The Fight of the Century

Words: 2463

                                                    The Fight of the Century                        

      FDNY Lieutenant Mike Mose worked a night tour in midtown Manhattan, replacing the regular officer, who was off that night on Death Leave. It was his father in law’s time to visit that dark matter. After roll call, Mike drifted to the firehouse kitchen to get acquainted with the strangers he commanded that night. The kitchen conversation got around to the boys last night out as a group of ten watching the Golden Glove finals at the old Madison Gardens. Of course, they rooted for the few white guys who competed, leaving the arena in the usual state of disappointment, fore good white boxers in the states were becoming as rare as a great auk. This might be a good sign for the white boy because boxing through the years was dominated by the poorest element of the population; hence, you have the Irish, then the Jews, and Italians taking turns to dominate the vicious sport. Of course, the blacks and Spanish were there filling in when a promoter needed an opponent. While the firefighters reminisced, Mike’s mind drifted back to a boxing incident two of his old Bronx firehouse companions were involved in – The Fight of the Century. This story Mike brought to the attention of the brothers, some of whom mentioned that they heard glimpses of but were keen on hearing this legendary tale from someone who knew of the tale firsthand. With his captive and anxious audience at hand, Mike expounded how he first heard of the exploits of two of his firehouse brothers that eventful night:

      It was late March 8, 1971, the night of the big fight. About 15 chaps – Mike included – were putting many drams away at McNeil’s Tavern. Most of the bar patrons were firefighters. You see, firefighters love to drink. This is like saying: Turks love to smoke, rabbits love to screw, and Eskimos love their muktuk. Booze is one of the smoke eater’s big favorites, along with women. Fact is, most firemen think they are Casanova’s, with many an affair taking place in their response area near the firehouse. Firefighters are also like Canadians: everybody likes them. A large percentage considered borderline nuts; some say due to inhaling too much smoke during their careers. One such firefighter was a guy named Patrick O’Hara, known to all as, “The Great O’Hara;” who would always hang at the bar with fellow firefighter, John Simonetti. Both were large and imposing boys, who worked in a busy ladder company located in Mike’s old Bronx firehouse.

      There were many stories concerning these two loco bomberos, but the one that stood out as most bizarre, took place the night of the epic battle between Joe Frazier and Mohamad Ali for the heavy weight championship of the world. If they were able to stand, every celebrity made it there that night, including, Burt Lancaster, Norman Mailer, Frank Sinatra, Woody Allen, LeRoy Neiman, the famous painter of athletes, to name just a few. The whole world watched and listened. There probably had been other fights that deserved the title of “Fight of the Century,” but this one had other things, like racial tensions, anti-war rhetoric, old school black and new school black arguments, and super hype, led by the King of Hype: Mohamad Ali, loved intently by the whole second world and most of the first with some just fascinated by the handsome loudmouth.  

      The two firefighters entered the bar late that night, bursting with excitement, chomping at the bit to tell the crowd their unbelievable tale. With the whole bar silent in anticipation, O’Hara entertained the gathering with the following:

      The day of the fight, he, and pal Simonetti worked the 9AM to 6PM tour at the firehouse and both were obsessed with the over-the-top hype of the fight scheduled for that night; feeling the disappointment of not being able to see the sold-out match, since neither had a ticket, or the money to buy one.

      Then O’Hara springs to Simonetti, “Hey Johnny Boy, I got an idea how to get in the Garden to watch the fight in the standing room section, (Simonetti got the “Johnny Boy” moniker from his early youth, when two girls – Pauline and Mary Lou – would fight over

the handsome little boy, repeating, “Johnny Boy’s my boyfriend. No, Johnny Boy’s my boyfriend).” Etc.

      “How’s that Pat?” John questioned doubtfully. “That don’t sound possible to me. The place is sold out an’ cops are bumping’ into each other.”

       “You question The Great O’Hara, a man of great renown?” Patrick came back in a theatrical pose. “It’s a piece-of-cake my good man, a piece of cake.”

      “OK,” John smugly sat back, with his arms folded, “OK, tell me how it’s done.”

      O’Hara explained as follows: “You an’ me wear that raincoat, the one ya could fold up inta a small ball, along with the cap an’ badge.  This way they t’ink we are some kind’a fire marshals. Once we get in, we wrap the raincoats around our caps, an’ tuck it under our armpits, an’ politely stride over to the standing room section where there is a spot waitin’ for us.”                                                

      The story traveling the fire department circuit, said that there was something strange about the department acquiring these flimsy (crummy) raincoats. Something to do with the connection between the manufacturer and a gentleman in the purchasing department for the FDNY.  The raincoats were an embarrassment: firefighters would rather become soaked than seen wearing them.

      “Sounds great on paper, but when have I heard this shit before?” Simonetti came back. “How the hell do we get in Mr. Houdini?”

       “That is the beautiful part Johnny Boy,” O’Hara explained. “I know a guard at the security door, an’ he sees us through the doors window, an’ lets us in. This prick owes me big time. I even met his boss; some shrimp named Mr. Spano.”

       What O’Hara did not tell Simonetti; the small fact that the security guard, Timothy Fenton – who loved to hit the sauce – was a reliable as a hungry boa guarding a fat rat.

      “You in or out,” O’Hara demanded to know. “I’m callin’ ‘im right now, so make up your mind.”

      “OK, watta I gotta lose, except my job,” Johnny, reluctantly gave a thumb up.

      O’Hara makes the call and hangs up, “It’s all set. He’ll let us in about eight tonight. We’ll slip him a five to make him feel real happy.”

      “How’d he sound?” Simonetti suspiciously quizzed. “Did he sound like he was boozed up?”

      “I t’ink he had a couple…but he’ll be alright,” O’Hara calmly answered, trying to hide some doubt he, himself had about his slow thinking pal.

      “Great, now we’re goin’ to rely on a drunk to get us in the Garden for the biggest fight of all time,” Johnny Boy came back shaking his head. “We are two very bright fellows.”

      Not to worry Johnny Boy, the Great O’Hara will solve all problems – you just wait and see.”

                                                                       ***

      That night:

      The pair arrived at the Garden, after donning their raincoats and caps, with their badges attached up front. Approaching the side security entrance, a scene of wild excitement greeted them. Yelling crowds of people – obviously not ticket holders – pressed forward towards the entrance doors, with a line of New York’s Finest forming a barricade to keep them at bay. The line swayed like the Dragon Dance at a Chinese New Year celebration,

but remained unbroken. One chap, a police lieutenant, commanded the line of police officers, bellowing out nervous orders and directions. O’Hara and Simonetti approached cautiously; sort of melding in with the officers, thinking they were part of the detail.

      The two impostors played their part, waving their arms and shouting, “Keep back, keep back,” as did the line of police to their left and right.

      Slowly, they both took a few steps back towards the security door, where Timothy would let them in – finally reaching it.

       O’Hara pounded on the door, and peered into the small wire glass window, soon filled by a round, youthful face – IT WAS NOT TIMOTHY! What O’Hara did not know – they had fired Tim that night for coming in late and bombed.

      “This prick isn’t Timothy, but he looks kind’a stupid…I’ll just BS ‘im, watch” O’Hara whispered.

      Then Patrick opened, loud enough for the round-faced kid to hear, “Hey you, Mr. Spano is waiting for us – we’re fire marshals. If we don’t get in, the place is shut down. There’s a report of over crowdin’. We gotta check it out for ourselves, pronto.”

      The frightened, high-pitched voice of Round Face came through the window, “The boss said only our personnel enters and leaves.”

      Without thinking, O’Hara roared, “OPEN UP STUPID, WE GOTTA SEE MR. SPANO OR THE CHIEF OF DEPARTMENT IS COMIN’ TO SHUT THIS PLACE DOWN!” (PS: The Chief of Department had near ringside seats, with a female companion who was not his wife).

      The screaming crowd outside along with the bullying shouting of O’Hara, plus the mention of Mr. Spano’s name had the young novice confused and befuddled – so he

reluctantly unlocked the door to let in the two impostors. Calling Mr. Spano was out of the question because Round Face knew Mr. Spano was a very busy man that night. 

      Simonetti added to the ploy by chastising the poor kid in passing, “Your lucky we don’t tell Mr. Spanito about this kid.” Mr. Spano, at that moment, was ready for a strait jacket, drinking bourbon straight out of the bottle to quiet his jangled nerves. He never experienced a night like this in his years as manager of the entertainment center.  

     The bogus duo entered, and quickly removing their flimsy raincoats, wrapping them around their hats, and tucking them under their armpits. A walk to the standing room section followed, just in time for one of the preliminaries. The place hummed with excitement. Could it get any better than this? With The Great O’Hara, who can tell.

      The preliminaries were nothing to talk about, with the boxing fans showing little interest. However, the last preliminary before the big fight brought O’Hara and Simonetti’s interest to their peeks, as you will see:

     During this preliminary, a sudden commotion occurred down at the ringside seats, as Garden personnel and a medical crew hurried down the stairs, towing a stretcher. The fight became secondary to those in that section, when after a few minutes; the two firefighters could see stretcher-bearers bringing a person up the stairs through the surrounding crowd, followed by some very concerned civilians.

      The sharp mind of O’Hara kicked in, as he yelled out, “Hey Johnny Boy, let’s get closer an’ find out what’s up.”

      With that, they rushed to the top of the stairs, getting a glimpse of and old-timer, resembling Benny Hill’s little old, bald sidekick, laying on the stretcher – not moving much. About four hysterical people followed.               

      “Hey Johnny Boy, they’re talkin’ Guinea,” O’Hara bursts out. “You speak it. Find out where they’re sittin’. Put on your raincoat an’ hat. They’ll t’ink you’re a cop or sometin’.”

      With that, Simonetti – understanding O’Hara’s meaning – waltzes over and askes a very attractive and excited women in something close to Italian, “Excuse me madam, but where were you sitting?”

      The confused women answered the policeman, by pointing her shaky finger to the fifth row.

      “We got ringside seats,” Simonetti informs O’Hara, as both made a beeline for the now empty seats, not ringside, but close enough. Minutes later, the main event began.

      They were sitting close enough to the ring to hear the excitement and commotion in the corners, with Ali’s corner closest to them. They could see his broad, sweaty back, as he sat on his stool. Angelo Dundee’s excited voice came over, loud and clear. Frazier’s face, puffed up from the fuselage of Ali’s sharp blows came into focus. The press guys and TV fight announcers were at fever-pitch. The tension and excitement had gripped all, including Sinatra, running around with a camera, snapping away, enjoying himself like a little boy.

      The two burley firefighters put on an angry, don’t mess with me face and sat to watch the main event in their free seats, without any objections from those sitting around them, since their neighbors focus had been on the battle in front of them. Normally in a situation such as this, O’Hara and Simonetti would stick out like two insignificant, common Sparrows, trussed into a compound of Scarlet Tanagers, Cedar Waxwings, Parulas, Northern Cardinals, Magnolia Warblers, and Orioles, but not this night.  The boys were happy as two roaches in a bodega. As for the event itself, it ended up in a unanimous decision for Joe Frazier, who sealed the deal with a late round knockdown of Ali, (the old chief thought it was a draw). In retrospect, both boxers had seen their best days behind them – the rapid slide down life’s hill had begun.

                                                                   ***

     “Willy Sutton would’a been proud of yoose guys,” back in the bar, Pete the Rug says back at the bar, with all in agreement after O’Hara’s outstanding description.

      “Thank you, oh knowledgeable possessor of false fuzz,” The Great One thanked him with his usual humor.

     Yes, their ploy was brilliant, but not perfect, as Johnny Simonetti suddenly realized, “OH SHIT…OH SHIT!” he yelped, while holding his head with both hands.

      “WHAT THE HELL’S WRONG!?” O’Hara yelped back, quickly noticing a curtain of fear coming down over Johnny Boy’s face.

      “I…I…left my raincoat an’ hat…on the empty seat next ta me,” he stuttered. “My fucken badge is on the hat. The fucken world knows what we did.” (The badge number corresponds with your name).

      “WHAT’YA MEAN WE, TONTO?” O’Hara emphasized.

       The new news welcomed as a pending tax audit.                                                              

      Both got it, as video of the fight had a clear picture of O’Hara standing from his fifth-row seat, yelling like a damn fool, right next to his best friend, Johnny Boy – and just one row behind the FDNY Chief of Department, who later found out O’Hara had used his name in vain, and was clearly seen sitting with his young and beautiful secretary. After a department trial, the two bad boys had ten days deducted from their vacation, and O’Hara banned from entry into the Garden to perpetuity. O’Hara, also talked out of saying he lost the standing room ticket stub, by the firefighter’s union lawyer, (you figure out how dumb this defense would have been).

      All this, made Pete the Rug reassess his initial praise of the pair, re-phrasing, “Maybe, Mr. Sutton will not be too pleased wit’ yoose two after all.”  Mike finished his tale, with the brothers in the kitchen all agreed, Mike created another FDNY classic.

                                                       Take Up!