The best writers in the business.
bloody boxers by louis bardel
"Dempsey and Firpo" (1924) by George Bellows of the Ashcan School
The country fair in Hop Bottom, Pennsylvania was a social gathering.
Farmers mingled with town folk amongst the pigs, horses and stock cars.
Drag races, auctions, kiddie games and tests of strength like the hammer bell amused the crowd.
Manure scented the air, which Rudy’s father said was a beautiful smell and he’d have it bottled if he could.
But what fascinated Rudy the most was the punching bag. When you punched the bag it registered the force of your wallop. Two-hundred pounds of force, three-hundred, four…etc.
One night the teenagers hit the fair and were clobbering the punching bag. Many folks from town gave it a try that night. A fortyish man who chewed tobacco and spit, looked mean, and wore pointy cowboy boots gave it a whirl. He escaped his curvaceous girlfriend's clutch, stepped up and threw a punch.
His punch was a sad tap.
Embarassed, he quickly escorted his girlfriend away before anyone could see him.
Along came Rudy, 12-years young and weighing no more than a buck-thirty. There was silence for a second. No one expected much. Then we heard it.…
BAM!
It was a clank of thunder.
“What the hell was that!” yelled one of the teens, whose blonde hair grew long down to his shoulders.
Another youngin’ laughed at the surrealism of such a loud bang.
Many heads craned back to see the killer hitter.
“Was it that kid?” the long hair asked.
It surely was. It was Rudy.
Rudy slipped in another fifty cents.
He took a second, kicked his feet in the dirt a little, then roared back and smashed the punching bag again.
The metal contraption made an obscene clank as if a car had crunched into a big wall of steel.
“God damn”, one of the other teens chortled.
Rudy was now a big boy.
The punching bag turned red that night from young dudes hitting it. All night long their knuckles mashed the bag and the blood that leaked from their split skin basted the leather.
You could see Rudy’s head from time to time, bobbing up and down amidst the taller young men, their fists forever flying.
Rudy’s dad nervously watched his son pound the bag silly.
He yelled, “Stop hitting that thing! You can catch AIDS from blood!”
The calendar year read 1986, the height of the AIDS Fear.
Rudy kept on punching.
He just wanted to hit.
Hit the bag, and hit it hard. Harder than any of the older boys.
"Stag at Sharkey's" (1909) by George Bellows of the Ashcan School
Fast forward eighteen years: Standing in the middle of a barroom a White man slugged a speed bag, making it whip back and forth, making his knuckles raw.
The only reason I call attention to the man’s race was because this was in the American South where such things still hold a lurid interest for people.
Anyhow, the White man punched faster. Faster and faster he hit the bag until beads of sweat gathered on his brow and he felt sufficiently warmed up to kick someone’s ass.
In the boxing ring his Black opponent kissed his shapely girlfriend. He bashed himself in the head with his gloves and stomped on the floor.
Each man stood now in the brightly lit ring, hungry like wolves.
A big crowd of ladies and men from Metarie, Louisiana, packed the bar, looking on like Romans in a circus.
The bell chimed.
Three rounds.
Out the boxers come.
Fists begin to fly.
Jabs.
Ducks.
Round houses.
The White guy came out like a N’Awlins Jump Out Boy, ready to jack the Black man for everything he had.
He fights bare-chested, wearing only his black jeans.
The crowd yells at the fighters.
Cain’s blood slips from each one’s lips.
Blood-thirsty spectators gathered around the ring, wildly yelling like barbarians.
By the third round the more polished Black fighter begins picking apart the White guy, who's looking like he has smoked one too many Newports.
Each one is tired though.
They slug it out.
The wind in their lungs explodes.
The taste of blood in the back of their throats gathers up.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit.
Their sore ribs scream for relief.
The bell rings.
The fight is over.
The men hug and collapse into their corners.
A zebra-striped referee steps in and, after a little bit of official hooha, raises the winner’s arm.
Victory for the Black man.
But the White guy, seemingly undeterred, raises his padded cinderblock fists in victory too.
“Drinks,” the White guy yells out to the crowd as he leans into the ropes, “for everybody – on me!”
The barbarians cheer, roar loudly like lions for their cubs.
The men embrace once more in the center of the ring, on a night of primal war.
Everyone’s superheroes, these boxers, to live and die for us, and live again.
Rise up bloody from punches like Lazurus from the bible.
** Inspired by true events.
