Tell Us A Story!

There was a guy from the Hill in Pittsburgh who came of age in the 50's. This guy loved boxing as much as anybody I've known then or since. The most avid, knowlegdeable fight fan on this board would have found a kindred spirit in him. Not only that, but the guy could fight! He was over six-feet tall, fast on his feet, his hands came in fast and clean, he had the heart to not give a ****, and his thorough study of the game from the time he was old enough to sneak into the Lyceum Gym he was able to put to use once he stepped into the ring. Thin and wiry, he started as a welter in the amatuers. Now, I couldn't tell you what his record was, but he must have won alot more than he lost, 'cause the way I heard it alotta good people had their eyes on him.

A poor kid, as everybody seemed to be in those days, especially on the Lower Hill. The only child in an immigrant family the wolves weren't at the door they were knockin' on it, and by the time he hit nineteen they had his family's wooden shack circled and were goin' in for the kill. Nothin' to worry about was the way he handled it, was the way he handled everything; not cocky, but like alotta kids that age he'd handle whatever was thrown at him.

That's how he took his first few professional matches too, in stride, would be a way to put it. He won his first two by decision and knocked his next guy out with his straight right that was turning out to be sharp as a hatchet. Trainers and fighters at the Lyceum were starting to take notice, and a few of the established pros were giving him the time of day. He was getting tips from some of the best in the business and took 'em not only with humility and gratitude, but was a quick study too. His next three times out he only had to go the distance once. His right hand as natural as it should be to mean anything, was gonna make him something special. A boxer/puncher! Just as he would have had it, given his study of the game.

But one late afternoon, walking home from the Lyceum, he was squeezing himself through the bumper to bumper traffic on a grade of Centre Avenue, in between a truck and a streetcar, and just as the delivery truck drifted back in search of first, the trolley lurched forward, and he was pinned, both his shins crushed, drifting in and out of consciousness, as the crowd gathered and gawked, his body sagging, wilting, lifeless as a scarecrow.

That would be it of course for his boxing career. With long steel plates in each of his legs, for the rest of his life he would walk like a Frankenstein. But he had heart, both in and out of the ring, the street was a place he felt equally at home. And for the next twenty-some years that's where he'd be, hustling with the best of them. He'd figure how to make a buck any way he could and let's just say that in this more antiseptic time and place, some of those activities would be disapproved of, even on this board. But he was never a guy who could have done the nine to five thing without diving out a forty story window.

Funny though, his love of the game never waned, and he stayed around it whenever he could. He promoted some fights around Pittsburgh and even made a legitimate buck here and there while never ever giving up his more lucrative enterprises. And as luck would sometimes have it, for a guy who loved so faithfully and so long and true, the last time I talked to him, must be goin' on 12 years ago now, he had a fighter that he was real excited about. A few months after our phone conversation I saw him with his kid on the Tuesday night fights. An interview he gave to Sean O'Grady in between rounds was as concise and astute as any you'll ever hear. Even O'Grady, a brilliant student of the game himself looked impressed. I was so happy for him, so proud, knowing where he had come from, also knowing what he had come through. My faith in the long shots was restored. Good for him, God bless him, I thought.

But damn if it ain't true that some guys are born under a cloud. A cloud that no matter how fast and far they run always seems to locate them again. It was no longer than six months later that I heard my man had died. One big, ugly heart attack and he's gone.

I never heard another word about the fighter that had him so excited at the end. I like to think that it was all too heartbreaking for him too. I like to think he had to hang 'em up, if out of nothin' but respect. I don't know, maybe he went into another line of work or came back under an alias. If there's a lesson, it could be that the control we think we have over our lives is a facade, something we have to tell ourselves. Who wants to live a life that can be altered or stolen from us as soon as we turn our heads?

 

Great, thanks for that! Never underestimate the possibility of youth.

 

Great story, I saw it all play out in my mind, great resourcefulness to gain admittance. Well done on both counts.

This content is protected

 

In the Spring of '67 I was ten years old, but I had already been to see a lot of fights, even some pretty good ones. But I had never been to see a big name fighter; the days of Conn and Zivic and Burley were long gone. I'm not that damn old! So when my Pop told me that Floyd Paterson was comin' to town, not only that but coming to fight, and better yet that I would be going, I was pretty excited.

We had good seats on the floor, no more than ten rows back from the ring is how I remember it. The preliminaries were quite uneventful or just seemed that way, given my impatient expectation of the main event. The one thing I do remember about the lead-off fights after all these years, is that the last one was so bad, it was stretching it to even call it a fight, and the fight-starved Pittsburgh crowd that had been spoiled by a rich past were not shy about vocalizing their disapproval. One guy in the middle of particularly long, boring round stood up from another ringside seat and let out a loud, clear Tarzan's yell, "Ohhh, oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-ohhhhh!" A few seconds later another guy pleaded, "Stop the fight, somebody's gonna get hurt!" Both of course were appreciated by the crowd that had come to see a Paterson fight, and nothing short of a miraculous prelim was gonna grab their attention.

Then it was finally time. The big men were in the ring, the main-event was underway, and the previously unruly crowd was hushed and still in respect. Announcements were made, instructions implied, gloves knocked, the first bell rang and he was big this mother, that our man Floyd was in with, and friggin' tall. The only thing unimpressive about him was his name. Bill McMurray, someone I'd never even heard of, and whether he was any relation to Chip and Ernie's dad I'd never find out.

"Bang!" One left hook, the first clean shot of the first round sent the big man to the canvass. He's up, he looks ok, must have been a fluke, a flash knockdown, I was consoling myself till, "Bang!" Another Paterson hook and this guy's down again. Not only that, but he ain't movin' let alone getting up. Hardly a stir comin' outta the big guy that lay flat and long on the canvass.

And that was it of course, McMurray's cornermen were still trying to bring their boy back to the here and now when we were on our way off 'a the floor, out the door, and halfway home for God's sake!

 

NICE little story. Good to see Archie had his priorities straight. Only enough of a brawl to muss his quaff a little?