Short piece on Beau Jack

"I watched Beau Jack climb down from the ring apron and move in a
half-trot across the floor, shoulders swaying with his rolling gait,
right leg dipping to accommodate old pain. I approached him. ''You
fought in battle royals, didn't you?'' I asked.
''Yes, sir,'' he said, eyeing me.
''How did it feel?''
''They should still have them,'' he said. ''They'd be a lot of fun
for people who ain't seen them. But they can't. Guys ain't tough
enough anymore.''
''I'd like to write a story about you,'' I said.
''All right, sir,'' he said quietly. A maroon cap hid most of his
balding head with its white stubble of hair, and a T-shirt with the
words FORWARD MOTION covered his still-muscular chest. ''They think
they can tire me out,'' he said, as if he had been one of the men in
the ring. ''They can't. I can outlast them all. They try to kill me,
and I be relaxin'. I know how to breathe and how to throw punches.
You're not in condition, you're gonna get your brains scattered to
the wrong part of your head. Can't never quit in a ring. All that
**** about defense -- take it and put it up your butt.
Conditioning.'' He threw a combination at a heavy bag and walked over
to two women lying on tables, doing leg lifts. ''Everybody gets sick
when they first come here,'' he warned one. ''It'll go away. Tomorrow
I'm gonna murder you.''
His tone turned gentle now, as if he were an old man telling his
assembled grandchildren a story before bed. I moved closer to hear.
''You know, if you didn't get your ticket before Friday when I
fought,'' he said, ''forget about it. They was none left. I had 2,000
ladies came to see me. They'd yell, 'Uh- oh, here comes that tiger
again.' And anyplace I go now I hear people say these same words: 'We
been watchin' and we been lookin', tryin' to find another Beau Jack,
but we ain't never seen another one. How did you keep throwing
punches from one end of the bell to the other, Beau Jack?'
''Well, you have to love people to do that. They kept screamin'
'Beau Jack, Beau Jack,' '' -- his fists began to punch the air --
''so I loved 'em and had $ to fight harder and harder and harder.
Didn't want no people talkin' about me like I was a dog. I had to do
good for my guests. I love every human being God put on this earth.
We're here for one reason -- to attract each other. I fought that
way, for love.''

Pools of dusk had begun to form in the corners of the gym; in ones
and twos the boxers toweled their sweat, called goodbye to Beau Jack
and departed. ''That bone tried to jump up and get away, but I chased
it down and caught it, and I ain't even got no teeth, that's how good
that chicken was you cooked for me,'' he said to one of the two women
he was conditioning. ''You comin' back to work out tomorrow, aren't
you?''
When she was gone, I asked if I could accompany him home. I wanted
to meet his wife and the 15 children that people said he had
fathered. ''No need for that,'' he said. ''We disbanded. Sometimes
it's best to just disband yourself.''
''Who do you live with?''
''Nobody. Myself.''
''Where?''
''One-room place, few blocks from here. Don't need nothin' else.''
I asked what he did alone at night.
''I play blackjack against a dead man's hand,'' he said. ''When I
win, I put the cards on my side. He wins, I put 'em on his side.
Funny, 99 times out of a hundred, the dead man wins.''
Carefully he reached under a desk in his shabby corner cubicle,
pulled out his boxing plaques and awards, and tucked them into a
black bag. He placed it on his shoulder, locked up the gym and headed
home. A block away, he paused. At the night air, he threw a pair of
punches."

(by Gary Smith - Sports Illustrated)