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