We were booked into a Ramada Inn, but there was only enough time to leave our bags because there was some sort of press conference to promote the bout that we were required to attend. Usually, the fights I’m in don’t warrant press conferences, but Suggs was a big deal in Lexington. The ballroom at the Crowne Plaza down the street from the Ramada was set up for the press, and I was supposed to be there by nine o’clock. It was a quarter after nine when Smitty and I found our way there.
The place was all lit up and there were about ten reporters, some local TV, and a whole group of Suggs’s fans. Suggs was there, standing on his chair, leading some sort of cheer when we walked in. As Smitty and I made our way to the podium, I noticed Suggs had about fifteen guys with him as an entourage. Just about all of them sported acid-washed jeans and mullets. Welcome to Kentucky.
Suggs abruptly ended his cheer and gave an exaggerated look in our direction. He raised one eyebrow and smiled crookedly.
“Looky, looky here…” The crowd hung on everything the guy said. “It’s two-thirds of an Oreo cookie.”
The crowd and the mullets laughed hard as Suggs paused. The guy worked the room well-that is, if you were a fan of pro wrestling.
“Hey boy-you teach the Polack everything he know?” Suggs pointed at Smitty. “You gonna use the monkey defense?”
This got another big laugh. This whole thing caught me off guard, not because of the fact that he was talking trash-that came with the game-but this was getting ugly. I was expecting a few people and some reporters and the same stupid but harmless questions that always seemed to get asked before fights. I wasn’t ready for this festival of idiocy.
“And you, boy, which was it with you?” he pointed at me and paused again for dramatic affect. “Was your mommy the drunk and your daddy the Polack, or was it the other way around?”
The crowd roared, the entourage hooted and hollered, and Suggs stood there with his hands on his hips in mock confusion. I didn’t hear all of it because I was busy flying out of my chair and knocking over the podium. Smitty was holding me back and a couple of the mullet-heads stepped forward toward me. I pushed three of them back and one fell to the ground. Through the confusion I heard one of them say, “Get the nigger.”
I swung around and grabbed the back of the mullet of the guy who was heading toward Smitty. The guy’s feet went out from under him and he fell to the ground. Somebody else pushed me from behind and then I saw somebody spit at Smitty.
I wheeled again but Smitty grabbed me and pulled me toward the door. I fought it for a while, but over the years doing what Smitty said came as second nature to me. He walked me out of the room like an angry mother walks a kindergartener who she had just caught misbehaving. The security cops had intervened between the mob and us, so there wasn’t anything left for us to do anyway. Smitty pushed me into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. When it started to move he pulled the emergency stop button.
“What the hell is a matter with you?” He stared at me like I had done something terrible. “All these years, and this is how you act.”
“Smit-”
“Shut up. You know better,” he said. “That fool wanted a circus and you gave it to him.”
“He was way the fuck out of line, Smitty, and you know it.” Now I was getting pissed off.
“That’s not the point. The point is the damn fight is tomorrow night.” Smitty raised his voice even more. “That’s what’s important.”
“I’m fuckin’ sick of people like him-I ain’t taking it any more,” I yelled right back at him.
Smitty stared at me, thought for a second, and let out some air.
“Settle down, settle down.” Smitty’s voice went soft. “It’s over, you need to get your head back into the fight and clear your mind.”
Smitty was talking to me like I was a child, and he put a hand on my shoulder.
“Now we’re going to our rooms, and let’s get our rest,” he said.
He hit the elevator button, and just as quickly as it erupted, the anger subsided. We hit the lobby and headed out to the street for the walk back to the Ramada. We hadn’t walked a block when Smitty started in again with the fight strategy.
“Son, don’t fight this guy. It’s all about movement.” Smitty was consoling now, almost hypnotizing.
“Yeah, Smitty, I know, I know,” I said.
Back at the Ramada, we went to our separate rooms and settled in for the night. Actually, settled wasn’t the right word. Like the night before most fights, I got very little sleep and whatever sleep I got was shitty, the kind where you sort of cruise over real sleep. This was the worst part about fights. There was nothing to do but sit around and get edgy the night before and most of the day of the fight.
I walked around the town the next day, mostly trying to avoid Smitty a bit because he was getting on my nerves with all his repetition about moving and using the jab. Walking the streets and spending a lot of time on my legs wasn’t a good idea because I was going to need them for the fight, but sitting around was making me nuts.
I thought about calling Rudy to check in on Eli and Mikey. I thought about calling Lisa and decided against it. I almost called Trina to see if she could tip me off about Claudia’s plans to fire me. Then I thought about Kelley, and I wanted to call him about Walanda and Shony. The more I walked, the more shit got to me.
It had been a hell of a week and now tonight I was facing this fuckin’ asshole who was probably going to knock me out. Honestly, the guy was stronger, hit harder, and was younger than me. I could probably take him into the later rounds, absorb a lot of punishment, and lose a decision. I just couldn’t stomach looking across the ring and seeing that asshole grinning and exalting himself.
I got back to my room to rest for a couple of hours before I had to leave for the fight. I sat on my bed, and as I looked down at my hands, I noticed they were curled up into tight fists. My right knee wouldn’t stay still, and I got up and paced the room. This was more than the usual pre-fight bullshit-this was something else. My breathing was hard and my palms were coated in sweat.
Whatever this was, it needed to be exorcised and I knew how. It was going to mean something I’d never done before but knew how to do. I might not be a top-ten fighter, but I’ve spent years in inner-city gyms paying the tuition of this game. I knew boxing in and out, and that included the underbelly of what was sometimes a cruel and unforgiving game. Suggs had the strength, he had the talent, but he hadn’t paid for his tuition like I had. He was brought along, managed, and taken care of, and he didn’t know about the respect that was due to another fighter.
I’ve seen and known some fighters who the average guy on the street would think were the biggest assholes in the world. A lot of those guys understood the gym and understood the code fighters lived by, and I respected them. Maybe they wouldn’t be getting citizen-of-the-year awards, but around gyms they had integrity. Suggs pissed on that integrity, he pissed on me and a man like Smitty, a man who should be revered in this. He also hated people for the sake of hate, and I decided then and there that he had to be taught a lesson-Duffy Dombrowski, judge, jury, and executioner.
When Smitty came to my room, I stared straight ahead with nothing but a scowl. I’m usually loose before a bout, cracking wise and making jokes, but this was different and Smitty didn’t like it at all.
“Boy, where’s your head at?” Smitty said.
“I’m good, Smitty, let’s get there,” I said.
“Son,” Smitty almost begged. “It’s about the movement, remember?”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
We waited for the preliminaries, and with two fights to go before the bout, Smitty wrapped my hands. He kept looking up at me with a worried expression on his face. He was concerned, even baffled, because after fifteen years together he’d never seen me like this. When it was time to go, I stared straight ahead and when they announced me, I walked out instead of jogging with my usual bouncing and trotting.