Neal Pollack

Pinto and his Polish opponent were called to the ring. Pinto stayed in his corner and jumped up and down, getting his legs loose. Paco got in the ring with a bullhorn and stared to yell.

“Welcome to our first smoker. In this our first fight we got Smokin’ Alex Pinto going up against Punchin’ Jan Pulaski. Both these men fought as pros. The line is even. Get your bets down. We jump off in two minutes.”

Paco came over to Pinto and put his arm around him.

“Take him out, homes. Make us proud.”

Pinto grabbed the rope and did a few squats. He watched one of the Spanish Cobras circle the ring with a video camera. The crowd was looking up at him, yelling that they had bet on him and he better win.

He leaned against the ropes and saw Jan Pulaski staring right through him. Pulaski didn'’t move. Just stared at him with a blank look.

The bell rang and Pinto slowly approached the center of the ring. Pulaski staggered out of his corner. Pinto thought he looked drunk. He threw a wild right that Pinto ducked and came into Pulaski’s gut with a solid right. Pulaski belched and fell to the ropes.

“Kill him! Kill that old white bum!” a kid yelled from the crowd.

Pinto moved in carefully and threw a right to Pulaski’s head. Then another right. And another. Pulaski took the punishment with no reaction. His mouth was bleeding but his body didn'’t move.

Pinto moved away and yelled though his mouth guard to Paco, “He ain’t fighting.”

Paco laughed and yelled, “Then make him.”

Pinto stormed in and hit Pulaski with a left hook. Then a right cross. The Pole staggered and then fell to the canvas with a dead thud. He didn'’t move. The bell rang a few times and then Paco grabbed his hand and yelled to the crowd that Alex Pinto was the winner.

Pinto left the ring as he watched a few Spanish Cobras carry Pulaski out of the ring and sit him on a bench. Pulaski just sat there with his head down.

Paco slapped him on the back and said, “Hey, nice fight. You come next Friday, I'’ll give you $250.”

“I'’ll think about it,” Pinto said, then walked to the back of the factory and took off his gloves.

He left the factory quietly and walked down Cicero feeling dirty. Like he’d done something wrong. Sinful. Shameful. But as he kept walking he couldn'’t stop feeling good about being in the ring again and knocking a man out. Even if the man looked like an old drunk.

The next week Alex Pinto showed up on Cicero Avenue. He needed that $250. He told Paco he’d only fight if he were on first. He couldn'’t watch these other men flail around the ring.

That night he took out a forty-five-year-old black guy who looked like he needed to be on meds. The man threw punches like a wild man and Pinto was able to duck each one. The man was knocked out with a right to his liver.

He celebrated his second win with a ten-dollar bottle of red wine and a nice rare steak.

His third fight was against a Latin kid of about thirty. The kid looked like he hadn'’t had a decent meal in weeks, but he could fight. He caught Pinto with a smashing blow to the temple. Pinto had to dig down deep to fake the kid out. If he hadn'’t landed a right to the kid’s throat that knocked him flat, he might have quit. The fight went fifteen straight minutes and Pinto ran out of gas.

The Wednesday before his fourth fight Alex Pinto was walking down North Avenue when a young kid stopped him.

“Hey, are you the boxer?”

Alex smiled at the kid. “You’re too young to have ever seen me fight. Your dad told you about me?”

“Nah.” The kid laughed. “I seen you on that new video. They selling it right over there. You the best of the Bum Fighters.”

Alex froze and looked at the Latin man with a table set up with videos on it. He walked over to the table like he was in a dream. His legs grew heavy as he picked up a video and saw a photo on the cover of him knocking out Jan Pulaski, with the title: “The Best of Bum Boxing—See homeless bums beat each other till they bleed.”

“Fifteen dollars each, pops. Some of these homeless know how to fight. The shit is funny.”

Pinto walked away, his face burning. He ran home to his room and screamed into a pillow with rage. Screamed and screamed until the night came and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

He didn'’t leave his room. He couldn'’t. There would be no more. It was over for Alex Pinto. He wanted death. This shame he felt. This creepy crawling feeling that he had lived his whole life so that cowards who never got into a boxing ring could point and laugh at him. He was a failure. Nothing but an old joke. A bum who boxed other worthless bums.

“Silence, cunning, and exile

”

That’s how “Irish” Walsh had said he would live after Pinto knocked him out in 1974. Back then he laughed and thought the Irishman was just being dramatic. Now he knew how that felt. Well, at least the silence and the exile.