:<br/></div><div> <br/></div><div><GRAPH 1 >:<br/></div><div> <br/></div><div>Lattanza had a quiet, “old-school” upbringing in the Carroll Gardens section of South Brooklyn. He was raised by “the best cook,” his mother, Connie, a single mother who never learned English.<br/></div></div><div><span><span>A<br/></span></span>nd he has been cuckolded by a noncook who still<br/><span>requires<br/></span>him to speak English. Whoever said boys tend to marry women who remind them of their mothers was full of shit.<br/></div><div><div>“Carroll Gardens was like that,” Lattanza says, a twinkle in his eye. “Sitting out on the stoop, she could talk to anyone. That was a long time ago. The neighborhood has changed. Cammareri Brothers Bakery is gone. Not so much Italian heard on the stoops. Mama would not like it much.”<br/></div></div><div>I doubt Connie would approve of Evelyn at all. “Cannot cook? So skinny! Doesn't like fish? Not good enough for<br/><span>my<br/></span>boy.”<br/></div><div><div>Lattanza ran to and from school as a child. “I was skinny,” he says. “There was this<br/><span>bravaccio<br/></span>who chased me like dogs chase cars. I was small, but I was<br/><span>rapido<br/></span>. I hit him once in the<br/><span>stom-aco<br/></span>. He left me alone.”<br/></div></div><div>I know how that<br/><span>bravaccio<br/></span>feels. Dante hit me in the heart, and now I have to leave him alone.<br/></div><div><div>At thirteen, Lattanza showed up at Gleason's Gym, where champions like Jake LaMotta, Rocky Graziano, Carmen Basilio, Arturo Gatti, Muhammad Ali, Roy Jones, Joe Frazier, and George Foreman trained. “They were the best,” Lattanza says, his dark eyes bright. “I wanted to be the best.”<br/></div><div>Lattanza blossomed at Gleason's. “I asked to fight the biggest fighters. They laughed at me but gave me a chance. I went home bloody, but no one ever knocked me down. No one. No one ever will. Blood and guts. I have always been this.”<br/></div></div><div>Except when Evelyn's around. His face drains of blood and he becomes gutless. Just one little half-jab would cave in her mousy face. Hell, even a swing and a miss might blow her over.<br/></div><div><div>Despite his nickname, Lattanza has given back to his community, contributing to Gleason's Give a Kid a Dream program. “I miss that. I should go back. Gleason's gave me a chance. I should give back. There is a new generation of tough Brooklyn kids out there that could be champions. They are already running the streets. I'd like to make sure that running counts for something.”<br/></div></div><div>Dante does have a good heart. I'll grant him that. I can't take that away from him.<br/></div><div><div>Running nine miles a day, Lattanza gave his mother many proud moments before her sudden death when Lattanza was eighteen. He had high marks at St. Saviour, was the New York Gold Gloves middleweight champion, and was invited to the Olympic trials.<br/></div><div>Lattanza's greatest moment? “Holding Dante Junior for the first time. It's not all about boxing with me. Boxing put money in my pocket to put food on the table, have a place to live. It is a job.”<br/></div></div><div>And this is my job. Though I had my greatest moment in the closet, my writing pays my bills and gives me a place to live. Writing about a man is my job. Stalking a man is not.<br/></div><div><div>Lattanza takes his fatherly duties very seriously, involving his sixteen-year-old son “DJ” in every aspect of his training. He is DJ's older brother, friend, confidant, and trainer. A rare thing? “It is the right thing.” Dante fights, he says with pride, “to be a hero to my son, to be a good father, to be someone he can look up to.”<br/></div></div><div>“To win back his lost love,” I want to write, but I don't. I made a promise, and promises seem to be of utmost importance to Dante. So far, I've kept out Evelyn and Dante's father. And I'm also gushing here and there. I'll delete “a twinkle in his eye” later. I guess I better grind out the rest and put a hold on my gushing.<br/></div><div><div>Lattanza, aided by his longtime sparring partner, friend, and personal cook, Red Gregory, trains for fights far from the madding crowd up at Aylen Lake, Ontario. He built the cottage where they live in the summer and late fall far from what he calls<br/><span>“distrazione.”<br/></span></div></div><div>Until I showed up. Was that all I was? A distraction?<br/></div><div><div>“The air is pure, you know? Clean. Has a flavor. The water is ice cold. Pure. Clean.” He squints. “It is a place where I can focus. It is a place where DJ and I can be together all the time.”<br/></div></div><div>I fight back a tear. I will never forget that place.<br/></div><div><div>Lattanza's training regimen includes fishing, mountain climbing, hiking, and swimming, atypical of most boxers today. He also sleeps on the floor.<br/></div></div><div>I'll never forget that place either. I hope he doesn't sand off the scratch marks.<br/></div><div><div>“It is not comfortable, though it is good for my back. It is to remind me of hard times. I choose to have no windows to remind me of my ancestors who were imprisoned for fighting against Mussolini. I have no bed to remind me of my<br/><span>nonni<br/></span>coming to America and having to sleep on the floor, pick rags, and sell junk thrown away by others. My family has been through many hard times. They made sacrifices to come to America. I make sacrifices, too. I do not get soft. I stay hard.”<br/></div></div><div>Yes, indeed you did, Mr. Lattanza. I will never forget that hardness as long as I live. It's making me a bit damp just thinking about it.<br/></div><div>Now, do I mention the clippings, the crucifix, and the wedding picture? Well . . . two out of three will just have to do.<br/></div><div><div>On the walls of his closetlike bedroom, he has clippings of his losses to Tank Washington and Felix Cordoza to motivate him. A crucifix reminds him of “the greatest sacrifice ever.”<br/></div><div>Recently named one of the “Sexiest Men Alive” by<br/><span>Personality<br/></span>, Lattanza has kept a low profile for the past ten years, “fishing, traveling, and staying in shape.” Other than a bit part in<br/><span>Heavy Leather,<br/></span>he's been virtually invisible.<br/></div><div>“It was easier than you think,” he says. “Not many recognize me wearing clothes and without my gloves. It was okay to be anonymous.”<br/></div><div>If Lattanza should beat Washington in their long-awaited rematch on December 7 at Madison Square Garden, he won't ever have a chance to be anonymous again.<br/></div></div><div>I am so frustrated. There's<br/><span>so<br/></span>much more to this man than this! But this is what we give the public. It's never enough. As vain as he appears to be, he's about the most humble athleteâor manâI've ever met. Sure, he's misguided, gullible, and naive, but so are most people.<br/></div><div>Me most of all. I can't believe that I was naive enough to think I could muscle in on Dante and steal him away from the mother of his child. Two days cannot undo almost seventeen years of a “relationship”âand I use that term loosely.<br/></div><div>I think the tone of the article portrays Dante's humble nature without me saying it. I want to tell the world how gentle he is, how much of a gentleman he is, how much he<br/><span>isn't<br/></span>the stereotypical conceited “warrior,” how generous he is, how tender he can be, how his “Blood and Guts” nickname fits him and doesn't fit him. I want readers to know he's something more than a wicked left hook and a smile. I want them to know how crazy he is about his son.<br/></div><div>I still don't have a first paragraph. “Dante Lattanza is not your average fighter” just doesn't cut it. “Dante Lattanza is a man” is a bit too grandiose, even though it's true. If I tell the world he's fighting for love, I'll break my promise to him.<br/></div><div>But I'll have the ultimate opening. I'll have a paragraph that will yank the reader into the rest of my story.<br/></div><div>I'm going to let this percolate for a few days over the weekend while I get properly drunk and cry a lot. I know I will. I'm already going through withdrawal.<br/></div><div>There's my flight.<br/></div><div>I wonder if I can start my pity party early with a glass of wine on the plane.<br/></div></div><div><div>Chapter 23<br/></div><div><span><span>T<br/></span></span>hey don't have any alcohol on the ninety-minute flight to LaGuardia, so I begin my pity party with some stale peanuts, sour orange juice, and a weak cup of coffee.<br/></div><div>I catch a cab from the airport (on<br/><span>Personality<br/></span>'s tab, of course) and reread the serious article. I barely broke seven hundred words. The Evelyn/Dante's father info would double it easily. I just can't get past how much I gushed when I wrote it!<br/></div><div>It's obvious I'm in love with him.<br/></div><div>Shit.<br/></div><div>I'm in love.<br/></div><div>I spent, what, almost three days with this man and I'm in love? I have never believed in love at first sight. “Is there any other?” he said. Maybe he's right. But I've never let myself get this involved with anyone, even the boyfriends who put up with me more off than on. Love to me has always been just another word in musicals, in date movies, in soap operas, and on the radio.<br/></div><div>I look up. We're just now hitting the Grand Central Parkway? Geez. Why don't you all move to Canada? There's plenty of space up there.<br/></div><div>I need to talk to Dante. I need to apologize. I just need to hear his voice. It's a little after ten. If he went fishing, he'd probably be back by now. I find the cottage number in my cell phone's directory and make the call.<br/></div><div>“Hello?”<br/></div><div>Why is Evelyn answering the phone? “Um, hi, Evelyn. It's Christiana Artis. I, uh, I need to check a few things for my story with Dante.”<br/></div><div>Silence.<br/></div><div>“So, um, I need to speak to Dante.”<br/></div><div>“He's sleeping,” she says.<br/></div><div>She's lying. The man never sleeps. “Well, please wake him up. My editor has to have my story by noon today.” She lies, and I lie. It's a vicious cycle.<br/></div><div>“I don't want to interrupt his dreams,” she says.<br/></div><div><span>“Che?”<br/></span></div><div>“What?”<br/></div><div>“That's what I said.<br/><span>Che<br/></span>means âwhat.' Weren't you married to this guy once? Didn't you learn any Italian?”<br/></div><div>“He only spoke English around me,” she says.<br/></div><div>Because you took away his ability to be Italian. “How do you know he's dreaming, Evelyn?”<br/></div><div>“Because I'm looking at him.”<br/></div><div>Where is he? He can't be . . . But the only phone I saw was in the guestroom. Did he sleep there last night? No! She has to be lying, but how can I know for sure? “Please wake him. It'll only take a minute.”<br/></div><div>“He needs his rest,” she says. “He was<br/><span>very<br/></span>busy last night.”<br/></div><div>You . . . What's worse than a bitch? An itch. Evelyn is an<br/><span>itch<br/></span>from now on. Wait. She's talking in a normal voice. If she's in the guestroom, and<br/><span>he's<br/></span>in the guestroom . . . “Why aren't you whispering?”<br/></div><div>“Dante can sleep through a hurricane,” she says.<br/></div><div>Itch! Witch! “Look, I really need to speak to him now.”<br/></div><div>“I'd really rather not wake him. I can take a message for him if you like.”<br/></div><div>No, I would not like. “I'll . . . I'll just call back later.”<br/></div><div>I slam shut my phone.<br/></div><div>This is bullshit. She's lying. He wasn't “busy” last night, not with her. And she is nowhere near Dante now. He probably went fishing this morning to get away from her, and now he's down at the dock cleaning fish. Yeah. She's up in her little palace of a guesthouse while he cleans the fish she couldn't possibly eat. That phone was the only phone there. He wouldn't dareâ<br/></div><div>She has to be lying.<br/></div><div>Oh, God, I hope she's lying.<br/></div><div>Maybe if I call back, he'll answer this time. Not likely, but...<br/></div><div>I hit the redial button.<br/></div><div>No answer.<br/></div><div>Why doesn't Dante have an answering machine, voice mail, something? Why won't he join the rest of us in the twenty-first century? I know he's old school, but there are things you have to have in the modern age.<br/></div><div>I press all the numbers this time, hoping the phone misdialed the first time.<br/></div><div>No answer.<br/></div><div>She has obviously left the guesthouse. I'll bet that's it. She's left her little palace to go find Dante. He's not there with her. If she were there, she'd answer because she couldn't resist talking to me again, lying to me again, getting me all worked up.<br/></div><div>But if Dante were getting busy with<br/><span>me<br/></span>,<br/><span>I<br/></span>wouldn't answer the phone for anything, even a hurricane.<br/></div><div>Shit!<br/></div><div>Okay. Get a grip. You can't go to pieces over this. You're from Red Hook, Brooklyn. We don't fall apart over things like this. Oh sure, we fume about something every second of every day, but there have been worse things that have happened to us, like 9/11, the Mets<br/><span>“el foldo”<br/></span>of 2007, the Knicks since Walt Frazier, the Dodgers leaving for LA, the Jets since Broadway Joe Namath. . . .<br/></div><div>I fish in my pocket for Red's cell phone number. I know he's in Montreal, but maybe he can get through for me or at least give Dante a message.<br/></div><div>Red doesn't answer either, but at least he has voice mail.<br/></div><div>“Red, it's me, Christiana. Things didn't go too well, and I left last night. No one is answering the phone at Dante's cottage. Please have him call me as soon as you and Lelani get back from Montreal, okay? It's urgent. Bye.”<br/></div><div>I sigh. There really isn't much more I can do. Red will give him the message, and then Dante will call me.<br/></div><div>I hope.<br/></div><div>The cab stops. I pay him. I get out. I'm home in Red Hook, where everyone has to hang tough.<br/></div><div>The Dutch, who obviously couldn't spell, originally named Red Hook (population eleven thousand)<br/><span>Roode Hoek<br/></span>. Red Hook is the former home of tough Brooklyn dockworkers and was once the stomping grounds of NBA star Carmelo Anthony, who lived here until he was in the third grade. The Knicks could certainly use him. Creepy horror writer H. P. Lovecraft grew up here. That should tell you something about Red Hook. Rocky Marciano's trainer Charley Goodman,<br/><span>Wiseguy<br/></span>actor Ray Sharkey, and real wise guy “Crazy Joe” Gallo were all Red Hookers, too. Gallo was shot up in Little Italy at Umberto's Clam House on his forty-third birthday while eating scungilli. Red Hook is also the site where that knucklehead floated his homemade wooden submarine, which looked like a floating brown egg, too close to the<br/><span>QE2<br/></span>and got arrested, a tallboy beer in his hand.<br/></div><div>A sign on a Red Hook door says it all:<br/></div><div><div>N<br/><span>O<br/></span>M<br/><span>ENUS<br/></span>N<br/><span>O<br/></span>C<br/><span>IRCULARS<br/></span>N<br/><span>O<br/></span>A<br/><span>NYTHING<br/></span>N<br/><span>O<br/></span>E<br/><span>VERYTHING<br/></span></div></div><div>Or, as I overheard one night at Sunny's Bar, “Red Hook is like a hot chick in coveralls.”<br/></div><div>I'm no hot chick, and though I live in a pre-WWII warehouse near the intersection of Van Brunt and Reed, I own no coveralls. I open my black steel door and see twelve hundred square feet of “space” in my studio apartment, for which I pay only sixteen hundred a month plus utilitiesâa legal steal these days. I share this building with artists, designers, writers, and other bohemians like me, none of whom seem to have regular working hours. I know. Some of them work long into the night, hammering, banging, and generally being industrious. I have a beamed ceiling, a full East River view through an arched window, shiny hardwood floors, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom about the size of Dante's room, and lots of open space. Carnival Cruise ships appear, blast their horns, and disappear from my window, all of them sailing away and leaving me behind, and on a clear evening, I can catch Lady Liberty's glowing head.<br/></div><div>Not tonight. New Jersey must be on fire again. Are those white caps on the water? New Jersey blows, too.<br/></div><div>I hit my bed without undressing. It's not as stiff as the floor in Dante's room, but it sure is comfortable. I prop myself up on two pillows, listening to the<br/><span>ding dang dong<br/></span>of the buoys and checking out my “space.”<br/></div><div>I have turned my space into an eclectic mix of whatever strikes my fancy. I have a long green sofa from the sixties, above which hangs<br/><span>Brown Skin,<br/></span>an acrylic by Darlene F;<br/><span>Twins,<br/></span>a black and green painting by Olivia Rose Jackson; and<br/><span>Red Hook,<br/></span>a series of color photographs by Scott A. Ettin. All are framed, and none of them matches each other, the couch, or anything else for that matter. Splashed through my space are old movie posters, framed and unframed photographs of old Brooklyn, menus from defunct Brooklyn restaurants, ancient magazine covers from<br/><span>Collier's<br/></span>, playbills of plays I've never seen, and a postcard collage of places I've never been. I have not spent much for any of it, shopping so often at Main Street Ephemera (on<br/><span>Columbia<br/></span>Streetâdon't ask) they know me by name. A neon clock that rarely keeps the right time hangs over the window and my Indo Nouveau sun lounger and side table, the only truly expensive pieces I've bought. Whenever I hold my laptop on my lapâwhere a laptop is supposed to goâthe sun lounger becomes my office. Scattered here and there are TwigCraft lamps made from New York City street trees and bamboo candleholders holding white waxen nubs. Loads of shelving crammed with books, most of them dusty hardbacks and other unique finds from Freebird Books & Goods, surrounds my space. A framed page from<br/><span>The Book of Changes<br/></span>hangs opposite my “dining room” table, an old library table surrounded by mismatched chairs and stools, all gathered on an L-shaped rug remnant I bought from a neighbor for five dollars.<br/></div><div>My favorite places within my space are shrines to boxing and the Brooklyn Dodgers. Granddaddy had collected a few boxing items over the years, and when he died, I inherited his collection. A glove signed by Joe Frazier dangles from a nail in between a black-and-white autographed photo of Ali training at Gleason's and an ancient autographed photo of Kid Gavilán. A 16 x 20 photograph signed by both Joe Louis and Jake LaMotta hangs above a green Everlast robe on a hook. I sometimes wear the robe, which Frazier wore in the fight against Jerry Quarry after Ali beat him in the Garden, whenever I feel the need for a comeback.<br/></div><div>I ought to put it on now. Maybe later.<br/></div><div>I get up and hook Dante the Moose's tag to the nail. Wow. I've added to my boxing wall. I should have had Dante autograph the moose's nose.<br/></div><div>My Brooklyn Dodgers wall is just to the left of my bed. All those heroes have gone away. I have Duke Snider climbing the Bulova watch sign, Maury Wills's number-thirty jersey, a lithograph of Ebbets Field with a real piece of brick attached at the bottom, and team photographs from the fifties. Jackie Robinson keeps stealing home, Pee Wee Reese keeps fielding the ball and throwing it to Gil Hodges, and Don Newcombe is forever winding up on the mound. I even have a globe containing a miniature Ebbets Field that plays “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” I want to buy an actual Ebbets Field chair, but I don't have the seven thousand dollars (!) it would take to add it to my dining room chair collection. I never saw the Brooklyn Dodgers play, but Granddaddy brought them to life for me, and he talked about them as if they were friends of his. “When Campy had a good day, there was no stoppin' 'em,” he'd say. Now we've sent a Yankee manager out to LA to coach the “other” Dodgers. Serves 'em right.<br/></div><div>Some people think my space is an indoor yard sale.<br/></div><div>I just call it home.<br/></div><div>I used to have friends who called Red Hook home, but they've all gone away. LaKeisha, Kimberly, and Kayla were the girls I used to jump rope with a<br/><span>long<br/></span>time ago on “the Back.” I haven't seen LaKeisha since graduation. She was the one who wanted to be a dancer so badly. She was always teaching me different moves and dances that I could never quite master. She also had the ugliest toes I have ever seen, all gnarled and callused. I hope she's made it somewhere. Kimberly got pregnant during high school and dropped out. She supposedly lives over in Queens with a few more kids. I doubt I'd recognize her. Kayla is the only one I've talked to in the last ten years, and that was just in passing as we waited for the F Train at Rockefeller Center. She's a senior analyst for some Wall Street firm making “crazy money” doing arbitrage or something extremely dull like that. She looked so corporate, dressed in a blue pinstriped power jacket and skirt and carrying a dazzling attaché. And this was the girl who wore baggy clothes and skateboarded everywhere she went in ninth grade. She seemed happy, though, and she promised to keep in touch.<br/></div><div>I haven't heard from her in at least five years. Once folks leave Red Hook, I guess they never come back.<br/></div><div>I'm hardly home anyway, and leaving Red Hook daily is a hassle and a half. The Mass Transit Authority (MTA) says I have several choices, and each choice stinks. I can take the 61B bus to Smith Street and take the F Train to Rockefeller Center roughly ten miles away. Sounds reasonable, right? Well, the Massive Trauma Assholes are planning to close the F and G lines any day now for up to a year, not that I'll miss the Smith/Ninth Street station. “Derelict” is a compliment for that station. The paint doesn't peelâit reaches out, grabs you, follows you home, and asks to spend the night. The escalator<br/><span>might<br/></span>have worked in 1965, and it rains<br/><span>inside<br/></span>the station, too. This bus/subway method costs me about an hour a day each way and roughly a hundred dollars a month. Some folks are skipping the Smith/Ninth Street Station entirely and going on to the Borough Hall Station. If they close the F and G lines, I'm looking at a ninety-minute bus ride to work.<br/></div><div>That would suck big time.<br/></div><div>I can also take the New York Water Taxi to Pier 11 on Wall Street and ride the Seventh Avenue Local to Times Square at about, oh, two hundred fifty a month. It'd be cheaper to take the M6 bus from the pier, but I don't like buses. If I had my own boat like Dante's, I could cruise past the Statue of Liberty to work every day on the way toâI have no idea. Somewhere over near Thirty-fourth Street, probably, where I'd have to pay extortion rates to dock my boat, and I'd still need another mode of transportation from the dock to Rockefeller Center. I suppose I could buy a car.<br/></div></div> </div>
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