Ham On Rye

Meanwhile the poor and the lost and the idiots continued to flock around me. I had a place I liked to eat under the football grandstand. I had my brown bag lunch with my two bologna sandwiches. They came around, "Hey, Hank, can I eat with you?"

"Get the fuck out of here! I'm not going to tell you twice!"

Enough of this kind had attached themselves to me already. I didn't much care for any of them: Baldy, Jimmy Hatcher, and a thin gangling Jewish kid, Abe Mortenson. Mortenson was a straight-A student but one of the biggest idiots in school. He had something radically wrong with him. Saliva kept forming in his mouth but instead of spitting on the ground to get rid of it he spit into his hands. I don't know why he did it and I didn't ask. I didn't like to ask. I just watched him and I was disgusted. I went home with him once and I found out how he got straight A's. His mother made him stick his nose into a book right away and she made him keep it there. She made him read all of his school books over and over, page after page. "He must pass his exams," she told me. It never occurred to her that maybe the hooks were wrong. Or that maybe it didn't matter. I didn't ask her.

It was like grammar school all over again. Gathered around me were the weak instead of the strong, the ugly instead of the beautiful, the losers instead of the wi

37

But there were some good moments. My sometime friend from the neighborhood, Gene, who was a year older than I, had a buddy, Harry Gibson, who had had one professional fight (he'd lost). I was over at Gene's one afternoon smoking cigarettes with him when Harry Gibson showed up with two pairs of boxing gloves. Gene and I were smoking with his two older brothers, Larry and Dan.

Harry Gibson was cocky. "Anybody want to try me?" he asked. Nobody said anything. Gene's oldest brother, Larry, was about 22. He was the biggest, but he was kind of timid and subnormal. He had a huge head, he was short and stocky, really well-built, but everything frightened him. So we all looked at Dan who was the next oldest, since Larry said, "No, no I don't want to fight." Dan was a musical genius, he had almost won a scholarship but not quite. Anyhow, since Larry had passed up Harry's challenge, Dan put the gloves on with Harry Gibson.

Harry Gibson was a son-of-a-bitch on shining wheels. Even the sun glinted off his gloves in a certain way. He moved with precision, aplomb and grace. He pranced and danced around Dan. Dan held up his gloves and waited. Gibson's first punch streaked in. It cracked like a rifle shot. There were some chickens in a pen in the yard and two of them jumped into the air at the sound. Dan spilled backwards. He was stretched out on the grass, both of his arms spread out like some cheap Christ.

Larry looked at him and said, "I'm going into the house." He walked quickly to the screen door, opened it and was gone.

We walked over to Dan. Gibson stood over him with a little grin on his face. Gene bent down, lifted Dan's head up a bit. "Dan? You all right?"

Dan shook his head and slowly sat up.

"Jesus Christ, the guy's carrying a lethal weapon. Get these gloves off me!"

Gene unlaced one glove and I got the other. Dan stood up and walked toward the back door like an old man. "I'm go

Harry Gibson picked up the gloves and looked at Gene. "How about it, Gene?"

Gene spit in the grass. "What the hell you trying to do, knock off the whole family?"

"I know you're the best fighter, Gene, but I'll go easy on you anyhow."

Gene nodded and I laced on his gloves for him. I was a good glove man.

They squared off. Gibson circled around Gene, getting ready. He circled to the right, then he circled to the left. He bobbed and he weaved. Then he stepped in, gave Gene a hard left jab. It landed right between Gene's eyes. Gene backpedaled and Gibson followed. When he got Gene up against the chicken pen he steadied him with a soft left to the forehead and then cracked a hard right to Gene's left temple. Gene slid along the chicken wire until he hit the fence,.then he slid along the fence, covering up. He wasn't attempting to fight back. Dan came out of the house with a piece of ice wrapped in a rag. He sat on the porch steps and held the rag to his forehead. Gene retreated along the fence. Harry got him in the corner between the fence and the garage. He looped a left to Gene's gut and when Gene bent over he straightened him with a right uppercut. I didn't like it. Gibson wasn't going easy on Gene like he'd promised. I got excited.

"Hit that fucker back, Gene! He's yellow! Hit him!"

Gibson lowered his gloves, looked at me and walked over.

"What did you say, punk?"

"I was rooting my man on," I said. Dan was over getting the gloves off Gene.

"Did I hear something about being 'yellow'?"

"You said you were going to go easy on him. You didn't. You're hitting him with every shot you've got."

"You callin' me a liar?"

"I'm saying you don't keep your word."

"Come on over and put the gloves on this punk!"

Gene and Dan came over and began putting the gloves on me.

"Take it easy on this guy, Hank," Gene said. "Remember he's all tired out from fighting us."

Gene and I had fought barefisted one memorable day from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. Gene had done pretty good. I had small hands and if you have small hands you've cither got to be able to hit hard as hell or else be some kind of a boxer. I was only a little of each. The next day my entire upper body was purple with bruises and I had two fat lips and a couple of loose front teeth. Now I had to fight the guy who had just whipped the guy who had whipped me.

Gibson circled to the left, then the right, then he moved in on me. I didn't see the left jab at all. I don't know where it caught me hut I went down from the left jab. It hadn't hurt but I was down. I got up. If the left could do that what would the right do? I had to figure something out.

Harry Gibson began to circle to the left, my left. Instead of circling to my right like he expected, I circled to my left. He looked surprised and as we came together I looped a wild left which caught him high and hard on the head. It felt great. If you can hit a guy once, you can hit him twice.

Then we were facing each other and he came straight at me. Gibson got me with the jab hut as it hit me I ducked my head down and to one side as quickly as I could. His right swung around over the top, missing. I moved into him and clinched, giving him a rabbit punch. We broke and I felt like a pro.

"You can take him, Hank!" yelled Gene.

"Go get him, Hank!" yelled Dan.

I rushed Gibson and tried a right lead. I missed and his left cross flashed on my jaw. I saw green and yellow and red lights, then he dug a right to my belly. It felt like it went through to my backbone. I grabbed him and clinched. But I wasn't frightened, for a change, and that felt good.

"I'll kill you, you fucker!" I told him.

Then it was just head-to-head, no more boxing. His punches came fast and hard. He was more accurate, had more power, yet I was landing some hard shots too and it made me feel good. The more he hit me the less I felt it. I had my gut sucked in, I liked the action. Then Gene and Dan were between us. They pulled us apart.