“No, it’s what hounds are supposed to do.”
“So pretty much get lost and have him find me?”
“Duff, people been tellin’ you to get lost for years, haven’t they?”
“Yeah-I’ve never done it though.”
“No, Duff, no you haven’t.”
I thanked Jamal and figured, what the hell. I got Al’s leash, flopped his fat ass up on my Eldorado’s passenger seat, and drove him over to TC’s house. TC lived in a cushy suburb of Crawford known as Londonville, which bordered the industrial section, just a couple of miles from AJ’s. On the way over, Al started to whine because I was listening to the sports radio station. I know that whine and it was Al’s way of saying he wanted to hear Elvis sing “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” He was crazy about the tune and there was no use fighting it. If I didn’t throw in the Blue Hawaii eight-track, the whining would get unbearable.
Elvis just got past the “Wise men say…” part when Al settled in, let out a big sigh, and relaxed.
We got to TC’s house and his car wasn’t there, so I figured he wasn’t home, which was actually what I was hoping. I didn’t knock on the door, I just had Al sniff the lawn chair by the garage that TC sits in on those rare occasions that he’s home and not at AJ’s. Al started to sniff all over the chair like it was covered in sardines and then he looked up.
“Go find!” I said, just like Jamal told me to.
Al bolted along TC’s front lawn, nose to the ground like an anteater addicted to cocaine. He continued along the street, pausing at telephone poles and street signs to sniff their bases. Occasionally, he would pause and then run around in a circle like he was creating a whirlpool of scent for his nose. Then, he’d be back on the trail, working his ass off to the point that I had trouble holding on to him. He was definitely into smelling where TC went and he just wouldn’t let it go.
He was almost on a dead run for a half an hour and we covered the distance to AJ’s in no time. We were coming up on AJ’s when he abruptly stopped, squatted, and let go. Nature was taking its course, and Al finished up by proudly kicking gravel over his trophy before sprinting off for TC. In about ten minutes we were at AJ’s front door.
I opened the door up and Al bounded through with such vigor that I lost the hold on his leash. He darted for TC, who was saying something about the fact that when ducks quacked it didn’t echo, and Al went airborne and caught TC right in the nuts. The B amp;B left his hands and covered his shirt while Al started to lick his prey’s face.
“Ughhhhh!.. Duffy-I’m going to get dog-related AIDS…,” TC said.
“There’s our favorite basket hound,” Rocco said. Al was pushing his ample nose into TC’s face, licking and nibbling on TC’s ears.
“Dog likes B amp;B,” Jerry Number One said.
“Rocco-he’s a basset hound. We’ve been over this,” I said.
“That’s right, he’s French,” Jerry Number Two said.
“He’s a frog dog?” Rocco said.
“I didn’t think he could swim. Where do they put the tanks?” Jerry Number One said.
“What the hell are you talking about?” TC said, wiping slobbered B amp;B from his cheek.
“Frog dog-like, you know, like in the Navy. Don’t they use underwater bassoon hounds to sniff out explosives?” Jerry Number One asked.
“He can’t swim. Basset hounds have the densest bones of all dog breeds and they sink,” I said, having watched Animal Planet.
“Shitty frog dogs then, huh?” Jerry Number One said.
“You sure it’s not the weight from the tanks?” Jerry Number Two said.
It was a little early for me to sit and pound a few Schlitzes, so I bid the guys a quick early afternoon farewell and walked Al home. Just as Jamal promised, he was remarkably more subdued. Maybe it was the tracking or maybe it was simply the exertion, but it didn’t matter to me. If it would mellow Al out, I’d take him for synchronized swimming lessons-with or without the tanks.
When we got back to the Blue there was a message from Smitty. Apparently, Jerry Perryman’s license had been suspended and they had to get me a new opponent. The new guy was named Rufus Strife from Oklahoma and his record was even worse than Perryman’s. Like me, Strife was a short-notice guy who would get paid more than Perryman because he was taking the fight on even shorter notice. None of it mattered to me; I knew the guy was coming in to be a stiff.
15
For the first time in my professional boxing career, I was excited about possibilities. Don’t get me wrong, I loved to fight and I got off on the thrill of it, but I never really allowed myself to believe that it was going someplace. This new opportunity wasn’t necessarily for a starring role in the game, but it meant being someone rather than just an opponent.
It’s a weird business. I felt like I stepped on the right Monopoly square, and I have to admit I liked what was happening. I’ve always played the guy who was being sent in for cannon fodder, and now they were finding me a setup. I didn’t feel bad over that-Strife would get his paycheck and go home just like I’ve done lots of times.
I couldn’t remember being in better shape. I wasn’t fooling myself, I knew the NABU was not a real championship, but even marginal titles meant more fights, more TV, and more money. I had been a pro for eight years and getting to wear a championship belt, even a goofy one, was a big deal to me.
The promoter loved the response I got at the Garden from the Irish. In boxing you can become a folk hero if a nationality gets behind you. He was talking about plans for Chicago, Milwaukee, Boston, and even Belfast or Warsaw down the road, maybe not as a headliner but as a co-feature or added attraction that would get the crowd going. It sure beat fighting in front of disinterested crowds who had no idea who you were and cared even less. Irish and Polish fans came out for their countrymen because of their nationalistic pride and because of the fact that the beer was pretty cheap at the fights. That was cool with me.
So it was pretty clear: win this fifth fight and get a chance to fight for a belt. Win the belt and every fight means a bit more money. The fight with Strife at the fair was going to be broadcast on the Gotham Cable Network, which featured weekly TV fights that weren’t what you’d call “world class.” Honestly, a fight card where Duffy Dombrowski is the feature attraction is not exactly world class-not yet anyway.
Fight night came and I was walking on clouds. There were several thousand fans from the area and for the first time ever, Crawford was seeing me as their guy. It felt a little weird but I loved it and it charged me up. I got to the fair a couple of hours before my bout during one of the early prelims and found our makeshift dressing rooms were in the cinder-block building in the center of the fairgrounds.
Smitty wrapped my hands in his usual deliberate fashion, all the while reciting his mantra of fundamentals. They were the same pre-fight things he’s said for the last fourteen years to me and to everyone else he’s trained. It’s not that he’s not creative or doesn’t know the game inside and out-he definitely does. He believes down to his bones that boxing is a matter of doing the right things over and over, every training session, every round and every fight. He, of course, was right.
Strife had the dressing room right next to mine and, unlike a lot of fighters before fights, he was quiet. I saw him briefly at the weigh-in and the pre-fight physicals, and let’s just say, he was less than imposing. Simply put, he was fat, slow moving, and he looked disinterested. These weren’t the characteristics of a champion, which was okay by me. If ol’ Rufus wanted to get a payday and go home, that was going to be just fine.
While the preliminaries were going on on the Gotham Network, announcers came into my dressing room to get some comments they could air during our introductions. It was the usual TV shit-actually, who am I kidding? I’ve been on TV a couple of times but never as a feature fighter, so this was hardly usual for me. What was usual were the idiotic questions about my strategy, what the fight meant, et cetera, et cetera. My strategy was to hit the other guy more than he hit me, and the fight meant a chance to make some cash. Of course I didn’t say that, but that was the real deal. The commentator was a guy named Bobby Briggs who had held the middleweight title for a month or so in the ’70s. He was a fighter and a decent guy.
