My father took a dive in ’52 for $800, but I, Hugo Sprawling, swore to god and everybody that I would never throw a fight. They would have to kill me first; they almost did. The meteoric fall of my pugilistic pursuit, my sweet science slide into obscurity, ended on an August night in ’69. Agents of the fix put poison in my sponge bucket. I was blind from the seventh round to the bloody finale. How I made it through the fourteenth I’ll never know. The ref stopped it at the bell: TKO.
I’ve worked my life out like a splinter ever since, trading one wound for another. My one true love went out on me after her sister committed suicide. She was convinced I had slept with her sister. I hadn’t. We split.
Years went by for the broken hearted ex-boxer (that’s me). I found myself living in a converted boathouse by the river, still working out religiously, training methodically for the title fight that would never come.
I worked as a bouncer at a Blind Pig on Franklin for five years. Towards the end the DJ got his throat slit in the line of duty. I took over the groove-cutting. I introduced Kraftwerk and YMO to the funk contingent. Play that funky music kraut boy. Just when I thought I had found a new reason to live we were raided and shut down.
The boathouse fit like a glove. I was in prime condition. Five miles of roadwork at sunrise. Two hours of stretching/shadowboxing/jump rope. Then across the river to my new job at the city park. I emptied trash cans and stabbed litter with a pike. It kept me in pocket money. Then two more hours of stretching/shadowboxing/jump rope. Wait, we’re not done yet. Speed bag/heavy bag/speed bag/heavy bag, and, you guessed it, more stretching/shadowboxing/jump rope. You do that five days a week and you’ll feel like un-fucking-defeated Rocky Marciano, too.
I was hitching my way back from some shitkicker dive in Marne. Was it called The Sack of Pain, or was that just the way it made me feel? I finally caught a lift from a disappointed rustic perv. We were carjacked by some mutt outside of Conklin. This dog looked like Cerberus made out of steel wool. He wouldn’t move until I opened the door. He jumped in and claimed me as his own. Xavier was a mongrel, just like me. He would have been a boxer if he wasn’t a dog. I would have been a poet if I wasn’t a boxer.
I lost some money in a poker game. It took me a few weeks to get the scratch up. The trouble was the lenders only gave me a week. They shot Xavier to send a message. Message received.
I was in prime condition. Did I say that already? I started getting ideas. I wanted to believe in something bigger than me, but it just wasn’t happening. I trusted no one and didn’t believe in shit. Criminal thoughts were intoxicating when aimed at the truly criminal—the real crooks in life. It was a new beginning. The bottom of the food chain seemed like a good place to start. I was carving theories from sweat and angst. It was scary. My few friends were scared. They said, “You need to get out more.” Do I? They invited me to party.
She was the hottest flame in the room and I was looking to get burned. Built like a cupcake and frosted to perfection, she was a short-term solution to a long-term problem. Fuck that. Fuck this party. Fuck this town. I needed to get outside, go downtown and put my theories into practice.
I left the loft and the insufferable party behind. I walked across Sixth Street Bridge and crisscrossed my way down the river to the Black & Silver Ballroom, then back over the pedestrian bridge behind The Grand Hotel.
I walked to Pearl Street, turned east and approached the underpass. I was looking to get mugged and I knew just where to be.
They had the jump on me. The one in front smiling, hooded, ambling slowly towards me. The second emerging from the shadows of the underpass, from behind, breathing heavily while emitting an animal growl.
My smile is nothing to write home about. I flashed it anyway. “My wallet, you want?” I said, dangling it in his face.
“Don’t be smart. Hand it over.”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
I threw the wallet with some authority over his shoulder. I crouched down and with all the force I could muster I drove my elbow below the belt of the heavy breathing animal. I rolled forwards head-over-heels at the frustrated hoodie. He spied my approach and pulled a knife. Instead of standing I lay flat as an anchovy and rolled towards him, inviting him to kick me in the ribs. I had visualized this move for weeks. Now I put it to the test. He swung his legs back to kick me as I had predicted. Before his leg came forward, I rolled faster taking away the space he needed for leverage. I grabbed ahold of his leg, smothered his forward progress and lifted. He fell. I grabbed the knife; slit his throat so quickly it surprised even me. The animal slunk away not wanting any of my action. I retrieved my wallet: no cash, no credit cards, no ID. I walked home as happy as Charles Bronson.