The Klitschkos, Joe Louis's Era, and Time Travel

This was just for fun: it has no real pretensions to either literary quality or historical accuracy. My apologies in advance for the lack of research and the accents.

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Galento sat and ate. His “hosts” hadn’t noticed him yet.

They were good hot dogs, after all. Mustard. Relish. Ketchup. Slathered on. And besides, the Tin Man in the ring didn’t do much. It wasn’t as if Galento was missing anything interesting. This bum poked. He prodded. He took shuffling half-steps forward and backward while he moved his left hand in vague circles.

Still, the open media workout seemed a success so far. The press ate this guy up. Big guy, monster puncher, moved like a lighter man, and a mysterious past to boot: the Russian was a newspaperman’s dream. He’d run through most of the local pugs without breaking a sweat.

People were already talking about how he’d match up against Louis. That made Galento chuckle.

Unfortunately, this Vladimir guy didn’t attack. And that despite his fifty pound advantage and at least six inches in height. Galento knew the smaller sparring partner – solid fighter; slick, but nothing fancy. Couldn’t crack an egg.

It must have been the training, Galento thought sagely. He remembered the shiny, rubber-looking pads that he’d seen earlier. It had looked like the guy was playing patty cake. Not to mention all those weird exercises: medicine balls and bouncing from metal platforms.

Admittedly, Galento was no stickler for training. Eat spaghetti. Drink beer. Ignore trainer. Repeat. Still, it seemed strange that the usual routine of endless pushups, situps, and bagwork just didn’t exist here. Guess they did things differently in Russia. Or wherever.

And at some level, Galento admitted that it was that particular bit of strangeness irked him most. These guys had come out of nowhere. Their cockamamie story about escaping the Soviet Union had fooled no one; not with the way their managers threw money around. Galento remembered the rumors about their giant deposit of gold bullion in the bank a few weeks back. And then there was the younger one’s claim that he was thirty-eight, even though he was built like a guy in his early 30s.

Speaking of whom…

“Hey, Tin Man,” Galento called.

Bits of hot dog flecked onto the floor.

“Howsabout you fight the guy instead of romancing him, huh?”

That got their attention. Well, it got the attention of the boxer’s entourage, anyway: a couple people in suits and a huge, graying man who looked like a carbon copy of the guy in the ring. And he looked angry. The muscles in his jaw clenched.

Alas, Galento’s intended target just kept up his lazy jab-poke arm circles. No matter. Harassing his brother would work just as well.

“You are not zupposed to be here,” the big guy said. “Get out.”

Galento swallowed and grabbed his cigar. The man was big. Even in an era of giants, these Soviet guys (whatshisname – Vittle-y summat Clinchko) took the cake. Bigger than Carnera, certainly. Bigger than Buddy effin’ Baer. Campolo, mebbe…if Campolo moved like a guy eighty pounds lighter.

A couple of the beefier men in the entourage stepped between them. Galento would have none of that. He blew smoke in the guy’s face and waited. He didn’t need to wait long.

“C’mon Vitali, let me take care of—“ one of the hangers-on began.

“No!” the big guy – Vitali, apparently – growled.

He jerked his jacket off and practically threw it in the guy’s face. He pointed at Galento.

“You and I will feenish this, hm?” Vitali said. “In the ring?”

Now this was good. This was better than he’d hoped. Beat the **** out of Vladimir’s brother a couple months before his fight with Vladimir himself.

Oh, he knew Vitali’s type, all right. Almost certainly a former amateur. Late thirties, past his best, and probably arrogant enough to believe his size made him anything but a big target. Galento dipped slightly and swept his hand toward an empty ring like an usher.

“After youse.”

The gloves were like pillows, padded beyond belief. As he strapped his headgear on, Galento stole a glance at Vitali to see how he was taking all this—

That look again. Galento had seen that look before. The Clinchk-whoseits’ people had worn it when they’d watched his Galento's fight with Baer: amused, curious, and more than a little condescending. Like people in a zoo.

…Or a museum.

I’m gonna moida this bum…

The bell rang.

Encouraged by his opponent’s stiff, upright stance that reminded him just a bit of Boris Karloff, Galento lunged for a left hook. Vitali leaned back, and it whizzed by. He tried again. Same result.

This…was frustrating. Despite their height difference, Vitali looked like he was there to be hit. Should have been, by all rights. His hands hung by his waist. Every movement had a herky-jerky quality, like the world’s clumsiest ballroom dancer. And yet he seemed to know exactly where and when Galento would strike.

OK, so Vitali moved well for a big guy. Galento gave him that much. Like his brother, though, he seemed to believe that his left hand existed solely for tickling his opponent at long range with useless, pawing--

THWUMP!

Okay, Galento was feeling just a little bit dizzy—

THWUMP!

THWUMP!

TWA-THWUMP!

Galento’s legs had gone loose for a fraction of a second there. He backed off.

It wasn’t that this guy was a massive puncher, particularly. Baer had hit harder with that right-hand gravedigger of his. Louis’s punches were certainly more painful. But this guy…his punches didn’t arrive in the right places. They were arm punches, but they were hard arm punches, and they came in volume—

“Urk!”

The fat on Galento’s stomach rippled as another punch struck home. It was another weird one: an underhanded straight right / uppercut hybrid. Galento stumbled backward toward the ropes as Vitali kept hammering.

But he didn’t go down.

The round ended, and another one began far too soon. Galento spat blood.

 

[FONT=&quot]Stupid?

Stupid didn’t begin to cover this.

He’d come here on a whim, and he didn’t have seconds. He was out of shape, undertrained, and had apparently run into a guy with contender-caliber skills. Inexplicable contender-caliber skills. But he wouldn’t quit, either.

The second round went much like the first. Galento was still dizzy from the pounding he’d received earlier, but he was getting acclimated to Vitali’s power. Slowly.

Not that it helped him. The guy just kept throwing punches. Every time Galento lunged, the big man committed the cardinal sin of leaning back – and got away with it. He fought at a pace that Galento couldn’t match.

And Galento had thought the thrashing from Dempsey had been bad…

Galento would have been the first to admit that his defense was leaky at the best of times. He thrived on it, almost. The wide-open guard functioned like an invitation. Take one, give one back harder. But the big guy’s upper torso shot backward long before Galento could retaliate. Or the glove came up and blocked his hook.

[/FONT] Even the clinches didn’t offer much respite. Galento had looked forward to a healthy amount of butting, knees to the groin, and rubbing his laces in Vitali’s eyes. He’d even managed it once or twice. That was it, though. This Russian (?) guy clamped him like a vise whenever he got close.

Another right hand buzzed him.

He backed up from a barrage of punches. Blood clogged his nostrils. And he was woozy. He leaned in to clinch, but the big guy pushed him off.

He swung.

It wasn’t a blind punch, exactly. Desperate, perhaps, but not blind. Galento had seen a fraction of a second’s opening, and he’d taken it.

The giant crashed to the canvas.

The bell rang.

Vitali scrabbled up a quarter-second later, clearly angry as all get-out. But there was something else, too: disbelief. As if he couldn’t imagine a professional heavyweight contender being able to floor him. What the--?
Galento was arrogant, but he was no fool. This was probably as good as he’d get…for now. No point letting this guy carve him up like a holiday ham for another round. He spat blood onto the canvas.

“Heh. This’s been real fun.”

He spared the big guy one last smirk, and then climbed through the ropes. He didn’t bother taking the gloves off.

“Come beck here!”

He snorted and sauntered toward the door.

A black man blocked his path.

He wasn’t tall – about Galento’s height, actually – but he was one of the broadest guys Galento had ever seen, like the blocks of ice he’d once delivered. From the tattoos on his face, Galento guessed he was a former sailor of some sort. Maybe he’d learned boxing in the navy.

“Exthcuse me, thir...”

…And he spoke in a high-pitched lisp, for some reason. Galento readied himself for the inevitable.

“You lookin’ for trouble?” he said.

The man shoved a boxing glove in his face. It was practically blackened with signatures. A couple he recognized: Sharkey, Dempsey, Tunney. Most he didn’t. Who the f--- was Roberto Duran?

“Could you sign this? Pleeease?”

“Uh…”

The guy beamed at him like a kid waiting for a present. He’d sounded…giddy.

“…Mebbe later.”

Galento brushed past him and stumbled as quickly as he could into the light of day.

He still doubted that these guys could beat Louis, but...

Well, one thing at a time.

 

Eh, nothing really. Just an idea I'd had bouncing around in my head for a while.

 

Well, can't say I didn't have that one coming. At least you're honest.

 

It looks like you'll be waiting a while, then. :yep

Anyway, this was just something silly I posted to provide a break from the usual Tyson/Dempsey/Johnson/Tua discussions. Carry on.