people don't let footwork cross their mind when they think of boxing, but it may be the most important thing when you get up to the higher levels of the sport. I kept moving to my left, planting and throwing my straight left-a very fundamental practice for a southpaw fighter. He blocked the punches easily and I trying to figure out if the kid was quick or if I was telegraphing my punches. I could tell one thing for sure, my body wasn't in a hurry to loosen up. I felt stiff and a little slow. It was one of the reasons I hated staying away from the gym and out of the ring. It always seemed like it took a little while to get my reflexes back.
The kid doubled up a jab and they connected off the top of my headgear. The first one he just flicked out, but the second one he stepped behind and it thudded. He was a decent amateur and an athletic kid, but he shouldn't have got that in on me. I threw a right hook followed by a straight left and they both missed. I lost a little balance by missing. The kid leaned backed and countered with a straight right and a hook of his own. The hook hurt. I got up on my toes to shake things out and work my footwork a bit. Stefon got a rhythm and now moved on his toes. He came in with the same double jab and I could see it coming a mile away, but for whatever reason I didn't get my hands up in time. The flicky one caught me on the bridge of the nose and the thudder thudded. I swung a hook and missed again and this time I was off balance enough to be embarrassed.
The kid waited, timed it until I stood up straight, and drove his right hand straight down the middle.
There came a thud, and then a flash of orange light inside my head.
That was all I remember.
7
'Duffy, you know where you are?' Stan Cummings said. My head felt soupy.
'Duff, you all right?' Stan said again. I was on my back, squinting to figure out what was going on. The top left part of my head ached and I felt like I when I came out of a deep sleep.
Maybe hibernation.
'Yeah, I'm fine,' I said and began to sit up. When I did, it felt like my brain rushed to the front of my head and I felt like I throwing up.
'You know where you at?' Stan asked.
'Sure,' I said. I was at Gleason's but it didn't look right.
'You're at Ravenwood, remember?'
'Fuck you, Billy. I know where I am. I just got caught.' I started to stand up. When I did it didn't seem like all the circuits fired. My legs were a little slow on the uptake.
'Easy, easy,' Stan said.
'Oh fuck you, Stan. I'm all right,' I said. 'Smitty didn't call an ambulance or anything did he? Smitty! Where is he?'
'Duffy, Smitty ain't here.'
'Huh?'
'You're at Ravenwood, remember?'
'Billy, stop the dramatics. I know where I am.' A tall wiry black kid stood on the other side of the ring, looking at me like I just landed from Uranus.
'Nice shot, kid,' I said and walked over to touch gloves.
'I hardly hit you, man,' the kid said. He didn't say it to brag.
He said it out of confusion.
'That's the way it happens sometimes.' I stepped out of the ring and walked carefully down the steps of the ring.
'Duff-You wanna go to the hospital?' Stan said.
'Stan, c'mon will ya,' I said.
Instead I went to my own treatment center-AJ's. I'm not trying to say I felt fine. There's no question I got my bell rung. It wasn't the first time and it damn sure wasn't going to be the last time, at least as long as I stayed a fighter. It's not as macho as it sounds, it's just something over the years you get a little used to, or your muscles and joints get used to it, and it's not a big a deal. Big deal or not, I had a pretty good headache and it was starting to feel like a bourbon night. I'm mostly a Schlitz man, but when medicinally called for, I'll prescribe myself some of the brown elixir. Getting out of the car got it throbbing a bit, which wasn't pleasant. As I headed into AJ's, the Foursome were already throbbing about something else.
'What the hell are you going to do with a truck from World War Two?' Jerry Number One asked Rocco.
'It's not just any truck it's a 'Deuce and a Half,'' Rocco said.
'The Beach Boys had a song about it,' TC said.
'No that was 'My Little Douche Cup,' Jerry Number One started to sing. 'She's my little douche cup. You don't know what it's for…'
'I think it was 'My Little Deuce Coupe-Coupe, Jerry, Coupe,' Jerry Number two said.
'You guys are assholes. The Deuce and a Half was the most versatile truck in World War Two. It could haul equipment, troops, equipment…you name it,' Rocco said.
'What are you going to do with it?' Jerry Number Two asked.
'Refurbish it and restore to its original grandeur,' Rocco said.
'Grandeur?' Jerry Number one asked.
'Yeah 'Grandeur.' You gotta problem with 'Grandeur'?' Rocco said.
My head really throbbed now. AJ slid the long neck in front of me without me saying a word.
'Had a few already, huh, Duff?' AJ said.
'No, just came from the gym.'
'You sure?'
'What're you talking about?'
'I don't know. You kind wobbled in and your eyes are glassy like you had a bourbon or two.'
'I'm tired and I got a bit of headache is all. You know what though, the bourbon sidecar sounds pretty good. Can you throw a cheeseburger on for me too?'
'Sure,' AJ said without a smile. He was softly singing 'My Little Douche Cup.'
The carbonation in the Schlitz tickled the back of my neck and felt cool all the way down to my stomach. A hit of the bourbon brought a little warm glow on top of that and life seemed to be getting better.
Rocco was halfway through a knock-knock joke involving Oprah and forty pounds of crack when Jerry Number One shouted, 'Yo, AJ can we get some sound?' The news was reporting on the nationwide drive to get snack foods and other items to the overseas soldiers. They showed several cut-aways to boxes at malls and schools and other places filled with snack foods, CD's and books.
'AJ, you should set up a 'Snack Attack' box in here,' Rocco said.
'A box of what?' AJ said.
'They're collecting Spam and what-not for the soldiers,' TC said.
AJ just stared at TC.
'Well, it's not just Spam. It's other shit. They got them Vietnamese sausages.'
AJ kept starring.
'Vienna,' Jerry Number Two said.
'She's the one on 'Wheel of Fortune',' Jerry Number One said.
AJ continued to stare.
'Hey, AJ, I wanted that burger rare,' I said. He rolled his eyes, started whistling 'My Little Douche Cup' through his teeth and got my very well-done burger. Accompanying it were the bottom of the bag potato chip crumbles and a pickle from a jar as old as the Beach Boys' last hit.
'Yum,' I said to no one in particular. AJ disappeared into the kitchen and came back with an empty box that said on the side '124 count quarter pound hamburger. 72 % beef.'
I said, 'Yum' again.
'Hey, that place is only about thirty miles from here,' Rocco said. The Northeast can depository, or whatever the hell it was, at a local farm that was also a dog kennel and rod and gun club. The guy talking on camera had a
