Neal Pollack

After he went through August of 1975, and then March of 1972 when he won a Golden Glove amateur title, his eyes grew tired from the microfilm machine. Pinto decided to grab a magazine and sit in the lounge, where the regulars went. In the summer only the old were seen in the library. They were the ones who couldn'’t afford air-conditioning for those brutal August heatwaves. He grabbed an old Newsweek and nodded to a man he knew named Juan. Next to him was Olga. She always had a Sports Illustrated and read slow.

“Hey, champ, how you doin’?” Juan asked.

“Good, you ignorant Boricua. Don’t you know you supposed to be quiet in a library?” Alex said.

“Used to be that way here. No more. This here is uncivilized times we living in. This is a horrible time to be alive. Especially if you’re old,” Olga said.

Alex nodded at her and sat down with a sigh. He read about an earthquake in Sri Lanka and his eyes grew heavy.

“Closing time. Come on, time to go.”

Alex wiped some drool off his face and blinked at the security guard standing over him.

“What time is it?”

“Time to go.”

Alex looked around the empty room and stood up on his shaky legs. He waved to the desk librarian and walked out to the rush hour of North Avenue. The air was a little cooler as he crossed the street and entered Humboldt Park.

When he hit the path he started to jog slowly. He’d do five miles today. He kept up his roadwork. He liked to think he stayed in fighting shape. Tomorrow he would work as a part-time janitor at Brick’s Gym and after his shift he’d do some speed work and punch the heavy bag. He wouldn'’t be getting any more shots at a prizefight, but in this city it paid to stay in shape. Can’t afford to get old and weak, he thought.

As Pinto jogged past the boat pavilion his body tensed as he saw a group of Spanish Cobras sitting on the benches. He knew all about these guys. Pinto had been a regular of the Latin Kings in the 1960s. Back then they stood for defending the Latins of the neighborhood against the whites and the the Chicago Police Department, the toughest white gang of all. Once he got into boxing and the Kings got into dealing drugs, he put the gang life down.

But these Spanish Cobras were a bad gang that caused a lot of trouble in the neighborhood. They mugged, robbed, and sold drugs to their own. He kept his head down and wanted to just move past them.

“Hey, homes. You. The boxer.”

Pinto slowed and looked at the young man approaching him.

“Yeah?” Pinto said, jogging in place looking at the man.

“I hear back in the day you were some fighter. My pops tells me you were almost champ. Long time ago. That you, Alex Pinto?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Damn. A pleasure to meet you. I’m Paco.”

Pinto shook his hand and said, “Well, thanks, I got to go.”

“Wait, homes. You want to earn some money?”

Pinto looked down on the ground. “How?”

“Doin’ what you do best, homes. Boxing. We hold smokers out on Cicero. I'’ll pay you $200 you come out this Friday night. It’s good. We tape it and sell tickets and take bets there. You will be a big draw. Big bets on you, papi. People remember you in the ring. You were a legend.”

“Boxing? Really? Who am I fighting?”

Paco smiled at Pinto and said, “A guy about your age. You’ll tear him up. Only thing is, you gotta bring your own gloves. You down?”

Pinto hesitated. That money was a week’s pay for him. It would help. Get him some meat, fresh produce, and a decent bottle of wine. Maybe even a coat for the winter. But boxing? At fifty-five?

“I don’t know. How come I never heard about this?” Pinto said as he moved his weight from foot to foot.

“Hey, it’s our first smoker. Figured we start with the best and work our way down. Could be a regular gig for you.”

Pinto looked at the benches. The other Spanish Cobras were smoking and yelling at a woman walking by. Paco kept his eyes locked on Pinto.

“So what do you say, homes? You down?”

“Give me the address. I'’ll be there.”

“Cool, it starts at 8. Be there like 7:30. You’re the first fight.”

Paco handed Pinto a flyer and walked back to his friends. Pinto put the paper in his back pocket and continued his run. While he circled the lagoon he saw himself in the ring ducking a punch and laying his opponent out. That is how it will go Friday night. A guy my age stands no chance against me, he thought. I’'ve kept myself in shape. I still have the tools.

Pinto finished his run and limped out of the park. He went to a small grocery store and bought a can of beans and a beer. That would be dinner. Under two dollars. He was keeping to his budget.

On Thursday Pinto woke up feeling good. He got out of bed and did a few jumping jacks. He shadowboxed as he reveled in the thought that he would fight once again tomorrow night. There should be some kind of senior league for old boxers, he thought. Tennis and golf had it. Why does age make you put down the things you love? Old men still had basketball and football leagues. Why not boxers?