WINNING

Parts I & II of The Fighter are below

THE FIGHTER (Wrestling With Your Conscience)

“Who’s Dicky Eklund?"  "Why he’s the pride of Lowell that’s who.”  “Did you know he went the distance with Sugar Ray Leonard?”  “Yup, knocked Ray down and stepped right the-fuck-over his body!”  “Yeah he’s guta wicked jab!” “The best we ever had up here in Lowell.”  “And his half brother Micky Ward is no slouch either.”  “That's For sure, Micky’s coming up fast. “  “You ain’t kiddin, that kid hits like a sledgehammer!”

In the early 1990’s I was new to Lowell.   As an intern in the District Attorney’s Office I’d been getting around the city and hearing the stories.  I had yet to meet the men behind them.  I was about to.

“Mr. Tamagini?”   “Yes Cynthia, I’m back here.”  “Oh, you were due in District Court five minutes ago.”   Shit…  “OK, I’m on my way, thanks.”

 I was beginning to wonder if taking this job was a mistake.  You’d think I would be happy since in the last hour I learned I’d passed the Bar Exam on my first attempt and was offered a position as an ADA.  So why the long face?  First of all no one was going to see it over this pile.  I had to stretch like an ostridge just to make eye contact with my secretary.   Second, when our other intern found out she hadn’t passed they dumped her cases for next week on my desk.  Right now I had to run, but if I stopped,  I would have realized it was her demise that secured my position.

Three years ago if anyone told me I would end up in this job I'd have said they were crazy.  Those who really knew me would say I was born to be on the dark side.  I spent my life behind the mask, always heavily armed.  I craved violence; pistol wiping uncooperative branch managers; threatening open safes through intimidation; torture by means of extreme atrocity and cruelty.  I didn’t spare hostages.  When we put together a crew I never chose to be a good guy.  I was perpetually the fugitive during recess, after school play and weekend recreation.  Wearing the white hat would be an altogether new experience for me.

My first inclination when seeking an internship was to represent the accused in the Public Defender's Office.  However, my father informed me: “The government is the one with all the resources. They will provide the best training.  If you want to learn how to keep’em out of jail, you’ve got to know how to put them in.”  This advice could not have been sounder.  But who listens to their father when they know everything.  If you really want the scoop on why I went after the job the answer is: a girl.

My first day at BC Law, looking around the arc of auditorium seating at my classmates, it took all of 30 seconds to spot her.  Auburn curls reflected overhead lighting off angelic features.  I had to have her and I was not alone.  Her father was a Chief of Police, her brother a prosecutor.  Her career path was predestined.  She possessed an oratory fearlessness where I spasmed epileptically at the thought of speaking in public.  It was a miracle I ever got a word out.  Yet in an effort to impress her I did.  So whether or not she knew it then or realized it years later when I was on Court TV and trying homicide cases in Superior Court, despite our relationship lasting one night, she was my initial inspiration.

Today I was going in green as Gumby.

 Speed walking across Church Street I had to go up on my toes every third step to see over the files in my arms.   Even at this stage I realized one thing: it was nearly impossible to discern the cases that would go to trial from those which would plea out or get continued.  This made preparation a game of Russian roulette.  But for my first day I had an advantage:  The pride of Lowell.

“HBO’s doing a special on my comeback,” was the first thing he told me.  “But now I’m fucked! How’em I gonna fight again with this cut?  It could open up too easy.  The kid that did this gutta pay.  Jimmy, you gutta make him fuckin pay.” 

I’d felt intimidated at that first meeting.  Dicky had shown up forty-five minutes late with two friends, Boo Boo and Brenda.  The three of them never sat still.  Dicky was missing most of his teeth and it was clear his career had taken a toll on his health.  The other two also looked rough…  they were all fighting something.   Together the group was a hat trick of flailing arms and raised voices walking in circles around my tiny office.  For an hour they didn’t stop and still we never reviewed the file between talk of: “HBO” this, “Comeback” that, and something about, “suing the little prick after win the criminal case.”

The facts were clear from the police report.  There was a bar fight, in the midst of which the defendant sucker punched Dicky with a set of keys cutting him above the eye.  What else did I need to know?  Eklund had a professional record of 19 wins and 10 losses, four of the wins by KO.  There was no doubt the defendant came out of nowhere during the brawl and hit Dicky when he wasn’t looking.  “Jimmy, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and that’s all there really is to it. Now you gutta win this for me kid, ok?”   “Don’t worry Mr. Eklund, I don’t see any problem.”

Judge Neil Walker was slated to preside over bench trials upstairs in the Third Session Court Room.  Eklund’s case would be a priority. You couldn’t have asked for a nicer Judge.  He lived in my hometown and had gone to grammar school with my mother.  I felt confident.  The courtroom would be packed with spectators. I really don’t know why I was feeling sorry for myself before.  Who would have expected they’d assign me such a notable case for my first trial.  It was truly an honor.

The defendant’s name was Michael Walsh.  He was in his late twenties and worked for a Computer Company inside the Wang Towers.  Dressed in Dockers, Kakis, Polo shirt and sweater he appeared out of place among most of the defendants who’d slept in their cloths.  His family sat in the first row behind defense counsel’s table. By all indications Walsh was financially well off, which was spilt blood in the water of Dicky Eklund’s ocean.

Dicky entered the courtroom as though we’d already won.  He was a lunatic, bouncing around being loud and shadow boxing with Court Office Williams.  The fact he’d brought his friends for support did nothing to ease my anxiety.  The courtroom was at capacity as expected.  On one hand I was nervous but thought: this must be how Dicky always acts.  Everyone knows him.  Lowell loves him.  His boisterous, flamboyant manner is part persona, and a partial side effect of being wacked too many times is the noggin.

On the witness stand he was a train wreck.  When I posed the simple question: “What happened next?”  We were treated to a rambling, unintelligible narrative.  It’s a good thing I didn’t pursue boxing as a career. The head trauma really fries your brain.  Spectators in the gallery fought to contain their laughter while I struggled to remain focused, doing my best to redirect Dicky to the point where he was struck over the eye.  “And do you see the person who hit you in the courtroom now Mr. Eklund?”  “Yeah, I sure do.”  Could you please point him out and describe an article of clothing he is wearing for the record.”  “He’s right there.” He said pointing, “Dressed like a fag with the sweater over his shoulders.”

By the time Judge Walker had restored order I knew it was time to cut my losses and keep moving. The medical records proved his injury. The responding officer testified to the defendant’s original identification, apprehension and confiscation of the dangerous weapon, a set of keys.  Once chain of custody was established the keys were admitted in to evidence and the prosecution rested.

Certainly every case is unique.  However, as a general rule the defendant shouldn’t testify. There is not much he can say to help compared to the world of damage his own words can cause when up against a skilled cross-examiner.  The criminal trial is a game.  Broken down into its simplest form either the prosecution proves it’s case beyond a reasonable doubt to a moral certainty or the defendant goes home.  Period.  Most often your better off letting your lawyer break down the foundation of the government’s case, exposing that doubt.  Nevertheless, it’s tough keeping the accused off the stand; especially when he has an attitude and an ax to grind.  Walsh had both.

“While I was sitting at the bar this woman caught my eye.  She came over and sat and we began talking.”  “Do you see that woman in court right now?”  When Walsh’s lawyer asked the question you could have heard a piece of lint hit the courtroom floor.  When his client aimed towards the back of the courtroom I thought I snapped my neck turning.  Brenda?  “ We talked for I while and she seemed really into me and said we should get some coke and go back to her apartment and party.”  “When you say ‘coke,’ Mr. Walsh, are you referring to the drug cocaine?”  His lawyer asked trying to appear in control.  “Yes sir, cocaine.” “What happened next Mr. Walsh?”  “Well we went out to my car and got in and out of no where the rear door opened on the passenger side and he jumped in.”  “He, who?”  The lawyer asked, holding back a grin.  Then Walsh pointed directly at Eklund.  And I didn’t know if my bowels would release or my eyes popped out of my skull, when Judge Walker let out a spontaneous chuckle from the bench.

“She told me this was her brother and he’d help us score the cocaine.  I felt a little nervous but she put her hand on my knee and said not to worry everything was cool.  Then she gave me directions to a cluster of brick tenements. When I parked she told me to give her brother $300.00 so he could go in and buy an eight ball.  The brother hadn’t shut up the whole drive.  He said how he wanted to do a few lines with us for his trouble... trying to be friendly with me.  I reached in my jeans, pulled out my wallet and that’s the last thing I remember.  When I came to I had a welt the size of a plum on my temple.  I don’t know how long I was out but my wallet was gone with all my ID cards.  I had about $600.00 in cash but it was my ID for work and my driver license I had to get back.   Even though I felt woozy I started driving, trying to make my way to the bar.”  “Did you contemplate going to the police and reporting this robbery Mr. Walsh?”  “At that point I was a bit scared to talk about the coke… I was just hoping to find my IDs… figured he’d just toss them out and take the cash anyway.”  “What happened next?”  “It took a long time but I finally found the bar and as soon as I went in through the doors I practically walked into him.  Now he seemed different, lit up, really wasted, more than booze, he could hardly walk straight.  I tried asking where my wallet was but he took a swing at me; a wild haymaker that caught all air.  We locked up - I wrestled in college - others from the bar jumped in.  I was carrying my keys the whole time so maybe in the fray he got cut but… but I thought they were going to kill me – it was self defense…”  “Then what happened Mr. Walsh?”  “The bartender must have called the cops… I tried to explain but they wouldn’t listen.  I was dizzy, and beaten up, and he… he, was bleeding all over the place.  When I found out who he was - Jesus I could have gotten killed!”
Walker had the perfect temperament for judicial service.  But Lowell was one or our state’s busiest courts.   He had no time to waste and that’s what this matter had turned out to be.  His verdict of acquittal was handed down quick enough to give me hope Dicky had missed it.  Apparently he didn’t.  While he and his cohorts began acting up the clerk saved me by announcing: “Mr. Tamagini, Judge Grasso is holding you for trial down in the second session.”  Scooping up my files the slick exit I prayed for,  got as far as the swinging double doors.  “What am I supposed to do now?  You gutta appeal! That little puke hasta pay for this!”  There was no time to give Dicky a criminal procedure lesson outlining why there was no appeal of the not guilty verdict.  “Calm down Mr. Eklund I have another trial right now but we can discuss this later, ok?”  Without awaiting his response I kept moving, thankful Court Officer Williams followed in behind me.  “Lets go Tamagini, Judge Grasso’s waiting!”

There could not possibly have been a more disastrous way to begin my trial career.  Now they expected me to suck it up and go again?   Without so much as a clue which case it was or time to collect myself?  Fortunately I took the time to look them all over last night...   I guess it didn’t mater, regardless it couldn’t be worse than what just happened.  I was beginning to wonder if everyone knew what a mess Dicky Eklund had become?  Was that why the case landed on my desk?  Of course not – HBO is doing a documentary of his comeback.

Judge Grasso possessed a much shorter fuse than Walker.  He was stern, strict on the law yet generally impartial.  If anything he favored the prosecution.  He had a difficult time hiding the fact he loathed Lowell’s scum.  He wanted the prosecution to prove their case but if you didn’t he wouldn’t hesitate to flush it down the toilet. Moreover, he cared not if he embarrassed the shit out of you in the process.  He demanded the lawyers that came before him be prepared.  For these reasons I was thrilled the clerk called Commonwealth v. Cheryl Lynn Heath.

Ms. Heath was arrested in the parking lot of a place called the Blue Moon in Tyngsboro for distribution of a Class D substance to wit: Marijuana.  The arresting officer observed her from a surveillance position inside his undercover van to sell a sixteenth of an ounce of grass to a gentleman from out of her motor vehicle.  This man was arrested for simple possession.  His case was still pending making him unavailable to me as a witness.  Even so, the case was a slam-dunk.  It was impossible to loose.   Melting ice at the equator would require more effort.  Did I feel guilty for this?  Not in the least.   After that fucking fiasco with Dicky this is just what the doctor ordered to revive my expiring confidence.

During my direct examination the Officer’s testimony was introduced without the slightest difficulty.   Before Heath’s attorney began cross I caught myself wondering why in the world he let his client go to trial?  Then he delivered his first question:  “Isn’t it true Officer that your wife is a stripper at the Blue Moon and my client is the top tip earner at that establishment?”  - Complete silence -  “ And by arresting Ms. Heath, you and your wife have in effect conspired to get rid of the competition?”  This time I did shit my pants.  “Aren’t you going to object?”  Yelled the cop from the stand.  “Objection!”  I yelled.  “Overruled, it goes to bias, answer the question Officer!”  Yelled Grasso. “… Well… yes, part time… but she has nothing to do with this!”

Apparently Judge Grasso disagreed because when the crucifixion ended he threw out the case almost as fast as the Officer flew off the witness stand to confront the defense attorney.  The Court Officers rushed in to separate the men while I, still dazed from being sacked from the blindside twice in one day, figured this was a good time to make my exit.

I won’t tell anyone, I decided.  When friends and family ask: “Well James, how was your first day as a lawyer?”  I will summons all my powers of deceit and tell them: “It was tremendous,” steering the conversation away from any details. Yeah, that’ll work…  I am the king of positive thinking.  Tomorrow can only get better now that today is behind me.   Next I would go over to First Session and retrieve my jacket, drop these files off at the office and get the hell out of there.  With full arms I pushed the Second Session door open with my shoulder, rounded the corner and there was Dick Eklund and the future Junior Welter Weight Champion of the World “Irish” Micky Ward waiting for me in the lobby.

To Be Continued.,,

THE FIGHTER (Part Two)

Imagine coming out to see these two.

This is embarrassing, but I suppose the fact it’s bothersome speaks volumes about me: I met Michelle the night of a “Best Chest” contest at the Blue Shamrock.  It was my first time visiting Lowell’s hottest, new establishment. When I arrived attendance was at capacity.  The stereo system blared early 90’s top forty. Conversation was difficult over Goldfinger’s Mable.  I’d gone out that evening with a couple of off duty Lowell cops. One bought a round of shots and the moment he reached out with mine I saw her through the crowd.  She was one of the four females tending bar.  I’ve been accused of exaggeration, but can assert with clear conscience this quartette was not merely the loveliest in Lowell; they would’ve rivaled the beauty found behind the bar of any watering hole on the planet.  Paralyzed, the glass slipped through my fingers.   Praying she didn’t notice my clumsiness I unclenched my eyelids and for the first time saw her smile.

Dropping the shot wasn’t why I was embarrassed.  And it had nothing to do with meeting Michelle that evening.  It was because I came in second.   Prior to venturing out I was unaware of the contest so I went in cold: no fluid restriction, carbohydrate loading or pumping up.   In case you haven’t picked up on it, back in the day I didn’t conceal my narcissism.  When you’re successful everyone pretends to love you regardless.  It’s when you get addicted, arrested, incarcerated, disgraced or in my case, “D,” all of the above, that followers disappear.   Currently, I’ve been humbled like a Tibetan Monk.  Then, any display of humility was a façade orchestrated for the powers that be.  Who would have guessed attracting excessive attention was frowned on by the District Attorney’s office?  This being said, I knew if any of my co-workers had abs, that were not on layaway beneath multiple folds of adipose tissue, they would have knocked me over to enter faster than they flocked after news worthy cases.

Part of tonight’s dilemma was the possibility I’d see half the crowd in court.  Based on the drunken debauchery surrounding me this could happen as early as tomorrow.  When you hold a position of authority people tend to take you less seriously after seeing you half naked.  Completely naked would be a different story but this venue lacked the privacy I preferred.  Throwing caution off the stage with my Diesel tee shirt, I entered.  This should be no surprise; you knew I had to try to impress her.   The kid that ended up winning was a young buck with a stiff horn; a real juice monkey, 

obviously on astronomically high doses of steroids. (Isn’t that what all the jealous people say?)  Despite this I’ll make no excuses.  What sense would that make?  I ended up marrying the girl.

At the beginning of our relationship talking with Michelle was convenient.  Grab a stool at the bar and my competition consisted of other lawyers attempting to conceal their alcoholism during the luncheon recess.   I wanted our first real date to be something special so I took a chance.  The size and shape of the gift gave away it was a compact disk.  The real surprise was inside:  two tickets to Goldfinger.  “ Oh my God, this was playing the first night you came in!”  Actually, it was playing the second I saw her…  and she remembered.

The concert was downstairs at the Middle East in Cambridge.  The venue had a dark, underground feel.  The first thing we did was push to the bar and order drinks.  The show was general admission, standing room only, and would unquestionably sell out.  As the audience filtered in there was little doubt that the date on my driver’s license was among the lowest in the house.

 The stage was bordered on each side by a massive configuration of speakers that towered within feet of the ceiling.   No opening act was scheduled.  Goldfinger was set to go on shortly and the crowd was already pressed shoulder to shoulder.  Having not missed Lollapalooza, River Rave or Oz Feast since 1987 I was in my element – equally comfortable floating on a wave of extended arms as swirling in the mosh pit.

Minutes before curtain time I took Michelle’s hand and bored a path to the stage.  Goldfinger came out in fifth gear wasting no time wiping the crowd into a frenzy.  Part of me was in protection mode with Michelle wrapped in my arms, the rest of me envisioned a plan; one I had little control over once it began and ran the risk of leaving Michelle frightened and vulnerable if it backfired.  She’d already melted the disk learning every word on the album.  As we bounced in tandem she projected her voice like a surface-to-air missal.  Michelle was having so much fun I decided to scrap the plan.  It was really nothing more than a crazy, flash in the pan, fly by night notion, far too dangerous for further consideration. 

When the first note of Mable left the speakers a familiar feeling came over me.   It was similar to the - you don’t want to be left out - feeling I got in Sunday School when I figured if Jesus was coming back as the priest said, I better stand up now or risk him leaving me behind on his second run; or like I got last week when the Power Ball went over 200 Million.  It was that: if I don’t act right now I might live to regret it, feeling.  So the way I stood that day for the Lord, I let go of Michelle and bolted through the crowd toward the side of the stage.

Reaching the corner I vaulted the floor speaker and shuffled up the others to ten feet above stage level.  The second verse blared.  The pounding bass shook right through me.  The chorus was approaching and I knew my timing had to be perfect.  In the cross hairs of security I leapt down and dashed out to center stage.  Bumping the lead singer I screamed: “Michelle!” into the microphone over his: “Mable, you’re the bomb!”  Then, with two, three hundred pound guards on my heels I made it to the edge and dove out into the crowd.

By the roar of applause it seemed everyone enjoyed this except the unfortunates beneath me.  Rather than surf the way I hoped I was devoured, while these poor souls collapsed like the World Trade Center.  Scrambling up off a shoulder blade and sunken chest I looked for Michelle.   Where is she?  Panic wasted no time gripping me.  I knew this could be a deal breaker.   Only a certain breed of woman would appreciate my actions.  Many wouldn’t get past the abandonment and demand to be driven straight home.  Michelle, on the other hand, looked like she’d already left.

The set was still going strong.  Bodies bopped and gyrated while I pushed passed.  I continued looking, but she was nowhere.  Even if I found her waiting outside the outcome would most likely be ugly.  Maintaining a course for the red exit light above the stairs, two black tee shirts in front of me separated giving way to blond hair.  Clutching me in an embrace that felt as though her life depended on the contact, Michelle pressed her lips to my ear and whispered: “that was unbelievable.”

It was exactly one week later that I received her frantic call.  Sleeping deeply, it must have woke me close to 1:00 AM.  Between the sobs all I could make out was: “Jimmy – down here – guy – harassing – scared – please.”  Since our first date I had been assigned a missing persons case.  Elaine Donahue was a mother of three who never arrived home from her shift as a delivery room nurse at New England Memorial Hospital. Two years later her murder would be the trial of my career.  In the mean time it would take perseverance and hard work to uncover what really happened.

Michelle had been understanding and supportive.  She knew this case was important.  I’d managed to see her once or twice at work that week and would have gone to the Shamrock tonight but she insisted I catch up on my sleep.  Hearing her upset shocked me awake.  In the weeks since we’d met she’d permeated my subconscious, popping up in my mind without warning, making ordinary tasks difficult.  Envisioning her being harassed by some drunken asshole made my blood boil.  Throwing on some cloths I headed out, running every traffic signal on the twenty-five mile drive from my parent’s house to Market Street.

The lights were up signaling last call.  I sidestepped in past the herd of wasted bodies exiting.  Bar tenders and waitresses were busy cashing out and counting tips. Barbacks gathered and carted off empties.  Stray patrons drained the last of their drinks and as always there were some with influence hanging around for another.

I was focused on finding Michelle.  She wasn’t behind the bar.  Before I checked the kitchen or bathroom I decided to ask one of her friends.  That’s when I saw him, Micky- fucking -Ward.  He had a well-established penchant for chasing barmaids.  The last time we crossed paths was in the lobby of Lowell District Court.  That day ended peacefully.  That day he was sober.

His brother Dicky was furious I lost a case involving the guy who split open a cut above his eye with a set of keys.  Dicky had hoped for a payday and it turned into a cluster.  Micky intervened to calm him down and the dispute ended without coming to blows. The truth was Dicky had bigger problems and Micky knew it.  At the top of the list was his drug addiction.  Then there was the matter of HBO following him all over town for what Dicky claimed was a documentary on his comeback.  The more they filmed the clearer it became that it was Eklund’s battle with crack cocaine, not boxing, they were focused on.  

When I was promoted to Superior Court, the first pile of cases that landed on my desk contained one marked: Commonwealth v. Richard Eklund.  Dicky was no stranger to the dark side of the law.  Printing his record burnt through more trees than a California wildfire.  This time he’d graduated from small time rip-offs to armed home invasions.  The charges listed on the file were: Breaking And Entering In The Night Time with The Intent To Commit A Felony; Masked Armed Robbery; Kidnapping; and Possession Of A Firearm Without A License.  Faced with this glaring conflict I went to my supervisor and explained:  “About this Eklund file, I had the defendant as a victim in an assault by means case.”  “Oh yeah, I should have remembered that,” he said with enough of an unconcealed grin to tell me the matter had been the source of considerable amusement behind my back.  “Leave the file right here and I’ll reassign it.” 

The next time I saw Dicky he was on for sentencing in Lowell Superior.  I was there patiently waiting for my cases to be called.  Mrs. Ward and all the Eklund/Ward sisters were seated in the first row.  Dicky’s lawyer was Dan Callahan, one of the best public defenders in the city.  Yet, even he had his hands full trying to appease Judge Gershengorn when Dicky didn’t show up on time.  “ Mr. Callahan, I’m going to ask you to make a call forthwith to the Lowell Police Department and ask them to make a supreme effort to get Mr. Eklund before this court.”  “Your Honor, I have, within the last twenty minutes, had a telephone conversation with Mr. Eklund and expect him to be here in… the next twenty minutes.”

Sure enough Dicky came bounding up the stairs and into First Session in his sweat suit, lit up like Christmas tree from smoking crack in a near by apartment with his best friend Boo Boo.  While cameras rolled Dicky addressed the court: “ Your honor I had to tell my little boy his daddy was going to jail,” then without batting an eye Gershengorn hit him with a 10 -15 year State Prison sentence.

Dicky was serving that sentence on the night I stood looking at Micky through bright lights and lingering cigarette smoke.  Shit! I hope this isn’t who Michelle’s calling about.  My boiling blood began to cool at the possibility.  Ward was a three-time Golden Gloves champ who turned pro in 1985 and won his first fourteen fights.  More recently he’d lost four in a row and many thought he’d retire.  This did nothing to put me at ease.  He had a professional boxing record of twenty-one and seven and was unquestionably one of the toughest guys alive.  The only thing that could possibly upset me more than receiving Michelle’s hysterical call would be hearing my jaw crushed by the force of a Ward uppercut.

Micky had a beer on the bar in front of him while he talked to the owner and others gathered around.  Looking from face to face I recognized everyone else as employees, increasing the odds he was the perpetrator.  If I was right, and Michelle pointed the finger, I had no choice but to defend her honor.  I began wondering if the hour was too late to reserve a casket and burial plot?  At least my best suit had just come back from the cleaners.

Frozen in thought Michelle came from somewhere: “Oh my God thank you for coming,” she kissed my lips and wrapped me in an embrace.  “Are you alright?” I asked.  Who’s bothering you?  I couldn’t understand you on the phone.  I just knew I had to come.”  “Yes, yes, Oh my God, thank you.”

There came another kiss, a hug, and a convoluted story I only half understood and barely cared about once the relief of knowing everything was straightened out washed over me.  Apparently Micky had made advances, but nothing that didn’t happen fifty times a night by far more aggressive, intoxicated patrons.  To this day I don’t pretend to know exactly what was going through Michelle’s mind when she called, but I did learn this: “You’ve worked so hard, why don’t you stay home and get some rest?” actually means: “You haven’t seen me all week, get your bleeping ass down here!”

We had a beer with Micky that night and I found him to be the same guy who saved me from a scene with Dicky in District Court.  There was talk about him mounting a comeback and I listened, but with less enthusiasm than most others.  At that point, if I never heard of Ward or Eklund again I would have been just fine.

At work, the pace together with the commute was killing me.  The logical solution was moving to Lowell.  My quest hadn’t gone far when an opportunity to rent in the Highland section of the city landed in my lap.  During my first visit I fell in love.  The home was complete with thirty-foot cathedral ceilings, game room, Jacuzzi and sauna in the master bedroom, laundry and a gym in the basement.

The gym was the last stop on the tour.   I followed in silence having already made up my mind to accept the tenancy.  It was basic: benches and weights; speed and heavy bags; medicine balls and jump ropes with aged pictures advertising boxing events on the walls.  Hmm… Golden Glove matches…. “Ever heard of Micky Ward?” Asked my prospective landlord.  “Yup, why?” “This was his family's place, I bought it as a seized property, auctioned by the feds when his father went to prison.”  “You don’t say…  when can I move in.”

EPILOGE

After this I threw in the towel and became a fan.  Micky Ward won the next nine consecutive fights in his comeback.  Dicky had been paroled and could be found in his corner at every bout.    I saw Ward fight Emanuel (Burton) Augustus on July 13, 2001, almost by accident.  We were with my family at our vacation home in NH when I received a call to go down to the Hampton Beach Casino and meet some guys from Lowell who had tickets.  Ward won by unanimous decision in a war Ring Magazine elected fight of the year.

“You’re coming with me to the next one!” I insisted, raving to Michelle about what I’d witnessed.  He doesn’t box, he doesn’t run around, he goes head on to battle slugging it out like I’ve never seen before.”  I’m quite sure Michelle felt the higher I bolstered Ward’s performance, the more my conscience was placated for remaining mute that night at the Shamrock.

Ward’s next bout was in Texas.  Then he was scheduled to fight Arturo Gatti at the Mohegan Sun in Connecticut on May 18, 2002.  We secured tickets and were joined by a large hometown contingency to witness what was later voted 2002’s fight of the year.  Many dubbed the ninth round of that fight, the round of the century.

Ward won a decision that night but I knew it was something special by virtue of the Michelle’s astonishment: “ My God, what’s keeping them going?  I can’t believe they are still standing after that.”  It was amazing to me.  She too had become a fan and committed to go to the rematch regardless of where it was held.

Ward fought Gatti two more times before retiring.  I saw neither fight.  I’m positive Michelle saw both.

June 15, 1974 - June 16, 2002

SAY HELLO TO THE BAD GUY

                   
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