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“Loading machinery don’t do nothing for me before a fight neither.”
“The second bout is almost over. Move around a little bit.”
Toussaint stood up and threw some shadow punches. Archie laced his gloves and snipped the plastic tips off with a pair of scissors. He put a mouthpiece, a water bottle, and some towels into a canvas bag.
“There’s the buzzer. Let’s go,” he said. He picked up the canvas bag and the first-aid kit, and they went out into the corridor and up the concrete ramp that led to the arena.
The arena was overcrowded and the air was heavy with a drifting haze of cigarette smoke. The house lamps dimmed for the third bout as they walked down the aisle. The lights above the ring were bright through the smoke. There was a steady noise of talking and scraping of chairs. Some of the people shouted to Toussaint as he passed them. He looked at his opponent, who was already in the ring. The Italian had a scarred face and was a few pounds heavier than Toussaint. He was rubbing his feet in the rosin and pressing one glove into the palm of the other. Toussaint climbed into the ring and did some footwork while the announcer tried to get the crowd’s attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said. He was dressed in a tuxedo. “Tonight we have two good boys with us for the third bout. Wearing scarlet trunks at a hundred and ninety-five pounds is Toussaint Boudreaux, a local boy with eleven wins and one loss. His opponent in the opposite corner, wearing black trunks, at two hundred pounds is Anthony Pepponi from Chicago, Illinois, with seventeen wins and two losses—”
Toussaint and Archie went to the center of the ring to get the referee’s instructions. They came back to the corner and Archie climbed down through the ropes. Toussaint handed him his scarlet robe.
He moved out fast with the bell and started punching. Pepponi had the reach on him, but Toussaint stayed in close and kept his head low to catch most of the heavy blows on his forearms and to work in for a body attack. Pepponi opened his guard when he hooked, and Toussaint unloaded on him. His head jerked back and the Negro hit him twice in the rib cage with his left and slammed another right on his jaw before he could recover. Pepponi backpedaled, fighting defensively, then caught Toussaint on the chin with a long one. Toussaint moved in and worked on his midsection. He crouched low to keep under Pepponi’s arms. Pepponi fought his way out of the corner, jabbing with his left to keep Toussaint away, and sent a right to his brow. Toussaint took a punch on the forehead for every two punches to Pepponi’s body. The Italian was breathing hard. They tied up in the center of the ring and worked on each other’s kidneys until the referee separated them. The crowd applauded at the bell.
Archie climbed up on the apron with the wood stool. Toussaint had a thin split over his eye. Archie took out his mouthpiece and Toussaint rinsed his mouth from the water bottle and spit into the funnel.
“Stay in close and wait till he opens up,” Archie said, rubbing the Negro’s chest with a towel. “You hurt him with that first right. Keep working on his body. He’s winded, and he’ll have to try to put you away. If it keeps up like this you’ll have him on a decision.”
“He knows how to hit,” Toussaint said. He could feel the flesh draw tight around his eye.
“Ten seconds,” Archie said. “Remember, don’t try to cool him till he comes after you.”
Toussaint kept his guard high to protect the cut over his eye. Pepponi concentrated his punches on the Negro’s forehead. The leather slapped as Toussaint brushed away the jabs, and then there was a raw crack when Pepponi connected with that long right. The blood came down in Toussaint’s eye, hot and sticky. He straightened up and gave Pepponi a target, and then ducked a right and caught him in the solar plexus. The Italian wheezed and pulled his elbows in to cover his stomach. Toussaint tried to move in on him, but Pepponi clinched him. The Negro took two more punches on the eye. Pepponi was throwing everything he had to keep Toussaint away. Toussaint worked on his body to open him up. Pepponi fought more carefully. He knew that Toussaint was waiting to unload on him, and he was going to try to take the fight on a technical knockout.
Toussaint was badly hurt in the third round. Pepponi butted him in a clinch and lengthened the split over his eye. He could no longer see out of his left eye, and Pepponi’s right hand was outside his vision. His nose was swollen and the inside of his mouth was cut. He knew that he had lost the round.
In the corner, Archie wiped his face with a wet towel and worked on the left eye with a cotton swab. The taste of blood in Toussaint’s mouth made him faintly nauseated. He drank from the water bottle and spit it out. The fourth round was the last one. He would have to get Pepponi then, or it would probably be a split decision. Toussaint had the first two rounds on points, but Pepponi had the third and he would probably get the fourth.
Toussaint was unsteady on his feet as he came out of his corner. Pepponi hit him on the bridge of the nose. Toussaint feinted
with his left and drove a right hook into his side, just below the heart. Pepponi dropped his glove and Toussaint hit him hard across the side of the head. It knocked Pepponi against the ropes. Toussaint pinned him in the corner and went to work on him. He hooked a right into the Italian’s jaw, and then he felt a bone snap in the back of his hand. The pain rushed up his arm through his body, and made his eyes water. It had cracked like a dry stick. Pepponi got out of the corner and came towards him punching. Toussaint held his right glove in front of his face and tried to keep him away with his left. Toussaint feinted with his good hand to make him drop his guard, and shifted all his weight onto his left foot and drove an uppercut straight into the Italian’s throat. The pain almost made Toussaint pass out. Pepponi spit out his mouthpiece and stiffened as he bounced off the turnbuckle and sank to the floor with his head and arms hanging through the ropes.
He couldn’t get up before the final count. The referee came over and raised Toussaint’s arm to the crowd. Archie climbed up on the apron with the robe, and sponged his face and chest. The Negro’s eye was completely closed. Archie draped the robe on Toussaint’s shoulders, and they left the ring and made their way down the aisle to the locker rooms.
Toussaint lay down on the rubbing table while Archie tried to remove his glove.
“Your hand is swollen up like a rock,” he said. He cut away the glove with a razor blade. The leather peeled back from the edge of the razor. “That punch may’ve ruined your hand for good.”
Toussaint put his left arm across his face.
“The ring doctor will be here in a minute. Is it hurting bad?” Archie said.
“It’s numb now.”
“I don’t see how you did it.”
“I didn’t think about it. I saw him coming and it was over.”
“You got a rough shake. Maybe I didn’t have your hand taped tight enough.”
“The tape was all right. When I hit him he pulled his head in and I caught him with the back of my fist.”
Toussaint’s manager came into the locker room. He wore his hair in a crew cut and dressed in a dark business suit and silk tie with a jeweled tie clasp, and there was a Mason’s ring on his finger. His face was ruddy and there was hair on the back of his hands.
“What happened?” he said.
“He busted his hand.”
