Tommy Thunder

“C’mon bum!” Shouted the fans of the half filled venue where two heavy weights were slugging it out in the seventh round. Thomas Petreche AKA Tommy Thunder had reached his wall and was trying to keep his opponent, The Brown Bomber from landing one of his lightning left jabs.  His legs felt like lead and he had sweated off over six pounds from the opening bell.  

Tommy went to the ropes, but the Bomber AKA Roscoe Washington from Harlem was able to zero in on his target, Tommy’s double chins.  With one powerful blow, Tommy fell to his knees.  

The crowd groaned, because everyone knew Tommy was going to the canvas face-first and he did not disappoint as he fell with an audible thump on the heavy wet muslin. 

“What a bum!” A cry arose from the spectators. 

Jack Stoneman, Tommy’s manager rushed out to Tommy once the ref had done an official ten count.  

A few minutes later, Jack had Tommy lying face up on the trainer’s table.

“Wha happened?” Tommy groaned.

“Bomber cleaned your clock on the ropes just like the last bout.” He ran his fingers along Tommy’s bleeding jaw like where the Bomber had unleashed his knockout blow.  Tommy’s jaw was not broken which he considered the luck of the Irish even though nobody in the room had a drop of Irish blood in their veins. “C’mon Tom, you’re better than this.”

“I don’t feel like it.” He spit up some blood after saying this. 

“You’re through, kid.” A red-faced man burst through the door. “I had money on this.” 

“Tojo, get him the hell outta here.” Jack ordered.

Tojo was a large mountain of a man who had come to America after the war from a small town near Nagasaki after losing both parents in the atomic blast. Obedient to a fault, Tojo grabbed the man and pushed him through the swinging doors without much effort on his part. The man cursed and hollered for his lawyer before being shoved out of the room by Tojo.  

No one knew Tojo’s real name since he arrived with a shipload of Japanese orphans.  No one knew how old he was, but the GIs guessed he was about four or five years old. The name pinned to his lapel by a kind Red Cross worker had disappeared at some point in the long journey across the ocean.  Not speaking or understanding a word of English, the immigration agent simply put a new card on his lapel labeled “Tojo.” Never once did he protest the name given to him by a stranger even though he resembled a formative sumo wrestler as an adult.  

“Are you alright?” Jack had Tommy sit up.

“I’m a bit woozy.” He admitted.

“Here.” Jack opened the smelling salts and put them under Tommy’s nose.  Tommy’s head jerked back. “Now?”

“Better.” He shook his head.

“Why did you head for the ropes?” Jack wiped the blood drizzling from the corners of his fighter’s mouth. “I told you under no circumstance should you head for the ropes like a fly caught in a spider’s web.” 

“I was tired and needed to clear my head.” Tommy sat there with his eyes closed.

“His right jab certainly cleared your head.” Jack grumbled.

“I never saw it coming.” Tommy declared.

“Yeah, that was evident.” Jack put his hands on the table and shook his head that had retreated between his shoulder blades. “Go home.  I’ll getcha a cab.” 

As it turned out, home for Tommy Thunder was a one room efficiency near Flatbush equipped with the bare necessities of an overused electrical hot pad and a few beers in the refrigerator.  He reached in and took one beer holding to his aching forehead to relieve the thumping inside. He fell on the tattered couch where he would fall asleep until late the next morning.

Thomas Petreche enlisted in the United States Navy just before the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950.  Before having to serve combat duty aboard a destroyer, the USS Shelton, Tommy became a gold belt navy brawler.  Growing up in Brooklyn, Tommy had plenty of opportunities to show off his pugilist skills.  One of the gunners aboard the ship had been a trainer before joining up and spent his free time training the kid with cement hands. It wasn’t long until Tommy had gained quite a reputation as a promising fighter, winning most of his bouts in the first few rounds if he was able to launch a right hook on his opponent. 

During the war, the USS Shelton was there at the landing of Inchon and continued to give the North Koreans all they could handle as they retreated to the North from where they had come.  His greatest moments came during a tournament in Seoul in late 1952 where he won the grand prize, a gold belt proclaiming him the champion, his name engraved in the gold.  Currently the belt was hanging on the wall in his living room.  

When he was discharged from the navy, he met Jack Stoneman who was hanging out in a gym training other would-be hopefuls.  With one look at the large marble mountain of a man with the thunderous right hook, Jack began making inquiries, learning his name Thomas Petreche.  

“Are you Thomas Petreche?” He asked as Tommy was taking a breather. 

“Yeah.” He nodded.

“How would you like to go on the professional circuit?” He asked as he pushed himself between the ropes of the center ring.

“Yeah.” He smiled.

“When would you like to start?” Jack walked over to the giant.

“Now is as good a time as any.” He smiled. 

For his first year as a professional fighter, Tommy became known in the press as Tommy Thunder because of his killer right hook. He found his way to the front page of most major newspapers.  The gallery was usually standing room only with his fight listed on the top of the ticket.  The future looked very bright indeed for Tommy Thunder.

“Well, it doesn’t look good.” Dr. Warren Teague put Tommy’s head x-rays up on the screen. “Do you see this dark area right here?” 

“Yeah.” Tommy nodded.

“It’s a blood clot.  Now if it stays there, you’re alright, but if it starts to move, it could become an aneurysm which is like a bullet to the brain.” Dr. Teague put his thumb to his chin not taking his eyes off of the x-rays.  

“What does that mean?” Tommy kicked his feet off the table where he had been sitting.

“It would take one good blow to the head.” He sighed. “Lights out, kid.” 

“So?” 

“You need to quit.  Fighting could be the death of you.” Dr. Teague glanced over at him.

“I ain’t gonna quit, doc.  I’ve spent eight years trying to get the big prize.” Tommy hung his head.

“What good is that to a dead man?” Dr. Teague glanced at Tommy and shook his head.

“What am I supposed to do?  Fighting is all I know.” Tommy jumped down to the floor.

“You are taking a huge risk.  If you keep fighting, one day that blood clot will kill you, Thomas Petreche.” Dr. Teague assured him as he walked out of the examining room.

What Dr. Teague failed to mention was some of Tommy’s motor function would also be affected by the blood clot in his brain.  In his next bout, Tommy could not complete his thunderous right hook as his opponent was able to land jabs and hooks until Tommy’s knees gave out.

“You know you’re better than that.” Jack threw his hands up in the air as the boos from the crowd echoed in the coliseum outside the trainer’s room where Tommy’s team had gathered.  Tojo stood by the door, because Antonio Beretti threatened to do Tommy Thunder some bodily harm, because he lost a lot of the boss’ money.  Beretti was one of the boss’ lieutenants who had done all of his bidding. 

“Listen you lousy bastard!” He hollered from the other side of a closed door. 

“Masaka.” Tojo answered.

“We got enemies now.” Jack dabbed his fighter’s face with a towel in places Tommy was bleeding. “This business can be dirty at times.” 

“What do we do?” Tommy winced as the towel found tender parts on his face.

“You let us take care of that.” He chuckled. “Now, what the hell happened out there?” 

“I dunno, boss.” He winced again as Jack applied some hydroperoxide to the open wounds, “My hands seemed really slow.” 

“Well whatever is making them slow, you gotta figure out a way to get them going again.” He lightly slapped Tommy’s cheek with his open hand.  

Getting into the cab, escorted by Tojo, Tommy saw stars and bright lights.  He fell forward.  Tojo kept him from sliding out of the cab onto the curb.

“You okay?” Tojo’s pronunciation was still rough.

“Yeah, yeah.” Tommy assured his bodyguard, but as soon as Tojo turned to leave, Tommy passed out.

“Kid, are you alright?” The cabbie asked as Tommy groaned. “Kid?”

Tommy did not respond.

The cabbie decided to take his fare to the hospital.

Some of the ER crew managed to get Tommy onto a gurney.  They managed to wheel him into the emergency room.  

“So, how do you feel?” The ER doctor named Jake Rolland asked Tommy who was coming out of his fog.

“Like I had one too many at the bar.” He slurred most of his words, but he got a chuckle from some of the staff.

“I am concerned about your head injury.” Dr. Rolland sighed as he looked at the x-ray image. 

“You sound like my other doctor.” He tried to stand up, but began to stumble a bit.

“I’m not sure I want to send you home.” Dr. Rolland watched as Tommy stumbled some more.

“I don’t need to spend the night in this place.” Tommy sounded pained by the doctor’s observation. “I’ll get a cab and spend the night in my place like I’m supposed to.” 

“You’re making a mistake.” Dr. Rolland said as Tommy walked out of the ER. 

As he struggled to get comfortable in his Murphy bed, Tommy’s dreams were riddled with troubling visions of various situations.  

“You’re better than this.” The man at the arcade smiled, “Step right up here and see all that could have been.” 

“Who are you?” Tommy asked the man who bore a resemblance to one of the officers on the USS Shelton.

“Who do you wish me to be?” The man smiled and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Why should I go in the tent?” Tommy asked.

“To find the truth about how things could have been.” He put the crook from his cane around Tommy’s arm.

“Things are fine for me.” He tried to pull away, but the crook was still wrapped around his arm.

“Are they now?” His head went back as he laughed. “There are many things in your life that suggest otherwise.”

“Like what?” Tommy asked defiantly. 

“Come on inside and find out.” He tugged at the cane he had hooked around Tommy’s arm. 

It was dark once he walked into the tent following the stranger.  Faces seemed to appear from the darkness.  He saw his mother who died of sclerosis of her liver.  Next his father appeared who disappeared one day.  His brother drowned in the river where he and his friends were camping.   He was a ward of the state at the age of twelve and was passed off to people who physically abused him.  He ran away when he was fifteen and lived on the streets in Brooklyn until he was able to enlist in the service.  The ugly truth of his life was on display in this dark place.  

“Your life was filled with tragedy, wasn’t it?” The man smiled at him. “Such a shame.  Such a shame.” 

It was true.  Before he enlisted in the US Navy, Tommy lost all people who meant anything to him.  His best friend enlisted in the war and was killed on Iwo Jima.  So many gold stars in so many windows.  

The phone was ringing.  Tommy sat up and noticed the sun was out.

“Hello.” His voice was dry.  It felt as if his mouth was stuffed with cotton.

“Is this Tommy Thunder?” The voice asked.

“Yes.” He scratched his head.

“I’m wondering if you would like to schedule a bout with Mad Dog Cooney.” 

“Sure.” Tommy said without thinking.  Mad Dog was one of the top heavy weights in the east coast.  

“We would like to schedule it for next month. I am his manager Russell Knowitz.” 

“I would be honored to have a fight with Mad Dog.” Tommy felt a burst of energy run through him like electricity. 

“Very good.  I will be in contact with your manager.” Then there was the dial tone as Tommy suddenly realized what he had done. 

“You what?” Jack sounded as if he had taken a blow to his jaw, “You’re better than this, you know.  Mad Dog is a killer.  He put three fighters in the hospital.” 

“We can do this.” Tommy shrugged.

“No, you’re not ready to take this guy on yet.” 

“When then?” Tommy followed Jack into his tiny office.

“I don’t know, but you had your clock cleaned against a fighter you were favored to beat.  He was just some punk from Hackensack and he knocked you into tomorrow.” Jack’s face turned red. “You think Mad Dog  will be easy?  He won’t.  He will make you look like a palooka.” 

“I want my chance. In a couple of years I’ll be a has-been.” Tommy raged.

“You’re already headed that way.  I have a couple of bouts scheduled for next month.  Guys you should be able to polish off in a couple of rounds, but after last night, I am beginning to wonder.”

“You’ve lost confidence in me.” Tommy was hurt and Jack’s expression did not contradict his statement.

“Frankly kid, I’m not sure anymore.” Jack rocked on his heels. “I’ve seen fighters lose it and when they do, they fall hard.  Last night you fell hard.” 

“I’ll find another manager who still has confidence in me.” He slammed his fist down on Jack’s desk.

“You are making a bad mistake.” Were Jack’s final words to Tommy as he walked out of the gym. 

Max Goldmeister was an old hand at managing fighters including a couple of local champions.

“You are Tommy Thunder.” His face lit up when he saw Tommy walk into his gym.

“Yes, I’m looking for Max Goldmeister.” He walked up to Max carrying his bag.

“That would be me.” Max, a much smaller man, shook hands with the giant.

“I want you to get me ready for a bout with Mad Dog Cooney.” Tommy said.

“You what?  Kid, that’s not much time.” Max’s smile dropped unceremoniously off his face. 

“I believe you can do it.” Tommy nodded as Max did his best to replace his smile that had gone missing. 

For the next two weeks, Tommy worked hard with Max to the point of physical exhaustion, but he noticed he was getting his stamina back.  

Meanwhile Don Geovanni DiMarcos was lining up the odds on the bout as soon as the news broke with a set time and date.  Snubbed by previous bouts, DiMarcos was eager to lay money against Tommy Thunder and he would back it up this time with a couple of his soldiers.  He sent Knuckles Chadwick to have a meeting with Max Goldmeister.

“He will take a fall in the third round.” Knuckles told Max.

“If he lasts that long.” Max swallowed hard.  Knuckles was well versed in the art of persuasion. 

The fanfare was more than Tommy Thunder had ever experienced.  The lights and glamor was mind blowing when he stepped in the ring until he laid eyes on Mad Dog who was stomping around in his corner of the ring.

“You can do this, kid.” Max told Tommy as he glanced over at DiMarco sitting at ringside.  Dressed in his best pinstripe suit and tie with his red carnation, Don DiMarco was smiling when he saw Tommy Thunder sitting on his stool while Mad Dog snorted and pawed the canvas with his foot. 

The bell rang and Mad Dog nearly ran up to Tommy.  With a sledgehammer hook that sent Tommy staggering, the crowd cheered.  Blood dripped from Tommy’s nose as he raised his gloves while Mad Dog circled him like a shark.  With his head shaved like a cueball, Mad Dog's appearance was living up to his name.  His next blow Tommy was able to fend off, but the left hook caught him completely off guard.

Tommy’s knees buckled as blood flowed freely from an open wound in his face.  Unable to even raise his gloves, Mad Dog’s next hook made Tommy’s world go dark.  The blood clot moved in his brain.  Tommy fell as if he had been shot.  Lying face down on the canvas, he would not even hear the cheering of the crowd.  Don DiMarco stood up and shook the hands of his bodyguards, “Well, I just made me a bundle.” 

Jack left his seat and walked out of the arena muttering to himself, “You were supposed to be so much better than this.”  

The medical staff removed Tommy from the ring. 

He would never regain consciousness.

A few hours later, Dr. Warren Teague would sign the death certificate, “I was afraid it would come to this.”

He turned off the light as he left the morgue, his footfalls echoing in the empty corridors of the hospital.