Powerful Pasts and Fortuitous Futures

Tommy’s eyes creaked open. He glanced down at his watch. 7PM. The hands never moved. His gaze wandered from Vinnie to Carl before finally resting on Joey. He stared blankly as Carl shuffled forward, swallowed nervously and removed his flat cap.

“It happened again buddy, round seven.”

Tommy exhaled and turned away allowing the elegant figure of Nancy Cardone to fill his vision. Her scent teased at his nostrils as she glided towards the bed.

“Oh God what did he do to you” she breathed.

She paused pensively whilst stroking Tommy’s face as she studied the cuts and bruises.

Mary jumped onto the bed.

“Uncle Tommy! What happened to you?”

Tommy’s stoic exterior melted as he embraced her.

Joey’s raspy voice sliced through the tender exchange.

“C’mon pal, we don’t wanna see you like this anymore… neither does she,” he gestured down towards Mary.

Warm tears trickled down Tommy’s cheeks as he muttered.

“What else am I good for?”

Joey looked at the floor before continuing.

“You're just not the same fighter…or the same Tommy I knew before the war.”

They were right, he was no longer the cocky kid from Brooklyn who was destined to be World Champion. He was just a half-decent boxer, who got beaten to a pulp for a living. War had infected him with paranoia and tortured his mind ever since that fateful day, during the battle of Bataan.

One of the platoon, everybody affectionately nicknamed Rio made the ultimate sacrifice. Upon receiving news of the imminent Japanese threat, he volunteered himself to hold their position, allowing the men to retreat behind a ridge into dense jungle, providing cover for an evacuation, two clicks away.

Tommy’s indecision was obvious as the rest of them retreated. Rio flashed him a smile and shouted.

“You gon hurt your damn neck always looking backwards.”

As they reached the ridge, the Japanese, came tearing out of the thicket, bayonets drawn. Rio dispatched of the first few using an abandoned machine gun, before grappling with another, turning one of their bayonets against them and for an impossible second seemed untouchable. Withdrawing his pistol, he continued firing as more charged, their war cry piercing the peaceful sunset.

As the platoon were evacuated a few hours later, no one spoke. Joey wept and Tommy sat with vomit staining his boots, staring at his watch. The hands stood still at 7pm. They weren’t aware yet, but they were among the lucky few who avoided capture and the infamous Bataan Death March that many of their captured comrades faced.

Rio was different. In a time where segregation was rife, he was valued by his white counterparts. His tanned skin and wavy hair could pass for European rather than his Jamaican-American heritage, which is how he found himself in a platoon with Joey, Vinnie, Tommy and Carl.

They quickly became brothers and Rio was the glue that held them together. His charm and gregarious attitude was infectious and he would have half the platoon captivated by his starlit stories of New Orleans. During the day, his impressions of officers and renditions of Louis Armstrong kept spirits high.

And when he spoke of segregation, the others began to understand the hypocrisy of fighting for freedom and liberation abroad, when the same principles did not exist back home.

He would describe his childhood struggles, how his father made watches for a living, how his family moved to New York to escape racial judgement and of how he met his sweetheart Nancy Cardone.

The story would change so often that none of them ever knew the true version. They didn't care, each tale was better than the last and was a beacon of hope during a time of violence and despair.

In some ways Tommy and Rio were once similar and there had been an unspoken rivalry between them.

However, whilst war robbed Tommy of his cocky bravado and humour, it had quite the opposite effect on Rio who filled the void which Tommy left, whilst he was consumed by fear and circumstance.

Tommy admired Rio for this and they would often find themselves away from the others, sharing a cigarette, deep in conversation.

One evening they were staring out at the Pacific as smoke rose into the sky and gun fire echoed in the background.

Rio leaned over.

“Ey brother, take this.”

He handed Tommy a leather-strapped watch.

“My pops made that, said it told him that time stands still for no one.”

He looked at the watch before bursting into laughter.

“And if you keep looking backwards, you gon hurt your damn neck.”

They grinned allowing the rays of the evening sun to warm their faces.

Back stateside, two months had passed since Tommy’s loss and he was training again, despite his friend's disapproval.

The sun was glorious as Rio sat outside sipping a beer. The sound of metal grating caught his attention as an old African-American man leaned over and handed him a leaflet.

“Here you go son.”

With that, he walked away, disappearing around a street corner.

Rio raised an eyebrow, it was an advertisement for a boxing gym in East Harlem. He inspected the leaflet before walking to the corner and peering around. There was no sign of the gentleman who had left it for him.

The next afternoon Rio found himself hesitantly pushing a heavy wooden door painted with the word Ramirez. He was greeted with the musky smell of leather, blood and sweat.

“Tommy come in, warm up”. The old man from yesterday was sat on the edge of the ring, a small black book by his side.

“How do you know me…Ramirez? Tommy muttered suspiciously.

The old man nodded, “I came to your last fight, terrible shame, there’s much to be done”.

Tommy got changed, stretched and warmed up, still confused.

“Look old timer, I've got a way of doing things and I ain’t no spring chicken.”

“Ten rounds of skipping followed by five rounds of pad work, off you go,” Ramirez barked, ignoring Tommy’s comment.

Tommy grabbed a skipping rope and began. Sweat dripped from his nose as he breathed heavily. The intensity continued throughout the session and every time Ramirez was forced to bark at Tommy for not relaxing his mind or overthinking, he would scribble in his black book.

“Ey boss what you got there anyway?” Tommy would ask.

“You’ll know when you need to know” Ramirez would quip.

Day after day Tommy returned. There was some sadistic pleasure in it. Weeks had passed since he had touched alcohol and his brain felt sharp. His muscles rippled as his speed and strength became finely tuned.

Whatever Ramirez’s plan was, it seemed to be working. Tommy no longer argued with suggestions of his old training regime, but seemed to fully embrace methods and challenges in front of him. He was no longer overcautious with his combinations and no longer held back to conserve energy when he was running, sparring or thunderously punching the heavy bag. There was an internal freedom and peace which his friends recognised within him.

They were in the midst of another training session when Ramirez slapped a contract on the table.

“You’ve got a Charity match son, one month from now, the full fifteen rounds but nothing too heavy.”

Tommy’s excitement was unmistakeable, “You got it boss” as he glanced over the legal jargon and signed the pages.

“It’s against Tony Devante though” Ramirez said slowly.

Tony was small, hit like a canon and was the middleweight World Champion. The quiet, smouldering type who could steamroll you, if you didn’t apply smart tactics.

“Devante is doing a charity match with me?” Tommy asked incredulously.

“To honour the WW2 vets, he’s giving someone the chance to get in there with him, you in or out?” Ramirez pinned him with an intense stare.

“I’m in” Tommy exclaimed, sliding the signed contract across the table, in disbelief.

That month Tommy stayed at the gym, away from the outside world, drilling tactics and trying to relax. He would spend long evenings talking with Ramirez about boxing, the war and life. Ramirez would listen quietly and nod before referring to his little black book and scribbling.

On the night of the fight Tommy had warmed up, and was ready. Ramirez smiled for the first time since they’d met and placed the little black book on the table in the changing room.

“After this, the book is yours boy.”

Tommy took a deep breath and looked down, “I don’t know how to thank you for…”

“Enough kid, we’ll talk after,” Ramirez declared before directing Tommy towards the door.

Tommy pressed the leather of his gloves together as he walked to the ring, Ramirez following just behind. As he stepped through the ropes he could hear Joey and Vinnie cheering from the crowd.

“There’s a lot of people here for a charity match” Tommy shouted as Ramirez unrobed him.

“Cmon kid, forget them, you’re here to do a job”.

As the bell for round one sounded, the boxers met in the middle of the ring, pawing at each other trying to find openings and landing occasional clean strikes.

This continued until round six. The tension was thick and the spectators could sense that fireworks may go off at any moment. In the final minute, Tony caught Tommy with a vicious uppercut which sent him reeling backwards. He landed a few venomous body shots before Tommy fired back and was able to narrowly escape.

The crowd roared in approval as Tommy returned to his stool dreading what he thought was the inevitable in round seven.

Ramirez saw the nerves as he sat down. “Relax kid, you’re thinking too much. Stay away from that left hook and just let it flow. Remember the past is the past and that should be where it stays”.

In round seven, Tommy’s accurate punches found their mark. Blood trickled from the eyebrow and nose of Tony, as Tommy danced around him. Surges of adrenaline coursed through his veins as he played matador and broke the round seven curse.

Twenty eight seconds into round eight everything changed. Tony caught him with a monstrous left hook. Tommy’s ears rang as his vision became hazy and nausea overcame him.

He could taste the salty canvas as he started to hallucinate. The referee’s count seemed far away. Whilst he staggered to his knees, a familiar face stepped through the ropes and dragged him to his feet before whispering in his ear.

“If you keep looking backwards, you gon hurt your damn neck,” whispered Rio.

The last seven rounds Tommy fought on pure, instinct. He felt free and fearless. The cautious chess match was long gone. They traded blows to the final bell, before collapsing in an embrace.

Both received a standing ovation as the referee brought the two men to the centre of the ring and read out the judges scores.

Tommy didn’t care, he was looking for Ramirez, who had vanished. As Tony was declared the winner, Tommy vaulted the ropes and sprinted out of the stands back to the changing room.

It was empty save for the black book and his watch which now ticked away quietly.

He grabbed the book and flicked through the pages reading hundreds of the same scrawled lines.

“Time stands still for no one”

“If you keep looking back…you gon hurt your damn neck.”

He sank to the floor as Joey, Vinnie, Carl, Nancy and Mary came bursting through the door along with various members of paparazzi snapping pictures and shouting questions.

“Tommy, are you gonna take the rematch?!”

“Tommy, how does it feel to get your first $20,000 purse?!”

Shock was etched over Tommy’s face as his eyes darted around the room.

Joey’s voice cut through the commotion as he grabbed Tommy, “That wasn’t no charity fight Tom, you just fought for a world title and that was the best damn loss I’ve ever seen.”