Chapter 2

It was a small arena, a basketball court in reality, but it was a sellout crowd. Dave’s comeback had a lot to do with that. He still had a small following; fans from the old days and others who wanted to see what kind of shape he was in. It was one of those occasions where someone on the undercard out drew the main event. The dressing room on the night of a fight is alive with nervous energy. Movies would have you believe that all fighters have a private dressing room, but that’s not the way it is, especially in the smaller venues. Sometimes, they’ll partition off parts of the locker rooms with curtains for the main event boys or for someone like my brother, who draws a crowd, but basically it’s just a locker room. You see or hear guys on the undercard going out for their matches while your guy waits his turn. Then, you see them coming back, flushed with victory or humiliated by a loss, often battered, win or lose. Occasionally, they’re badly hurt. It gets on your nerves just being there, and it’s worse for the fighters.

It was tense as we got ready, one of Finley’s corner men came in to watch Huffman bandage up Dave’s hands, and I did the same over in Finley’s area. We had to be sure there was no funny business going on. Once, Finley’s hands were taped, I initialed them with a felt tipped marker and returned to my brothers area. Dave was growing anxious, and it showed; he couldn’t stay still. That’s not a bad thing, since he was hopping up and down, shadow boxing, stretching, and anything else he could do to stay loose, he was also staying warm.

Finally they came and told us to get ready, it was our turn. We went down the corridor and out onto the court, past the rows of folding chairs that passed as “ringside seats”. The place erupted in cheers, Dave really did have a following here. I can only imagine what he was feeling, I know I was a nervous wreck; my heart was in my throat. I could hear Curley yelling over the noise.

“Here we go boys, just like the old days. Team Sturgis is back!”

I have to admit, I was caught up in the excitement, I thought perhaps Curley was right, maybe it was like the old days. Reaching our corner, we went up the steps to the ring. Huffman and I stepped on the lower rope and lifted up on the middle one allowing Dave to easily slip through into the ring from the apron with a quick bend at the waist. Once he was in, there was another burst of applause. Dave raised his right hand and turned in a circle, acknowledging the crowd.

From there he went about his business, checking the tension in the ring ropes, shuffling about the feel of the canvas underfoot, and that sort of thing. Now there’s another thing that goes on in boxing; some fighters try to make the other guy wait before they come into the ring. There are two main reasons to do this, the first is to make your opponent stew a bit; it plays on some guy’s nerves, it also forces them to cool off. The other is pure ego; they want to look like they are the more important. Dave was one of those guys who didn’t care. Finley seemed to be one of those who did, and he overplayed it. We waited almost five minutes for him to show. Dave showed no trace of annoyance on the surface, just continued to move about indifferently. At one point though, in the corner as he gripped the top rope and did several deep knee bends, he looked at me.

“That boy’s fuckin’ up.”

It was a simple statement but it spoke volumes. I knew what he meant; if he got a chance he was going to punish Finley. Finally, Finley emerged through the locker room doors and came towards the ring. Dave continued to ignore the whole thing. It was apparent Finley had been a big fish in a very small pond; he came in acting like he was the main go at Madison Square Garden with all the annoying affectations he’d seen the big timers use on TV. This guy didn’t seem to have a clue that he was just a tune up fight for Dave, somebody for target practice; literally a heavy bag with legs.

Perhaps it’s best that way, but he was setting himself up for a beating. Normally the idea would be to let the fight go the distance so Dave could get some practice, to see how much his skills had diminished during his lay off and make what adjustments were needed. Once he pissed my brother off by trying to show him up, however, Dave was looking for blood. The kid didn’t have a chance. By trying to make Dave look bad during the pre-fight, he guaranteed Dave was going to make him look bad during the fight. It wasn’t according to our plan, but it was the way it was going to be.

The kid had to make things worse, hopping around the ring waiting for the introductions he started yelling, “Going down, going down, time to finish him.”

During the introductions, he actually booed when Dave was introduced. As they went to the center of the ring for the referee’s instructions, he came out with a big shit eating grin on his face. Then he proceeded to indulge in one of those ridiculous stare downs. My brother had never been one to participate in that sort of thing. He had developed the habit of looking downward as if listening to the ref intently, ignoring the other guy. This night was no exception, but Finley leaned over so he could look up into Dave’s face, grinning and nodding his head. Up until then I’d been worried about Dave deviating from the plan, but now I didn’t care. If Dave wanted to bust this clown up, I was all for it; it was time for an attitude adjustment.

When the bell sounded to start the first round, they met in the center of the ring and Finley was still playing the fool. Bouncing around in front of Dave, he made a few threatening moves, but didn’t throw a punch. A few moments of this foolishness and Dave’s left lashed out, landing a couple of hard jabs to Finley’s face. Finley responded with a sloppy left-right combination. Dave bobbed under the left, snapped back away from the right, then stepped in with a jab and a hard, short right to the cheekbone, causing Finley to stagger slightly sideways. Finley answered with a wild series of wide swings in a desperate attempt to retaliate, Dave blocked them easily, then threw a quick left hook that set Finley back on his heels.

From that point on, it was all Dave, Finley was just a something to practice on; a glorified sparring partner. By the end of the first round it was apparent to everybody Dave was just playing with him. I’m not sure whether Finley and his handlers had figured it out yet, but there was no more showboating going on. One thing I could tell, they were seeing their shot at the big time sliding away. While Curley and Huffman were in the ring taking care of Dave’s needs, I stood on the apron and leaned through the ropes with my hand on his shoulder and yelled in his ear.

“Now, don’t get careless out there, you don’t want to get hit by one of this chump’s wild swings. You know he’s going to start throwing haymakers.”

He looked at me, nodded, and smiled. It was his way of assuring me he had the situation well in hand.

The second round went about the way I’d expected. Findley came out swinging recklessly hoping to turn things around. A couple of mad charges which Dave sidestepped adroitly, like a matador in a bull ring, and Finley was done, running out of steam. It had been a desperate, amateurish move and it had been a complete failure. From there it was like one of those old time shooting galleries, the kind where if you hit the moving target it changed direction. Dave would hit Finley, Finley would try and escape, Dave would cut off the ring and hit him again. A couple of times Finley would throw a feeble punch or two, Dave would avoid them leisurely and hit him again. Mostly he was hitting him with jabs, but they were taking their toll. No matter what anybody tells you about a jab not being a power punch, they’re still a punch in the face and they hurt.

In the third round, Dave decided it was time to end it. He came out stalking Finley, threw a few more jabs to confuse him, then double hooked, one to the body, followed by one to the head. “Climbing the ladder” it’s often referred to, and it is deadly. The shot to the head turned Finley as his knees buckled and he dropped to the side. He staggered up, more out of reflex than courage, and took the standing eight count. Then Dave closed in, backing him towards the ropes. He unleashed two quick, hard lefts to the head, then a short solid straight right. Finley dropped and pitched forward. He was on his knees and forearms, breathing heavily. He looked like a kid who’d just fallen off the jungle gym in the playground and was trying to figure out what had happened. He didn’t seem to notice or care about the referee counting to ten over him. Dave had sunk the showboat.

Now Dave had always been magnanimous in victory, but this time was an exception. He pretty much ignored Finley. There was no going over to shake hands or lie to the kid about how it had been a good fight. My brother’s distain for this fool was plainly evident. After the ring announcer pronounced Dave the winner by a knockout in the third, he waved to the crowd, acknowledging their cheers and left the ring. Finley sat in the corner with his handlers, still confused trying to figure out what had happened. I have no doubt he convinced himself that Dave had just gotten lucky.

We did a lot of high fiving back in the dressing room, but there was no big celebration. We all knew Finley hadn’t been much of a test, merely a trail run. Curley already had the next fight booked. A guy in Ohio named Delario. He was going to be a serious fight. He was what Dave had been a while back; a competent fighter on the way up. The plan was obvious to me now, the promoters wanted a money fight, they had two options; either the race thing, black guy vs. white guy, or Jessie Munro. Munro was a rated fighter; he’d fought Wade three times. He’d won one and lost twice. The angle there would have been a revenge match up, but they probably weren’t sure if the public would go for it. So, the winner of my brother’s fight with Delario would fight Munro with the winner of that one getting a shot at Wade for the title. It was all going to happen fast, too fast for my taste.

The training was stepped up also. No more working out at the Y or in some garage, Curley arraigned for Dave to work at a downtown gym, with a ready supply of trained sparring partners as opposed to the basically rank amateurs he’d had getting ready for Finley. The time table bothered me though. In order for this thing to work, Dave had to have one fight after another with the minimum amount of rest in between. Any kind of a tough fight, a decent cut, even a couple of clean knockdowns, and the whole thing would go off the tracks. If he got by Delario and Munro he would have to face Wade without a decent break. I tried to tell this to Dave.

“But, I used to fight once a month before, it’s no big deal. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is you’re not nineteen anymore. You’re over thirty, you can’t recoup like a young guy anymore. The difference is, I don’t know about Delario, but Munro and Wade aren’t a couple of push overs. They’re top of the line.”

“Neither one is as good as Rojas and I beat him, right?”

“Yeah, but Davey, face it, you caught him on an off night. He damn near killed you in the rematch. You can’t count on getting lucky again.”

“I thought you were on my side, now you’re pulling this bullshit. If you don’t think I can do this, then get the hell out, I don’t need the aggravation. I’m going all the way.”

“I am on your side, but I’m also looking out for your God damned interests. That’s more than Curley, Huffman, or that broad are doing.”

“Leave Marie out of this, she believes in me.”

So, that was it; the girl had done her job well. Dave was hooked, there would be no turning him back now.

“OK, I’m still on board, but I have to look at all sides of this; the good and the bad.” I paused for a moment. “The final decisions are yours. Do you still want me out?”

“No,” he said softly, “I need you in my corner.”

So it was decided, I was in this thing for the long haul despite my misgivings. I felt it as my job to find out as much about Delario as I could. Now this wasn’t as easy a thing as you’d think back in those pre-internet days. I had to call sports editors in Cleveland, Toledo, and Cincinnati to find out about this guy. He was physically the opposite of Dave. Where my brother was tallish and slender, Bob Delario was about four inches shorter and heavier built. Where Dave’s real talent was as a crafty boxer, Delario’s was his strength. Don’t be fooled, when you’re dealing with welter and middle weights, they are strong and can hit. It’s easy to be fooled by the weights involved, but you must remember a welter weight at 147 pounds is in excellent shape; his walking around weight is probably ten to twenty pounds heavier. They aren’t little guys. Middleweights are probably pound for pound the best fighters in the business. Both classes have speed, power, and the ability to take it.

From what I learned about Delario’s style, I figured if Dave stayed on his toes and boxed him, he should be able to take him. There were two problems, his age and the fact that Curley and Huffman would like to see him go toe to toe trading punches. The age thing, there was nothing we could do about that. The Finley fight hadn’t even given us a chance to see how much his stamina may have diminished. It hadn’t lasted long enough for him to be even lightly tested. As far as slugging it out, I would just keep repeating “box, don’t slug” over and over again to him like a mantra, hoping it would sink in.

The training went much better, we were working with professionals now. There were guys who’d seen Delario fight and could tell us what to expect. There were guys who could imitate his style when sparring. A surprise advantage was that in a gym with other trainers, Huffman began acting more like a pro than he had in that garage gym. Being surrounded by peers seemed to bring something out in him. Now he wasn’t acting like Curley’s marionette. I was glad to see that.

I dropped by the gym fairly often to kind of keep an eye on how things were going and to keep putting my two cents worth in. I kept telling him to remember, stick and hit, hit and move, don’t try going punch for punch. Oddly, Huffman agreed with me, but for different reasons, he wanted to see how Dave would hold up in the later rounds. He was also concerned about the possibility of cuts, as I said, a bad one could derail the whole deal. Wade and his people weren’t going to wait around forever, any delay and they would give the fight to Munro. I didn’t care what his reasons were, all I knew was with both of us pushing for him to box, he would probably listen.