Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“Only get them out of here,” Joey said loudly. “I don’t like people with guns under their armpits in my room.”

“Come on, boys,” McAlmon said, opening the door. Both men smiled pleasantly and started out. Petroskas stopped and turned around. “May the best man win,” he said, and nodded soberly twice and left, closing the door behind him.

Joey looked at Mr. Gensel and shook his head. “McAlmon’s friends,” he said. “Philadelphia boys.”

The door swung open and an usher chanted “Joey Garr. Joey Garr is on next.” Joey spat into his bandaged hands and started up the steps with Mr. Gensel.

When the fight started, Rocky dove immediately into a clinch. Under the thick bush of hair all over his chest and shoulders he was sweating profusely.

“Lissen, Joey,” he whispered nervously into Joey’s ear, hanging on tightly to his elbows, “you remember the agreement? You remember, don’t yuh, Joey?”

“Yeah,” Joey said. “Let go of my arm. What’re you trying to do, pull it off?”

“Excuse me, Joey,” Rocky said, breaking and giving Joey two to the ribs.

As the fight progressed, with the customers yelling loud approval of the footwork, the deft exchanges, the murderous finishers that missed by a hair, Rocky gained in confidence. By the fourth round he was standing up bravely, exposing his chin, moving in and out with his fists brisk and showy. His friends in the crowd screamed with pleasure and a loud voice called out, “Kill the big bum, Rocky! Oh, you Rocky!” Rocky breathed deeply and let a fast one go to Joey’s ear. Joey’s head shook a little and a look of mild surprise came over his face. “Wipe him out!” the voice thundered from among Rocky’s following. Rocky set himself flat on his feet and whistled another across to Joey’s ear as the bell rang. He strutted back to his corner smiling confidently at his friends in the arena.

Mr. Gensel bent and worked over Joey. “Lissen, Joey,” he whispered, “he is pushing you. Tell him to stop pushing you. They will give him the fight if he don’t stop pushing you.”

“Aaah,” Joey said, “it’s nothing. For the crowd. His pals. A little excitement. Makes it look good. Don’t worry, Mr. Gensel.”

“Please tell him to stop pushing you,” Mr. Gensel pleaded. “For my sake, Joey. He is supposed to go ten rounds with us but we are supposed to win. We can’t afford to lose to Rocky Pidgeon, Joey.”

In the fifth round Rocky kept up his charging attack, keeping both hands going, weaving, aggressive, shoving Joey back and forth across the ring, while the home-town crowd stood in its seats and shouted hoarse support. Joey kept him nicely bottled up, back-pedaling, catching punches on his gloves, sliding with the blows, occasionally jabbing sharply to Rocky’s chest. In a corner, with Joey against the ropes, Rocky swung from behind his back with a right hand, grunting deeply as it landed on Joey’s side.

Joey clinched, feeling the sting. “Say, Rocky,” he whispered politely, “stop pushing.”

“Oh,” Rocky grunted, as though he’d just remembered, and backed off. They sparred delicately for thirty seconds, Joey still on the ropes.

“Come on, Rocky,” the voice shouted. “Finish him. You got the bum going! Oh, you Rocky!”

A light came into Rocky’s eyes and he wound up and let one go. It caught Joey on the side of the head as the bell rang. Joey leaned a little wearily against the ropes, scowling thoughtfully at Rocky as Rocky strode lightly across to his corner amid wild applause. Joey went and sat down.

“How’s it going?” he asked Mr. Gensel.

“You lost that round,” Mr. Gensel said swiftly and nervously. “For God’s sake, Joey, tell him to stop pushing. You’ll lose the fight. If you lose to Rocky Pidgeon you will have to go fight on the team with the boys from the Hebrew Orphan Asylum. Why don’t you tell him to stop pushing?”

“I did,” Joey snapped. “He’s all hopped up. His friends keep yelling what a great guy he is, so he believes it. He hits me in the ear once more I will take him out in the alley after the fight and I will beat the pants off him.”

“Just tell him to take it easy,” Mr. Gensel said, worriedly. “Remind him we are carrying him. Just remind him.”

“That dumb Rocky,” Joey said. “You got to reason with him, you got a job on your hands.”

The gong rang and the two men sprang out at each other. The light of battle was still in Rocky’s eye and he came out swinging violently. Joey tied him up tight and talked earnestly to him. “Lissen, Rocky, enough is enough. Stop being a hero, please. Everybody thinks you’re wonderful. All right. Let it go at that. Stop pushing, Rocky. There is money invested here. What are you, crazy? Say, Rocky, do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Sure,” Rocky grunted. “I’m just putting on a good show. You got to put on a good show, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Joey said, as the referee finally pulled them apart.

They danced for two minutes after that, but right before the end of the round, from in close, Rocky unleashed a murderous uppercut that sent the blood squirting in all directions from Joey’s nose. Rocky wheeled jauntily as the bell rang and shook his hands gaily at his screaming friends. Joey looked after him and spat a long stream of blood at his retreating, swaggering back.

Mr. Gensel rushed anxiously out and led Joey back to his corner.

“Why didn’t you tell him to stop pushing, Joey?” he asked. “Why don’t you do like I say?”

“I told him,” Joey said, bitterly. “Look, I got a bloody nose. I got to come to Philadelphia to get a bloody nose. That bastid, Rocky.”

“Make sure to tell him to stop pushing,” Mr. Gensel said, working swiftly over the nose. “You got to win from here on, Joey. No mistake now.”

“I got to come to Starlight Park, in the city of Philadelphia,” Joey marveled, “to get a bloody nose from Rocky Pidgeon. Holy Jesus God!”

“Joey,” Mr. Gensel implored, “will you remember what I told you? Tell him to stop …”

The bell rang and the two men leapt at each other as the crowd took up its roaring from where it had left off. The loud voice had settled into a constant, inspiriting chant of “Oh, Rocky, oh, you Rocky!” over and over again.

Joey grabbed Rocky grimly. “Lissen, you bum,” he whispered harshly, “I ask you to stop pushing. I will take you out later and knock all your teeth out. I warn you.”

And he rapped Rocky smartly twice across the ear to impress him.

For the next minute Rocky kept a respectful distance and Joey piled up points rapidly. Suddenly half the arena took up the chant, “Oh, Rocky, oh, you Rocky!” On fire with this admiration, Rocky took a deep breath and let sail a roundhouse right. It caught Joey squarely on the injured nose. Once more the blood spurted. Joey shook his head to clear it and took a step toward Rocky, who was charging in wildly. Coldly Joey hooked with his left, like a spring uncoiling, and crossed with his right as Rocky sagged with glass in his eyes. Rocky went fourteen feet across the ring and landed face down. For a split second a smile of satisfaction crossed Joey’s face. Then he remembered. He swallowed drily as the roar of the crowd exploded in his ears. He looked at his corner. Mr. Gensel was just turning around to sit with his back to the ring and his head in his hands. He looked at Rocky’s corner. McAlmon was jumping up and down, beating his hat with both fists in agony, screaming, “Rocky! Get up, Rocky! Get up or I’ll fill you full of lead! Rocky, do you hear me?”

Behind McAlmon, Joey saw Pike and Petroskas, standing in their seats, amiable smiles on their faces, watching him interestedly, their hands under their armpits.