and move. I was battered and only got in a few shots.
“Kid, you’re moving in slow motion. It looks like you got some cement blocks for shoes. Move, move, bob and weave, for Christ’s sake,” was all I heard.
I got out of ring, knackered, and irritated.
“Chug, I’m not a Marine because they booted me for having flat feet and maybe that’s why I can’t do what you want of me,” I fired off. “But I can hit, you just wait and see!”
I was, by then, smitten by the boxing game. I never missed a radio account of a fight. I cheered for Sugar Ray Robinson as he finally put an end to Jake LaMotta, read accounts of a new boxer on the national scene, Rocky Marciano, and lamented the end of the career of Joe Wolcott. I followed a couple of our guys in the gym as they were undercards at an event. It was a grand sport.
My foot work improved, a little, to the point that Chug had given up on trying to get me to skip and hop. I had a strong right hand, left cross, and was working on the uppercut when Chug announced I was going in the ring the next Saturday. I was on the card representing the 105th against fighters from another precinct. I was matched up against another fellow country man in the middleweight division at 160 pounds.
I was jittery before the fight but warm and ready. Chug introduced me to my corner man Mickey “Mouse” Wilson. Chug had told me that Mouse was the best cut man around when he was on. I found out later that he had lost his left hand, and some of his marbles during the war. He had been a medic and knew his way around injuries, but sometimes drifted away from his focus. The crowd was small but was made up of several police including Dolan. The loud part of the crowd was half the Italians in the city. Two of their own were going to duke it and they had already made their bets and chosen sides. The venue was small and looked like it had been slapped together in just a few days. It wasn’t the grand palace but it worked.
I took the fight to my opponent looking for a quick knockout, but I got hit in the face and head a lot more times than I was dishing. Chug cautioned me to cover up, but I never did get that part down. The crowd started yelling louder. I heard “Knock him out, Mauler.” Must be some boys from the neighborhood. Pretty quick the chant, “Mauler, Mauler, and Mauler” could be heard. The fifth and final round was a good one for me. I finally landed a big right that threw my other guy on his heels. I came in for the kill and tossed every shot I had at him. The referee came between us and stopped the fight. I had won by a TKO.
“Mauler, huh?” Chug said in the locker room. “You’ve got a long way to go.”
I continued to pick up fights in the five boroughs. My record was decent, and a few promoters had a look see at me in the gym. The purses weren’t big but was enough for me to get by. I was announced at fights as Michael T. “The Mauler” Murphy, and had lot of folks following my events. I think they thought I might turn into an Irish champion. I was invited to dinner with bosses, families, and friends. I still went to the Lucky Leprechaun but kept my alcohol consumption to a minimum. Paddy had put a big banner over the bar that read, “Home of The Mauler.” My neighborhood was with me.
Three years of boxing had provided me with a reputation of being a knock out artist. The lack of foot speed was reported as of being vulnerable to head shots. I got hit a lot and my face showed it. My nose had been broken and flattened a couple times, a few ribs had been cracked, and I broke bones in my wrist and hand a few times. That was part of boxing, I understood, and I kept at it. I rose to the ranks from middleweight, to super middleweight, to light heavyweight. I was fighting the big boys who packed a wallop in their punch. Getting knocked down, getting back up, and doing the same to my opponent was part of the game. Chug had worked with me and I was finally ranked in my fight division. That was a sign of success.
I had been entirely too busy to develop any relationship with a gal, but ended up with some real doozies after a fight and rounds of drinks. It usually cost me part of my purse to say goodbye to them for the night.
I had gotten my bell rung several times and there was instances my vision was out of focus for quite some time after a match. I started getting headaches that lasted for longer than I wanted. Chug sent me a local sawbones. He looked into my eyes and ears. I donated some blood and piss too. He checked my reflexes, my privates, and my ass. What does this have to do with my eyes, I thought.
“You’ve taken a lot of hits to the head, Michael,” he announced.
“Jesus Christ on a crutch, Doc, tell me something I don’t know.” I said.
“Right now you are suffering from a concussion, your brain is swelling, and it is affecting your nervous system.” He followed. “You keep getting hit on your noggin, there is going to be a time one punch puts you down and you won’t get up, ever!” he said with a stern but solemn face. “I don’t think this is the first concussion you have had but it might be your last. You ought to consider a new line of work.”
I thanked the man and started a walk back to the gym. My mind spun with what he had said, not completely believing him, but not writing the whole episode off. What would I do if I wasn’t boxing? Go back to the neighborhood and tend bar? I know a few retired boxers that owned a drinking establishment. Sonny O’Day, quite a fighter in his day and kind of a mush brain now, with slow exaggerated steps and thoughts, had a place. He relived his glory days on a regular basis with whoever was willing to listen. I didn’t want that. I really don’t have any other skills, I thought. My mind was working overtime.
I walked around a corner and just about knocked over a ladder in the middle of the sidewalk. The top step was occupied by someone reaching for something, and teetering while trying to do it.
“Hey, you want me to steady the ladder for you?” I offered.
“That would be mighty thoughtful of you,” replied the female voice from above. “This damned window shade got curled in the wind last night so I need to right it before I can lower it.”
The woman fiddled a little more and started down the ladder.
“You’re going to have to move a little, sir, so I can get down.” She said with a smile.
I was scarlet for staring and for not moving out of the way. I apologized.
“Let me take down this ladder and put it away for you, I mean if that’s alright.” I stammered.
“You certainly may, and I’ll even treat you for your effort,” the lady said evenly. She extended her hand.
“My name is Prudence Armstrong, but everyone calls me Prudy,” and to whom do I have the pleasure to be speaking with.” She said.
I took off my hat and offered my hand, completely covering her tiny hand. I told her my name. She wanted to know if I worked in the area. I told her I was a boxer and was headed to the Title. She gave me a cupcake with chocolate frosting and I sat down.
“So you’re one of those big palookas that thrash each other to oblivion, is that it?” she asked.
“I guess so,” was all I could say.
Prudence was the owner and operator of Cupcake Delights. We talked about the business, the street traffic, people we may know in common, maintenance problems, and life in general. It was the longest conversation I had ever had with a woman. She was delightful and intelligent and open. Something I wasn’t used to. I glanced at the wall clock and saw I was late for my workout and knew Chug would be chomping at the bit. I offered, before I left, to fix the problems she was experiencing in the store, and she accepted my proposal.
The next couple of months were filled with enjoyable time at Prudy’s and the not so enjoyable time of trying to maintain my record and ranking. Boxing seemed to be more work than fun. I didn’t know why. Prudy even got me in the back of the store mixing up flour and eggs and everything else so she could make her little cakes. She even named one of her concoctions the Mmm cupcake. She said it was called that because of my initials. It tasted alright, too. She was quite a gal.
One terribly cold and windy New York winter day, I was leaving the store to purchase some butter for Prudy. I had a good warm feeling inside and carried the effects of a lovely kiss. Suddenly there were two fellows standing in front of me.
“Hi, Mr. Mauler, remember me,” came a low raspy whisper. “It’s your old friend Tiger.”
I looked up to see a slightly older and much heavier Patrick McGee.
“I’m here to offer you an invitation to see my boss about an important business arrangement. He would like to see you immediately, if that is not too much of an inconvenience,” Tiger offered.
I looked over his shoulder to a massive man that towered over both of us. He had a flat face, close set eyes, and the look of a character of a minus IQ. I had no doubt that my punch would not have any effect on him. He smiled at me. He had an even row of baby teeth. That IQ just dropped even more.
“Victor Masconi has asked that we bring you for a meet, now,” Tiger said with more force.
“You working for the greasy mob now, huh, Patrick?” I asked with a smirk. “The Irish wouldn’t have nothing to do with you after our dustup? Well, what if I was to say no?” I suggested.
“Then I guess I would have to ask Vinnie, here, to help you change your mind, and this little friend I’m carrying might help you see your way to take a ride,” Tiger said evenly.
He opened his coat to display a revolver holstered under his left breast pocket.
I had no idea what all of this big display was about, but I wasn’t going to push the situation. We all climbed into a big Lincoln Cosmopolitan and pulled into traffic. No one spoke during the entire ride and we pulled in front of Malisani’si Restaurant. Seated at the back of a completely empty establishment sat Victor Masconi. He was associated with mobster activity in the area. He ran pull tabs, numbers, sports betting, the loan shark business, prostitution, and costly insurance policy programs for small businesses. He looked like a weasel with a little trimmed mustache and slicked back jet black hair. Victor was dressed immaculately and was having a meal when we arrived.
“Have a little wine”, Mr. Murphy, he suggested. “Sit down, sit down, I’d like to speak with you for a while.”
I sat. I refused the wine.
“I have been following your boxing career with interest and notice that you have become very successful in your endeavors.” He started. “Maybe you have heard of my fighter, Rocco Calizone? His nickname is Kid Dynamite.”
He didn’t wait for my answer.
“You see Rocco is going to make it big, be a champion. He’s got the tools to wow the promoters. But he needs to hook up in a match with a ranked opponent and show his stuff,” Victor explained. “What I like to do is match him against you for that reason. I want you to put on a good show but go in the seventh round. You know, let him tag you, and dive. You understand what I’m saying?”
I sat there and took in what he was saying. The creep wanted me to throw crap in the face of a sport which I respected and loved. My self-respect and pride would be gone. And the people I would let down, unimaginable. Ten grand was more than I had ever made in a fight purse. A lot more!
“I can see that you are hesitating, and I understand that, so let me tell you this.” He moved forward. “You’ll get ten grand for your effort, and if you want to retire after the match I could see that happening.”
“And if I don’t take you up on this deal?” I asked.
“Let’s just say that some situations may arise that may affect other people. You know, maybe an accidental gas leak explosion at your friends shop, or maybe Chug could be mugged in a very inconceivable manner, or you could slip and fall in this snow outside and possible break a leg.” He concluded. “You are free to make a decision, as I would not want to influence you one way or the other. Someone will be by the gym in a couple days, you let him know what it’s going to be, capisce?”
He signaled the two goons and I was out the door.
“We’ve been instructed to get you back to your cupcake lady, so get in.” Tiger sneered.
He said cupcake like it was a dirty word. Big emphasis on the p and a pause before adding cake. I often wondered what happened to Tiger after our melee at the Leprechaun. He made his choices, now I had to make mine. And I didn’t have a clue what to do. I was on the ropes with this thing.
Needless to say I didn’t sleep well, but I didn’t confide my situation with anyone either. My mind kept racing from righteousness for refusing, to the suffering I may cause for being that way. I kept my workouts going, and continued visits with my sweetheart as before. I was in a twist!
One day some boyo came in to ask me if I had something to announce. I said nothing but gave the messenger a note. It basically told Victor that I would comply, however, if any trouble came the way of myself, my friends, or my family, there would be consequences. I told him I drew up letters to the New York Boxing Commission, the 105th precinct, and the Office of Mayor explaining my situation. They would be mailed by a fella if any of the above happened. My promoter got the fight set up to take place in two months. I trained as hard as ever even knowing what the result of the fight was going to be. I had a hard time looking Chug in the face, but I don’t think he had any idea of what was happening. Victor sent word he would accept my counter proposal.
Shortly before the fight I took Prudy out to a Lum’s Chinese Restaurant in Flushing. I was kind of quiet and Prudy noticed.
“What’s going on in that battered old noggin of yours, Michael?” she asked. “You have hardly said a word all night.”
“I’ve got two things to tell you, honey.” I started, “This next fight is going to be my last. I’ve run out my string, I’m not getting any younger, and I’m not getting any better.”
Prudy started to protest but I stopped her with my palms facing her.
“Doc says I can’t take many more hits to the head, so that’s that.” I ended. “But even more important I want to plan my, I mean our life together after boxing. I’ve saved up some dough, got a decent jalopy, and love you very much. Can you maybe see us as a married couple selling cupcakes for a while?” I stared uncertain.
“Well Michael T. Murphy, I guess I can assume that was a marriage proposal,” she said. “I’ll have to think about it.”
In 3 seconds she was flying across dishes of sweet and sour, chow Mein, and the fried rice, to throw her arms around me.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I smiled, as I grabbed her and kissed me long and lovingly.
The match was coming with great hype. Kid Dynamite was touted as the face of boxing’s future. Tickets were at a premium, but the fix was in. Word on the street was betting had been heavy. Betting would be allowed right up to first bell, so late gamblers could be a read of the odds. Chug treated it like any other fight and gave me the usual instructions of how to handle this guy. Mouse seemed to get with it and had finished wrapping my knuckles with tape. My stomach was all butterflies, not because of the opponent, but of what I had chosen to do.
I thought maybe I could just knock the bum out, grab Prudy and head out town. Maybe some backwater in Florida would be a good hiding place. Yes, that was still a possibility. They delivered the cash as promised and I had that hidden away under the ovens at the shop. Yes maybe I could pull it off.
The next thing I knew, we were being introduced at ring center. The Mauler verses Kid Dynamite. What a battle. What a headline. We touched gloves after getting the obligatory directions. My opponent, Rocco, swaggered and sneered around the ring. I could tell that was just bravado for the fear he felt. I had done the same thing early on in my career.
The fight started with each of us sparring and jabbing. The kid played to the crowd with his gestures and foot work. Nothing much happened as we both scored some points. All the while I was wondering if he had enough juice to throw a punch that looked like it might knock a fighter out. Round two and three were about the same with some clinching and close but ineffectual shots. I came out in round four and threw, what I thought was a light right cross, but my opponent walked right into it and got clocked. He went down hard. Amidst the cheers I looked over at Victor’s entourage. They were steaming and then I saw Tiger draw his finger across his throat. I knew what that meant.
“Come on kid, get up!” I actually yelled. Then covered myself with, “You ain’t seen nothing yet!”
He got up at the count of six and started toward me when the bell rang. Round Five was a waste of time for the spectators as I let the kid clear the cobwebs. Chug was hollering at me to go for the kill. That was Chug. Always. And as loud as ever. I loved him.
About 30 seconds before the end of round six, I made a mistake with my foot work and opened my up right side way too much. The hit came quickly and solidly. Everything went black.
Suddenly I saw the strangest bright light cover everything and I felt the sensation of being lifted up.
“Hey, howa doin?” came a voice. “Ya let that clown squeeze one in didn’t ya.”
The vision or aberration in front of me looked just like a guy that I saw put on a comedy act in the Catskills the previous spring. Dangerfield, uh, Rodney Dangerfield. A young guy with a little bit of a spooky look, and a Jersey accent.
(ONE) I heard.
“So I’m looking at the records here. Michael Theodocious Murphy, also know as the Mauler,” he said as he looked at some list.”
(TWO) A voice shouted.
“Theodocious!” I countered, “Is that really my middle name?”
(THREE) The noise was starting to irritate me.
“Nah, I just like the sound of it,” Rodney or whomever said. “Ya want to go back to when you was born and get that put on you? You know your mother and father argued over whether to name you Thomas after her father, or Torin, after his father so they just settled on T. What, you didn’t know that?”
“So whaddya think, whaddya think, Theodocious?” he asked.
(FOUR)
“No I’m really happy with the T.” Michael said. “But thanks anyway.”
“Okay, I offered, but the real reason we’re here is because the doc told you there was going to be one hit that did you in.” Rodney or St. Peter or who or whatever he was started in. “But even though you got yourself into a pickle with those toughs from Brooklyn, I think you need to play the string out.”
(FIVE)
“You’ve got a pretty lady, a good conscious, and the love of a lot of people. There is a lot of good that still needs doing in your life,” he continued. “I see you teaching the art of boxing to a lot of young guys and raising a fine family, so I’m sending you back to the mat. Do what needs to be done, you have my permission.”
(SIX) The voice seemed louder.
“You sure about Theodosius, huh, huh? It would add a little class to that name,” was what I heard.
And that was the end of our visit. Just like that.
I squinted through the bright flood lights to the referee standing over me as he counted seven. I staggered up, moved around a little bit and waited for the ending bell.
So, with that story getting you up to the moment, it’s time. I promised the seventh round and will deliver. I am at peace and in love and know what might be in store for me.
I jumped up and headed for the center of the ring.
“Come on kid, hit me with your best shot.”
Left To Write 