The Quick and the Rest

By Frank Nacozy

At the age of five, Tony Huarte receives a prophesy from an erotic gypsy woman a birthmark, he is told, reveals that he has a special gift of quickness. Pilar, the sensuous, spell-casting fortune-teller, is also a world-class flamingo dancer. She takes Tony under her wing and introduces him to 40s jazz music, inspiring his lifetime love of jazz. As early as ten, Tonys elite quickness and determination, spurred on by Pilar and his uncle Pablo, enable him to have early triumphs in the youth boxing tournaments.
Set against the 50s - 80s jazz scene, The Quick and The Rest is a 120,000 word fiction novel. It is the chronicle of a young boy of simple emigrant parents who discovers that he is gifted with elite reactions and hand-eye coordination. His profession as a boxer and the aftermath take him and his boyhood football companion Charlie on a wild odyssey through the brutal championship fights, the bright lights of the jazz world, the dangerous contacts with criminals, the adventure of an epic sail, and the encounters with many stunning, but problematic, women. Tonys penchant and magnet for violence outside the ring leave him with a smashed right hand, several dead men and his challenge for the top of the professional boxing world severely, as well as his physical and mental well-being, jeopardized. These violent engagements are, for the most part, the result of his obsession with highly desirable women and the fast living that accompany them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493154425

Frank Nacozy

The Quick and The Rest is a work of fiction that draws heavily on the author’s knowledge and experience in the fight world and his many sailing passages, as well as the eclectic group of fighters, sailors, jazz musicians and ladies that he has encountered. While attending the University of Notre Dame on a physics scholarship, he became the Light-Heavyweight Boxing Champion. He continued to develop his boxing skills and knowledge of ‘the-sweet-science’ by sparring in the fight gyms of Santa Monica and Los Angeles for a ‘dollar-a-round,’ for as many as 30-40 rounds a week for several years. Growing up in Los Angeles during the ‘jazz years,’ he frequently visited the many jazz venues of LA and came to love the music and value its messengers, both as artists and as very witty company. After seven years of amateur boxing, he replaced its excitement and electricity for the adventure and beauty of sailing. For over 30 years he sailed in Southern California waters and then spent 7 years cruising the Mexican Riviera and the Caribbean’s Windward and Leeward Antilles. His first book, Currents Beneath the Sea was written while living on his sailboat in Puerto Vallarta and Zihuatanejo. It is a blend of factual/fiction that parallels some of his own experiences and adventures in both the sailing and pugilistic worlds.

Book preview

Chapter 1

There is nothing like the tension and electricity abundant in the crowd in live attendance for a world heavyweight championship fight. It was a clash that boxing aficionados all over the world had been anticipating for more than three years between two unbeaten, famous and thrilling warriors.

The big fight night arrived on November 8, 1968 at Madison Square Garden. The Garden, the Mecca of the boxing world, usually held 20,000 for a concert, but tonight the championship fight had attracted another 2000 stuffed into impromptu, $500 ringside seats filled with the celebrities of the entertainment and sports world, plus the news media, judges and corner men.

Jimmy Lennon clad in a splendid, black tuxedo, grabbed the lowered mike, in the middle of the brilliantly lit and famous ring, and announced, in a voice, dramatic with excitement, Ladies and gentlemen; welcome to the thousands in attendance here at Madison Square Garden and the millions watching in theaters around the world. Fifteen rounds of boxing for the Heavyweight Championship of the World!

Calming his delivery slightly, Lennon continued on, This fight is fully sanctioned by the World Boxing Commission, J.D. Hayes, president and the New York State Athletic Commission, Floyd Patterson, presiding. The judges at ringside are Michal Shea, Robbie Young and Jose Hulimon. Your referee, in charge of the action is Robert Hunter. Counting for the knock-downs and the time-keeper at the bell is Artie Idalla.

Then letting the enthusiasm back into his delivery, he motioned to the fighters and continued, In the red corner, wearing black trunks, the undefeated challenger at 208 pounds with a record of 31 wins, no losses, with 27 of those wins coming by way of a knockout. He is ranked number one in all three sanctioned boxing authorities. He is the gold medal winner from the Melbourne Olympics, the undefeated and former Light-Heavyweight Champion of the World, from Los Angeles, The Golden Basque, Tony Huarte, Huarte! Big applause and Tony forced a grim smile on his handsome face and very tanned countenance—a result of his Mediterranean ancestry and his daily running and sailing—and danced a little around the ring, still very much in his ‘fight zone’, not really fully aware of anything around him except his upcoming epic entanglement with the champion Young.

Lennon bellowed on in his melodious Irish tenor, In the blue corner, wearing burgundy trunks, the Heavyweight Champion of the World, defending his world title for the eighth time. He weighed in at 225 pounds, with a record of 45 wins, no losses and 1 draw, with 25 knockouts, from New Jersey, Ellis Young, Young! Even bigger applause from a rather ‘proximity to hometown’ crowd, as the very loose and finely chiseled, black champion pranced around the ring. He was resplendent, if a bit flamboyant, in a flowing, silk burgundy robe.

By contrast, Tony was in a simple black robe and looking very somber—black, curly hair, cut short—still locked in his pre-fight, hypnotic state.

He barely registered the parade of well-wishers that past through the ring. His usual, pleasantly-eager anticipation for a big fight was not there.

This was the moment that his whole life had pointed towards—the most important and toughest fight of his professional career. The twenty years of countless push-ups, innumerable pull-ups, endless stomach exercises, tens of thousands of miles jogged and sprinted, hour-a-day punching drills, thousands of rounds of sparring and 31 previous professional victories, his 80-fight, undefeated amateur carrier, his gold medal, had all aimed towards this one climatic fight. For Tony, the Light-Heavyweight Championship and the Olympic gold, while tremendous achievements for most fighters, had just been stepping-stones to this, the Heavyweight Championship. He knew that this chance would never come again. He thought that if he lost tonight, that journey, work and pain would all have been partially in vain as he would have not attained his ultimate goal.

Why am I here? He thought. Challenge? Yes! Money? Hell Yeah! Fame? Definitely!

Ironically, for the first time in all of his fights, Tony knew that he wasn’t as prepared for this 15-round battle with the greatest fighter in the world as he had been for all of his previous fights. The legal and romantic distractions that had plagued him over the four-month training regime had eroded his focus and had left him in less than his usual, ideal fitness. Too many clashes outside the ring, Too many visits to the cops. Too many trips to the lawyers. Too many sleepless nights worrying about the woman and the troubles that she had caused me. The aftermath of the food poisoning—and whatever mystical, elite quickness the gypsy may have added, that’s gone too, he reluctantly thought. He hadn’t wholly believed in her ‘alleged’ magic powers until right now—now that he felt that he had lost them. This belief further undermined his customarily absolute confidence for the battle, now only minutes away, and left him jittery and nervous and with an edge of doubt.

Fuck all that—just do it! Tony grimaced, setting his jaw. Didn’t get my toughness, amy iron will, my determination from training or the gypsy. It’s an innate part of me—that’s the part that’ll keep me in this fight!

Chapter 2

The Mark of The Quick

Tony’s first hint of specialness occurred when he was six-years-old at his baptism. The function had been delayed for all those years because of religious differences between his parents. His father, Pablo, was a staunch atheist, while his mother, Juana, a devout Catholic.

Pablo, a strongly handsome, muscular metalworker and engine mechanic, had recently emigrated with his wife from the Basque city of Bilboa to the United States. In his youth he had been a great football player, starring for four years on the all-Basque team, Athletic Bilboa. After tearing his Achilles tendon in a match against Real Madrid, he was forced to retire from athletics and became a merchant marine. He shipped out regularly aboard a large freighter, the Gigantae, running between Lisbon, Cape Town and Long Beach.

Tony’s mother, Juana, came from a long line of flamenco dancers. She had been born in the small village of Algorta, in the province of Biscay. She was a fine-featured, dark-eyed, golden-hued woman. She had a massive head of curly, black hair and was of a slender build with the dancer’s shapely legs.

Tony’s parents, like most new immigrants, lived in a loosely bounded neighborhood of similar ethnic roots. There was a small Basque group in the western part of the San Fernando Valley, where they spoke a common Castilian Spanish, mixed with a little of the old Basque language, Euskara.

Juana confided in one of her comely Basque girlfriends, This ‘no baptism’ stuff is going to end. I’ve cut off Pablo’s sex for over two weeks. I’m going to light him up tonight, that’ll soften him up for the baptism.

Yeah, the old ‘vaginal wrench’, that works on our Basque men most of the time, agreed her friend. Get ’em hard to soften ’em up!

When Juana’s husband finally relented to the baptism, (it took almost an entire week of ‘softening up’), it was performed with a small gathering at a side altar at St. Bilboa, in the west end of the sprawling highlands of Calabasas, just outside of Los Angeles.

The area was surrounded by rolling hills, large oak trees, grape vines and silver-green olive trees. The scent of the grapes, the ripe olives and those rotting on the ground, brought back the setting, aroma and memories of the old country to the Basques that had gathered for the ceremony.

Tony was born in his mother’s little town of Algorta and was brought to America at the age of two. His parents had met ten years earlier, at a fandango dance in the market place. Stereotyped Basques were known as the ‘Original Gypsies’. Today’s definition of Gypsies is self-sufficient bands of people traveling and living off the land, selling their wares and talents.

These talents included sheep herding, repairing things and entertainment. They were masters of the guitar, violin, dancing, singing, slight-of-hand, fortune telling, casting spells and perhaps, a few of the women, dabbling in the world’s oldest profession. They were also fine marksmen and excellent fishermen. In addition, they had many talents of a rather dubious nature that lay more toward thievery and the commandeering of any property, house, stable or field, that was not continuously attended.

If you were born and raised in any of the little Basque villages in the mountains of the Pyrenees, a region between France and Spain, you were immersed in a culture where gypsies, believers in the occult, fortune tellers, mixed with their opposites; stern Roman Catholics, who were mostly peasant fishermen.

In attendance at the baptism was a just such a gypsy, Pilar. She was from Cibour and was the principle dancer, in the Basque Fandango style, at a large restaurant called Barcelona, in the valley. She was twenty seven-years old, tall, just under six feet, with a taut, smoothly muscled body, especially her lengthy legs. She was sternly attractive, with strong, high cheekbones, long, straight, raven-black hair, large, severe, black eyes and a sharply aquiline nose. She dressed always in a flamboyant style, spectacularly and suggestively. All and all, she gave off an arresting, if not slightly sinister aura. She was rumored to have a voracious sexual appetite, even though she, for the most part, kept her trysts—particularly if they were with married men—discrete. She was very masculine in her romances, and had aggressively taken many men to her bed and, when through with them, had unceremoniously discarded them.

One of these abrupt discards had been Pablo, after a secret, heated, but brief affair, less then a month before.

As the baptism ceremony was about to start, Pilar placed her hand on young Tony’s shoulder and guided him to sit on a bench near the baptismal fountain. She, with one arm upraised with a dance-like flourish, in a commanding voice, dramatically announced, He was born under a special star and will achieve extraordinary things. She then bent down and pulled off his left shoe and stocking and lifted up his foot. See this? she demanded of the small group. The lightening-shaped birthmark on the bottom of his foot. Back in the old country, that exact mark appeared only on men who did great deeds.

Tony was both embarrassed and intrigued by this surprising revelation. He shyly eased his way out of Pilar’s grasp, managed to get his shoe back on and edged back to the waiting priest at the fountain.

At a break in the religious ceremony, Pilar took it upon herself to anoint Tony’s chest and forehead with some balm she had conjured up, mumbling some incoherent incantation over him. As the priest attempted to shoo her away, she gave him a vicious scowl and continued on, rather stridently, prophesying, "Quick! He will have the quickness!"

This startled Tony and from then on, he began wondering if this was true.

His mother had just enough superstition to believe, or wanted to believe, especially for her only son, in these signs.

My grandfather was the strongest man in Biscay province, he had a similar mark on his palm—maybe that’s it, great strength? she remarked, in a whisper, to Pablo.

Pablo had become hostile towards the gypsy over the two years since he had known her; first because of her dogmatic superstitions, but the second, and more compelling reason, was because he was still carnally attracted to her, especially after her ravenous use and abrupt rejection of him.

Loud enough so Pilar could hear him, but not the priest or most of the congregation, Pablo, in Euskara, said, Crazy bitch. Always reading books on spells and mumbling shit. I came to this country to get away from those old superstitions and mystical crap.

This stung Pilar, knowing the real reason for his resentment was her discard of him and her refusal to get re-involved. She glared at him and hissed, also in Euskara that only she, Pablo, Juana and a few others understood, I saw in the tea leaves, just this morning, that you will die a watery death, and soon.

Yeah and I saw you making love to a broom! What bullshit! If this was Salem, two hundred years ago they’d have burned you at the stake! retorted Pablo, a bit loudly.

What a nasty thing to say! She’s not a witch. Doesn’t cast evil spells. Just believes in astrology and signs and mystical chants, Juana retorted.

After a sharp scowl at Pablo, Juana continued, I believe her, Tony is special! This last part was in English and could be heard by everyone, including a startled Tony.

He’s a sturdy little boy, but there’s nothing magic about him, Pablo scoffed.

How do you know? He’s only six. You don’t believe in anything that you can’t see or touch. You don’t even believe in God.

Oh don’t start that old shit again. I let you baptize him didn’t I?

Yeah, just before he’s starting school, she said, while thinking that maybe another sexual drought was in order.

A year after the baptism, Pablo actually was drowned in a maritime collision, between his freighter, the Gigantae and another, the Spirit of The East, in the fog off the Cape of Good Hope.

Tony, before his eighth year, was fatherless. The boy thought, maybe the gypsy had put a curse on father. This made him afraid of her. But then he thought, maybe she just sees the future. Maybe she sees things that will happen like my ‘quickness’? Doesn’t make them happen. He tried to take a little comfort from that, but still he missed his dad, and he was still fearful of Pilar.

Tony was sandwiched in age between two sisters, Gela, the older one and Maria, the younger. The four of them lived in a small, three-bedroom house in a rundown part of North Hollywood. The mortgage was fully paid off with his father’s insurance. This, along with full-time phone operator and the part-time professional dancing of his mother, allowed them to scrape by.

Pilar paid a lot of attention to Tony. She was attentive, but stern, with him. She possessed a serious and often severe air about her that was unusual for a woman so young. He eventually got over his fear of her and, for the next several years, was strongly influenced by her. She frequently re-enforced in Tony, her firm belief that he was special and had the ‘quickness’. She also introduced him to jazz music.

She was usually home during the day, performing nights as a dancer, and lived alone in a modern apartment situated along Tony’s four-block walk from elementary school to home. He stopped by her apartment often since his mother didn’t get home from her day job until four o’clock. Pilar had a vast collection of vinyl 33&1/3 jazz records of the 40s and 50s. She had an old Benny Goodman tune ‘Sing Sing Sing’ loudly playing when he stopped by one day for a sandwich which she usually had ready for him on the way home from third grade. He had heard the popular vocal track sung by the Andrew Sisters on the radio at home but had never heard anything like this rendition. He became fascinated with Goodman’s piece and insisted on hearing it over and over again. After the third time, Pilar began to get a little bored with it and turned him on to Artie Shaw’s high-flying clarinet version of Cole Porter’s ‘Begin The Beguine’. Amazed, that at his early age of nine, she had found a common connection with him that would make his short visits more special.

She had a pretty high-quality record-playing system, for the late 40s, and Tony was able to hear, for the first time, not only this creative and imaginative art form, but in fidelity ten times better than from the cheap radio at home.

Listen, I’ve got some other music that you will like, she told him, a few visits later.

She turned him on to Tommy Dorsey, Harry James, Louie Armstrong. Soon he was into Charlie Parker, Dizzy and Billy Holiday.

After two or three months of Tony’s dropping by Pilar’s apartment, grabbing a small sandwich and listening to the greats of jazz, she suddenly announced to him, I’m leaving for an extended tour of Europe, with a Spanish dance troop. I’ll be gone indefinitely, maybe three or four years, so I’m giving up this apartment and putting my things in storage.

Tony tried to hide his disappointment, but Pilar picked up on it and added, very seriously, You know that I am a true gypsy and we are born to wander the earth and entertain ourselves and those we meet.

Then she gave him the most meager smile and said, But I’m leaving all my records and music system with you. Because you love them, I know you will take good care of them.

Tony got a jolt of joy and said, Thanks Pilar. I’ll miss you, but the music is wonderful and will help me remember you.

Do not forget your gift of quickness. Have you decided how to best use it? she scolded.

Not really, but maybe sports. I’m already good at running and touch football and things like that. I guess that’s ‘the quickness’?

Of course. But I’ve been thinking about it too, she said. Although unusual for most women, Pilar was a great fight fan. She loved the violence and the superbly masculine specimens as they fought. In fact she had taken a few to her bed. I think that you should be a boxer. Quickness is extremely important in that sport.

You mean like you see on T.V.? Thinking of the Gillette Cavalcade of Sports that he watched once and a while when he was visiting a buddy whose dad would watch the Friday Night Fights.

Yes. I have a friend that used to box that’ll take us to watch some live fights at the Hollywood Legion Stadium. Would you like to go next Saturday with us and see them live?

Wow! That would be great!

That was when Tony got his first real exposure to boxing. The crowds, the cheering the knockdowns; he watched it all, wide-eyed with excitement.

Pilar, I want to do that when I’m grown up.

You’ll be the best! she predicted.

After Pilar left, he continued his daily sessions with the music. He’d set up the system in his own room and discovered some of the even more sophisticated jazz recordings in her collection of Duke Ellington and Count Basie.

Tony had perfect pitch, that is, he had the ability to identify a given musical note. Later, as he grew older and had more musical exposure, he could identify the musical key, (the set combination of sharps or flats) of a given piece of tonal music. This special gift of hearing enabled him to profoundly enjoy music. This fondness and pleasure continued, even intensified, throughout his life.

Tony’s main influence, after Pilar left on tour, was his mother’s brother, Siva. The uncle was a hard-working laborer, climbing up ladders, carrying wet cement to upper stories at construction sites, doing cement-work by hand, on slabs and retainer walls. He was of medium height and size, but very strong from his 10-hour a day, 6-day-a-week labors. He had done a little professional boxing, but was not quick or skilled enough for any real success.

When Tony was ten, at the request of his sister, Siva, being childless himself, hired Tony as a cement assistant for a dollar-a-day during the summer months. Tony’s job included mixing together, with a shovel and pick-ax, the rock, sand, cement and water in a large metal trough. When he had it all properly mixed, he would shovel the concrete into a wheelbarrow and wheel it to the site his uncle was working at.

After a few months, Tony was digging trenches and setting up forms, shoveling the concrete into the pad or wall and even doing some preliminary trawling along with Siva.

As Tony developed hardness and strength in the next few years, Siva saw in him, his own fight dreams—what he, himself, had never become. He saw the discipline and determination of the boy. He was amazed that after his work and his schooling, Tony still had the will, time and energy to do rigorous calisthenics and several miles of running.

Remarkable that Tony does all this cement work, the running, the push-ups, the chin-ups and is still playful and cheerful, observed Siva, to his sister.

And he does so well in his studies, added Juana. He’s a good boy—not a lazy bone in his body—someday my son will be special. Maybe a great dancer. Better than me or Maria. Maybe great like Pilar.

No, no—he’s too tough and fierce for that—his talents lie in the boxing ring. Just look at his hands. They’re almost man-sized already. Definitely not the hands of a dancer. He’s very interested in fighting, talks about it all the time. Knows the names of all the champions and top contenders in every weight class.

Mother of God, that’s too dangerous.

"It is dangerous—but less so for one with his gifts. If he stays focused, he could be good."

Oh my God, I forgot—the birthmark of our grandfather! That’s where he gets his strength?

If Tony’s got any exceptional or magical gifts, it’s quickness: quickness to see, quickness to think and quickness to react—some of his strength may be inherited, like the size of his hands, but most of it comes from hard work and his daily exercises.

—but everyone he fights—they will also be very tough and strong. Besides, he gets all A’s in school—is that what a boxer does?

Never hurt to have some brains—I could use a little more—wouldn’t be breaking my back in my old age.

Siva instructed Tony in the rudiments of boxing as well as he could: the various punches, the defenses, how to move. After their work, he supervised hitting drills on the heavy bag he had set up for Tony in his back yard. He showed him how to do ‘hand-clap’ pushups, pull-ups, jack-knife sit-ups and was soon out-preformed by the lad.

Siva entered him in a few youth matches sponsored by the Police Athletic League. The police sergeant in charge of the tournament, skeptical of Tony’s age, said, This tournament’s for 10 and 11-year-olds—this kid looks older than that. Not bigger, just hard and more grown-up.

Siva, anticipating this reaction, had brought along Tony’s birth certificate, reassuring the policeman that Tony was just barely ten.

After the first bout against an 11-year-old, which Tony won easily with 3-knockdowns in the first round, the same sergeant thought—kid’s something else—going to keep track of him in the next dozen years—going to be a world beater! Maybe I can make some money on a few bets.

As Siva watched the boy easily cut down the competition to win the tournament, he saw in Tony, the pieces of the puzzle that he, himself, were missing: extraordinary quickness, grace under pressure, fluid coordination and fearless confidence. There was no ducking of the head, no blind rushes, no flurry of arm swinging, like most of the other combatants—just cold, determined assessment, and then annihilation, of all the other boys he faced.

Also in attendance at these bouts was Pilar, who was back from Europe for a month’s break, (Tony’s mother never attended, since she could not bear to see any blood). Pilar encouraged him wildly and even took pride and credit for his quickness and success. Tony needed little encouragement—his intelligence, his will and his determination pushed him forward. He was resolved at the age of ten, to become a warrior. He would use his gifts and hard work to be somebody famous. But Siva had been closely observing Tony over the months and he remarked to Pilar at one of Tony’s fights, He has a dark side—a fierce fire and pride burning inside, just below his calm, cool surface—could come bubbling up sometime in the future to cause him problems.

Bull shit! That fire, along with his quickness, will only push him to greatness! she scoffed.

Before Tony turned twelve, Siva had a crippling accident, falling off a scaffold in a high wind.

Tony was on his own after that, but he was even more committed to his dream. All through elementary school and junior high school, in addition to successfully competing in many sports, he continued his own, private workouts with the heavy bag, the extreme calisthenics and the running.

Tony, at twelve, hung around a local fight gym in the valley, ‘Jeffry’s Barn’, to learn from closely watching the sparring sessions of the professional fighters training there. He was too young to actually get in the ring with the adults, but an old trainer, Cannonball Green, seeing the coordination and determination of the boy, spent some time with him in hitting drills and footwork.

When Tony first attended Grant Junior High School at age thirteen, he was more emotionally and physically mature than the other boys. He was medium sized in both height and weight, but he already manifested a distinct strength and hardness.

There was one fifteen-year-old, arguably the toughest and meanest boy in the school, Vince Waskoviac, who made it his hobby to torment the younger kids, both boys and girls. He would take their lunches, trip them, pull their hair, steal their books, bloody a few noses.

Tony was at school less then a week, alone in the basketball gym, practicing free throws, when Vince came in and turned his attention Tony’s way.

Hey kid. Gimme the ball. Feel like shooting a few, he ordered, looming over Tony by several inches.

Tony, misunderstanding Vince’s meaning, said, as he bounced him the ball, Sure. No problem. Here take a few shots. We can share it.

Fuck you. I’m not sharing nothing with no little seventh-grader.

Tony was a little shocked—his pride welling up. He had had a budding reputation among his small little school group for toughness and none of them had ever been this rude to him.

"I don’t think you understand, buddy! I checked out the ball first and was willing to share with you. I’ve changed my mind. I’m taking the ball back."

This was met, at first, by stunning disbelief from Vince. He thought, Since I beat the shit out of big Tommy last year, no one, even my own classmates, has ever pushed back, let alone this shrimpy kid. He raised his eyebrows, momentarily in disbelief and then recovered to threaten, Come on and try, you cunt. I’ll shove this ball right up your ass!

Not waiting for a retort from Tony, Vince slammed the ball with all his might, right at Tony’s head, from less than six feet away. To Vince’s surprise, he missed and received a stinging jab to his own nose instead that knocked him backwards. He landed on his seat on the ground.

What the fuck? I’m bleeding! Vince whined, sitting there rubbing his nose.

Tony had easily dodged the ball, taken a swift fencing-step forward and shot the jab, quick as the strike of a rattlesnake, in return. It could get a lot worse, friend. I suggest you go get the ball and bring it to me.

Vince was both scared and surprised. On the verge of tears, he asked, Who the fuck are you? You look like a seventh-grader. But they’re not supposed to do that. Not to me.

Tony, feeling a little sorry for him, controlled his temper, relented and extended his hand to help him up and said, Hi, I’m Tony. We got off to a bad start. Go get the ball and we can play some hoops together.

Tony had made a new, if cautious, friend in Vince, who went on to introduce him into the inner social circles of the junior high. Vince was one of the flag football stars and strongly encouraged Tony to get involved in that sport. Tony had made his reputation for being fast, fearless and friendly.

Another new friend, Betty, an eighth-grader, told Tony a week after the ‘bloody-nose’ incident, You know, Vince’s not such a wiener anymore. He actually treats us nicer. I think it’s because he admires and is afraid of you. Might be even be trying to act a little like you.

Glad to be of help, he said with a smile, thinking, Betty is some kind of cute. Great hair and nice budding boobs.

She caught his admiring look. Do you want to go to Maggie’s party with me? she asked. It’ll be fun. You’ll be the only seventh-grader there. I could teach you a trick or two, she added, with a seductive smirk, as she gave him a gentle trace with her finger down his bare arm.

I bet you could, responded an eager Tony.

Starting with Betty, Tony was introduced into the high art of ‘necking’ and ‘petting’, in the upper circles of the junior high school. Tony could be diagnosed, even at this early age, as having an obsessive-compulsive personality. This was the start of Tony’s third obsession, after boxing and music: girls.

Chapter 3

Quick Rise to Fame

Tony was sitting on a wooden bench in the back corner of the empty, boy’s football locker room of North Hollywood High School on a hot day in late August. Tony’s facial continence had matured to a chiseled, hawkish look. Yet, the sturdy chin, high cheekbones, strong nose and large, wide-set, brown eyes combined to give him a ruggedly handsome continence, well beyond his 15 years. He was golden-brown and lean and lanky, with hard, ropey muscles on his legs, back, chest and long arms. The arms ended with a pair of oversized hands that were strong and hard—from the cement labor mixed in with the daily work-out of punching the sand-filled heavy bag that his uncle had constructed—hands you wouldn’t expect on a tenth-grader. Even at this young age and normal size, he had the look of quick, functional strength—the proto-type welterweight.

He was starting to change from patched and beat-up levis and faded ‘Hawaiian’ shirt into the high school, sport work-out issue. As he leaned forward to lace up his football cleats, a compact, husky boy, with a mop of blonde, curly hair, wearing a cut-off top and ragged shorts, tore into the gym. He looked exactly as one would have pictured Mickey Mantle as a 15-year-old. He skidded around a blind corner into the locker room, tripping over Tony’s gear and recovering with a remarkable tuck and roll, landing on his feet.

Well hello there twinkle-toes. Liked your entrance. I’m Tony. You out for the varsity football team?

Biggest grin Tony had ever seen. Yes, yes!—I’m Charlie and you should see my other tricks, extending a hand to shake. Charlie was a little surprised at the size and strength of Tony’s offered hand. Thinking, Wow!—guy doesn’t seem that big or anything. Then he noticed the broad wrists and forearms thick with cords of muscle.

Must be a tenth-grader like me, ’cause we are the only ones two days early for a try-out—you trying out for ‘tumble-back? Tony teased him.

‘Tumble-back-Charlie’. I like that. But getting the job is just a formality. I’ll make the team, no sweat. I’m the fastest thing they’ve ever seen!

This got a big grin from Tony, Wow! OK! Nice to be confident and fast—I’m a thrower. Gonna nail down the ‘QB’ spot.

"Wouldn’t that be something if they had two first-year stars… chucking and running and catching? You’re long and wiry. What you go about 150?"

Toughest 150 they’ve ever seen.

"Hey, Hey. That’s my line."

Nah, you’re just the fastest.

And the best-looking! Charlie added with his winning smile, while flexing his fairly developed biceps.

Immediately liking this new kid, Tony said, "Let’s put on the cleats and get out there before the coaches show up. Practice some of that ‘chucking and running and catching’."

They pleasantly surprised each other after less then 20 minutes of going through passing drills. Charlie was indeed very fast and Tony had an arm that would be the envy of some college quarterbacks. Where ya from? Can’t be the valley or I’d have come up against you in some track meet or ball game in junior high, asked Tony.

No No! No valley stuff till now. My folks just moved us in from Santa Monica—but man! 40 yards on a rope and right on the money, Charlie wheezed, a little short of breath. He was strong and sturdy, at 165 pounds, with short, powerful legs, but not quite in condition yet.

I winged that one so far that I thought nobody could catch up to it. ‘Tumble-man’, you’ve got some major wheels!

They both performed so well for the coaches, that after Charlie was timed in a 40 at a remarkable (for a 15-year old) 4.6 and Tony showed his quick smooth delivery, accurate out to 40-50 yards, they were given tentative starting slots on the varsity team.

They soon solidified their starting roles and led the team, of several disgruntled juniors and seniors that they had replaced, in touchdowns and running yards. After taking the school to a 3-0 start, they finally were accepted by most of the veterans, replaced or otherwise. But there was one twelfth-grade ball-player, Fred, who continued to be mean and sarcastic to the two tenth-graders. At 225 and last year’s all-conference line-backer, he resented them for their fun-loving demeanor and their supreme confidence, but mostly for taking the spot-light away form him.

During the scrimmages with full pads, Fred had tried to take a few cheap shots at Charlie, but was not able to catch up to him on his first couple of end sweeps.

The second scrimmage, in preparation for the opening game against Burbank, Fred made it a point to blitz Tony as he dropped back out of the pocket to pass. Tony nimbly avoided him, completing the pass. But he was blindsided by Fred, four seconds after the ball was released. A clear ‘roughing the passer’ penalty in a real game. Although Tony escaped any injury, he was painfully knocked to the ground and suffered a bloody nose.

He was angry and took a step towards Fred with clenched fists.

Hey asshole. What the fuck you think you’re doing? This is just a scrimmage.

Opps, Fred offered, insincerely, with a palms-up smirk.

The backfield coach came running up, not having noticed the late hit, and said, Hey, you two. Knock it off. Get back on defense, Fred and Tony, back in the huddle and run another play.

It came to a head at a January party after their first season was over. The party was outdoors in the backyard of the home of one of the baseball player’s folks.

Among the hot chicks attending, the ‘hottest’ was the statuesque, 5 foot 9, Dakota, a star forward on the girl’s basketball team. She was older than most her classmates, having gotten a year late start to school because her family had moved around to different military bases. Dakota was aloof from the normal high school scene, as she ran with an older crowd. She was here—a rare social attendance—because she admired superb athletes and she saw a glimpse of that in young Tony. She had chatted with him a few times after games about his performance and college plans. She found Tony attractive, and wise and mature beyond his years—but had not followed any of her romantic impulses because of his young age and her very full social life outside the high school.

Libations were flowing freely and there was a loud buzz about the crowd. Fred was there with a couple of his close buddies—one, a rough-looking street tough, Jebb. Jebb had quite a few ugly and offensive tattoos, piercings and a ‘Mohawk’ haircut and had been kicked out of several schools, including North Hollywood. The other friend had blonde hair, long and slicked back in a ‘duck-tail’, was a senior defensive back on the team. All three were openly smoking a joint passed among them and downing beers in between hits.

Fred was half-blocking the way to the restroom. He was showing off for his buddies and using his slightly buzzed state as an excuse for putting his hands all over the girls trying to pass by him. The girls he groped were irritated or disgusted, but frightened of him—just tried to lower their heads, duck or turn away and quickly get by, knowing that they would get little support from their dates or friends—who were afraid of Fred and his group.

Tony was still irritated from the several ‘cheap shots’ that Fred had dished out,