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422 pages

English

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"Your book--colossal power, sharp, spot-on writing. Issues of rape and fratricide are explored with the dialectical seriousness that echoes Old Testament and Dostoyevsky. You break through the 'cool' that infects our modern world and show the human soul in deepest wrestling with itself."-- William Packard, late poet, editor, professor, playwright, and writer

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Historical fiction

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers
Date de parution	30 octobre 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781645369462
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

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On the Ropes
A Tale of the ’60s
Neil J. Smith
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-10-30
On the Ropes About The Author Dedication Copyright Information© Acknowledgment
About The Author

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Born in the Bahamas but raised in four of the five New York boroughs, excluding the Bronx, from age seven onwards, Neil J. Smith was the fifth child of ten children. He says “I was ill-educated in as many schools” and did not receive an education until he discovered the library system. He started boxing at the age of 12 and went on to win various amateur awards for the next 12 years, including the All Army Champion. He organized for various civil rights groups, the 5th Avenue Peace Parade Committee, and finally The Black Panther Party. After that sojourn, Neil studied creative writing, literature, and poetry at NYU with William Packard, author, editor, professor, and founder of the prestigious New York Quarterly, where Neil was vice president for 15 years. He now lives upstate with his paramour where he continues to write.
Dedication
To Wayman, Susan, and Mr. Ives.
Copyright Information©
Neil J. Smith (2020)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher. Cover art and author portrait credit of Giovanna Lepore.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, andincidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitiousmanner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purelycoincidental.
Ordering Information
Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Smith, Neil J.
On the Ropes
ISBN 9781645369431 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781645369448 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645369462 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020912481
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
mail-usa@austinmacauley.com
+1 (646) 5125767
Acknowledgment
I would first of all like to acknowledge the late professor, editor, poet, and playwright, William Packard, for the years of friendship and mentorship in which he encouraged me. I am also beholding to Barbara Iuviene for her friendship and editorial work on my behalf.
The ring hovered in a flood of lights at center stadium swathed in rend bands of smoke from the cigars of fat cats, big time spenders and high rollers with their fur draped, powder puff, kewpie-doll-face molls, seated up front at ringside. Two bloodied, sweat-sopped combatants climbed out of the ring: one was downcast, defeated, whereas the other, the victor, was exultant. The roar of the crowd dwindled to a murmur as two other fighters made their way ring ward from the locker rooms below. The ravenous, beer guzzling fans drew back, eyeing each fighter cagily, trying to gauge their mettle by the cut of their jib. They resumed their seats as the fighters climbed into the ring and threw off their robes revealing sculpted, gladiatorial physiques.
The ring bell tolled: “Ladies ’n gentlemen,” the official barked into the microphone, “our next semifinalist in the hundred-n-sixty-pound division of these 1968 Olympic trials – on my right, in the blue corner, weighing in at a hundred ’n sixty pounds ’n a half, from Chicago, Illinois, Josh Slade!”
Slade whirled out of his corner, hard and black like anthracite coal, throwing a whirlwind of punches to the air, muscles gleaming under the hot lights of the ring. “Slade,” echoed the ring official. The fighter wheeled round and tossed up his hands, bouncing on the balls of his toes, flashing a glance at his opponent. He then back peddled to his corner, as the fans whistled and hollered.
“In the red corner, from Brooklyn, New York, weighing in at one hundred and sixty pounds, Percival Jones!”
Tall, taut, sinewy and brown, Percival stepped forward and raised a lone gloved fist. He fixed his gaze on the apron of the ring and the blank, hovering faces at ringside. “Jones!” stated the official once more, as a rousing applause rose from the crowd. Percival was the hometown favorite. He pivoted, lowered his fist and returned to his corner.
The referee beckoned the two fighters to join him at center ring. “I want a clean fight,” he began, placing a hand on each fighter’s back. Percival’s eyes fell over Slade’s broad shoulders, pectorals and corrugated stomach, as Sled’s eyes fell over him. “I want you to break when I say break,” the referee continued. The two fighters then locked eyes. Percival was half a head taller. “If there’s a knockdown, I want the standing fighter to go to a neutral corner. Shake hands ’n at the bell come out fighting.” The contestants slapped gloves and returned to their respective corners.
“OK, we know this guy’s a brawler,” Percival’s trainer, Punchy, said in the final seconds before the bell. “Box this guy. Work off your jab, in out, move, move, move.” Percival nodded, half listening.
The opening bell rang! “Box-box-box!” Punchy shouted.
Slade sprang from out his corner with all the ferocity of an enraged bull, looking to rend and lay Percival cold on the canvas, in his corner, with a single blow. He had devised this method of attack to surprise and overwhelm his opponents at the outset of a fight: a tactic that had helped catapult him to the semifinals of the ‘68 Olympic trials. Percival, however, deftly slipped away, and though thrown off balance, stumbled beyond range of a follow-up, slashing left hook. With an eye to a quick kill, Slade threw blow after blow, looping them up from the canvas as Percival, unable to catch his footing, toppled backwards, trying to stay out of range and off the ropes. His heart was caught in the well of his throat when self-preservation, ’fight or flight,’ seized hold of him. Though under attack he knew, in the words of Joe Louis, “You can run but you can’t hide.” Besides these were the Olympic Trials and ‘flight’ was not an option.
The fans were screaming as Slade, snorting with every blow, pressed him.
Watchfully the referee stood aside. Punchy had stiffened halfway to his stool. Slade’s opening attack was surprising in immediacy and ferocity. He was a bruiser who enjoyed trampling his opponents from the start. His every blow was packed with fury. It was not meant for Percival to last beyond the first minute. And surely, reeling as he was, like an off-balanced top, he would have to fall. For the first time in his seven years of boxing and with 97 wins in 102 starts—he had been All Army Champion for two years, Inter-Service Champion one year, and was currently the New York Golden Gloves Champion— Percival knew, as did the howling fans, that he was in danger of being knocked out.
This was Percival’s dilemma, bicycling backwards under Slade’s assault, trying to find ground on which to build a defense. Then, to his relief, his shoes gripped the canvas under foot and he lashed out with three spitfire jabs, rallying back, catching Slade flush in the face. He paused and shook his head like a wet, dumbfounded dog. Percival made him pay for his befuddlement with another whiplashing jab. The blow only served to annoy. Again Slade came at Percival like a runaway truck in a bad dream. But he was only able to land glancing blows, while Percival struck him over and over with cobra like accuracy.
Slade’s cornermen looked on dumbfounded. After such an overwhelming and surprising attack, the fight should have been over. Instead they looked on in awe. Percival was giving Slade a boxing lesson.
Punchy plopped onto his stool. This was the Percival he knew! The spectators, on the other hand, could not quite grasp the situation, as Percival had so nimbly taken command. Though he’d lost the moment, Slade was savage in his fury and not to be dismissed, but as the fans continued to watch, they found themselves looking at the best boxer of the trials, Percival Jones!
The referee began to circle the combatants. Slade had trouble pinpointing his target. He could not figure why he had not nailed Percival in the opening seconds after the bell and drop him like a ten pin. Slade was unable to find his man with a single blow. For every blow he missed Percival countered with two or three of his own. Slade grew anxious, reaching for the one punch that would lay his opponent cold.
Percival could smell Slade, feel and taste his body heat in the rancid spray of salty sweat. He sensed Slade’s every move before he made it, as if dancing a hot tango. Slade followed Percival’s lead to the best of his ability, throwing blow upon blow. Then of a sudden, Percival sidestepped, leaving him to hurtle forward, pummeling the air. He waited for Slade to swing round. Full of wrath, Slade swung round but, as he did three more crackling jabs ricocheted off his nose, eyes and mouth. Blood trickled cross his lips from his nostrils, and, as he prepared to fling himself at Percival, the bell rang. Angry and dumbfounded, Slade wandered back to his corner. Percival fell onto his corner stool, breathing soundly. Punchy entered the ring and removed Percival’s mouthpiece, saying, “You’re doing fine. jus’ fine.” He squeezed a sponge full of water over Percival’s face. “Keep boxin’ ’im.”
Percival could not rightly hear Punchy, his only thought was, This guy’s fucking trying