TKO (13 page)

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.

“Duffy, can you tell us what this fight means to you?” Briggs asked.

“It means a chance at a belt but more importantly it means a chance to show my hometown who I am and what I can do,” I said.

“Do you have a game plan to handle Strife?”

“Well, he won’t have to find me—I plan to be right in front of him, pressing the action.”

“Thanks, Duffy. Good luck.” Briggs finished up with me and spoke with the camera guys about some technical stuff before moving on. They left me and I presumed they went over to talk to Rufus, who was still silent in his room. He didn’t even bring a cornerman, instead he was going to use a local guy and pay him fifty bucks from his purse. That wasn’t unheard of, but it was pretty sad even by boxing standards.

Smitty started to have me loosen up with some pad work. Before fights he spent most of the time drilling the recoil again and again to burn it into my mind even more just before I went in the ring. The goal was to get me to break a light sweat before I went in the ring and it was a good strategy. Guys who went in cold and dry often got caught with a punch they weren’t expecting.

Smitty had me take a break and I heard Briggs outside the door arguing with some producer type wearing a head set.

“I don’t care what you say,” Briggs said. “It ain’t right and I ain’t using it.”

“C’mon, Bobby it makes great stuff,” Headset said.

“The fuckin’ guy’s mom dies two days ago and he takes the fight for funeral expenses and you think that’s cool? Fuck you.” Briggs said.

The headset guy walked away with his arms up in the air for maximum dramatic effect. I walked over to Briggs against Smitty’s protest.

“Kid, get your head where it belongs,” Smitty said.

“Hang on,” I said.

I walked up the hallway to find Briggs. I called to him to slow down.

“Hey, Bobby,” I said.

“Yeah, Duff?”

“That shit about Strife’s mom—is that true?”

“Kid,” Briggs said. “It’s not your concern. Go warm up,” he said.

“But—”

“Look, Duff, I got to get to the ring.”

He walked away and I stood there, not sure what to think. I turned just in time for Strife to leave his dressing room to make his ring walk. Handwritten on his terrycloth robe was “For Momma.”

Smitty scolded me back to the dressing room and told me to get my head into the fight. I tried and got ready to walk out to the ring. I felt sick to my stomach, but it wasn’t the usual pre-fight jitters—this was different. I walked out to the strains of Elvis’s opening, the
2001: A Space Odyssey
theme, and tried to get ready. The crowd cheered my entrance and I heard them, but it was like I was removed from it at the same time. Something wasn’t right.

In the ring, Strife’s robe was off and it was clear he wasn’t in any kind of shape at all. His gut hung over his trunks and he had “Laney RIP” written on his beltline. The sickness in my stomach grew. The ref brought us together for instructions and Strife looked to the ceiling. Tears trickled down his cheeks, and we touched gloves and went back to our corners. As he turned he said, “Momma, for you.”

I almost threw up.

In the corner, Smitty put my mouthpiece in and told me to concentrate. The bell rang for the start of the fight, and I came out of the corner doing my best to be instinctive. Rufus was fat and didn’t move well. I hit him with the first jab I threw and his knees actually wobbled a bit.

“Move in!” Smitty yelled. “He’s hurt!”

I didn’t move. I threw another jab. Strife wobbled again.

“Move in, God damn it!” Smitty yelled.

I stepped toward Strife but no punches came. He threw a hook that missed and he went off balance. I have no idea who this guy had been fighting, but I couldn’t picture someone losing to him.

My third jab landed on his nose pretty hard and it forced him back to the ropes. This time I did move in, and as I did I heard Strife let out a wail, like an exhausted cry. I tried to go on automatic.

“Finish, Duff, finish strong!” Smitty yelled.

I hit Strife twice to the body, which doubled him over, and then I hooked him to the head with my right and he wobbled into the corner. I loaded up with my straight left to put him out and I threw it hard and straight. He was hurt and there was no way he was going to last, but just when I thought the ref might call it, the bell rang, ending the first round.

Back in my corner, Smitty was furious.

“What the hell are you waiting for? You had him, now take him out!” he said.

Round 2 started and Strife was breathing heavily; he already looked exhausted. I tried not to think and I moved forward. My jab went through his gloves and sent his head back. I followed with a body shot that made him moan and double over. Then, I caught him with an uppercut. I knew the end was near and I threw my straight left.

I never saw it land.

I never felt it land.

Instead, the world went from vertical to horizontal instantly. A light shot through the inside of my head from side to side and there was a loud ringing. Noise sounded different and things looked like they were underwater. I blinked hard four or five times. I was looking at the lighting stanchions above the ring and they made me squint.

I realized I was on one knee and the referee was in front of me. He was in an exaggerated counting stance and the first number I heard was seven.

I went to get up. Nothing happened.

“Eight,” the ref said.

I went to push off my knee and my gloves slipped off.

“Nine.”

I tried again but wobbled backward in an awkward crouch and landed on the seat of my pants.

“Ten.”

The ref was above me waving his hand back and forth. The state doctor was shining a pen light in my eyes, there was a lot of crowd noise, and Smitty was lifting me onto the stool in the middle of the ring.

Across the way, Rufus Strife had fallen to his knees and was crying into his hands.

There were ring announcements, then the interviews, but the announcers spent most of their time with Rufus, who shouted and cried and hugged everyone he could. I congratulated him and he hugged me just before I went to the locker room. My head had cleared and I was fine. I’ve taken harder shots, much harder shots, but when you don’t see it coming, ten seconds isn’t a long time to recover.

The quiet in my dressing room was uncomfortable. Smitty didn’t look at me, Rudy left to get a beer, and I dressed in silence. I showered and dressed as fast as I could because I wanted to get out of there. It felt weird.

As was the tradition, Smitty drove me home after the fight. We were in the car for forty-five minutes before either of us spoke.

“Duff,” Smitty said. “How many years I been training you?”

“Fourteen, Smitty, you know that.”

“In the last fourteen years, you’ve lost a fair number of fights, right?”

“Yep, you know that.”

“In all those fights you lost, when have you ever been knocked out from a shot because you didn’t recoil your left?”

“Never,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” Smitty said.

We drove the last twenty minutes in silence, and I felt lousy about ten different ways, most of all because I let Smitty down. You see, winning fights and moving up is moving up for him too. It was a validation of all the work he’s done. And I lost.

He pulled up in front of the Moody Blue.

“Duff, for the last fourteen years, what have I told you after every fight?”

“That win or lose, you’re proud of me.”

“That’s right. I’m proud of you tonight too, Duff.”

“Tonight? You sure? I fought like shit,” I said.

“Yep,” Smitty said.

16

I was drunk by
noon.

Legally, AJ’s isn’t supposed to open until noon, but a lot of times AJ will stay open all night for the guys who work the graveyard shift in the cookie factory around the block. At noon, the Foursome started to come in, and I was praying they wouldn’t grill me about my performance.

They had all gone to the fight, as did Kelley and some of the people from the office. It pissed me off—I finally got to a point where I get some hometown attention and I lose in the most embarrassing fashion imaginable. There was a lot on the line, I was fighting a fat, out-of-shape guy with a shit record, and he beats me in front of my hometown crowd. Check that, he knocked me out in front of my hometown crowd.

AJ’s always had the paper and it had a photo of me on the front section of the sports section sprawling to the canvas after I tried to get up. The cute banner above it read, “Dombrowski Falls Back to Palookaville.”

Sweet.

TC and Jerry Number One came in together like they often did. They didn’t come in the same car nor did they call each other, they just wound up always coming through the door at the same time. Less than fifteen minutes later Jerry Number Two arrived, followed by Rocco. They always came in the same order, always spaced by the same amount of time.

I was braced for questions about how it happened or suggestions on how they would have done things differently. I waited for some cockeyed philosophy about how getting knocked out was a good thing followed by a two-hour discussion about the brain science involved in rendering someone unconscious.

The guys greeted me, said hello, and ordered their drinks. Then, they just watched the TV and the pre-game show for a preseason football game. I waited and they never mentioned anything about the fight.

It made it worse.

I decided that the Schlitz wasn’t getting me where I wanted to be, so I ordered a Beam on the rocks. I saw Jerry Number One look at my drink from the corner of his eye like he was trying not to get caught. I thought to myself just how pitiful my existence had become when the Fearsome Foursome had begun to feel sorry for me.

By three o’clock I had that woozy drunk feeling where it becomes difficult to think about your own thoughts. Things kept coming in and out of focus and nothing stayed in my head clearly for more than a thought or two. I remembered the ref counting seven through ten and how I wanted to get up but I couldn’t. I remembered how it felt to have my body not respond to my brain’s commands. That’s what happens when you get knocked out—time goes by quickly and it takes a while for your body to get your brain’s messages. It’s why you always see fighters arguing after they’ve been counted out. Besides being embarrassed, they don’t believe enough time has gone by and they’re pissed off at their bodies for not doing what the brain told them to do.

At four o’clock AJ hesitated when I ordered my bourbon. Even as bombed as I was, I knew it took a lot to get AJ to hesitate. The Foursome were back to talking and they were kicking around something about whether cows lay down when it rains because they’re tired or because of the dew point. TC thought the dew point had something to do when the cow had to move its bowels. It faded off after that.

At eight, I awoke in a puddle of my own drool, my face flat on the bar. Kelley had come in to watch the Yankees game, which was being shown on the ESPN
Sunday Game of the Week
.

“Welcome back,” Kelley said.

“What time is it?” I said.

“Eight.”

“Shit.”

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry how last night turned out.”

“Yeah.”

That was all he said, but I appreciated him saying it. We sat mostly in silence watching the Yankees lose to Boston eight to nothing. The Yankees got just two hits in the whole game. I nursed a few Schlitzes during the game, and I was probably still drunk by some official drunkenness measurement. It wasn’t a fun drunk or even an escapist drunk, but rather it was the shitty part of being drunk without any of the positive aspects of it.

I still couldn’t walk right and I couldn’t think clearly but I felt sick to my stomach, not from the booze but from the fight. It was the type of feeling that drinking will numb a little for about a half an hour while you’re building your drunk. After that there’s no use and you know it, but you keep drinking anyway to avoid feeling that feeling that will now be worsened by the shaky feeling of losing your buzz.