Pinto finished his run and limped out of the park. He went to a small grocery store and bought a can of beans and a beer. That would be dinner. Under two dollars. He was keeping to his budget.
On Thursday Pinto woke up feeling good. He got out of bed and did a few jumping jacks. He shadowboxed as he reveled in the thought that he would fight once again tomorrow night. There should be some kind of senior league for old boxers, he thought. Tennis and golf had it. Why does age make you put down the things you love? Old men still had basketball and football leagues. Why not boxers?
Pinto spent the day at Brick’s Gym on Mozart Avenue. He swept and mopped the floors. He tightened the ropes on the two rings. He held the heavy bag for a young lightweight. As he went about his chores he asked some of the young boxers if they’d heard of the smoker out on Cicero.
No one had, but they were young and had venues for their boxing skills. Pinto ate a bologna sandwich for lunch and read the flyer again.
THE JOKER SMOKER
SEE THEM FIGHT. SEE THEM BLEED.
BET ON THE BEST. BOO THE BUMS.
ONE BEER AND ONE CIGAR
WITH $15 ADMISSION. 8 P.M.
NO GUNS AND NO KNIVES.
SUPPORT YOUR COMMUNITY.
THE SPANISH COBRAS BOXING LEAGUE
1991 CICERO AVE. IN THE
OLD FLECK MATTRESS FACTORY
Pinto put the flyer away and went to the bathrooms to clean up that mess. As his day ended, Pinto put away his cleaning supplies and went to his locker to tape his hands and put on his boxing gloves.
He went to the speed bag and got a good rhythm going. The bag smacked the wood with a solid whack. Yeah, Pinto thought, I still got it. I can still make that bag sing. He went to a corner and bobbed and weaved while throwing multiple punches. That’s how I’ll take him out tomorrow, Pinto thought. I’ll duck and come up and in. Body blows made young men want to quit. No way an older man can take the punishment I can still dish out.
When his workout was over he put his gloves in a bag and went into the office to see his boss, Mr. Rico, for his pay. Two hundred off the books. Enough to pay his rent and eat very lightly.
Pinto entered the office and saw a boxing poster announcing a fight of his from March 17, 1974. That night he knocked out “Irish” Danny Walsh.
“Hey, Alex, you still working out. Good for you,” Rico said from behind his desk.
“Yeah, well, you know I just want to stay in shape.”
Rico laughed and patted his large belly. “Hey, guys our age are too old to fight. Me, I eat what I want and keep this here.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a revolver. “This, Alex, is the fat man’s equalizer. This will stop any young man. Dead in his tracks.”
Pinto smiled as Rico put the gun back in a drawer and then slid his pay envelope across the desk. He thought about asking Rico if he’d heard of the smoker but then just put the envelope in his pocket. Rico was never a boxer. He never had that longing for his youth. To feel his body again and let his juices rip as he beat another man. And he knew Rico would tell him it was a bad idea. Pinto had enough dreams crushed in this life. He kept his own counsel.
“You okay, Alex, you need anything? You able to keep up your rent? You need anything, you come to me, okay, hermano?”
“I’m good, Mr. Rico. I’ll see you Monday.”
Friday night came and Alex felt those old butterflies in his stomach as he turned onto Cicero. He pushed open the door to the factory and saw a beat-up boxing ring with about 250 folding chairs around it. A few young men were setting up a table to sell beer and Paco smiled when he saw him.
“Hey, champ, you made it.”
“Where do I get ready?”
“Right over there in the corner with the other fighters.”
“There’s no locker room?”
“Homes, this ain’t the Coliseum. We do what we can. See that big ugly Polack over there. That’s who you’re fighting.”
Pinto stared at the man. He had to be pushing sixty with a big gut and a face weathered from street living. He looked like a bum.
“Him?”
“Yeah, you’ll tear him up.”
“He looks like a homeless bum.”
Paco got up close to Pinto. “Hey, the man needs money like you. Who you to judge anyone? You think you look any better? He used to be a boxer back in Poland. Almost made the Olympics in 1972.”
Pinto moved back.
“So where do we change?” he said. “We use mouth guards? And how long is the fight?”
Paco laughed and said, “See, now you asking the real questions. You fight as you come. No boxing gear other than gloves. No headgear. You got a mouth guard, you use it. Your boy you fighting ain’t got no teeth so I don’t think he needs a mouth guard. The fight? Well, it is a little different. There are no rounds. We ring the bell and you go until one man can’t fight anymore. No ref. No nothing. Just you and him in the ring. You on your own in there. Can you handle that?”
Pinto turned and said, “Yeah, I can handle that. But I want my money now.”
Paco laughed, “My man, now you talking.”
Paco gave Pinto two crisp hundred-dollar bills. Pinto put them in his front pocket and went to a bench to put on his gloves. There were seven older men with gloves on sitting on the benches. Their heads were down and they looked old and beaten. Pinto had to get away from them.
In the back of the factory floor he watched as a crowd of young men paid their money and took seats. Drinking beer and being noisy. The cigars were lit up and the smell of marijuana filled the air.
Pinto and his Polish opponent were called to the ring. Pinto stayed in his corner and jumped up and down, getting his legs loose. Paco got in the ring with a bullhorn and stared to yell.
“Welcome to our first smoker. In this our first fight we got Smokin’ Alex Pinto going up against Punchin’ Jan Pulaski. Both these men fought as pros. The line is even. Get your bets down. We jump off in two minutes.”
Paco came over to Pinto and put his arm around him.
“Take him out, homes. Make us proud.”
Pinto grabbed the rope and did a few squats. He watched one of the Spanish Cobras circle the ring with a video camera. The crowd was looking up at him, yelling that they had bet on him and he better win.
He leaned against the ropes and saw Jan Pulaski staring right through him. Pulaski didn’t move. Just stared at him with a blank look.
The bell rang and Pinto slowly approached the center of the ring. Pulaski staggered out of his corner. Pinto thought he looked drunk. He threw a wild right that Pinto ducked and came into Pulaski’s gut with a solid right. Pulaski belched and fell to the ropes.
“Kill him! Kill that old white bum!” a kid yelled from the crowd.
Pinto moved in carefully and threw a right to Pulaski’s head. Then another right. And another. Pulaski took the punishment with no reaction. His mouth was bleeding but his body didn’t move.
Pinto moved away and yelled though his mouth guard to Paco, “He ain’t fighting.”
Paco laughed and yelled, “Then make him.”
Pinto stormed in and hit Pulaski with a left hook. Then a right cross. The Pole staggered and then fell to the canvas with a dead thud. He didn’t move. The bell rang a few times and then Paco grabbed his hand and yelled to the crowd that Alex Pinto was the winner.
Pinto left the ring as he watched a few Spanish Cobras carry Pulaski out of the ring and sit him on a bench. Pulaski just sat there with his head down.
Paco slapped him on the back and said, “Hey, nice fight. You come next Friday, I’ll give you $250.”
“I’ll think about it,” Pinto said, then walked to the back of the factory and took off his gloves.