Kid Callahan had been hitting the heavy bags since he was six. He’d started out coming to the gym twice a week with his pop. Ten years later, the Kid was training six days a week. He had become ropy and lean, faster than most of the the muscle-bound pugs he fought, but still looked very much a boy –– the same tameless cowlick, pale lashes and freckled shoulders.
Tonight, the Kid is going to make his professional debut. Odds are 7 to 1 that he’ll take down Fausto “The Dove” Colombo by round 4. It’s his time, and he’s sharper and hungrier than Columbo. I’ve kept an eye on the Kid since his first day in the ring, seen him take the bad hand he’s been dealt and redirect it into clean punch after punch. And though he’s welcome to keep sleeping at the gym, the prize money would enough to get him out of Brownsville for good.
That is, if he wins. Or goes along with the fix.
In all my years as a ref, I had a singular mission: to ensure a fair fight. And the one night I defied it was a night just like this one. It’s what killed me and kept me tethered to this place. One bad call has fated me to haunt the same ring for forty years.
I was a ref at the McCarthy-Hammer bout back in 1926. Moxie McCarthy was a good Catholic kid, just like Callahan. He had seven brothers and grew up brawling, but never missed a Sunday mass. The outfit had offered Moxie five grand –– plus a washing machine for his ma –– if he’d take a dive in the 6th. But the 6th round came and went, and Moxie refused to fall. The thing was, the outfit’s bagman had made me an offer, too. So, I ignored Hammer’s fouls, and imagined a few of Moxie’s, until the kid was so confused and concussed it was like I was handing Hammer a piece of roast beef.
Hammer won by TKO in the 8th. Moxie was found dead in the alley later that night. I don’t know if the bagman tried to deliver my cash or stiff me, ‘cause I hadn’t even put on a clean shirt before I’d died of a heart attack.
Since then, I’ve been at the gym. Watching pugs sweat and spar day after day. The speed bags and benches get torn up, taped and replaced over time. Moustaches change, and muscles and music and slang as well, but boxing is still boxing. It’s the same pneumatic fists. The same corner pep-talks. The same dream of getting up and out of Brownsville.
I’ve stopped dreaming of ever getting out myself. Who knows what would await me above or below if I did? Now, I just bear witness to fight after fight I can’t call. But, with a few decades of practice, I have been able to teach myself how to move things. The living can’t see or hear me, but I can, with paranormal patience, manipulate little objects around the gym.
It started with rolling a bottle of Coca-Cola across the counter. I practiced until I could affect the heavy bag and free weights, adding more resistance. I’ve tied shoes, coiled jump ropes and warped mirrors for my own amusement. I’ve worked up to splitting Columbo’s manager’s pants.
So far, a punch still goes straight through me. Which means I still don’t know how to help Kid Callahan tonight.
I heard Columbo’s manager bragging that he’s got it all fixed. Columbo just has to make contact with Callahan in the 4th. The Kid’s supposed to go down like a sack of potatoes.
Now, maybe Callahan’s no McCarthy. Maybe he’ll take the money and take the fall. But maybe he won’t and he’ll in up dead in the ring or out of it. And I’m not the ref so I don’t get to make the call.
The fight begins.
***
It’s round four, and Columbo’s got the Kid near the corner. Callahan’s slick with sweat and pale. He’s still bobbing and weaving fast, but something’s not right.
Colombo throws a left hook. I’m not ready for the sound.
Instead of a graze, it’s a clean punch. There’s a huff and a grunt and a hard, sobering thunk. And an unexpected thump as the Kid falls. It’s no dive. He’s down.
Stay down, I whisper, though the Kid can’t hear me. There’s blood pooling in his ear. I don’t know if he can even hear the living ref, who’s already starting the count.
“10, 9…”
Stay down! I yell uselessly, wishing it true.
“8...”
Columbo’s smiling. Clapping his gloves.
“7...”
And then I see it. A flash of white powder by Columbo’s wrist.
“6…”
With all my spectral effort, I take the lace out of Columbo’s left glove. To the living, it must look like the glove is unlacing itself.
“5...”
With a nudge, the glove falls to the mat and tumbles toward the Kid.
“4...”
Columbo tries to hide his hand behind his back, but he’s not fast enough.
“3…”
The front row, and the ref, can all see that there’s yellow staining across his knuckles. His hand is wrapped in plaster, and he’s been boxing in loaded gloves. The Plaster of Paris powder hidden in his hand wraps has hardened as he sweat, making each punch capable of dealing death.
The count stops. Columbo is escorted forcibly from the ring.
Callahan begins to rise. He’s bloody and swollen, but he’ll survive.
It’s hot and crowded and chaotic (even to a body without a body like me). Managers and bookies and bagmen and boxers and their girlfriends are fighting among themselves.
I summon my will one more time and try to push open the door. Something I haven’t been able to do for more than forty years.
It’s a spring night in Brooklyn and the stars are out. The dusklight makes the burrough feel cool and easy. Where you’d like to take a walk with a girl if you were still alive.
I stroll around for awhile and then I stroll back to the gym. Another young fighter might need help, and I’ll want to be there.
Listen to "Bad Call" through The Story Coterie podcast.