Winner and Still Champion

By Rusty Kearney

“WINNER AND STILL CHAMPION” is Rusty Kearney’s third novel and is set in a section of Rockaway Beach, NY known as “Irishtown”. Mr. Kearney was a promising boxer in his early teens but a serious accident ended his dreams of hopefully competing in the Golden Gloves. He still works out on a heavy bag and a speed bag and also lifts weights. He’s also a black belt in Aikido - Japanese Martial arts and loves to read books about boxing. He also enjoys watching classic fights; Jack Dempsey, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, etc. Rusty is divorced and living in Breezy Point, NY.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665548625

Rusty Kearney

"WINNER AND STILL CHAMPION" is Rusty Kearney's third novel and is set in a section of Rockaway Beach, NY known as "Irishtown". Mr. Kearney was a promising boxer in his early teens but a serious accident ended his dreams of hopefully competing in the Golden Gloves. He still works out on a heavy bag and a speed bag and also lifts weights. He's also a black belt in Aikido - Japanese Martial arts and loves to read books about boxing. He also enjoys watching classic fights; Jack Dempsey, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, etc. Rusty is divorced and living in Breezy Point, NY. And so, Mickey had finally achieved what he had always wanted. Since he retired as champ, he would always be champ, as Jones Jones had said. And he would continue to use his fame for the good of everyone.

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© 2021 Rusty Kearney. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  08/19/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-4863-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-4862-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022900385

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

DEDICATION

To former World’s Middleweight Champion Rocky Graziano whose heart was bigger than his punch and former Bantamweight Sammy Venti, a great friend and mentor who taught me about boxing when I was a teenager. May God rest your souls.

"Alone we can do so little... together

we can do so much."

-Helen Keller

CONTENTS

Part 1

The Champ

Round 1

Round 2

Round 3

Round 4

Round 5

Round 6

Round 7

Round 8

Round 9

Round 10

Round 11

Part 2

The Fight

Round 1

Round 2

Round 3

Round 4

Round 5

Round 6

Round 7

Round 8

Round 9

Round 10

Round 11

Round 12

Round 13

Round 14

Round 15

Round 16

Round 17

Round 18

Round 19

Round 20

Part 3

The Winner

The Last Round

PART 1

THE CHAMP

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ROUND 1

It was a muggy Sunday evening in July of 1983 and Mickey Sullivan sat wearily on his screened-in front porch and watched as the crowds began to leave the beach. His house was located just off the boardwalk and he could feel the cool breeze sweeping off the ocean. The rest of the house had been shut tight for the past two months and he hadn’t yet taken the time to even open the windows. At least then there would be a cross-breeze to circulate throughout the big house. He was just too tired to take the time and just sat, looking out through the dusty screen.

He hadn’t slept much the entire weekend. But it wasn’t because of the neighbors drinking and laughing till all hours last night as the locals celebrated the 4th of July, or the tinny Irish music that came from the bar up the street. He was used to that. After all, that was part of the charm that attracted people to this section of Rockaway Beach known as Irishtown. No, it wasn’t the noise – it was being crowned middleweight champion of the world that bothered him.

Now it probably seems strange to most people, especially fight fans, that becoming champ would cause such a problem. But to Mickey it was the circumstances in which he obtained the title that made him feel uneasy.

Mickey had been ranked number two for over a year and at twenty-eight years old he was in the best shape of his life. George Jackson, a forty-two year old hanger on had been champ, on and off, for the past fifteen years. Sometimes he would retire for a while and then announce his plans to give it one more try, usually when the present champ was less than a great fighter. Even the times when he lost the title he would always make a remarkable or, what many considered, lucky come-back, only to regain it. And even though he was considered old for a fighter, there never seemed to be anyone with enough experience to out-box the old man. The only one in the past year with any promise, besides Mickey, was a lightning fast stinger named Slick Willie Samuels. And since Willie was ranked number one, Mickey just assumed that Willie would easily take the title and be defending it against the new number one contender. The only problem is that Willie lost. By some strange twist of fate, George caught the all-too-cocky Willie with a left-hook in the second round that sent him through the ropes, dislocating his younger opponent’s shoulder, abruptly ending the fight. And even though it was considered a lucky punch by most of the spectators at ringside, the fact remained; George Jackson was still champ.

This created quite a dilemma for Mickey who felt like he had been caught in the middle of a controversy. He knew if he lost to George that his credibility as a contender would be questioned. On the other hand, if he should win, his only accomplishment would be beating an over-the-hill has been who had seen better days in the ring. Either way, Mickey’s pride was on the line. After all, George Jackson had nothing to prove and, at this point in his career, nothing to lose. If he won, fine. The crowd would love it, if just for sentimentality. But if he should lose, so what! At his age it was enough just to be in the ring. Unlike Mickey, for George it was a no lose situation.

So Mickey KO’d the old man in the first round. He hated to have to win the title that way. He sensed what Marciano must have felt when he beat the aging Joe Louis. There was no contest. And when the referee held up Mickey’s hand and announced the new world’s middleweight champion, there was no sense of pride and conceit that most fighters show after such an important victory.

All that happened Friday night, at Madison Square Garden. And now he silently sat behind a screen, embarrassed to be seen by his friends and neighbors. There was no pride in winning the title that he dreamed about since childhood. His body wasn’t even sore since the fight ended so quickly and there were none of the usual cuts and swelling of the eyes and face since George didn’t even lay a glove on him. His only hope was to defend his title against a young and aggressive contender so that he may prove himself to the world.

Not everyone felt as cheated as Mickey, however, as the Old Dublin Pub just up the street hung a banner from one side of the street to the other saying, Winner And World’s Champion. In fact, most everyone saw it as a fair fight and was proud to have one of their own as the new champ.

It was almost six o’clock now and music from the Pub was echoing through the openness of a town that resembled the French Quarter in New Orleans. Finbar O’Connor would later be entertaining for tips, singing all the old Irish standards. The mostly summer cottages were also alive with Irish music and beer cans popping, and laughter. Children, still in their bathing suits, were taking outdoor showers with garden hoses while their parents simply put on dry shorts and shook the sand from their flip-flops. That was all there was to dressing up in Irishtown.

The only thing out of place was Mickey and his pessimistic solitude. He hated sitting alone, his false pride gnawing at him. Deep inside he had hoped that someone passing by would drag him off the porch and into the Pub where a compassionate round of drinks would drown his guilt over his stealing the middleweight title from his over-tired opponent. But no one even knew Mickey was back in Irishtown. They all assumed he would stay in Manhattan for a few days, celebrating with his wife and young son. They were only partially right, since Mickey’s wife and son were still at the hotel in the city, the one Mickey and his family stayed at while he trained at Murphy’s gym. And as far as his wife was concerned, a hotel in Manhattan was a more fitting place for a champ to be seen than a less-than-middle-class-neighborhood in the Rockaways.

This disagreement on where to spend time together was a constant aggravation to both of them. Mickey was born in Irishtown and felt a special obligation to the neighborhood should he ever make it big to be there for his friends who always had faith in his talent as a fighter.

So, even though Mickey didn’t feel like it, he knew that to his fans, and more importantly to his friends, that he was now the champ. He decided to swallow his pride and walked over to the Pub where he was given a hero’s welcome.

Now the Pub was definitely a gin mill. And like many gin mills it catered to mostly old men who took pride in growing up in a time when ‘men where men’ and sports weren’t for sissy primadonnas. And this saloon reflected the atmosphere of the ultimate in a real man’s sport.

On the dingy mirror behind the bar were faded black and white photos of ex-fighters. Most of these pictures were so old that they were held in place by yellowing Scotch tape. Over the pictures hung two pair of boxing gloves which were often used by the steady customers to settle disputes in the only way in which they knew. Sometimes even Mickey would don the gloves and give exhibitions with anyone who was brave enough to mix it up with him. Of course, Mickey would just use open hands and play with his opponents until he exhausted them to the point of surrender. There was also a bell like the ones used at the fights that the bartender would often ring, either to get everyone’s attention or to announce last call. And of course, the perennial slogan of any Irish bar, Erin Go Bragh, was proudly displayed over the door.

Sometimes some of the ex-fighters would drop in and trade boxing stories of days gone by. The details, of course, would change with every round of drinks. But now, all most of them had were memories, or what was left of them, and over the years the stories grew with their waistlines.

As Mickey stood for a moment in the doorway of the Pub, even with the evening sun at his back, you could tell this was the outline of a fighter. When he started to walk you could see that his legs were very strong. His hips and waist were so narrow that his shoulders appeared broader than they actually were. As he came closer you noticed that his nose was slightly bent from being broken once and there were a few scars over his eyebrows. His hair was short, curly and black.

When he walked up to the bar everybody began patting him on the back and shaking his hands, his rough hands, that felt like coarse sandpaper. Everything about him seemed tough, except for his eyes. They were warm and soft and shone dark brown like a pair of brand new boxing gloves. This inner quality that was so prevalent in his eyes reflected his generous nature that preceded his reputation as a fighter. Everyone saw him as their local hero. And bringing the title to Irishtown definitely gave the neighborhood, if not the Champ, a feeling of pride.

When Clancy, the owner and night bartender of the Pub saw everyone crowd around Mickey, he rang the bell and cleared the way and approached him. He was a gaunt little fellow, about sixty. With his white hair and pink face and sparkling blue eyes, eyes that always seemed to be smartly grinning, he gave the impression of an elderly, overgrown leprechaun.

All right, now, give the man some room, Clancy announced in a high-pitched Irish brogue. And put a sock in it, O’Connor! he said to the singer who was crooning his own rendition of Danny Boy.

In an instant, the bar was silent. Mickey nervously walked toward Clancy and stood perfectly still with all the respect that a warrior who was about to be knighted would have for his King. Clancy commanded such respect, since not only had he once been the welterweight champ of Ireland, but he was a pillar of the community who often gave his own time and money to various charities and functions in the neighborhood, including the yearly Irish Festival every March.

Clancy drew Mickey a beer from the tap and poured himself three fingers’ of Irish whiskey into a tall glass. Here’s to the winner and new world’s champion. Long live the Champ! They touched glasses and drank. When Clancy smiled and tearfully hugged him, Mickey’s guilt tore at his heart.

This round is on the house! Clancy said. Music, O’Connor!

As abruptly as the noise stopped, the Pub again came alive and the celebration was on.

After a few rounds of drinks, Mickey was coaxed to put on the gloves and showed everyone just how he won the fight. But the more he demonstrated by bobbing and weaving and flicking those stinger body shots, the more he began to feel like a bully rather than a champ.

Clancy, blessed with the wisdom such as he was, noticed that between the hand shaking and back slapping there was something unsettling on Mickey’s mind.

Let me borrow him for a minute, Clancy said as he took Mickey by the arm.

They found a quiet corner of the bar, at least a place to sit, and Clancy only had to make those inquisitive Irish eyes and Mickey knew he couldn’t hold any secrets from this un-foolable little man.

Is it the fight? he bluntly asked.

Mickey looked down into his glass of beer. I don’t know anymore. I mean, if he was ten years younger--

"But he’s not ten years younger. And even if he was, you still probably would have beat him."

I wonder, Mickey said, unsure.

Clancy suspected all along that Mickey probably felt a bit cheated by winning the title from a much older opponent. It was a common concept that in order to deserve such an honor that you must beat the best. The irony is that whoever wins is the best and whoever you beat after that still makes you the best and...

If it’s the age difference, forget it. Remember Bob Fitzsimmons and Sugar Ray Robinson? Old or not, they were great fighters. This guy you fought was a good fighter, too. He just never got the credit he deserved because the press and the public just can’t accept the fact that even though he’s considered a bit old for a fighter that he still has what it takes... or rather, he did, till you beat him.

Clancy took a drink from his glass of Irish whiskey. He never drank anything else and referred to it as mother’s milk.

Keep talking and you may just convince me yet, Mickey said with an uncomfortable laugh.

Okay, look at Archie Moore! Clancy threw his hands in the air as if to say, ‘case closed’. Don’t ever underestimate an older opponent. You were just the better fighter, and that’s it.

Clancy assured him that there would be many title defenses to prove that he is a true champion.

Oh, what the hell, Mickey said as he shook his head. That’s only part of it. He drank down the beer and belched. Clancy motioned to one of the self-appointed bartenders to bring a pitcher of beer and fill up Mickey’s glass. It’s also Noreen and her stuck-up attitude.

Clancy listened intently. After all, part of a bartender’s job was to counsel his patrons on such matters and Clancy spent many a night pouring whiskey or beer down the throats of guilty husbands, even if it meant waiting a week or so to get paid for all the booze that the sobbing customer could hardly afford.

Mickey went on to tell his patient counselor how his wife didn’t share his enthusiasm for Irishtown, often referring to it as a neighborhood full of shanty low-life’s. She had always dreamed of living on Park Avenue and now saw Mickey’s title as a ticket to the good life for herself and their son. Mickey, however, resented his wife’s attitude toward the place in which he called home by choice, even though he knew he could now afford to live anywhere he wanted. He supposedly had an image to live up to now and his wife felt that rubbing elbows with the elite of Manhattan was in order.

He also told Clancy that for some time he had been suspicious of his wife’s whereabouts whenever they weren’t together. He knew she was going to many parties when he was either back in Irishtown or even when they were staying in the same hotel in Manhattan and Mickey had to turn in early because of his training schedule.

All the while Mickey was talking, Clancy had been assessing the situation in his own mind, alternately sipping Irish whiskey between thoughts. But tonight was for celebrating and he suggested that Mickey tend to his personal problems tomorrow.

Noreen always was the type to let delusions of grandeur get in the way of reality. Then he cautioned as he waved a bony finger, And like it or not, you’ve rose quite high on the social scale and now she wants to live out her fantasy in a... he looked around at the bar and it’s denizens, "a more stylish setting."

Everything Clancy said was true, but it still didn’t solve Mickey’s problem of how to make her and himself happy. And what about his son, Timmy? She already has him enrolled in an exclusive day-care center in Manhattan and in the fall he’ll be attending private school. And some of his playmates are the children of actors and politicians. She’s already shaping his life-style and setting his tastes for the elite at the tender age of five. And just as Clancy had suspected, that was the real problem.

Noreen had been set in her ways for a long time now and it was too late for her to change. Mickey saw it coming ever since he became a serious contender a year ago but was too busy with his training to take the time to discuss their future with her. He always wanted to be the peoples’ champ and knew he would never let success interfere with his true values toward life. He wanted to use his title for the good of all and vowed never to get caught up in the celebrity game like so many of his peers. He never thought he may one day have to compromise his values for his family.

I understand your problem, Mick, but why don’t you just let her bask in the glory for a while. She’ll come back down to earth as soon as the novelty wears off.

What about our living arrangements? She says she never wants to come back here again.

Clancy slightly chuckled and shook his head. It’s funny, but even though this place has its advantages over the rest of the city, most of us would leave if we could afford to.

Mickey couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After all, Clancy was on just about every neighborhood committee there was and always tried to do his best to make Irishtown a better place to live.

"Let’s face it, Mick, the neighborhood isn’t what it used to be with winos sleeping under the boardwalk and the welfare crowd moving up from Far Rockaway. I can understand her wanting something better for your son. Maybe a compromise is in order."

Now even Clancy was reaching for ideas as he knew this was a lost cause. If Noreen already had her mind set on a certain life-style then she certainly had no reason to come back to a neighborhood she never liked in the first place.

Clancy stood up and put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. Forget it for now, kid, he said in a defeated, caring tone. "This is your night and these are your people. No matter how you feel about the fight or your personal life, don’t disappointment them."

Clancy squeezed his way to the bar and joined some of the others in a course of When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. Mickey filled up his glass and scanned the photos of the fighters on the wall behind the bar. Suddenly, he felt a slap on the back and everyone again wanted to see how he knocked out George Jackson. Mickey could feel Clancy’s piercing eyes glaring at him through the thick crowd and decided that the old philosopher was right; this was his night and he made up his mind to enjoy it, if not only for himself then certainly for his fans.

As the evening gave way to sunset, there was plenty of food and drink all through the streets of Irishtown. By this time, the Pub became so crowded that the party finally spilled out onto the sidewalk and mixed in with the 4th of July parties. Now all of Irishtown was taking part in the celebration. For the youngsters in the neighborhood, however, the Pub was no place to gather. So, to the children and their parents’ delight, Mickey went over to the school yard and gladly signed autographs and posed for pictures amidst the barbecue grills and snow cone machines. Even people heading home from the beach by bus to other boroughs took time to stop and join the party that now covered two entire blocks.

By now the word was out, not only in Irishtown but all over Rockaway that the new middleweight champion of the world was mingling with his people. Mickey especially took the time to talk with a group of physically handicapped children who had spent the day at Rockaway’s Playland. When the driver of the van, who was an avid fight fan, noticed the banner suspended over the huge crowd he knew it could only mean the Champ himself must be somewhere in the gathering. And Mickey took the time to talk with the children about boxing and training and especially the will to get up and fight, even when you think you’re down for the count. He made such an impression on the children that the driver of the van asked him if he could possibly find time to come to the hospital in the future and speak to all the children, to encourage them in facing their uncertain futures. Mickey only needed an address and a phone number to set up a time and date. That’s the kind of person he was and the kind of champ he always wanted to be.

At around ten o’clock, the festivities seemed to wind down as quickly as they started. Even in Irishtown in the summer most people still had to go to work on Monday and besides, the Pub would still be open for many more hours for the old-timers’ who didn’t have to punch a clock any more.

Mickey didn’t follow the others into the Pub. Instead, he graciously thanked Clancy and some of the others and said his head was spinning from the beer and the hype of his new title. He had a lot of things to do the next day but promised that he wouldn’t be a stranger just because he was now the champ.

He walked back to his house, which was nothing special, just a big old summer bungalow that had long since been winterized and had more rooms than he actually needed. Most of the houses on this particular block were small summer cottages that locals owned and rented during the busy summer months. Those who could afford a large house such as Mickey took advantage of the many rooms and converted their homes into rooming houses, which made for a steady income year round.

To Mickey, though, the spaciousness of the house meant loneliness since his wife would rather stay in the city with their son. He felt for a long time now that it was more than just the excuse of him being a top contender, and now champ, that made the city so attractive to her. But tonight he was just too tired to think, or worry, and decided to get a good night’s sleep and deal with all of life’s problems in the morning.

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ROUND 2

The sun had not erupted from the ocean yet but the noisy birds were a sure sign that daybreak was near. The squawking of the seagulls was enough to awaken Mickey from his somewhat nervous sleep. Normally, he would just get up and run the beach as part of his workout. But on this morning, still bothered by the thought of his wife and son in the city, he lazily turned his head from the window that faced the ocean. He wasn’t ready yet for the sunrise that was soon to come and announce a new day. He still had a lot of thinking to do about the inevitable confrontation with his wife. He just didn’t want to think about it yet. His mind was still on last night with all its attention and flattery. And why not? After all, he was now the middleweight champion of the world.

There! He finally admitted it to himself. Or was it just last night’s congratulations echoing in his mind? He wanted to believe it as he listened to the birds that were like an alarm clock that couldn’t be turned off. The squawking gulls accompanied by the pounding surf was enough to get anyone’s blood going. In a few minutes, he gave in to the day and was up.

The kitchen cupboards were sparsely stocked and all there was for breakfast was some instant coffee. He made a cup and walked upstairs to one of the open porches and sat, waiting for the sun to show itself from far over the ocean.

By six-thirty, the red ball announcing another beautiful day was rising in the east and Mickey noticed a cluster of fishing boats gathered about a mile off shore. For some time now he wanted to take his son on a fishing trip but his wife thought he was way too young to be spending a day on the water with a bunch of old men and smelly bait when Timmy could instead be in an air conditioned day care center learning how to draw, or work with modeling clay, or at least do something connected with the arts. She had his whole life planned and Mickey had just been too busy to make known his objections.

But now, since the pressure of the past few years, and especially the past few months, was finally over, he knew that his next order of business was to once and for all straighten out his family life. And as much as he hated to think of it, he had to confront his wife about the rumors and his suspicions of her alleged running around. He needed time to think, however, if he were going to approach her on such a delicate matter.

After he finished his coffee, Mickey went back downstairs and put on a pair of running sneakers and a bathing suit. Whether he wanted to or not, he needed to run in order to think. And what better place to run than on the boardwalk overlooking the beach. And since it’s been three days since the fight, he felt rested and strong and had a lot of excess energy to burn. He also needed the calming effects of a long run to prepare him for his day in the city.

He started outside his door at 109th Street and ran at a steady trot along the boardwalk to 73rd Street. There he planned to turn around and run back home when a group of morning athletes abandoned their handball game to acknowledge his presence.

After a few minutes of handshaking and autograph signings, Mickey waved goodbye and excused himself so he could finish his run. Just being recognized as the middleweight champ gave him a feeling of accomplishment that far surpassed anything else he ever did in his life.

As he effortlessly ran at a steady pace back toward his house, he was happy and somewhat surprised that so many passing cars recognized him. Even though he was now the middleweight champ of the world, his title didn’t carry the same clout as the heavyweight crown. In fact, since many people only kept up with the heavyweights, and with very few of Mickey’s fights being televised, he still went around somewhat unrecognized... except, of course, in his own neighborhood. And now, since it was the height of morning rush hour, just about everyone who drove by on their way to work gave a friendly honk and a thumbs up to signify their recognition of the new champ.

When Mickey returned home, his entire outlook on the inevitable day ahead had changed. It’s amazing what a quick run and a little sweat can do to cast out a negative attitude. In fact, he was so stimulated from his first run as champ that he vowed that at least for today he wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of his well-deserved happiness.

After a long cool shower, Mickey felt relaxed and confident. He dressed neatly but casually and walked out the back door to his garage where his car had been parked for the past two months. Finding a parking space was one of the drawbacks of living on a beach block in Irishtown and he was lucky to have a garage and the driveway all to himself. But since he wasn’t sure if the car would start after such a long sit, and knowing how bad the traffic and parking was in the city, he decided it would be better to take the train instead.

Within an hour, Mickey arrived in Manhattan. When he ascended the subway steps and reached the street, he knew he had made the right choice in leaving his car back in Rockaway. The traffic, consisting mostly of taxicabs driving like stunt men in chase scenes in a cops and robbers movie, was enough to put fear into even the most seasoned New York drivers. After dodging an irate cabby in order to cross the street, Mickey decided to stop into Murphy’s gym before making his appearance at the hotel where his wife and son were staying.

Murphy’s was one of the few old-fashioned gyms left in the city. Even though there were no more gangsters and shifty managers and bookies hanging around ringside, the old flavor of real boxing drama was still present. The place hadn’t been painted since the late 1940’s and the initials that were carved on some of the lockers still remained as a reminder of the pros who used to train there. There was even a heavy bag that Rocky Marciano used to train with that hung in the corner and a pair of blood stained boxing gloves that Jake La Motta wore in a brutal fight in which he won against Sugar Ray Robinson, which hung proudly over the winner’s picture. Those mementos, along with numerous black and white promotional glossies signed for Murphy, gave anyone who trained there a feeling of confidence that one day maybe his shot at the title will come.

On many a dark winter’s morning, after Mickey had finished his run on a path along the East River, he would sit quietly for a few minutes before his sparring session and just listen to the silence and reflect on the spirits’ of past champions. He needed to feel their presence and hoped their will to succeed would shine through the sweat-soaked canvas of the ring and help guide him in times of despair. His concentration must have worked, since now Mickey was another legend whose picture would be proudly displayed among the others.

The training abruptly stopped when Murphy announced the presence of the new champ. And as Mickey modestly stood in the doorway of Murphy’s office, everyone in the gym at once ran over to congratulate him on his victory over George Jackson. After a minute or so of hand shaking and sweaty hugs from young hopefuls who had years to go before even thinking about being contenders, Murphy took his perennial chewed up stogie from between his tobacco stained teeth and ordered everyone back to work. Although Murphy wasn’t anyone’s personal trainer, it was still his gym and everyone gave him the respect that he commanded. Besides, most of the fighters in the gym shared trainers with other fighters, at least until they made a name for themselves, and their trainers knew their boys would be in good hands with Murphy’s sense of discipline and boxing expertise.

Let’s go inside so we can talk, Champ, Murphy said as they walked into the cluttered office. You look like a million, Kid, he continued as he tossed three days’ copies of the Daily News on the floor to make room to put his feet up on the desk. How does it feel to be king of the hill?

Mickey took a deep breath. He was still not used to all the fame and attention. It just didn’t fit his lifestyle and he even felt a bit self-conscious when he saw the other fighters allowing themselves to be distracted by his presence. Murphy noticed this and got up and pulled down the dirty Venetian blinds so they could have some privacy. He sat back down and took his usual position as lecturer with his feet on the desk.

You’ll get used to it, Murphy said matter-of-factly. "In fact, after a while you’ll really get to love it. All the attention, the women throwing themselves at you, wanting to feel your muscles and all. He gave him a wink and smiled. Let’s face it, besides the fame, and the money, why else would anyone want to be in this business?"

Mickey didn’t know whether to feel flattered or insulted. The later, however, dominated his thoughts.

"C’mon, Murph. You know I don’t give a damn about any of that fame stuff. And as far as the females, hell, I already have a wife that I can’t even handle.

Murphy just sat and pompously grinned, chewing on the nasty butt of his cigar. After biting down hard several times, he spit the tobacco juice into an equally nasty coffee cup and then stood up and opened the blinds. "You see all those kids? How many of them do you think will make it as far as being a contender, let alone even dream of being a world’s champ?"

But as Murphy was busy looking through the dirty window of his office at all the struggling young hopefuls, Mickey’s eyes were browsing the walls, looking hard at the photos of past champions and wondering if in their hearts they put money and fame before the satisfaction and pride of holding the world’s greatest title. Oh, sure, the money and recognition were all part of it and he was enjoying the attention, especially from his peers. But he knew deep inside that there were many more ways of getting rich than the never ending hours of sweat and loneliness that goes with being a fighter. At least he was comfortable enough with his newfound fame not to let it go to his head. All he had to do now was convince his wife to take