Fight Night

Chapter Four

The Mad Man as a Young Boy

1. Fight Night

Heat rose from the asphalt even now as the day was entering the cool of the evening. Lawns were being watered up and down the street, the water running off the lawns across the dusty sidewalks over the curbs and onto the street. At the Chambers’ house a couple of sparrows played tag in the eaves trough. On a telephone wire overhead a pigeon unloaded its lunch missing, by inches, a young boy who sat on the hood of a Mercury chewing gum and playing with a yo-yo. A friend yelled from down the street and a moment later the kid slid off the Mercury and was on his way to meet his pal.

Matthew Chambers stood behind the screen door watching the street. Flies bounced off the screening with an electronic pinging sound and lay stunned on the wooden verandah floor. Matthew opened the door slightly. He wanted to step out and crush the bugs.

“Don’t let those damn flies in!” his mother cried from the kitchen at the other end of the hall from the front door.

Matthew closed the door and retreated back into the house. He made his way back to the kitchen.

“You look like you’ve lost your best friend,” his mother said sitting at the kitchen sink peeling potatoes. “We’ll have to get your hair cut tomorrow. Just looking at you makes me feel hot.”

“I like my hair long,” the boy said.

“You look like a shaggy dog. Don’t give me a hard time about it Matthew. I’m not in the mood.”

Laughter rang out from the back yard. A moment later Matthew’s father and uncle stepped into the kitchen. His father was carrying a case of beer, Red Cap. The two men’s shirts were damp with perspiration, dark pools around their neck and armpits.

“Beer’ll just make you sweat,” Matthew’s mother sighed.

“A godly way to sweat, sis,” Matthew’s uncle said. “Where’s my little darling?”

“Watch your language, Len,” Mrs. Chambers said gesturing with her head toward Matthew. “Cathy is over at a friend’s for the night.”

Uncle Leonard winked at Matthew.

“A little cussing never hurt anyone, sis,” he said then laughed.

Uncle Leonard handed the case of beer to Matthew. It was heavy. Matthew struggled to keep from dropping it.

“Take this into the living room, Matt. I’ve got to go back and get the television.”

Matthew’s father stepped up to the stove and peeked into the oven.

“Nothing for dinner?” he said.

“It’s too hot for cooking,” his wife replied. “I’m going to slice some ham and make potato salad.”

A few minutes later uncle Leonard returned to the living room and began to set up the Admiral black and white television set. He noticed that Matthew had already opened the case and placed two bottles of beer at his father’s and uncle’s designated chair.

“Take a beer to your mother,” uncle Leonard said with a wink.

When Matthew entered the kitchen, he found his mother and father in a heated discussion, which they suspended as soon as they spotted him. Matthew knew what the discussion was about. His mother did not want his father to drink. She felt it was a bad influence on Matthew. Everything fun was a bad influence on him, Matthew had come to realize.

After dinner, Matthew’s father and uncle retired to the living room. Matthew helped his mother with the dishes. When he stepped into the living room the two men had already emptied a couple more beers. The fight was almost ready to start. The picture was very snowy. Uncle Leonard adjusted the rabbit ears, than banged the top of the cabinet. The picture cleared or what passed as clear. For each image on the screen there was a ghost. Uncle Leonard called them guardian angels.

The Gillette razor parrot introduced the show. Feel sharp, be sharp! the parrot crooned. The picture was very small. A single camera somewhere in the rafters of the Madison Square Garden was focused on an empty ring. The announcer began to discuss the two fighters. Uncle Leonard leaned back and chugged on his beer. Matthew’s father leaned forward so that he was only a couple of feet from the screen.

Mrs. Chambers wandered into the room, still nursing her first beer. For a few moments she stared at the screen. Then she looked disapprovingly at Matthew. She insisted that it was time for him to go to bed. Matthew begged to stay up but he knew the battle was already lost.

“Let the kid watch the fight,” Matthew’s father pleaded as he lifted his bottle of beer to his mouth.

“No son of mine is going to watch two Negroes knock the daylights out of each other,” she cried.

“One of them is Italian,” his uncle clarified, a cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth.

“Ah mom,” Matthew moaned.

“Don’t ah mom me,” his mother said. “You want to end up like these two wasting their lives away in front of that idiot box.”

Uncle Leonard laughed. “Ah Patricia, let the boy watch the damn thing for Christ’s sake.”

“None of that language in my house, brother,” Matthew’s mother spat out. “The boy needs his sleep.”

Nothing Matthew’s uncle or father said would or could affect Mrs. Chambers’ decision. Argument tended to fortify her resolve. Slowly Matthew struggled up the stairs. When he heard his mother return to the kitchen, Matthew turned and carefully made his way back down the stairs until he was satisfied that he could follow the fight without being detected.

“Look at the Eyetie,” uncle Leonard howled. “One blow in the belly and his dinner will be all over the mat.”

“You got any money on the fight?” Mr. Chambers asked.

“Does a dog have fleas?” uncle Leonard responded with a laugh. “Five bucks on Moore.”

The fighters were called into the middle of the ring. Mr. Chambers opened a couple more beers. Matthew licked his lips. He’d tasted beer once. His father had left some at the bottom of one of his empties and Matthew had tried it the next day. It was disgusting.

The fighters broke out of their corners and spent most of the first round stalking each other.

“Moore is just feeling him out,” uncle Leonard cried. “Look at how flat footed the Eyetie is. Moves around the room like a washer-woman.”

The screen turned snowy. Uncle Leonard cursed and kicked the side of the cabinet. The picture cleared. There was a commercial on. Matthew raced up the stairs, turned on the cold water tap in the bathroom and stuck his mouth under the faucet. Refreshed, he hastily returned to his place on the steps. For no reason, the volume increased.

“Can you turn that thing down,” Mrs. Chambers cried out from the kitchen. “The whole neighbourhood can hear you.”

Uncle Leonard reached for the volume. As he did the picture went snowy again.

“Screw the neighbours!” uncle Leonard cried and banged the cabinet with his fist. The screen cleared to show the great Archie Moore kissing the canvas.

“Jesus Murphy!” his uncle cried.

“I told you that Italian had bricks in his fist.” Matthew’s father laughed.

“The garlic must have knocked him over,” uncle Leonard cried.

Matthew’s father laughed with delight.

“Well, he ain’t up yet, Len. Never underestimate them Italians. Got a couple of those fellows down at the Plant. Hard as nails. You can’t hurt them. They don’t feel pain like normal folks. One fella had a crate of machine parts fall on his foot the other day. Never winked an eye. Finished his shift and than went to the hospital. Broke all his toes. Back at work the next day.”

Uncle Leonard shook his head. “Too stupid to feel anything.”

Moore got up off the canvas.

“Christ!” Mr. Chambers cried.

Uncle Leonard laughed. “Never count that Negro out.”

“How is the Italian supposed to win if the referee can’t count?” Mr. Chambers said.

“Oh, he can count, Gerry,” uncle Leonard howled. “You’re going to hear him count soon enough. The Eytie is in trouble now. He’s got Moore bloody mad.”

Matthew listened attentively.

“Matthew!”

A moment later Mrs. Chambers stepped around the corner and looked up the stairs. Matthew dropped his head, turned and retreated up the stairs and into his room. He sat in a chair next to his open window and watched the heavy yellow moon slip out from behind a cloud. The bright pink peaches on the tree in the backyard shone like planets. In the back lane someone was starting their car. Voices roared out from deep in the night. Downstairs uncle Leonard’s voice cried out in joy.

……..{from the book The Box}