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  “Jesus! You broke my fuckin’ nose!”

  “Eddie Perlmutter broke your fuckin’ nose,” I explained. “Jesus had nothing to do with it and I had nothing to do with Jesus.”

  A follow-up left hook drew more epithets and usually the question: “What happened to the Jews who always want to negotiate?”

  “They’re not here today.”

  I never planned any of this violence. It just happened. Whenever I felt threatened, bright red spots would explode in front of my eyes, and everything that followed was purely instinctive. My total lack of fear, the red spots only I could see, my natural ability to fight and my random offbeat sense of humor were as mysterious to me as my middle initial. The fact that my penis could talk in a voice only I could hear amazed me most of all.

  Hey, check me out. I can stand, I heard one night in bed when I was about eleven years old.

  Who is that?

  Look. Down here under the covers.

  I looked. You can talk? I couldn’t believe it.

  Of course I can talk but only you can hear me.

  How come you never talked to me before?

  You were too young. You wouldn’t understand.

  Do you have a name?

  I have a lot of names. You can call me Prick, Cock, Dick, Schwants, Pecker, Schmuck, Mr. Happy, Sausage, Salami, Tool, Tube Steak, One-Eyed Snake, Willy, Weiner, Wang, Wanker, Putz, Pocket Rocket, Banana, Bone, Baloney, Big Ben, Big Ed, Bishop, Ding-A-Ling, Dink, Dip Stick, Dork, Drill, Goober, Hog, Shaft, Johnson, Mr. Johnson, Joy Stick, Knob, Longfellow, Pickle, Pud, Rod, Scmeckle, Schnitzel -

  Enough already. What do you want me to call you?

  I like Mr. Johnson. It has class.

  Okay, fine. Look, I’m tired, Mr. Johnson. Good night.

  Don’t go to sleep yet. Mr. Johnson sounded like he was on edge.

  Why not?

  I was wondering if you could lend me a hand so we can both get some sleep. It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship with many ups and downs.

  In 1956, the same year I first met Mr. Johnson, my father enrolled me in a boxing class hoping to channel my aggression into something more civilized. Unfortunately, the Marquis of Queensberry rules were no match for my street-brawler personality. I clubbed and clobbered my way to the head of the class without using much of the “sweet science” I was being taught. My frustrated boxing instructor told my father that he should take me either to the Franklin Park Zoo or to the West End House with the other wild animals in order to find more appropriate competition. So, when I was twelve my father enrolled me in the West End House Boxing program.

  The West End House, opened in 1908, was dedicated to helping the poor children of Boston’s hardscrabble, largely Italian West End. The boxing program, the toughest in the city, was supervised by the Police Athletic League (P.A.L.) of Boston. My first day at the gym the cops were not very impressed with a puny Jewish kid from the upscale suburb of Brookline. They didn’t pay attention to me until I won my first three fights by stops. A stop was what they called it when the referee would stop a fight before someone got knocked out or seriously hurt. I was stopping everyone. Suddenly, the cops loved me and I loved them back. I loved their uniforms, their camaraderie, and their dedication. My only goal was to become a super cop like them and do good things for good people and bad things to bad people.

  I knew my limitations even when I was young. I was street-smart but I was never going to be a famous doctor or lawyer and certainly not a great scholar. But I wanted to make a difference in my small corner of the universe and I figured I could do that best as a cop.

  I fought at the West End House in the Silver Gloves program for three years until the neighborhood was strangled to death by politics. Using the magic words blighted area and utilizing the federal funding made available to restore blighted areas, Boston politicians tore the West End down. The close-knit neighborhood was replaced with luxury, high-rise apartments and an expansion of the Massachusetts General Hospital. By 1960, an entire neighborhood of 7,000 people was gone. The year the West End House was torn down I won both the state and New England Golden Gloves championships at 126 pounds. Without the “Spirit of the House” in my corner though, my victories felt hollow and pointless.

  My enthusiasm for boxing was flattened like the West End itself, until an irresistible challenge rekindled my enthusiasm. The scheduled Golden Gloves middleweight title fight was being cancelled because of an injury to the challenger. I was offered the fight, if I could gain enough weight to make the minimum of 135 pounds. My opponent would be the reigning Golden Gloves middleweight state champion, Gino “The Destroyer” Montoya, an undefeated, talented twenty-year-old boxer. I was a smallish, sixteen-year-old, unbeaten lightweight slugger with questionable skills. My father wasn’t in favor of the fight. “That kid has too much size and talent for you,” he warned me.

  “I’m not afraid of him,” I replied honestly.

  “I know. You’re not afraid of anything. But maybe you should be,” my father advised. “Montoya can really box. You still fight like a bum.”

  “A bum? I’m undefeated in twenty-one bouts, Dad.”

  “That’s because you’ve been fighting other bums. This guy’s no bum. He could hurt you.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  While I was training for Montoya, my grandfather frequently came to my workouts. “You’re looking good,” he told me in his thick Russian-Yiddish accent one day while I was pounding the heavy bag.

  “Thanks, Grandpa, but Dad thinks I fight like a bum.”

  “Don’t let him discourage you. You’re a good fighter. In fact, you remind me of that old trumbenik Barney Ross.”

  “What’s a trumbenik?”

  “A tough guy from the streets.”

  “Who’s Barney Ross?”

  “A street-tough Jewish boxer they called the Pride of the Ghetto. His real name was Beryl Rosofsky.”

  My grandfather’s memory had been failing for the past couple of years, so I couldn’t help but wonder if his recollection of the old-time fighter was accurate.

  “Did he fight like a bum?” I asked.

  “No, Eddie. He fought like the three-time world champion he was. He had over eighty fights and he won most of them.”

  “And I remind you of him?” I asked, satisfied with my grandfather’s memory of the moment.

  “Yes, you do. Barney Ross wasn’t afraid of anything.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything, either, Grandpa,” I said honestly.

  “Yes, I know,” the old man agreed. “You’re like me when I was your age. Anyway, I wanted you to know that you’re my Barney Ross and my favorite fighter.”

  “Thanks, Grandpa.”

  We hugged. He felt frail.

  “You feel okay, Grandpa?” I asked when the hug ended.

  “Sometimes,” he said, tapping his temple with his forefinger. He knew what was happening to his mind. “Listen, Eddie, your father has his own ideas about boxing, so let’s just keep Barney Ross our little secret.”

  He winked at me, and I winked back.

  “As long as we’re sharing secrets, Grandpa, what about the S?”

  He wagged his index finger at me like he had caught me being a naughty boy. We both laughed. Then I tried to unlock a different secret.

  “Okay, Grandpa, forget the S,” I conceded. “There’s something else I want to ask you.”

  “Ask.”

  “Did you have anything to do with the murder of those two guys who hurt Grandma?” When I was about eight years old two black men, in their early twenties, had been found murdered in the Franklin Park Zoo. The murders took place shortly after my grandparents had been mugged by them in broad daylight on a bright summer afternoon in their Dorchester neighborhood. My grandmother had been pushed to the ground during the assault, and the back of her head hit the pavement. Afterward, she could not remember the mugging, and shortly after she began to drift off to a place where she could not remember anything. My gra
ndfather had been knocked unconscious during the assault but he remembered the faces of his attackers. He went to the police. There were plenty of people who witnessed the attack, but no one stepped forward. No one seemed to care or have the courage to risk their own safety by speaking out against the thugs. No charges were ever filed. A few weeks later, the two muggers were found murdered near the bear cage at the Franklin Park Zoo. One had been stabbed directly in the heart, and the other had his throat slashed so deeply he was nearly decapitated. The murder, like the mugging, was never solved.

  “It doesn’t matter who killed those boys,” my grandfather said. “What matters is that they won’t be hurting anyone else anymore.”

  “I’m glad they’re dead,” I said to my grandfather.

  “So am I,” he told me.

  “So, did you do it?

  “How could a little old man like me overpower two young giants like them?” He chuckled.

  “You were younger then.”

  “I was still a little old man.”

  “Were you too old to kill those guys?” I asked.

  “It would be almost impossible,” he said.

  “But not totally impossible.”

  “No, not totally impossible,” he conceded.

  “But how could the weaker guy win?” I persisted.

  “Surprise and arrogance,” my grandfather said. “The weaker man has to surprise the stronger enemy and the stronger enemy has to be arrogant enough to believe he can’t lose.”

  “So, it could happen?”

  “Yes. It could happen,” my grandfather said, and he jabbed my arm playfully.

  I tapped his shoulder in return.

  We understood each other perfectly.

  The Montoya fight felt wrong from the start. When we met in the middle of the ring for the referee’s instructions, it was the first time I had been up close to Montoya.

  He was bigger than I thought and even though I made the minimum weight, he made me look small. He was hairy as a bear, with no front teeth and breath that smelled like a garbage can. I held my breath until we touched gloves and separated. It was then that I noticed that Mr. Johnson was hiding somewhere in my stomach. He had never done that before.

  What’s the matter with you? I asked Mr. Johnson on the way back to my corner.

  What’s the matter with me? What the fuck is the matter with you? You see the size of that guy? One low blow, and me and the twins are history. I’m staying right here till this is over.

  Where are the twins?

  They’re on their own.

  So, I’m on my own tonight.

  We’ll see how it goes.

  When the bell rang to start the first round I was still thinking about Gino’s bad breath and Mr. Johnson’s lack of confidence. By the time the bell rang to start the third and final round I had been knocked down twice, once in the first round and once in the second, and his breath had nothing to do with it. My face was puffy, and I had a headache from Montoya’s constant jabs between my eyes. Mr. Johnson was still hiding.

  I told you so, he whispered to me after the first knockdown, but he had been silent ever since. The crowd was screaming for the fight to be stopped, but I kept punching enough to convince the referee that I wasn’t seriously hurt and could still defend myself. I threw punches from a lot of crazy angles and actually hit Montoya on the ass with a left hook at the end of the second round when he turned to go to his corner. He looked back at me over his shoulder like I was crazy.

  When we met in the center of the ring to start the third round, he smirked at me.

  “Hey, little man,” he said through his mouthpiece. “Take it easy. My ass is killing me.”

  “Wait till I stick your head up there,” I told him as we touched gloves like gentlemen.

  Thirty seconds later I was on the canvas again. I wasn’t hurt. I was frustrated. I couldn’t get near him. He kept swatting me away like a gnat with his longer reach. Although he wasn’t hurting me physically, he was doing a good job of hurting my feelings and winning the fight. I got up from the third knockdown immediately and started to go after him again, but the referee stood in front of me.

  “I think you’ve had enough, Eddie,” he told me.

  I pushed him aside. “I’m just getting started,” I snarled through my bloody mouthpiece.

  The referee knew me well enough to let the fight continue. Gino Montoya was standing across the ring with his arms raised in victory. He was smiling and bouncing on the balls of his feet arrogantly! That son of a bitch. With his mouthpiece covering his missing teeth and from a distance where I couldn’t smell his breath, even I had to admit he looked like a champ. I looked like a chump. He put his arms down when he saw me standing in front of him again and shook his head like he couldn’t believe I was back for more. He started toward me, with his hands still at his side, smiling - arrogantly! The prick! He was directly in front of me, and I was suddenly more alert than I had been before. I studied the Destroyer like I was looking at him through a magnifying glass. Just below the left side of his chest I saw the almost imperceptible bump, bump, bump of the engine that was fueling the Montoya Express. If I was going to win this fight, I had to shut that engine down and I had to shut it down now. Instinctively I resumed my fighting stance, but as he got closer I dropped into a low crouch. My gloves almost touched the canvas when Gino threw a slow-motion, arrogant, roundhouse right at the top of my head. His glove passed harmlessly over my shoulder, just as angry red spots splashed in my mind’s eye. Surprise! You arrogant asshole! I thought as I lunged forward and plunged my right glove into his chest, trying to drive his heart into his backbone. I heard him groan as if I had stabbed him with a knife. I pressed forward with both fists flying and continued stabbing that hairy bear in the heart until he collapsed over the top ring rope. When I couldn’t hit him in the chest anymore, I tried stabbing him in the back and kidneys. Suddenly, the referee was pulling me away. “Eddie, enough, enough,” he was yelling in my face through the red spots. “Stop it.”

  I tried to get loose, but I couldn’t break away. The red spots started to fade and I finally stopped fighting.

  “You okay now?” the ref asked me. “Can I let you go?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I told him.

  The referee raised my hand in victory. The crowd cheered. The bright houselights came on, and the ring bell clanged repeatedly.

  Hey, I knew we could do it, Mr. Johnson crowed as he came out of hiding. I ran to the ring ropes trying to locate my father and grandfather. I saw people standing in their section, but none of them were looking at the ring. They were all looking down at the floor. I did not see my father or grandfather standing among them, so I raced into the crowd. I saw Grandpa Hans lying on his back, holding my father’s hand. They both turned to me when I arrived. I tore off my headgear and knelt beside them. Grandpa Hans touched my face with a cold hand. His face was chalky white, and I realized he was going to die right then and there. Tears came to my eyes. My grandfather beckoned to me to lean over. When my ear was next to his mouth he whispered, “You killed a bear, just like me, Eddie.”

  As far as I knew, my grandfather had never killed a bear and I didn’t want to upset him by telling him there were no bears in Boston Arena - except maybe in his failing mind. So I comforted him with a lie.

  “Yeah, Grandpa,” I said. “I killed a bear. Just like you.”

  “Did you see red spots, Eddie?”

  “How did you know about the red spots?” I was startled by his question.

  Grandpa Hans didn’t answer. Instead, he winked at me, and his meaning was clear. A part of Hans Perlmutter was a part of Eddie Perlmutter. I winked my understanding back at him. He grabbed his chest in pain and his eyes closed tightly. I knew he was leaving.

  “Grandpa,” I called to him. “Does this have something to do with the S?”

  He was gone.

  At my grandfather’s funeral I couldn’t help but wonder about the bear. I wish there had been time to ask
him. But Hans Perlmutter had gone to his beloved Golda. I was a sixteen-year-old kid who still didn’t have any answers and without Grandma and Grandpa there, I didn’t even get a chocolate chip cookie.

  I broke several bones in both my hands during that final round, and I learned many years later that I also broke Gino Montoya’s heart in the process.

  POSTFIGHT - POSTMORTEM

  Thirty years after that fight, I saw Gino Montoya’s name in the obituary column of The Boston Globe. I hadn’t seen him once over those thirty years, even though we had both remained in the area. Gino Montoya had died suddenly, his obituary read, at the age of fifty from a massive coronary. I attended Gino’s wake at Lombardi’s Funeral Home in East Boston that same afternoon. I did not introduce myself to his family when I expressed my sympathy and found it extremely difficult to look at his young daughter and son. I overheard a conversation while I was waiting to view his body. I learned that Gino’s heart attack was caused by an aneurysm that had ruptured without warning in the left ventricle of his heart. This kind of aneurysm, I heard, was usually the result of a previous chest trauma that went undetected until it was too late. I felt a chill as I stood by Gino’s open casket and looked down at him. He looked like life had been good to him.

  There were enlarged photos of Gino around his coffin. There was a picture of him at his confirmation and one of him on his wedding day. He was smiling in that second picture, and I noticed he had a full set of teeth. Then I saw the picture of him in his boxing trunks. There was a championship belt around his waist. He looked so vibrant and alive that it was hard to associate him with the dead body in the casket. His eyes stared proudly at the camera. I placed my right hand over my heart and lightly tapped it several times. I told Gino I was sorry and said goodbye.

  From 1958 to 1962, I wandered through Brookline High School without direction. The only person I felt close to was a blond, blue-eyed Irish girl named Patty McGee. I fell in love with her the first time I saw her on the front steps of the high school my freshman year. She wasn’t perfect but she was perfect for me. Patty had a small hump on her back behind her right shoulder, the result of scoliosis as a child. The first time we met formally was when I beat the shit out of a sophomore football player who was making fun of her back.