My Brother's Keeper

By Tony Varnis

The lure of a potential title shot proves too much for retired boxer Dave Sturgis. In an attempt tp recapture past glory, he agrees to come out of retirement and stage a comeback attempt. A pure sports story about him and the people around him as he pursues his dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Varnis
• Release date: Jul 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540130075

Tony Varnis

A life long member of the working class, Vietnam veteran, bookbinder, warehouseman, retail worker, and laborer with a passion for good times, laughter, old cars, cold beer, Nordic skiing, and nature. I am most at home with the ordinary people of this world. The ones that interest me are the ones who have taken a few hard knocks in life and come up laughing. They are the ones who don't run from the rain, accepting that they are going to get wet and feel it's all a part of the journey; in other words the common clay that is the foundation of this world. These are the people I love and the ones I choose to write about. 

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Table of Contents

Dedication

My Brother’s Keeper

About the Author

To everybody who's ever reached out for the unreachable

My Brother’s Keeper

================================1===================================

Some people drink to forget, I’m one of those who drink to remember. It’s not that I need alcohol to fuel my thoughts on the past; it’s just that it makes the memories come easier. A few beers and I get in a nostalgic mood, especially when it’s about my brother. Like I said, I don’t need it, but it sort of lubricates the way. I mean, it’s hard not to think about my brother. The bar that I own, that we used to own jointly, is a living monument to him. You might have heard of him, if you were a fight fan back in the seventies and eighties; Dave Sturgis, AKA the Iron City Lightning Bolt the so called uncrowned welterweight champion.

Late at night, after I close up and the help have left, I occasionally draw myself a few beers and sit at one of the tables and reminisce. As I said, the bar is a tribute to his career; there are pictures of him and action shots of some of his fights all over the walls. The far wall is a kind of tribute to great old fighters that he’d read about and admired as a kid; Jack Dempsey, Gene Tunney, Joe Louis, Mickey Walker, Ray Robinson, Archie Moore, Tony Zale and of course no mention of fighters from this area would be complete without Harry Greb and Billy Conn. There are too many more to mention. It was his own personal little hall of fame. As I said, it’s hard not to think of him. Even the name of the bar, The Neutral Corner, evoked memories of his career.

So, where do I start? I think the best place would be the night that Curley Bannon and his entourage showed up; the start of my brother’s so called comeback. As I tell this little tale, I may drift back and forth between his first and second careers whenever I feel it is necessary, because the both are tied together; it really was just one career. You can’t have one without the other. Bear with me, please, and remember this is the ramblings of an aging beer soaked saloon keeper.

I remember the night Curley turned up unexpectedly at the bar like it was yesterday. Curley had been my brother’s manager before Dave quit the ring. We were both working that night, or I should be honest, I was working. Dave was mostly glad handing the customers, telling about his days in the ring, taking them to the far wall and pointing out various old timers and telling what he knew about them. I’m not complaining, it was great for business and it made him happy. Dave was never comfortable with his retirement; he missed the excitement and attention he used to get when he was fighting. This was his way of making up for it.

Curly literally burst into the place, that was his style; loud, bombastic. Curley was a short man with delusions of grandeur. He was connected with the rackets and made no secret of it, bragged about it actually. He wanted people to believe he was some big shot mobster when, in reality, he was a gopher and front man for the real syndicate boys. Curley was never one to let reality stand in the way of his image. He started out running a few sweatshops in the garment business, but wanted something more glamorous. He wanted something in sports, something manly, and boxing to him was the height of machismo. So the boys set him up with a stable of fighters, small timers. His function was to provide opponents for up and comers and local favorites on fight cards in the northeast part of the country. That was in the late fifties, in the waning days of overt mob control of the fight game. They still control it pretty well, make no mistake about that, but now they use other, more subtle ways, once upon a time they had complete control.

But, anyway by the late sixties Curley had wrangled his way into getting a few quality boys sent his way; not many, but enough to keep him happy. The problem was, despite all his years in the game, Curley didn’t know much about boxing. Like a lot of guys, he thought he knew a lot but in reality he didn’t. His view of fighters was based on what he’d seen as a young guy; the Graziano-Zale bloodbaths, Basilio and Fullmer slugging it out, Willey Pep and Sandy Saddler beating the hell out of each other, that sort of thing. He wanted every fighter he handled to be another Rocky Marciano, the irresistible force. But more on that later, I’m getting off track, I’ve warned you that I might do that, now back to that night.

When Curley showed up he spotted me first. He came over, arms widespread, the ever present cigar clutched between his teeth, grinning broadly.

Charlie, my boy, how the hell ya’ been? God damned good to see you again.

I thought for a moment he was going to hug me, but at the last minute he grabbed my hand with both his and began pumping it up and down. Then still grasping my hand with his right, he slapped me hard on the shoulder with his left. At least I’d been spared the indignity of an embrace. I really didn’t like the sawed off little blowhard.

So, Charlie, we was passin’ through town, and I figured I had to stop and see yoos guys. You remember Huffman, a course, and the nice smellin’ one there is Marie.

He was right, I remembered Huffman. Huffman was a trainer and, unlike Curley, he knew boxing. However, he fit Curley’s mold. He too favored hitters over stand up boxers and trained everyone in his charge to punch, hard and often. He dismissed efforts towards scientific fighting as a lot of Fancy Dan bullshit. The problem was my brother’s ability was as a boxer. He was a natural defensive fighter with a talent for stick and hit tactics. But he too admired the aggressive, heavy handed guys. So when Curley and Huffman started pressuring him to come down off his toes and trade punches, he bought into it hook, line, and sinker.

Then there was Marie. She wasn’t a bad looking woman, but she wasn’t great either. She had kind of a pretty face, but nothing special, and her build was slightly on the plump side, not fat but well cushioned. Aside from her full bust, there wasn’t anything physically outstanding about her. But there was something else; she radiated sex. It was like she was built for it. I’m not trying to sound misogynistic or anything like that, I’m just trying to describe her. I was to find out later, that