And then I had to chuckle and say, “He sure did.” I couldn’t tell him that Joe had sucker-punched me when I refused to pop him as he was falling. I couldn’t tell him how rusty I was, and how far off on my timing and coordination. It would have sounded like a bunch of excuses, and in the old days, I never made excuses to Johnny. Not a one. With Johnny, you win or you lose.
So the warm days went by and every day I got a little closer to the way I used to be — but I knew that I’d never be back there — not by a mile. You can’t take a year off and expect to come back, much less six years. On the third day I found out that it was a joy to work out with Jug Hoffman. We kidded around and he made me fight like this boy he was going to meet. I went through it slow, and he’d move in with open gloves. We didn’t use the masks. Then I’d go through the style as fast as I could manage, and Jug, he’d fly all over me, pulling the punches, and I knew that here was a boy who could handle himself.
He had a funny, perky way of moving around in the ring, skipping and yanking at the sides of his shorts with his gloved hands, snuffing hard through that mashed nose, his feet making little hard slapping noises on the canvas. He had a nice stunt of bouncing and yanking at the shorts, and then flashing a left jab up when you were the least expecting it.
And he took criticism good. I showed him how he was taking the steam out of his own left hook by moving the shoulder too soon. I showed him how to throw the shoulder along with the punch after the hand had moved about five inches so that the full power exploded right at the point of contact. He liked that. He took about three hundred shots at the heavy bag until he had it just right, until he’d absorbed it into his fighting instincts — until it was a part of him, available for those thousandths of a second in the ring when there’s no time for thought.
Before we turned in, Jug and I made a deal for a light workout the next day, Friday, because on Friday afternoon, late, Johnny was taking him into town for the fight Saturday night. Johnny was pleased when Jug told him that I’d helped him a lot and he was glad that Johnny had got me out there. It meant a good deal to know that I was helping Johnny, Johnny left right after dinner Thursday night, telling us that he’d be back in time, on Friday, to take Jug on down to the city.
As soon as Johnny had gone, Joe took the keys to Barney’s car off the mantel, without asking him, and went on into the town of Benton to see Sis. Barney was sore about it, but there wasn’t anything he could do.
At breakfast the next morning, while Joe was cramming his mouth full of eggs, Barney came in and said, “That was a cute trick, Joe. Next time you ask for my car, see?”
Joe mumbled, “Keep your pants on, Pop. She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”
Then it happened. Jug Hoffman thumped his coffee cup down on the table and said, “You better play that deal straight, Junior.”
Joe stopped chewing for a moment. His eyes looked small and bright hot. He looked at Jug and said softly. “Where do you come in?”
“I know the girl and she’s a good kid,” Jug said. “Just play it straight or you’ll have a lot of people to talk to. I happen to know she’s stuck on you, but I couldn’t tell you why. For my money, you’re poison.”
Joe stood up slowly, fists clenched. He said, “I give lessons to people who put their noses in my business. You ready for yours?”
“Any time,” Jug said calmly. He finished his coffee and stood up. “You got reach and weight on me. See how much good they’re going to do you. Regular rounds. Barney’ll referee and Stan’ll call time. Regular gloves. No masks. I’ll take Wash in my corner and you can take Harry.”
Barney put both palms up and said, “No, guys. What’ll Johnny say? Wait till after your fights. He’ll blame me.”
Joe turned to him and said, “Shut up, grandma. Let’s roll this thing. I haven’t liked the way this dumb punk has been looking at Sis anyway. I’ll try not to cut him up too much.” Barney gulped when he saw how hopeless it was to try to stop it.
I had the collodion and the tape laid out where I could grab them quick, and when Stan whacked the bell, I snatched the stool out and moved over so the post wasn’t in my way. Jug circled fast, dancing on his toes, the muscles in his shoulders nice and loose, his face impassive. The mouth guard distorted his lips. The only sound was the slap of his toes on the canvas, the noise of his breathing.
In comparison, Joe looked clumsy, loose jointed, amateurish. You could tell from their eyes that this was something which had been building up for a long time. The difference between them was that with Jug, once the bell sounded, it was his trade and he went at it with the emotion of a master plumber tackling a pipe. With Joe it was something in the glands.
Jug bounced and yanked at his shorts. The left flashed out, slamming Joe’s head back and Jug followed it up with a short right that had his back in it. Joe shook his head and backed away. When Jug followed up, Joe clubbed at him with swinging rights and lefts. Jug caught them on his arms and gloves and shoulders, riding with them to cut the shock. Joe rushed him and had him poised against the ropes for a fraction of a second. He slammed a pile-driver right, but Jug wasn’t there to catch it. He circled and nailed Joe behind the ear on the way out.
Joe’s face became something less than human. He charged blindly, snowing Jug under with pure weight and ferocity. Jug ducked some, but he couldn’t duck all of them. He tried to stand toe and slug with the heavier man. It was a bad plan. He nailed Joe three times before a whistling left caught him and floored him. As he bounded up at nine, Stan banged the bell for the round.
I pushed the split on Jug’s cheekbone shut and covered it with collodion. I whispered to him, “Boy, you’ve got to box him. Don’t try to slug with him. Box him and counterpunch him. Make him take six to get in one.” Jug nodded and I repeated it to make sure he got it. He rinsed his mouth and spat into the pail. I sloshed some cold water on his chest, and jumped down at the bell.
Jug rushed out, dancing, and caught Joe with a solid left hook. Joe circled like a big cat, waiting until he could rush Jug into a corner. Jug saw his danger and danced clear, flicking the left out.
Joe shot across a straight right which missed, and collected a hard left hook to the middle and a right cross to the head. I could see that the left hook had bothered him a little. He opened his lips around the mouth guard to suck air. But he took his time and, in the middle of the round, rushed Jug into a neutral corner. Jug clinched, but Joe tore him loose with lefts and rights to the middle. When Jug bounced off the corner ropes, Joe slammed one home. Jug clinched again, and by the time Barney broke them, Jug was okay. Going away from the clinch, he threw one right down the groove that cut Joe’s lip.
In the third round it settled down to a pattern. Jug would get in six clean blows on Joe’s iron jaw, and then Joe would stagger Jug with a clean left or right. But I could see that it was working out the way I thought it should. Jug was taking brutal punishment, but his blows were having more effect.
The fourth, fifth and sixth were almost identical. In each round Jug went down, but twice he was pushed rather than hit. Each time he took a shorter count.
The seventh brought it to a head. Joe had thrown so many punches that his arms had turned to putty. He grunted and snarled as he tried to force the punches across. Jug bounced, high, tugged at his shorts and went in, both hands held low. Joe saw the opening and swung a slow, heavy right. Jug slammed one across while the right was still floating at him. Jug puffed and slapped home a left and a right. Joe tried to make his arms work, but they wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t fall. Each time he tried to throw a punch, he was hit three times. At last, his arms dropped to his sides and he weaved. Jug measured him and slammed across an overhand right. It knocked Joe’s mouth guard out. He started to fall. As he went down, Jug slammed in a left hook that finished it. Joe rolled over onto his face. He twitched once and lay still.