A guy in a blue blazer with a New York Athletic Commission badge on poked his head in my dressing room and said “Time.” I felt that weird feeling in my throat and a flushing in my face like I do before any bout, but tonight it was a little more intense. My legs felt funny underneath me like I had rented them. It was a little more than a little more intense.
I came out first for my bout because Marquason insisted on it in the contract. It’s customary for the champion to enter the ring last, and that’s kind of been adopted by whoever is the favorite to win. I walked through the hallway leading to the main floor and walked through the tunnel with the small scoreboard on top of it that you see on TV at about midcourt during basketball games. I got my first look at the immensity of the arena, which was now three-quarters filled. It was, in the true sense of the word, awesome. The crowd did their best to be indifferent to my entrance.
Marquason came in to some rap song with an entourage of about eight guys. His corner was worked by two of the game’s most famous cornermen, so you know that his manager thought a lot of him. The one guy was that fat old guy who looked liked Fred Flintsone’s uglier brother. Marquason was decked out in brand-new gear with paid endorsements all over, and when he came through the ropes he ignored me and floated around the ring in a choreographed warm-up. I got the impression that this guy hadn’t fought in a union hall or a high-school gym—at least not in a long time.
Anticipating some Irish folks there for the main event, I wore my green robe and my green, orange, and white shorts with the shamrock in the middle. The ring announcer introduced us and when he said my name a roar went up from an upper-deck section waving Irish flags. I guess they heard “Duffy” and the “Dombrowski” didn’t throw them. I looked up and it was a large section of people in green.
Marquason got applause but it was more subdued, like the crowd was being introduced to some sort of boy prince. The referee called us to the center of the ring for the ceremonial instructions, and then we went back to our corners to get ready for the bell. Smitty slipped in my mouthpiece and the bell rang. I tried to focus on boxing.
I couldn’t feel my legs.
Marquason didn’t move—he floated. The guy looked beautiful, like he was a body made just for this. My admiration was interrupted by his first jab, which hit me just under my right eye. It felt like someone hit me with a screwdriver. The kid was fast, he had power, and his punches were sharp.
I heard the ringside announcers say something about my knees buckling, which I wasn’t aware of. I was aware of the loud “oooh” that came from the crowd. It was what came after that really startled me.
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
The Irish were in the house and they were pulling for their boy. I got chills and I began to feel my legs and enter that state of mind where I’m just boxing.
The chills didn’t last long because Marquason stabbed me with his screwdriver again, only this time he followed it with a right and I found myself on the seat of my pants. It hurt but I was all right, and I sprang back up just in time to hear the bell ring. Well, I made it through one round, albeit by getting totally dominated and knocked down.
I sat on the stool that Rudy slid through the ropes and sipped the water Smitty offered. Smitty spoke to me in his usual steady and measured pace, but I wasn’t focused. My head was ringing and my heart was beating fast.
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
It was getting louder.
I was up off the stool at the sound of the bell for the second. Marquason started to screw around and treat me like a prop. It was as if I were a piece of equipment for him to use to get his win, and even more than that, I was something to embarrass and show dominance over.
I threw some jabs that he caught with his gloves and I missed wildly with some hooks. He mugged at me, stuck his tongue out, and did the Ali shuffle. I didn’t mind getting beat but I did mind getting disrespected. Okay, so the kid was near great and going to be great, but he didn’t have to make me into an asshole.
He kept doing this one move where he’d drop his guard, stick his head out, and then lean in, begging me to hit him. Then when I’d move, he’d lean toward me and flash a jab that would stab me on the way in. Those jabs hurt, but it was actually something I’d hoped he’d do after seeing him do it on tape.
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
Man, you got to love the Irish. I felt my fist inside the satiny Mexican glove and it was time to give it a shot—probably my only shot. I knew my jab was good but I didn’t know if I could pull off what I wanted to do. Who was I kidding—it
was
my only shot.
Marquason started the hands-down-leaning-in routine again. I tightened my fist and waited. He leapt, I stepped slightly to my left and threw the hardest, stiff-armed jab I had, just slightly off-center to his right eyebrow. It caught and I dragged it across his eyebrow and forehead as hard as I could.
It would take a second to see if it worked.
He backed up and circled abruptly, abandoning his showboat style. He stopped throwing punches and looked preoccupied. Then I got my first sign of success. Marquason rubbed his eyebrow and looked down at his glove. There was blood and there was a lot of it.
The expression on his face changed a bit. Blood dripped into his eye and little by little his fancy satin trunks were getting stained. I threw a regular jab that he blocked, but it was hard enough to force his own gloves into the cut. When he pulled back, the cut had spread. It was now almost two inches long and it was a quarter inch deep.
But was it enough?
The bell rang to end the second and there was a surge of activity around his corner. Back in my corner, Rudy iced my shoulders and Smitty was saying something I wasn’t paying any attention to because I was trying to see around him into Marquason’s corner. I saw the New York Athletic Commission doc come through the ropes.
Oh please, please.
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
It was more than a minute between rounds, which meant the doctor was concerned. He looked at Marquason, turned, and whispered something to the ref. And then it happened—it fuckin’ happened.
The ref waved his hands over Marquason’s corner wildly and I watched. I couldn’t breathe. Fred Flintstone was throwing a fit, Marquason pushed the ref and was yelling, and the ref approached the scorer’s table. I pushed Smitty out of the way to hear what he told the Commission table.
“TKO on doctor’s recommendation,” he said.
I froze. Smitty froze.
The handsome ring announcer climbed in the ring.
“On advice of the ringside physician, referee Peter Conboy stops the contest. The winner by TKO, Duffy Dombrowski!”
I jumped in the air and Smitty and Rudy caught me.
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
Oh, how you have to love the Irish.
10
Rudy hugged me so
tight it hurt, and he wouldn’t let go. Smitty smiled his crooked smile and laughed, shaking his head like a guy who just saw a dog riding a bicycle at the circus. He slapped me on the back and left it there as we headed for the dressing room.
Just before I left the Garden floor, there was a group of pasty-faced guys with turtlenecks, wool caps, and bad teeth. They had had more than a few and were hootin’ and hollerin’ for me behind some security guards.
“’Ere’s to ya, Mr. Duff—you done all of us proud tonight, ya know,” said the fattest one with the sweater that didn’t quite cover the circumference of his belly.
“To Mr. Duffy!” he screamed, and his four friends yelled, “Hear, hear!”
The little guy at the end reached over the Garden security guard and handed me a full beer.
“You could use a pint, Duff,” he said.
I couldn’t remember smiling harder in my life, and I raised my glass to my new friends.
“To the Irish!” I said, and I headed into the locker room with the impatient inspector from the Commission, who had to take my gloves.
This was by far the biggest win and moment in my boxing career.
I didn’t feel real, and although I beat Marquason by exploiting his tendency to cut and by throwing a somewhat questionable punch that utilized the construction of the glove, I wasn’t besieged with guilt. See, inside the ropes, there are rules and then there are the real rules.
Fighters operate on a certain code, and I didn’t violate that code. The code is you do anything you can with what you have at your disposal as long as your opponent has that same opportunity. We wore the same gloves and I hit him with a legal punch. I didn’t lace him in the eye, I didn’t kick him, and I didn’t bite him in the ear. I didn’t hold him and hit him, I didn’t hit him on the break, and I didn’t put any illegal substance on my gloves. I did hit him in a way that would bust his face open, and that may seem gross, but hey, this is the sport we both chose.
Marquason and his entourage weren’t happy but they knew my win was on the up and up. Still, there would be complaints, protests, and undoubtedly a lot said. All of this came with upsetting a prospect and it didn’t bother me in the least. It was a great moment and I wasn’t in any hurry to get home.
“So, this punch looked an awful lot like that shit you’ve been doin’ on the bags this week,” Smitty said.
I smiled and laughed while he shook his head. I sipped my beer.
“It was a thing of beauty, kid,” Smitty said. “I’m proud of you.”
“Smitty, if it wasn’t for you, where would I be—shit, who would I be?” I said.
Rudy came in from getting a beer and joined us.
“Hey, let’s get out of here and celebrate. I don’t feel like watching another three hours of boxing. Let’s get to AJ’s,” Rudy said, and I couldn’t have agreed more.
The hour-and-half ride was the best time I ever spent in a car—a few cold Schlitz travelers and fresh memories of something special. We were almost to the front door of AJ’s when I remembered the fact that I hadn’t divulged to anyone that I had gotten a phone call from a suspected serial killer the day before. Sooner or later I’d figure out what to do about all that, but for now all I knew was that it was Schlitz City.
Smitty passed on beers, as he often did, and shook my hand before Rudy and I went inside. He pulled away smiling from ear to ear.
“No, I ain’t buying it,” TC said.
“I’m tellin’ you, it’s the truth,” Rocco said.
“Hold it.” Jerry Number One was now involved. “You believe that men think of sex every seven seconds?”
“That’s what they say,” TC said.
Jerry Number Two was already counting.
“Five … six … seven … All right, Rocco, what are you thinking of?” Jerry Number Two asked.
“That you’re an asshole,” Rocco said.
“That could be considered sexual,” TC said.
“Hey, what are you saying, asshole?” Rocco said.
“He didn’t wait another seven seconds that time,” Jerry Number One said.
Jerry Number Two was counting again.
“Six … seven … TC, what are you thinking of?” Jerry Number Two asked. TC was in the process of ordering.
“AJ, I need another B&B,” TC said.
“Hmm … what does that tell us?” Jerry Number Two said.
“Huh, were you talking to me?” TC said.
“What sexual thought did you just have?” Rocco asked.
“I was just thinking about a drink. You can’t count those seven seconds.”
Jerry Number Two was into another cycle.
“Five … six … seven … TC, what sexual thought are you having right now?”
“I wasn’t ready. Maybe tits,” TC said.
“Whatyamean ‘maybe tits’?” Rocco said.
“It wasn’t a deep thought. Do they have to be deep thoughts?” TC said.
“Define deep,” Jerry Number One said.
“Six … seven … Jerry, what sexual thought are you having?” Jerry Number Two said.
“Huh? Uh … uh … tits, I guess,” Jerry Number Two said.
Everyone groaned.
“Hey, no one said they had to be original thoughts,” Jerry Number One said.
Due to the intense intellectual demands of the discussion, my entrance wasn’t noticed until I sat next to Kelley. He did notice me, even though it looked like he’d been around for a while and the Coors Lights had slowed him a tad.
“Hey, Duff. How’d it go?”
“I won.”
“No, seriously.”
“Fuckin’ A—I am serious. I cut him and won the TKO,” I said.
“Holy shit! Congratulations!”
The Foursome heard Kelley’s exclamation and cut off Jerry Number Two’s counting at three.
“What’s up, Kell?” TC said.
“Duffy beat the undefeated stud kid in the Garden tonight!”
“Seriously?” Rocco said.
“Yep,” I said. “This is cause for a celebration. AJ, set up everyone with a shot of Jameson.”
Everyone threw the shots back and slapped me on the back. I let Rudy fill in the guys with the details, which he happily did. I enjoyed the Jameson and the Schlitzes that followed it. Kelley was watching an ESPN Classic hockey game from the ’80s and I knew he hated hockey, so I didn’t feel that I would be interrupting him.