There was a shed at one end of the yards. It had once served as a temporary machine shop, but that was a couple of years before my time. Machinists' benches still lined the walls, and underneath them rusted all manner of spare parts, antiquated equipment and drums of cable. Windows rose from these work benches to the roof, half of the panes broken. Like the tracks between freighthouses A. and B., the roofing of the shed was supported by stanchions and girders. Before this shed was torn down some of the boys used to go there if freight was running light, and pass the time, waiting for the second boat to come in, playing crap, wrestling, weight lifting, or, if anyone had a set of gloves, boxing.
"We going to see something tonight," Buffalo said to me once. "You know that big Fin Stevedor thinks he's tough?"
"Olaf the Dane, you mean?"
"Sure," said Buffalo, "that's him. I got him framed with a tough shine says he used to work out with Joe Walcott."
"Olaf's dumb as a mule," I said, "and mean when he gets drink in him."
"You're telling me," Buffalo said. "In my truck-gang once. Came near croaking him myself once."
"Too bad you didn't."
"Time enough," said Buffalo. "Ain't so good for a fighter mixing it with these clucks. Always his fault if anyone's hurt....See you around twelve."
The ring was not regulation size. The ropes were attached to four of the iron stanchions in the middle of the shed.
The first fight, out of a dispute in the yards, was at catch weights, but did not last long. One of the boys had to quit in the second round, Buffalo nudged me when a colored boy stepped into the ring for the second. He was cleancut and rangy, a welter, I judged. He had a pink dressing gown, trunks, and boxing shoes, and his hands were bandaged. He looked over at Buffalo and winked.
Olaf the Dane was busy taking off his shoes, and when he climbed through the ropes he was barefooted, with his pants rolled up to his knees, his hairy torso naked, and a lot to say when they tried to put the gloves on him. But nobody understood what he was saying, or Finnish or Danish or Swedish which he was saying it in, but Olaf himself and the Souegians in his corner. But it was clear to all that Olaf had no use for gloves. The referee said only combats with six ounce gloves were permitted, and if Olaf wanted to fight without them he could go out and pick a fight with a cop. The colored boy made a couple of wise cracks, and they finally got the gloves on Olaf who kept opening and shutting his hands and looking at them helplessly as if they were tied up in bags. At the start, the colored boy, who was taller than Olaf, did some shadow boxing well out of range and then stepped in and landed a series of left jabs on Olaf's moustache. Olaf just kept walking round the ring after him opening and closing his gloves, which hung down to his knees. But when he caught a clip on the nose that started the claret he snorted, swallowed, opened and closed his hands a couple of times and charged with his head down. The colored boy slipped to the right and Olaf missed braining himself against one of the stanchions the ropes were tied to and took a dive over them into the gang sitting on the floor. They got him back and the referee warned him about using his head, and the warning was translated to him by every one at the same time in his own and every other language....The colored boy kept laughing and looking at Buffalo as much as to say: 'What can you expect a classy fighter to do with a cluck like that?' And he pulled a couple more wisecracks and hit Olaf on the nose again and looked at Buffalo and grinned and as he did Olaf made a broad gesture and his forearm caught the shine in the middle and moved him out over the ropes onto the gang on the floor, where he stayed for more than a minute. Olaf blew his nose in his glove, and, recalling some words in English that seemed appropriate, shouted them after the colored boy:
"Sonovabitch! Bastard! Goddamn!"
"That shine thinks he's smart," Buffalo said. "That's what's wrong with him. So damn smart it cost him four bucks and me the two I had on him."
"You mean?" I said.
"I had two plunks on him to stay four rounds with Olaf," said Buffalo, "and the winner gets four."
"He had a cinch," I said, "in a ring that size."
"Sure he had a cinch," Buffalo said, and I could hardly hear him for all the Souwegians shouting and clapping, and Olaf shouting and clapping his gloves to show what kind of guys they were in Denmark or wherever he came from.
"O you Olaf! O you kid!" they were yelling.
"O you Olaf!" Olaf was shouting back.
After a conference in several languages, the referee said Olaf was willing to take on any one else and back himself with the four bucks he had just won, giving 4 to 1 on Olaf. And then some other Souegians collected four bucks more and gave the same odds against anyone staying with him four rounds. And I said to Buffalo:
"That makes eight bucks."
"Eight bucks," he said. "Why don't you cash in? You won't have no trouble keeping away from them swings."
"Okay," I said, "but you got to get his shoes and trunks from that shine for me."
"Sure I will," Buffalo said. "You can see them swings coming a mile."
"You stick in my corner, so if Olaf starts butting you can—you know," I said.
"Sure I will," said Buffalo. "And here's where I get my dough back for half a buck."
After that the colored boy took off his shoes and trunks, and Buffalo said to take his protector too in case Olaf started using his knee. The colored boy pulled his dressing gown around him modestly and removed the protector and I took it and whispered to Buffalo:
"I hope there's nothing wrong with him."
"Hell, no," said Buffalo. "He's just dumb."
I saw there was no time to explain what I meant, so I slipped my handkerchief inside it and strapped the protector on.
When I got in the ring Buffalo was in my corner, and the referee held up his hand and Buffalo said:
"All you got to do is stay the distance. Eight bucks, kid."
And I saw him look up at the girder above the ring with the big oil lamp hanging from it, and the shine was up there with my pants on, and I wondered what he was doing there and what my pants would be like by the time he got down. And just as the gong went I saw Buffalo nod to the shine, and the marathon started.
That colored boy worried me more than O.U.Olaf, and when I got to my corner at the end of the round I said:
"What's he doing up on that girder?"
"Nothing at all," Buffalo said. "Just a precaution."
"What do you mean, a precaution?" I asked.
Buffalo put his mouth to my ear:
"If there's any danger he'll cut the lamp wire with a nippers,"
I sat up straight and put my glove over my head.
"Danger of what?" I said.
"Me losing them two bucks," Buffalo said.
"How about me getting brained with the lamp?"
"He won't drop it on you," said Buffalo.
"You get him down off the girder, or I quit right now," I said.
"All right, all right," he said and signed to the boy upstairs to lose height.
The referee yelled time.
The next round was not so good for me, watching for the colored boy to get down, and trying to keep clear of the lamp and Olaf. At the end of it a wild swing caught me on the shoulder and knocked me down. I hit the floor with a whale of a smack, my feet in the air. Buffalo shouted to me to take the count. By seven I was ready to get up, but the round was over.
"Watch them right swings," said Buffalo when I was back in my corner.
"I'd enough watching to do with that guy and the lamp," I said.
"Here he is now, so forget about him," said Buffalo.
When I saw the colored boy on terra firma again I felt happier. And when I looked across at Olaf, I was glad this was the last round, for my left shoulder seemed to be paralyzed and I could hardly lift my arm though Buffalo was massaging the muscles. I noticed the ends of Olaf's moustaches were all stained with tobacco juice and his face was flushed up to his eyes. One of his pals was telling him something in his ear.
When time was called I still felt shaky, and as the round progressed I was missing O.U.Olaf's swings by a narrower margin each time....The Souegians were getting sore and yelling at me to stand up and fight, but I knew all I had to do was stay the distance, so I let them yell....Then Olaf spread his arms out like a cross and crowded me into the corner. I caught him with a couple of rights to the jaw but I might as well have been hitting the wall. I tried to slip out under his arms but he lowered them and pushed me back against the stanchion with his open left against my chest. I heard Buffalo yelling foul at the referee and then, from the ground, Olaf started a right swing that looked like it would derail a freight engine. I knew it was the end. My knees sagged. I closed my eyes and waited for the stars.
There was the dull thud of a blow landing and then a yell... When I opened my eyes I had one knee on the ground. I got up. The referee was counting....Olaf was rolling around the ring howling, holding his right glove with his left. The right glove was split, blood was dripping from it, and there were splinters of bone sticking out of the padding.
Instead of my head, the iron stanchion had stopped that last swing.