I was a ten-years-old when I took a notion to learn to box. Problem: I had no sparring partner. Dad taught me the rudiments, but I needed to practice, so I talked my seven-year-old brother into it. He wisely chose the strategy of staying quite wide of my punches; I don’t think I ever touched him, which is just as well, for if Dad had heard what I was doing, he would’ve most certainly reached out and ‘touched’ me.
For whatever reason, my instinct to box in high school went underground only to reawaken during my tenure at the Citadel where we had ‘pick-up’ fights at the gym in the darker corners of the quadrangles. Upper classmen gathered and cheered but never gave out the first demerit. We signed out gloves and head-gear for the weekend and generally practiced impromptu mayhem around the barracks.
What with my staggering accrual of demerits, I wasn’t going on liberty anyway, sooo I might as well fight to pass the time. Professional boxing is called ‘retail violence’ by its detractors, but at The Cid [Citadel] we didn’t have much ‘retail’ so we made up for that by increasing the violence. We would have impromptu matches in the hallways, always surrounded by a pack of fans in full cry. I don’t mean to imply these were bare-knuckle brawls, we did wear equipment.
Gradually these hallway meetings evolved into something perhaps more sinister. Those pugilists who wished, could meet in an abandon classroom after dark where, some effective word of mouth marketing, there might be upwards of one hundred cadets willing to risk military punishments, to see a good bout. Their only job was to remove the chairs, then replace them perfectly afterwards.
In another barracks, a young man developed a reputation for boxing. He had beaten everyone thoughtless enough to contend him. His name was ‘Dynamite Billy Bowles.’ He was a tall, long-muscled brawler with lightning fists. A collective thought gathered throughout the barracks: Let’s match Bowles with Garvin.
Somehow the idea suited me. Although I had never laid eyes on the man, I wasn’t much worried; as long as I had been boxing, I’d never been knocked down. Of course most punching bags can make the same claim – but none of them have ever been the heavy-weight champion of the world either.
The fight was set for 9:00 PM that night. As I walked to the dining hall, the coming contest was much on my mind. Something happened there that might bear on the fight although I didn’t see the connection right away: they served chili con carne with rice. My favorite! Three bowls and a loosening of pants later, I began to wonder if this was the ideal pre-bout meal. Oh well.
I snuck up to the classroom, worked my way through the throng and noticed a powerful, confident, energetic youngster dancing around, eager to defeat the reigning champ of Barracks Four [Me]. He wore boxing mitts and a robe that announced him as ‘Dynamite Billy Bowles.”
He was taller than I but wanted my bulk. I was short of breath climbing the stairs no doubt feeling the effects of three servings. I heard people in the crowd say, “Garvin doesn’t stand a chance; sure, he’s bigger, but Billy’s got the speed. Ok. It was not, nor did it remain, the first time I had been peremptorily rejected.
The bout began and Billy started peppering my face with jabs. They didn’t bother me, nor did I raise my hands much to filter off the blows. Better a punch in the face than one to my overly-full stomach which would lead to pain, vomiting, etc. Poor form for a contender.
I continued to study Billy’s style and noticed that he would drop his hand with certain punches. Eventually, he threw that certain punch and I lashed out with a midriff counter punch that took him to the ground. From the floor, once he’d caught his breath, he waved his hand. Enough. Fight over. Against all odds, Mr.” Full Belly” had somehow won.
Now the crowd was mumbling, “Of course Garvin beat Billy! He’s the bigger man!”
Ya can’t please anybody. Brother Denny, also a cadet at the time, commented to me, “First time I ever saw anybody knocked down with a body blow.
As I finished at the Cid, there were additional fights, more recreational than violent. Strange to say, as I entered medical school, I took the urge to fight with me, unseemly in a doc, I know, but for me, pugilism was in the stars.
From the ranks emerged a fellow medical student who had me by two inches in height, and forty pounds in tonnage. We arranged to meet at the ‘Y’ and go through the motion of a sparring match. This meant we wouldn’t hit each other “hard.”
That agreement held firm until his second punch. Seeing my left hand drop, he clubbed me with a round-house right. My head jerked. I held a hand up and said, “Hey, Steve, we’re going easy okay? Just working on form.” Steve nodded, “Oh yeah, I forgot. He then proceeded with a left hand so powerful, it rocked my head and ripped away my head gear.
No more warnings. I left off my gear and set up to send Steve into ‘sleepy time.’ No need to wait, he thundered a right cross at my face, I side-stepped, he lost balance and feel face-first into a pile of barbells sustaining a three inch laceration on his forehead; round and bout over; TKO’d by rack of barbells.
Didn’t fight much after that; I don’t know why. Perhaps I decided to become a lover, not a fighter, although I didn’t show much promise in either endeavor.
Hey! Maybe that’s why I started writing! Far fwer bruises.
Look for Lucky’s books locally and on-line: The Oath of Hippocrates; The Cotillian; A Journey Long Delayed; Campfire Tales; Sabonics.
