Smitty had walked ahead and called to me.
“Here it is, Duff. Let’s get wrapped,” he said.
“Hang on, Smitty,” I said.
I kept on down the corridor, looking for it. I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t have it, but then, just past Springsteen, I saw it.
Elvis at the Garden, June 12, 1972. It was a great shot of him wowing the Garden fans. It was cool to see.
Just down the hallway was a fat old security guard, and I walked down to talk with him. Smitty was getting impatient.
“Duff, what the hell are you doin’?” he said.
“Hang on, just a second, Smit,” I said.
I went up to the guard.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Fighters names are on the doors to their rooms,” he said, barely looking at me.
“Yeah, I know, thanks,” I said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What?”
“How long have you worked at the Garden?”
“Since ’70, why?”
“Any chance you worked the night Elvis played?”
“Yeah, I did. So?”
“Did you get to talk to him?”
“We all did. He gave us watches.”
“Really?”
“Yeah-I was never a fan, but I’ll tell you something,” he said, looking me in the eye for the first time. “You’ll never hear me say anything bad about Elvis Presley.”
“Do you remember which room he dressed in?”
“I’ll never forget-second one to the end. It’s where we got the watches,” he said.
I looked down the corridor to see a pissed-off Smitty, standing in front of the second dressing room to the end.
“Sir, thank you, thank you very much,” I said.
Special things happened in this place. You could tell.
Smitty wrapped my hands and went through his routine. He didn’t mention anything about how this kid was the best fighter that I had ever been in with by far. He didn’t mention the Garden, he just said all the things he always said and he said them in the exact same way. I don’t think any of that was a coincidence.
I was the fifth bout on a ten-bout card and there was one more bout after mine before the live television started. Mulrooney was the main event and he brought in the Irish, both of the Irish-American and the recent immigrant variety. In Mulrooney, they had something to get behind, an event right here in New York that they could come out to, where they could get drunk and be Irish. Most of them would be in the upper deck, and at $75 a pop you can’t rightfully call them cheap seats.
A guy in a blue blazer with a New York Athletic Commission badge on poked his head in my dressing room and said “Time.” I felt that weird feeling in my throat and a flushing in my face like I do before any bout, but tonight it was a little more intense. My legs felt funny underneath me like I had rented them. It was a little more than a little more intense.
I came out first for my bout because Marquason insisted on it in the contract. It’s customary for the champion to enter the ring last, and that’s kind of been adopted by whoever is the favorite to win. I walked through the hallway leading to the main floor and walked through the tunnel with the small scoreboard on top of it that you see on TV at about midcourt during basketball games. I got my first look at the immensity of the arena, which was now three-quarters filled. It was, in the true sense of the word, awesome. The crowd did their best to be indifferent to my entrance.
Marquason came in to some rap song with an entourage of about eight guys. His corner was worked by two of the game’s most famous cornermen, so you know that his manager thought a lot of him. The one guy was that fat old guy who looked liked Fred Flintsone’s uglier brother. Marquason was decked out in brand-new gear with paid endorsements all over, and when he came through the ropes he ignored me and floated around the ring in a choreographed warm-up. I got the impression that this guy hadn’t fought in a union hall or a high-school gym-at least not in a long time.
Anticipating some Irish folks there for the main event, I wore my green robe and my green, orange, and white shorts with the shamrock in the middle. The ring announcer introduced us and when he said my name a roar went up from an upper-deck section waving Irish flags. I guess they heard “Duffy” and the “Dombrowski” didn’t throw them. I looked up and it was a large section of people in green.
Marquason got applause but it was more subdued, like the crowd was being introduced to some sort of boy prince. The referee called us to the center of the ring for the ceremonial instructions, and then we went back to our corners to get ready for the bell. Smitty slipped in my mouthpiece and the bell rang. I tried to focus on boxing.
I couldn’t feel my legs.
Marquason didn’t move-he floated. The guy looked beautiful, like he was a body made just for this. My admiration was interrupted by his first jab, which hit me just under my right eye. It felt like someone hit me with a screwdriver. The kid was fast, he had power, and his punches were sharp.
I heard the ringside announcers say something about my knees buckling, which I wasn’t aware of. I was aware of the loud “oooh” that came from the crowd. It was what came after that really startled me.
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
The Irish were in the house and they were pulling for their boy. I got chills and I began to feel my legs and enter that state of mind where I’m just boxing.
The chills didn’t last long because Marquason stabbed me with his screwdriver again, only this time he followed it with a right and I found myself on the seat of my pants. It hurt but I was all right, and I sprang back up just in time to hear the bell ring. Well, I made it through one round, albeit by getting totally dominated and knocked down.
I sat on the stool that Rudy slid through the ropes and sipped the water Smitty offered. Smitty spoke to me in his usual steady and measured pace, but I wasn’t focused. My head was ringing and my heart was beating fast.
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
It was getting louder.
I was up off the stool at the sound of the bell for the second. Marquason started to screw around and treat me like a prop. It was as if I were a piece of equipment for him to use to get his win, and even more than that, I was something to embarrass and show dominance over.
I threw some jabs that he caught with his gloves and I missed wildly with some hooks. He mugged at me, stuck his tongue out, and did the Ali shuffle. I didn’t mind getting beat but I did mind getting disrespected. Okay, so the kid was near great and going to be great, but he didn’t have to make me into an asshole.
He kept doing this one move where he’d drop his guard, stick his head out, and then lean in, begging me to hit him. Then when I’d move, he’d lean toward me and flash a jab that would stab me on the way in. Those jabs hurt, but it was actually something I’d hoped he’d do after seeing him do it on tape.
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
“DUFFY, DUFFY.”
Man, you got to love the Irish. I felt my fist inside the satiny Mexican glove and it was time to give it a shot-probably my only shot. I knew my jab was good but I didn’t know if I could pull off what I wanted to do. Who was I kidding-it was my only shot.
Marquason started the hands-down-leaning-in routine again. I tightened my fist and waited. He leapt, I stepped slightly to my left and threw the hardest, stiff-armed jab I had, just slightly off-center to his right eyebrow. It caught and I dragged it across his eyebrow and forehead as hard as I could.
It would take a second to see if it worked.
He backed up and circled abruptly, abandoning his showboat style. He stopped throwing punches and looked preoccupied. Then I got my first sign of success. Marquason rubbed his eyebrow and looked down at his glove. There was blood and there was a lot of it.