Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“Rocky!” Joey whispered hoarsely as the referee counted five, “good old Rocky. Get up, Rocky! For God’s sake. Please get up! Please … please.” He remembered the thousand dollars and tears filled his eyes. “Rocky,” he sobbed, half-bending to his knees, in the corner of the ring, as the referee reached seven, “for the love of God …”

Rocky turned over, got to one knee.

Joey closed his eyes to spare himself. When he opened them again, there was Rocky, standing, weaving unsteadily, before him. A breath, a prayer, escaped Joey’s lips as he jumped across the ring, swinging dramatically. He curled his arm viciously around the back of Rocky’s neck. Even at that Rocky started to go again. Joey grabbed him under the armpits and made violent movements with his arms as though he were trying desperately to release them.

“Hold on, Rocky!” he whispered hoarsely, supporting the stricken fighter. “Just keep your knees stiff. You all right? Hey, Rocky, you all right? Hey, Rocky, answer me! Please, Rocky, say something!”

But Rocky said nothing. He just leaned against Joey with the glaze in his eyes, his arms hanging limply at his side, while Joey conducted the fight by himself.

When the bell rang, Joey held Rocky up until McAlmon could come out and drag him back to his corner. The referee eyed Joey narrowly as Joey went over to his own corner.

“A nice, interesting bout,” the referee said. “Yes, siree.”

“Yeah,” Joey said, sinking onto his stool. “Hey, Mr. Gensel,” he called. Mr. Gensel turned his face back to the ring for the first time since the middle of the round. Like an old man, he climbed the steps and haphazardly worked on his fighter.

“Explain to me,” he said in a flat voice, “what you were thinking of.”

“That Rocky,” Joey said wearily. “He got the brains of a iceman’s horse. He keeps pushing and pushing. I musta lost a quart of blood through the nose. I hit him to teach him a little respect.”

“Yes,” Mr. Gensel said. “That was fine. We were nearly buried in Philadelphia.”

“I didn’t hit him hard,” Joey protested. “It was strictly a medium punch. He got a chin like a movie star. Like Myrna Loy. He shouldn’t oughta be in this business. He should wait on customers in a store. In a dairy. Butter and eggs.”

“Please do me a favor,” Mr. Gensel said. “Kindly hold him up for the next three rounds. Treat him with care. I am going down to sit in the dressing room.”

And Mr. Gensel left as Joey charged out and pounded Rocky’s fluttering elbows severely.

Fifteen minutes later, Joey came down to him in the dressing room and lay wearily down on the rubbing table.

“So?” Mr. Gensel asked, not lifting his head.

“So we won,” Joey said hoarsely. “I had to carry him like a baby for nine whole minutes. Like a eight-month-old baby girl. That Rocky. Hit him once, he is no good for three years. I never worked so hard in my whole life, not even when I poured rubber in Akron, Ohio.”

“Did anybody catch on?” Mr. Gensel asked.

“Thank God we’re in Philadelphia,” Joey said. “They ain’t caught on the war’s over yet. They are still standing up there yelling, ‘Rocky! Oh, you Rocky!’ because he was so goddamn brave and stood in there fighting. My God! Every ten seconds I had to kick him in the knee to straighten it out so he’d keep standing!”

Mr. Gensel sighed. “Well, we made a lot of money.”

“Yeah,” Joey said without joy.

“I’ll treat you to a dollar-fifty dinner, Joey.”

“Naah,” Joey said, flattening out on the rubbing table. “I just want to stay here and rest. I want to lay here and rest for a long time.”

“ F or one dollar,” Peppe said, “you could buy enough coal to keep this lousy locker room warm all week.” He laced up his shoulder pads with numb fingers. “For one stinking dollar. We’ll be stiff like concrete by the time we got to kick off. Somebody ought to tell that Scheepers something. For one dollar that Scheepers would freeze his grandmother. In sections. Yeah.” He ducked his head into his jersey.

“We ought to get together,” Ullman said. “We all ought to stick together and go to Scheepers and say, ‘Scheepers,’ we ought to say, ‘you pay us to play football for you, but—’”

“Ullman,” Peppe called from inside his jersey, “the City College Boy, Mr. Stalin’s right-hand man. Fullbacks of the world, unite.”

“Hey, shake your tails,” Holstein said. “We want to go out and loosen up before the game starts.”

“Loosen up!” Peppe finally got his head through the jersey. “They will have to broil me. On both sides. My God, I wish I was in the south of France. Along the Riviera. With the French girls.”

“Put your pants on,” Holstein said.

“Look!” Peppe pointed sadly to his naked legs. “I am turning blue. A dark shade of blue. From the ankle up. It’s past my knees already. Look, boys. Another foot and that is the end of Peppe.”

Klonsky, the right tackle, a tall, thick man, pushed Peppe to one side. “Excuse me,” he said. “I want to look in the mirror.”

“If I had a face like that—” Peppe began. Klonsky turned and looked at him.

“What did I say?” Peppe asked. “Did I say anything?”

Klonsky looked at himself in the mirror again, pulling down his lower lip. “It’s my teeth,” he explained without turning from the mirror. “I got three new teeth from the dentist this week.”

“They’ll sign you for the movies,” Holstein said.

“Fifty bucks,” Klonsky said. “The lousy dentist charged me fifty bucks. In advance. He wouldn’t put the teeth in until I put the money down. My wife, she insisted I got to have teeth in the front of my face. She said it was bad, a college graduate with teeth missing.”

“Sure,” Holstein said. “Listen to women in a case like that. They know what they’re talking about.”

“I lost them two years ago in the Manhattan game.” Klonsky shook his head and turned from the mirror. “They are very rough—Manhattan. All they were interested in was hitting me in the teeth—they didn’t give a damn who won the game.”

“Watch out for Krakow,” Peppe said. “He runs like a locomotive, that guy. You could chop off his leg, he would still run. He’s got no sense. He played for Upsala for three years and he had to make every tackle in every game. It upset his brains. He plays like he don’t get paid for it. He will break your back for three yards. Oh, my God, it’s cold! That bastard Scheepers!”

The door opened and Scheepers came in, the collar of his pale camel’s-hair coat up around his ears. “I heard somebody call me bastard,” he said. “I don’t like that, boys.” He looked at them, his face set under the brim of his soft green hat.

“It’s cold in here,” Holstein said.

“There’s ice in the East River,” Ullman said.

“I am responsible,” Scheepers said ironically, “I am responsible for the weather all of a sudden?”

“One dollar’s worth of coal.” Peppe blew on his hands. “That’s all you need to keep this locker room warm. One lousy dollar’s worth.”

“Watch your language,” Scheepers said. He turned to the rest of the team. “I ordered coal. I swear to God.” He put his collar down and took off his pigskin gloves. “Anyway, it’s not so cold. I don’t know what you boys are complaining about.”

“Some day,” Peppe said, “you should get dressed here, Scheepers. That’s all I ask. They would use you to freeze ice cubes.”