The Chief (9 page)

S
ONNY WAS THERE
when John L. died. He was in the hospital room with Richie and John L.'s second ex-wife and their daughters when John L. opened his eyes, smiled, and closed them again. There were stories in the paper that John L. died with his fist inside Sonny's fist, and that his last words were “Take Hubbard for me,” but Sonny said that was just Hubbard Senior hyping the next fight.

Jews get buried right away. Sonny and Richie were honorary pallbearers along with some bearded men in black cloth coats. TV cameras pushed in on the coffin. Sonny was cool. He said that John L. was a great champion and a great friend, but that he didn't blame anybody for his death, certainly not Elston Hubbard, Junior. It was a risk that fighters took.

Senior was all over that funeral. He said he understood that Sonny needed to avenge John
L.'s death and fight Junior. “It's nothing personal. When a man's chief falls, there must be satisfaction. That is the way of the warrior.”

The press ate that up, and started writing about a “grudge match,” and how the fight might not even get licensed if the commission thought Sonny was out for revenge. Sonny stayed at my folks' apartment for a few days, and the phone never stopped ringing with calls from the press. After a while, Sonny started getting impatient with the reporters asking the same questions over and over. He said he might want revenge on Senior for talking trash. When that was quoted, Junior said he was going to knock out Sonny for bad-mouthing his dad. After that, I handled the press calls. No comment. Thanks. No comment.

Sonny ran in the mornings in the park along the Hudson River, and I followed him on my bike. Neighborhood kids started trailing us. Sonny got a kick out of that, which surprised me. He'd fool around with them, show them some footwork, how to throw the hook. He was even getting more relaxed with adults. He liked being recognized on the street. Women were hitting on him all the time. A few nights he
didn't come home, but we never asked him about it. Denise said she thought he might have stayed at Robin's house, but she might have said that to needle me.

Every day we worked on Rocky. Sonny made that sucker dance, snapping out the jab, straight as a line drive, twisting his fist on impact.

“Jab…five. Hook…seven.”

We mixed punches, built combinations, using the jab to keep the opponent off balance, the hook and the right for power blows.

“Jab…five. Hook…seven.”

Start a pattern, let the opponent get into a rhythm of what to expect.

“Jab…five.”

Then, “Right…eight. Hook…nine.”

“Good work,” I said. “I like the way you moved your head after the punch.”

He grinned at me. He knew what I was doing. He hadn't been moving his head properly at all, but you can't yell at a hardhead like Sonny—you have to use psychology. I learned that from Alfred. And a smart hardhead like Sonny likes it when you jerk his string. Means you know what you're doing.

Whenever Sonny climbed into the ring, other fighters and trainers stopped working out to watch. I greased Sonny's face and slipped on the headgear. Dave the Fave climbed in. He was one of Sonny's biggest boosters now. He'd gotten good security-guard jobs from the publicity of their Vegas fight, and he loved to boast about being the guy who gave Sonny his start. Henry let him train for free in exchange for sparring with Sonny, which could be fun if you didn't mind being punched around. Sonny wasn't one of those hothouse fighters who have to be treated carefully in the gym. You could whale at him if you were willing to take a whack back.

Sonny was doing most of the whaling the day Hubbard Senior showed up. He climbed up on the ring apron and leaned on the ropes next to me.

“Your boy needs better'n Dave to get sharp.”

“Isn't this a conflict of interest?” I asked.

“How you mean?” His brow was all wrinkled as if he didn't know what I was talking about. Fat snake.

“It's your son fighting, and you're the pro
moter, and now you're here giving his opponent advice. I don't get it.”

“Ah, boxing, it's like poetry,” said Hubbard. “Mysterious. Once you try to explain it, poof, the magic is gone.”

“I better write that down,” I said sarcastically.

He nodded. “Sometimes I say things, I wish I had me a writer so I don't lose 'em. In fact”—he reached into a pocket and pulled out a roll of bills as big as his fist—“I could advance you…”

“I should have you thrown out like you had us thrown out. You're a spy.”

“Chill, boy. Your friend Robin had a financial problem and I…”

“Robin?”

The bell rang, and Sonny sauntered over. “You here to set the date?”

“Could be. The public's panting to see the two best young heavyweights in the world.”

“I've got a manager,” said Sonny. “You better talk to him.”

“Be glad to talk to anyone,” said Senior. “But I want to be sure you are properly represented by someone who knows the nooks and
the crannies of a world populated by people of devious disposition.”

“You already announced the fight in Vegas,” I said.

“Not the details,” said Hubbard. “You get to fight Junior if you sign with me as promoter for your next three fights.”

“That way, you get a sure rematch after Sonny wins,” I said.

“Right on, brother.” Hubbard threw back his head and gave off an annoying howl. He dug into his pocket and came out with the roll. He peeled off bills, crumpled them and stuffed them down the front of Sonny's trunks. “Get yourself a fly suit for the signing ceremony.”

“I didn't say I'd sign.”

“Armani be fine.” He swaggered to the door.

Sonny didn't even look at the money until we got back to the apartment. At dinner, after I told the story, he asked my dad, “How much does an Armani suit cost?”

“That depends,” said my dad, who doesn't like people to think he doesn't know everything.

“At least two
K”
said Denise.

Sonny grinned at me. “Get one for you, too. That was five grand he gave me.”

Denise clapped her hands. “Party time.”

I did my geek impression. “Wall to wall babes.”

Mom said, “You can't walk around with that…”

Dad said, “That's bad money. Strings attached.”

“Sonny made no promises,” I said.

“Better talk to Alfred,” said Dad.

 

He was in the hospital. He tried to hide the feeding tube in his stomach and the urinary catheter coming out between his legs. He couldn't hide the deep pain lines across his forehead. Sonny laid out the details of Hubbard's visit.

I said, “The deal stinks.”

Alfred said, “But it's pretty cut and dried. You need Junior to move up. Senior's the only one can deliver.”

“I don't trust Hubbard,” said Sonny.

“Who does?” said Alfred. “But it's his way or the highway.”

I
F THE
L
AS
V
EGAS
gambling hotels are an oasis in the desert, then the Atlantic City gambling hotels are an oasis in hell, surrounded by houses that look like tombstones, empty lots carpeted with broken glass, junkies, crack kids, muggers, beggars, whores. Robin and her crew spent one whole morning trying to get a single shot of Sonny running along the boardwalk, the sand and the ocean on his left, the hotels on his right, the slums behind him. The idea was that Sonny was running from a hopeless ghetto toward gambling casinos where you could change your life in one lucky night. I told her I thought the shot was crap because the casinos were a mirage. Ultimately nobody ever won.

She laughed. “You don't understand television.”

“I understand reality.”

“Television is emotion, quick impressions, a few seconds to leave an imprint on the brain.
You're thinking linear.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “End of lecture. Can you afford to take so much time off school?”

“Since when did you start smoking?”

“I think this is all getting to me.”

“What? The documentary? Atlantic City? Sonny? Hubbard's money?”

She lit the cigarette and turned her head to blow the smoke away from me. “You going to flunk out?”

“You going to sell out?”

“You don't know anything about reality, either, kid.” She tossed the cigarette and stalked back to her crew.

 

We spent the week in A-City to drum up publicity for the pay-per-view boxing show. It was all about getting stories in newspapers and on TV. Sonny was getting better, but he was no Mr. Soundbite, and Junior Hubbard was dead from the neck up, so everybody in both camps pitched in giving interviews. That was the deal: keep the fighters sharp and the media fed.

So there were stories about Hubbard being a tool of the Mafia, about Richie being on a
vendetta against Junior because of John L.'s death, about Jake channeling the souls of dead warrior chiefs to give Sonny supernatural strength. The only story that was true was about a struggling filmmaker who got a grant from the Hubbards' nonprofit foundation to finish her video on machismo in boxing. Robin wouldn't discuss it with me.

The week went fast, but each day was long. Up early to run, nap, eat breakfast, walk and rest, work out, press conference, rest, watch fight films and talk strategy, eat, a few special interviews, sleep. Constant idle chatter to keep Sonny amused and focused on the fight, but not so intense he'd burn out. Richie was good at jokes and small talk, and Dave the Fave kept everybody laughing with his crazy raps. Clowns are essential at a fight camp.

Richie and Henry spent a lot of time going over the fight plan with Sonny, how he had to expect a long, tough fight because Junior was in good condition, how he had to respect Junior's right hand, how he couldn't get discouraged in the early rounds if Junior's defense seemed impregnable. Junior was a well-trained fighter, and disciplined. But he didn't have a lot
of imagination, and when the big moment came. Sonny had to be ready to be creative and pour it on.

“Patient, then pounce,” said Richie.

Sonny just nodded. You couldn't be sure exactly how much of it he was buying.

There was a little story in the paper about a shooting on the Res. The chiefs must have hushed it up and taken care of the wounded guy themselves, because there were no police or hospital reports. The print reporters started asking about Moscondaga politics. The TV reporters preferred Dave the Fave. They got him to do an “original” rap a TV producer wrote for him about the fight.

I didn't get to spend much time alone with Sonny. I wondered how he was reacting to John L.'s death. He never mentioned it. Sometimes I wondered just how well I really knew him. Was he stuffing it down, not dealing with it? Or had he cruised past it, John L. gone and forgotten?

 

The morning of the fight, Alfred drove down in his specially equipped HandiVan. He'd lost a lot of weight, and there were hollows in
his cheeks. While Sonny napped, Alfred suggested we stroll the boardwalk. I was surprised. We've never been close; in fact I thought he didn't like me much, just tolerated me because my dad was a hero of his.

“How's school?”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“I said, it's okay.” It's not so easy walking and talking to someone in a wheelchair.

“Aren't you missing classes?”

I walked a little ahead of him and leaned down. “They're cutting me slack.”

“You have to keep your own thing going, Marty. School, writing.”

“My dad ask you to speak to me?”

“No, but I'm sure we feel the same way. I'm also thinking about Sonny. He's going to need you up the road. He's going to need a real friend.”

“If he wins, he'll have plenty of friends,” I said.

“He'll need old ones. Hang in there with him, Marty. Be some rough times.”

“You think he's going to win?”

“Whatever happens, he's going to lose his
way for a while. He's not going to listen to anybody.”

“Won't listen to me either.”

“Count on it. But you can keep the door open so we can all come back when he's ready again.”

“What does Jake think?”

“Same as I do,” said Alfred. “'Cept he's got all those hawks and spirits on the case.”

S
ONNY AND
J
UNIOR
settled right into a steady, grinding fight, trying to wear each other down until the chance came to fire the big one. Patient, then pounce. They were both playing that game. They respected each other's knockout punch. The crowd booed because they were cautious.

I was sitting with my dad in great seats behind the press rows. He was grunting and moving along with Sonny. It was like virtual reality: Every time my father's left shoulder twitched, Sonny jabbed.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Too early to tell,” he said. “Both have the skill. We'll have to see who has the will. Will beats skill.”

It wasn't the kind of fight the mob guys and the rap gangstas love, bing-bang-blood and good-night, but for anyone who really enjoyed and understood boxing it was state of the art, two disciplined fighters trying to dominate
each other through strength and tactics.

I was proud of Sonny. He never got angry or lost control for a second, moving in with crisp jabs, dancing away from Junior's right hand, moving his head after he threw a punch, spinning off the ropes, wasting no energy with macho moves or insults. He kept up the pressure on Junior without leaving himself open for a big punch. My dad was impressed, too.

“He's learned a lot. He's been paying attention.”

“He's going to win,” I said.

“Senior's worried.”

Between rounds. Senior pressed his mouth to Junior's ear and talked until the bell rang, then slapped him hard on the back to get him going.

But Junior knew only one way to fight. Dig it out. He was a laborer with a pick and shovel—give him enough time, he'll dig the hole and bury you. It had worked with everyone else he had ever fought, because he was stronger or in better condition or more disciplined—everyone else cracked under Junior's relentless forward march and did something stupid that left him open for the dynamite right.

Except Sonny. Cool and deadly Sonny, stick and move, willing to fight this dull, grinding, brutal fight.

In his corner, Richie and Alfred kept up a steady stream of coaching and cheerleading, and Jake sponged his face and washed his mouthpiece. Every so often, Robin and her crew moved in for close-ups.

In the middle of the sixth round, Dad whispered, “He's got 'im.” Sonny was in command, moving Junior backward with sharp jabs that couldn't be brushed aside, pounding him into the ropes. Sonny had the will. Junior began dancing and grinning to hide his panic, but he couldn't keep his arms up and he was grunting at body blows.

Between rounds, Alfred and Richie were screaming at Sonny to go for it, and Senior was yelling at Junior and tapping his left eyebrow.

I had a flashback…Iron Pete Viera.

Junior threw a right at Sonny's left eye, and when Sonny batted it away. Junior crossed with a left, missed and clinched. He rammed his head into Sonny's face. As the referee broke them, Junior took another swipe at the eye. The referee warned him, but the damage was done.
The old scar tissue was leaking blood. How had he known about the cut?

“Here's where the fix comes in,” I said. “Doctor calls it, Junior wins. Senior still has rights to the rematch.”

“Let's try not to be paranoid.” Dad must have been thinking the same thing.

After the seventh, Jake and Richie managed to seal the leak by pinching the flesh hard, then fingering ointment into it. Alfred, hanging on the ropes, was shouting new instructions. Sonny would have to protect that eye now, without losing his momentum. It would be tough.

For most of the eighth round, I thought he could do it. He was still sharp, bulling Junior around the ring, snapping out the jab, maneuvering him into position for the left hook.

“Just two more rounds and we're home free,” I babbled. “He must be ahead on points.”

“Can't be sure,” said Dad. “He can't lay back now.”

A good right cross turned Junior's face into a fair left hook and he fell back against the ropes, clutching at Sonny, who stumbled forward into a clinch, another butt, and suddenly blood was running down into his eye. Sonny
stepped back and his blood sprayed out onto the reporters' notebooks and laptops. The crowd roared at the blood.

If the bell had rung then, and if Jake had had a chance to close the cut again…

The doctor rushed into the ring, signaling the referee, and the two of them examined Sonny's eye, and then Senior and Junior were hugging. It was over. A technical knockout for Hubbard. A robbery. Iron Pete Viera.

But this time Sonny didn't vault the ropes and stalk out of the arena. He swept the doctor and the referee aside and charged across the ring.

In slow motion, the Hubbards separated to meet him, their hands up.

“Sonny decked Junior with a beautiful left hook, sharp, short, on the button. Hook…1.

The hook that put Senior away was longer, not so hard, but good enough. Hook…7.

The scene is frozen in my mind. The Hubbards stretched out at his feet, Sonny turns to face the world, his fists cocked. But there is no one left to hit.

The picture made him famous. He flew out to Hollywood with Jake the next day.