• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 642 0

they said, and his mother had broken up the romance. “Mentally, he was below par for Slade,” Freddie said, opening new vistas of horror. “He’s better now.” We stood beside Stillman’s No. 1 ring and watched Jackson work, and also the three good boys—Arthur Persley, a colored lightweight, who had an engagement with an Algerian fighter in Atlantic City; Davey Gallardo, a California-Mexican feather, who had a bout coming up in Philadelphia; and Cisco Andrada, another Mexican-American, from Compton, a suburb of Los Angeles. Andrada, like Persley, is a lightweight. He was going to make his New York debut at St. Nick’s, Whitey said, and he earnestly advised me to be present. “You will want to say you was there,” he said. “He’s got everything.” All three young men, I noticed, boxed in accordance with the classical verities. They punctuated jabs with hooks, and hooks with crosses, and they uppercut with one hand at a time.

After the workout we all went back to the honeycomb of beaverboard partitions that constitutes the private deluxe dressing rooms at Stillman’s. Each one is ornamented by a large sign, reading, “WASH YOUR CLOTHES—BY ORDER OF THE ATHLETIC COMMISSION.” It was a hot day, and Whitey stripped to his shorts and rubbed his charges, one by one—a chore that he usually delegates to his assistant, a fat man named Coco. When Whitey takes over, it means he thinks he has something special. Gallardo had been working against extra-tall sparring partners, because the boy he was going to fight in Philadelphia was tall, and also, from the long view, because Sandy Saddler, the world’s featherweight champion, is abnormally tall for his weight. Andrada had been working with strong boys, since his opponent at St. Nick’s was a crowding type who was expected to have a few pounds on him. Persley, Gallardo, and Andrada are boys who have been to high school, and, as Whitey says, “they talk nice.” No maniacs. Whitey kneaded them with esteem.

When Whitey got Jackson on the table, though, the animal began to squeal and laugh. “I’m so ticklish,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I fight so good.” He has a small head, a long, cylindrical torso of no great diameter for a heavyweight, legs like a high jumper’s, and long, powerful arms. His skin is a dark-plum color. “I was born under a pine tree,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I fight so good.” I had heard he was raised at Rockaway Beach, where most boys skip school to go swimming, so I asked him if he liked to swim in the surf. “Not me,” he said. “I got drowned in an undertow.” Subsequent answers were no more illuminating. He looked disturbed, and then the reason for his preoccupation appeared. “Freddie,” he said, “get me my wallet. Those nosy rats always lookin’ in it.” Brown brought him the wallet, and he sat up and spread some money on his knee. “The money is all there Hurricane,” Freddie said. “Twenty-four dollars.” Hurricane shuffled the bills cunningly and said, “That’s correct. Twenty-four.” Whitey slapped him on the back and told him to turn over, and Jackson turned over, putting the wallet under his belly. After Jackson had dressed and gone I asked the partners what they thought he would do to Rocky Marciano if the two should meet. “He could cut him to pieces,” Whitey said, and Freddie nodded. Now I know why a lot of the books that get published do. Optimism is the besetting disease of all lovers of the arts.

The I.B.C., however, had already made Jackson with Nino Valdes, a Cuban heavyweight whose personality is more arresting than his workmanship, which is heavy and conventional, like a Spanish dessert. Valdes is very big—he generally fights at about two hundred and eight pounds—and highly experienced, but he has a reputation for laziness. Encountering Charlie Goldman, who edits Marciano, I asked him for an expertise on the forthcoming Jackson-Valdes fight, and he said that the Cuban’s geniality had led people to underrate him. “He does a few good things, but after he does them, he loafs in between,” Charlie said. “Jackson won’t let him loaf, so Valdes will kill him.”

The next time I saw Jackson