The Saga of Irish Kid Mulligan
Jan 17, 2023 21:41:01 GMT -5
Post by Radrook Admin on Jan 17, 2023 21:41:01 GMT -5
The Saga of Irish Kid Mulligan
This stocky, red-haired, freckled-skinned young man calling himself, Irish Kid Mulligan, was an aspiring pugilist despite his lack of athleticism. He had been at the boxing-gym for the past ten years, and now, finally, his first professional fight was scheduled as an undercard at New York's prestigious Madison Square Garden for the upcoming Saturday.
The kid had fought various times as an amateur at middleweight, but all had unfortunately ended the same way, his flying over the top ropes following a barrage of punches, and landing on the cement floor just a few feet short of the spectator-front-seats. In two of those fights, he had suffered bone-fractures which had prevented his training at the gym for the greater part of the year. Yet, each time, he had stubbornly returned as dedicated as always. Amateur career record? Five fights and five losses.
Yet, despite his failures, the Gym-manager and owner, a tall, pale, bald, middle-aged, lanky man of Norwegian descent, named Abel Johansen, had kept encouraging him to continue. Always effusively praising the way that the Kid trained, and constantly admiring the way that he threw his punches. Also, repeatedly comparing the clumsy way that he moved to the graceful movements of the late great HW champion Mohammed Ali. He even spoke about the day when all those qualities would suddenly converge, and the Kid would excel above all.
Of course, this tableau did not go unnoticed by other gym clientele who disagreed with his hypocritical policy. One in particular, was Jim Harris, a former Africa American HW professional boxer once ranked top-ten, but retired for years. He had observed the entire tableau from the beginning. The hypocritical praising of the kid's abilities. The snide remarks made behind the kid’s back when he was out hearing-range or wasn’t there. Finally, becoming aware of the impending danger that the kid was facing, and having been encouraged to do so by his church pastor, he decided to speak up,
“Hey, Mr. Johansson, why do you keep encouraging the kid when you know he isn't any good? All he gets is hurt when he fights, man. Why not be honest with him, dog? Tell him to find another profession.”
“I know Jim, but honesty doesn’t pay the rent. The kid pays his gym dues, and that helps me with the utilities the upkeep of equipment and the high rent. Otherwise I run the risk of going out of business."
“But the kid is getting seriously hurt man! You know that he lacks natural athletic ability,” Jim said.
“No big deal, just some bruises and minor cuts. He's still young and heals fast." Johansson responded.
“I don’t agree with your methods, Mr. Johansson. The kid deserves better.”
“Well, how about me? Don’t I deserve better than going out of business because I turn away suckers who'll pay through their noses just to hear how much potential they have?"
“We all tend to be that way when young, Joe. You know that. We think that the sky’s the limit, but then we find out that it ain’t."
“Well, Jim, that’s true. Which means that when he grows up a bit more, he’ll be gone, and I’ll have to find another sucker to help with the cost of keeping this training facility going."
Jim just shook his head and went on with his training. At the far corner of the facility, he could see the kid punching the heavy bag while being encouraged and praised by his handler who was in on the whole farce. If something serious happened to the kid, both would be to blame. But neither seemed to care.
“Hey kid! Hey kid!" Jim called out. I wanna have a word with you.
“Yeah what’s up!?” the kid responded while swiping away the sweat from his face with a small towel.
“Who you fighting at the Square come Saturday evening man?"
“Savage Sylvester Maloney,” the kid responded proudly banging his gloves together.
“He set you up with that undefeated fighter, Savage Sylvester Maloney?"
”Yep! Says if I beat him, it'll open up the gates for me big-time! Maybe even a championship match somewhere down the road."
“Listen kid,” Jim said, lowering his voice to a whisper, while glancing both ways to make sure he wasn’t being heard. “...the guy is lying. You stand no chance of beating the undefeated Savage Sylvester Maloney! You're just a steppingstone and you are going to get seriously hurt, son."
Looking as if he had just had a pail of ice-cold water thrown in his face, the kid responded with:
“Oh yeah? You're just jealous cuz you're a washed-up old man!" and then sauntered away.
Joe felt like teaching him a lesson, but that would happen on Saturday night with spades. Of that he was sure. Maybe it served him right.
Well, Saturday night arrived and Irish Kid Mulligan vs. Savage Sylvester Maloney would be part of the preliminaries. The Kid entered the ring first dressed in his Green Robe in honor of his Irish heritage accompanied by his trainers and seconds. There was a sudden hush in the audience as everyone there noticed that he wasn’t cut out for the sport. His chest looked sunken with ribs visible. His arms were scrawny and his deltoids the sizes of potatoes. His legs faired no better. In contrast, Savage Sylvester Maloney was bristling with muscles, and resembled a feral cat about to make short work of a mouse.
Strangely, Gym-Owner Johansson, dressed immaculately in a white tuxedo, and wearing a white wide-brimmed Fedora hat, and highly polished black patent-leather shoes, had reserved seats in the front-row for this one. He could be seen joking with two young, curvaceous blonds, in tightly fitting black dresses by his side, as if he had invited them there to witness what he had described to them privately as some type of freak-show. Both broads kept giggling and taking photographs of Kid Mulligan whenever he got close enough, as he warmed up for the fight. The Kid, in turn, mistook their ostentatious antics for admiration, and basked in what he considered, the limelight.
Then the exaggerated hyped-up announcements were made, the ref instructions were given, the fighters went to there respective neutral corners. When the bell rang the Kid confidently met Savage Sylvester in the middle of the ring, and after a brief exchange he was driven against the ropes, and in less than fifteen seconds into the fight, the kid had toppled over the ropes and was airborne. But this time, instead of landing on the hard cement, he landed on the gym-owners head and neck. You see, one of the curvaceous, blonde broads, had dropped her hanky there by mistake, and had coquettishly asked Johansson to fetch it. "Sure babe!" Johansson had said.
He swaggered over to get it, and dipped down, but before he could straighten himself, the kid's body had crashed against his neck and slammed him to the floor. The Kid wasn't seriously, hurt, although he was counted out as he lay writhing on the floor in pain. But Johansson wasn't moving at all. Soon he was hoisted on a gurney taken to the hospital unconscious. Upon regaining his senses he attempted to move, but couldn't. Then he was given the news that the accident had rendered him a quadriplegic. Upon seeing the kid enter the hospital room to visit, he attempted to get up in order to aggress while calling him an SOB, but couldn't move.
"What do you plan on doing now?" Jim asked the kid as they walked away from Johansson's room. Him had managed to set the kid's insult aside and was holding no grudge.
"Well, Joe, I guess I'm just no good for this sport. So I'll try my hand at something else. Maybe farming at my dad's ranch in Montana. Or else, maybe going to college and studying to be a lawyer as he once told me to. They say there's good money in that."
"Good choices son! Very good choices." Joe told him as he patted him on the back and walked with him towards the hospital elevator. They could still hear Johansson threatening bloody murder, but decided to pay him no mind. After all he still had his gym, and that should have been enough.
The kid had fought various times as an amateur at middleweight, but all had unfortunately ended the same way, his flying over the top ropes following a barrage of punches, and landing on the cement floor just a few feet short of the spectator-front-seats. In two of those fights, he had suffered bone-fractures which had prevented his training at the gym for the greater part of the year. Yet, each time, he had stubbornly returned as dedicated as always. Amateur career record? Five fights and five losses.
Yet, despite his failures, the Gym-manager and owner, a tall, pale, bald, middle-aged, lanky man of Norwegian descent, named Abel Johansen, had kept encouraging him to continue. Always effusively praising the way that the Kid trained, and constantly admiring the way that he threw his punches. Also, repeatedly comparing the clumsy way that he moved to the graceful movements of the late great HW champion Mohammed Ali. He even spoke about the day when all those qualities would suddenly converge, and the Kid would excel above all.
Of course, this tableau did not go unnoticed by other gym clientele who disagreed with his hypocritical policy. One in particular, was Jim Harris, a former Africa American HW professional boxer once ranked top-ten, but retired for years. He had observed the entire tableau from the beginning. The hypocritical praising of the kid's abilities. The snide remarks made behind the kid’s back when he was out hearing-range or wasn’t there. Finally, becoming aware of the impending danger that the kid was facing, and having been encouraged to do so by his church pastor, he decided to speak up,
“Hey, Mr. Johansson, why do you keep encouraging the kid when you know he isn't any good? All he gets is hurt when he fights, man. Why not be honest with him, dog? Tell him to find another profession.”
“I know Jim, but honesty doesn’t pay the rent. The kid pays his gym dues, and that helps me with the utilities the upkeep of equipment and the high rent. Otherwise I run the risk of going out of business."
“But the kid is getting seriously hurt man! You know that he lacks natural athletic ability,” Jim said.
“No big deal, just some bruises and minor cuts. He's still young and heals fast." Johansson responded.
“I don’t agree with your methods, Mr. Johansson. The kid deserves better.”
“Well, how about me? Don’t I deserve better than going out of business because I turn away suckers who'll pay through their noses just to hear how much potential they have?"
“We all tend to be that way when young, Joe. You know that. We think that the sky’s the limit, but then we find out that it ain’t."
“Well, Jim, that’s true. Which means that when he grows up a bit more, he’ll be gone, and I’ll have to find another sucker to help with the cost of keeping this training facility going."
Jim just shook his head and went on with his training. At the far corner of the facility, he could see the kid punching the heavy bag while being encouraged and praised by his handler who was in on the whole farce. If something serious happened to the kid, both would be to blame. But neither seemed to care.
“Hey kid! Hey kid!" Jim called out. I wanna have a word with you.
“Yeah what’s up!?” the kid responded while swiping away the sweat from his face with a small towel.
“Who you fighting at the Square come Saturday evening man?"
“Savage Sylvester Maloney,” the kid responded proudly banging his gloves together.
“He set you up with that undefeated fighter, Savage Sylvester Maloney?"
”Yep! Says if I beat him, it'll open up the gates for me big-time! Maybe even a championship match somewhere down the road."
“Listen kid,” Jim said, lowering his voice to a whisper, while glancing both ways to make sure he wasn’t being heard. “...the guy is lying. You stand no chance of beating the undefeated Savage Sylvester Maloney! You're just a steppingstone and you are going to get seriously hurt, son."
Looking as if he had just had a pail of ice-cold water thrown in his face, the kid responded with:
“Oh yeah? You're just jealous cuz you're a washed-up old man!" and then sauntered away.
Joe felt like teaching him a lesson, but that would happen on Saturday night with spades. Of that he was sure. Maybe it served him right.
Well, Saturday night arrived and Irish Kid Mulligan vs. Savage Sylvester Maloney would be part of the preliminaries. The Kid entered the ring first dressed in his Green Robe in honor of his Irish heritage accompanied by his trainers and seconds. There was a sudden hush in the audience as everyone there noticed that he wasn’t cut out for the sport. His chest looked sunken with ribs visible. His arms were scrawny and his deltoids the sizes of potatoes. His legs faired no better. In contrast, Savage Sylvester Maloney was bristling with muscles, and resembled a feral cat about to make short work of a mouse.
Strangely, Gym-Owner Johansson, dressed immaculately in a white tuxedo, and wearing a white wide-brimmed Fedora hat, and highly polished black patent-leather shoes, had reserved seats in the front-row for this one. He could be seen joking with two young, curvaceous blonds, in tightly fitting black dresses by his side, as if he had invited them there to witness what he had described to them privately as some type of freak-show. Both broads kept giggling and taking photographs of Kid Mulligan whenever he got close enough, as he warmed up for the fight. The Kid, in turn, mistook their ostentatious antics for admiration, and basked in what he considered, the limelight.
Then the exaggerated hyped-up announcements were made, the ref instructions were given, the fighters went to there respective neutral corners. When the bell rang the Kid confidently met Savage Sylvester in the middle of the ring, and after a brief exchange he was driven against the ropes, and in less than fifteen seconds into the fight, the kid had toppled over the ropes and was airborne. But this time, instead of landing on the hard cement, he landed on the gym-owners head and neck. You see, one of the curvaceous, blonde broads, had dropped her hanky there by mistake, and had coquettishly asked Johansson to fetch it. "Sure babe!" Johansson had said.
He swaggered over to get it, and dipped down, but before he could straighten himself, the kid's body had crashed against his neck and slammed him to the floor. The Kid wasn't seriously, hurt, although he was counted out as he lay writhing on the floor in pain. But Johansson wasn't moving at all. Soon he was hoisted on a gurney taken to the hospital unconscious. Upon regaining his senses he attempted to move, but couldn't. Then he was given the news that the accident had rendered him a quadriplegic. Upon seeing the kid enter the hospital room to visit, he attempted to get up in order to aggress while calling him an SOB, but couldn't move.
"What do you plan on doing now?" Jim asked the kid as they walked away from Johansson's room. Him had managed to set the kid's insult aside and was holding no grudge.
"Well, Joe, I guess I'm just no good for this sport. So I'll try my hand at something else. Maybe farming at my dad's ranch in Montana. Or else, maybe going to college and studying to be a lawyer as he once told me to. They say there's good money in that."
"Good choices son! Very good choices." Joe told him as he patted him on the back and walked with him towards the hospital elevator. They could still hear Johansson threatening bloody murder, but decided to pay him no mind. After all he still had his gym, and that should have been enough.