Storymania - River Avenue by John Hardoby

River Avenue
John Hardoby

JEREMIAH

River is an Avenue next to the elevated railroad tracks in the southwest Bronx; it is also where Lou Gehrig alertly stood at first base. From the time I was thirteen I’ve already made many trips, looping around the backside of the avenue, skipping toward the stadium to watch the likes of the “Yankee Clipper.” The Yanks won the series that year behind the gracious swing of DiMaggio and spinning fastballs from the hands of Lefty Gomez and Red Ruffing. In November of that year I hurried down East 157th Street alone, shaking my arms full of goose bumps, jogging around wide-eyed Negros, professional men strapped in tailored fitted suits, raging, straining along the pack, tough-toothed, fresh-faced. The air was frigid and clouds gloomed as citizens of the thriving city paced in an orderly mess. Most New Yorkers understood walking patterns and the ones that didn’t wouldn’t survive. Foreigners stuck out like sore thumbs, whatever that means, as they walked the streets like injured automobiles, familiar pedestrians flying by their awkward movements. I turned fifteen that winter afternoon but contained street knowledge of a washed up hobo. I have been walking these streets since I was four when my father would strap two-gallon jugs to my waist and jam change into my worn pockets, sending me down the road to collect apples sold by the Apple Marketing Board. My father worked for Frank Ado, the man in charge of “Murder Inc.” My father didn’t think I knew what his job entailed but I certainly did. I remember one night, back in Brooklyn; a well-known politician by the name of James Pearson sat at our dinner table scarfing potatoes. He blabbed on about how he couldn’t help my father anymore because “things have become too risky.” My father creaked from his chair taking the bowl filled with baked potatoes as he strolled to Pearson’s end of the table. “Care for another James?” He asked. Pearson signaled my father to place one upon his plate. Instead, my father grabbed him by the throat and jammed the vegetable down, nearly suffocating the dirty politician. Pearson wept for his life and within seconds the Murder Inc. gang had it’s protection back in place.

I tried to avoid home when visitors came around if fear of becoming like my father. I think he understood that. He didn’t want that life for his son either. But Isaac was a good father and I must admit he raised me well, although sometimes he would be a bit harsh and steady. I turned fifteen that afternoon on my way to Yankee Stadium, the arena that held seventy thousand New Yorkers at any given time. The edgy ticket poked my thigh as I cleared hat shops and tasteful taverns located at East 157th and Doughly Street. I liked to walk with one hand in my pocket and the other flailing my mid-side. Tonight the streets were more filled then usual as people marched their way to the event that was scheduled to begin at eight, myself included. I reached the tier end of a pack of yipping wolves, all waving tickets grasped in their wintry gloves. The group of men rose above my shorter frame, blowing smoke over my head covered by a gray knitted cap. Would they delay the fight until everyone was seated? By 1938, Yankee Stadium held a capacity of seventy grand after the right field grandstand was extended and concrete seats replaced the original wooden ones. This adjustment actually shrunk the outfield and decreased seating capacity by 10,000 seats. I didn’t understand the logic behind the move. On November 15, 1938, my wisped body stood in line behind enthused boxing fans eager to catch a glimpse of the fight of the century. My birthday present from my father was a desired trip to watch my favorite prizefighter, Johnny “The Stunner” Sacks. I was nearly in shock when he presented me with the gift, not because of its costly expense or because of the kindly gesture, but because Johnny Sacks was a Negro, a group of men he didn’t care for. My seat was far from decent, located on the first base line, perpendicular to the railroad tracks. I wasn’t sure but I believe it was one of the newly built concrete chairs.

It was fifteen minutes past eight when the bulky line eventually dissolved and I made my way inside, thankfully the fight had not begun. I stretched my feeble legs up harsh stairs getting bumped around by bulky bodies like a rag doll. That was the reason I got lost on my way up. I looked around as if I lost my younger brother, confused to which direction I should take, glancing at the stub every so often. Men gathered; each more excited then the next. Their dapper suits filled rows, black and blue dots aligned the stadium, engulfing the tiny ring that sat below. I spotted an empty seat six rows up in between a young attractive woman wearing a blue felt hat and a large man puffing tobacco underneath his dusty monocle. Everyone else was already seated so I figured the chair was reserved for me. I sat next to a man who coughed up pieces of lung between each three-minute slugfest. The fancy women would tilt her power blue hat and rub her rhinestone necklace, hardly watching the thunderous action. I on the other hand couldn’t take my eyes off it.

WALTER

I tried to keep up with my Uncle Joe as he weaved in and out of traffic that mounted on the south Bronx streets. We walked through businessmen sporting slate-colored “London drapes” made from seersucker, shoulder pads in line with triceps, high buttons, tapered from shoulder to wrist. Most of the men I saw wore stripes or plaids, diagonal, V-shaped, brown cheviots. I saw women in fur capes with various accessories and trimmings adorned. I could hear their pumps beating off the solid concrete as they stomped. Women carried enameled mesh handbags, letting them bounce off their cold bodies. Fashion and wardrobe has finally returned to the American public after they vanished following the infamous crash on Wall Street. My wardrobe had nothing to return to. It never changed. The streets were packed, and everyone was headed to the same place. I’ve never been to the stadium so my Uncle Joe thought tonight would be the perfect first experience. He brought me to watch Johnny Sacks because he considered him to be “the greatest man in the world” and wanted me to witness that for myself. It was my first time to Yankee Stadium and I was far from a boxing connoisseur, but I understood Johnny Sacks power and enlightening trends. We were among the minority of black folks rushing for the entrance; I did see a few others though, in their three-piece coats, collars conspicuously flipped up. When we passed a heavy group of Italian-Americans my stomach churned a bit. The night Winky Williams lost the championship match to “The Stunner,” a group of teenage Italians, all older then myself, pounded me to the ground while I was on my way to the store to pick up butter. It took two weeks for my face to fully recover.

After my parents died Uncle Joe took me under his wings. In the three years I’ve lived with him not once have I thanked him. I came from South Carolina where cotton and white folks ruled, so the huge city was like nothing I’ve experienced before, even after three years I still walked around with my eyes open like golf balls, wide-eyed with amazement. My first day at the Perry School for Negros I entered with a pair of scrappy overalls and a stained white tee underneath, never in my life have I receive so many glares. My southern hospitality meant nothing to the northern children. Uncle Joe worked for Hubert’s Construction Co. and served to build New York City during the peak of its skyline eminence through the depths of The Depression. He just recently helped piece together pre-politically correct Times Square with the Cotton Club on 48th Street and its large sign advertising “50 Sepia Stars.” The city’s architecture and urbanism was far from the muddy rivers where I grew up.

After we passed the Fulton Fish Market is when the pack came to a stand still, the line of people trying to enter Yankee Stadium stretched nearly an entire block. I possessed more patience than Uncle Joe and it often showed. He would salivate when his patience ran out, sucking it through his throat, and spewing it out. Like tonight, waiting in line, his mucus formed a miniature pool of nicotine-stench spit, completely covering a slab of pavement. The entrepreneur Mr. Hubert, the man Uncle Joe worked for, organized a contest that was to be held on a random day of his choice. Hubert picked last Tuesday as the day for the contest to take place, where the man who pieced together the most steel beams that day, would receive two ringside seats to the most anticipated boxing match in American history. Uncle Joe’s proven love for Johnny Sacks was motivation enough to win the prize. After waiting our turn to enter, we worked our way to the valuable seats, receiving a few stares from the filthy rich who knew we didn’t belong in the front row, but that couldn’t wipe the childish smirk from my Uncle’s face. The two fighters were already in the ring when we arrived. You could call it perfect timing because the second I sat down, a ringing bell sounded, frightening me half to death. I nearly slipped out of my pants when the bell rang my eardrums. Immediately, the crowd began to roar. I turned my hands into earmuffs and tried to focus my attention on the fight. My Uncle stood and chanted at the top of his infested lungs. I was struck in the face by a spec of Tatum Diefendorf’s blood, Sacks opponent, which I quickly removed.

JEREMIAH

I have been a fan of Johnny Sacks since February 2, 1934. That was the night he defeated the beloved Winky Williams in a twelve round epic battle for the ages. I remember running into my father’s bedroom that night screaming, “Daddy, look, I’m the Stunner!” I did laps around his oak framed bed, punching stagnate air, until my father grabbed my tiny wrists and held them tight. “Never praise a nigger again, got it!” He threw my arms to my side and went back to reading his book. And here I was, three years in the future, watching “The Stunner” perform in person. My father’s racist views were the norm so it never bothered me much. In fact, I was a fan of only one Negro, and socialistic racial thoughts would not stop me from idolizing him, nothing would, not even the collective stigma that came along with Johnny’s sudden fame. He stood bright, two hundred and fifteen pounds, the heavyweight champion of the world, and his life still strung bias. Whites couldn’t phantom the idea of a black champion, while America’s black ghettos sprung for joy, clutching onto a single black man, dragging hope and will from his robust figure. White periodicals scripted banners that downgraded Johnny’s talent. Black periodicals relished his mighty knockout. Johnny Sacks began an uprising for the black community giving them undeveloped confidence. Whites views became even brasher. Scripted rumbles between the two groups occurred on dim New York City street corners.

As time past “The Stunner” continued to pummel his competition, each fight more convincing then the one before. Americans as a whole began to realize his gifts went miles beyond his race and started to respect him a little more by the day, my father not included. Most whites would never admit it, but not a single one would step into the ring with Johnny for more then thirty seconds, unless they wanted to come out on a stretcher. Within two years, the American public let down their guard like an amateur boxer would, and Johnny Sacks became a national icon. That is, until August 15, 1936.

That night Johnny Sacks was scheduled to defend his title for the tenth time during his two-year stint as world champ against a German named Tatum Diefendorf, who at fight time was a 15 to 1 dog. But this wasn’t just another fight, another link under Johnny’s fantasy belt, it was an international battle for world supremacy. It was the enlightenment of Franklin D verses the dictatorialness of Hitler. The two prizefighters were in fact politicians, symbolizing the ideologies, races, and ethnic groups of two separate nations. And that’s when it happened. On August 15, 1936, the heavy underdog Tatum Diefendorf defeated the enormously favored heavyweight champ, superficially taking the title back across the Atlantic. Oddly enough, Americans had a soft spot of Tatum, giving him the benefit of the doubt, not judging a man on the views expressed by his nation’s malevolent leader. Plus, Americans clung to what they considered a new great white hope, which was lost when Winky Williams went tumbling down. In fact, Tatum was generally well liked in 1936 when he surprising knocked the belt out of “The Stunner’s” clenched hands. Tatum was a gentleman, personable, easy going, and a pleasantry to annoying sports writers. I secretly continued to cherish my hero Johnny Sacks, and I would never turn my back. I knew he would get his chance at redemption, which he did, on my fifteenth birthday.

I soaked in the eventful first round, memorizing every second of the historic one-on-one war. Tatum came out swinging, forcing power blows to Johnny’s mid-side. The crowd moaned with every shot, feeling the pain inside their own bodies. Johnny was the voodoo doll for the entire New York City population. After absorbing the commanding shots for nearly a minute, Johnny turned on the professed switch, guarding his pretty mug after unleashing each timely pop to the German’s temples. The momentum shift worked its way through the grandstands, and by the time the bell sounded, the jubilant cheers reached my seat, high in the atmosphere. I rolled my program into a periscope, slapping it against my palm. The large man to my left nearly suffocated on his own admission. The looker to my right yawned, patting her soft cherry lips. Ding, ding, ding. The two gladiators sprung from their stools and met at the square’s center for a second three-minute period. Their gloves tagged each other, fists to necks, gloves to kidneys, punch after punch, each taking the other’s best shot over and over again. The round was dead even until the final thirty ticks when Tatum went on a mini rampage, landing three multi-combo sequences, the last coming at the sound of a hammer striking metal. The second round belonged to Tatum Diefendorf. I sat miles away from the ring but I could still see sweat pouring from their bodies. I saw their chest cavities gain then lose volume. My neighboring spectators were frisking with anticipation for round three. I was sweating myself, quite a bit.

By the time the re-match was scheduled, as war clouds gathered over Europe, Tatum was in disrepute. Over the two-year span, Hitler had forged his alliance with Italy and Japan, intensified his persecution of Germany's Jews, seized Austria, and was beginning to campaign dissection of neighboring Czechoslovakia. Tatum’s image suffered as a consequence. Americans directed their support back to the black man as fast as they turned on the German.

A few months back I slipped into my father’s bedroom one night while he snored. I reached into his pile of periodicals, stealing the latest issue of Life. I would do this often. For some reason I didn’t want my father to know I read his stuff. There was an interesting article done by a local sports columnist on the World Champ Tatum Diefendorf. It contained speculation of a rumor that while in Germany, before entering the American spotlight, Tatum hid the two sons of his long time friend in his basement while Nazi soldiers stormed through German towns, wiping the country free of Jews. Tatum’s friend and his son’s were Jewish. If Hitler knew this information Tatum would not be considered the world’s greatest fighter, he wouldn’t even be alive. But the article explained that Tatum never confirmed this story to be true, it was simply a rumor, one probably started by the sour Italians. Even if it were true, no one would ever know, for Tatum’s lips would stay sealed, understanding the consequences he would face.

In 1936, it was leaked to the American public that Tatum wrote a one-page foreword for a book on German boxing, which was published by the Nazi Party. Tatum was more popular in the US then overseas, but when Americans discovered this they became suspicious about their great white hope. The book taught boxing with Nazi ideology, Hitler’s beliefs that boxing builds character. When confronted by writers and reporters, Tatum avidly denied being a member of the Nazi Party. Some believed him; others didn’t, which included my irate father who wanted to pluck Tatum’s red eyes from his skull. I believe a person’s character is built upon what they’ve done, not what people say they’ve done. I saw a wise, caring, intelligent man who loved to box. So when he said he did nothing wrong, I believed him. But I would never root against Johnny “The Stunner” Sacks.

WALTER

The day my Uncle Joe brought me to his home in Harlem is a day I’ll never forget. Black Harlem created a whole new industry out of entertainment that catered mainly to the whites of Manhattan. The atmosphere of Harlem was like Ancient Rome; it was a neighborhood that lived by night, and was reputed to have over one hundred nightclubs. The black were setting a trend for a new and more authentic form of entertainment by trying to overcome racial barriers through rhythm and music. I met Duke Ellington one night outside of the Carter Club on Broad Street, after that night I was hooked on jazz. I enjoyed Harlem more by the day. I guess I was turning into a city boy.

My Uncle Joe leaned over and told me that “Johnny won the first and Tatum won the second” while sipping his cold beverage. Apparently the third round was important. The round began slowly. By now, my roasted ears adjusted to the ringing bell so my body loosened, I felt more comfortable, like I belonged. Tatum and Johnny ran circles around the ring, occasional releasing a tired jab in their opponent’s direction. The crowd became reckless, urging the two to fight, almost demanding their blood and tears to fly. Some men tore up their betting slips while others clasped them like gold. Uncle Joe began to spit on the ring’s side; not intentionally, he was just losing patience. Even I stood and yelled. The boxers started to feed off energy surrounding the confines so they edged closer, eventually standing face-to-face, toe-to-toe. Suddenly, Tatum attempted a huge right hook but came up empty, missing a lightning-quick ducking head. Johnny Sacks rebalanced himself while Tatum was off guard, exposed to an American missile attack. Johnny wound his fierce left arm and torpedoed a straight blow to Tatum’s right cheekbone, shattering his consciousness. I watched Tatum’s eyes daze away as his hefty body twisted, spraying the rich with his beads of sweat. His legs could take no more, and with the sound of a lead ball leaving its cannon, Tatum crashed to the mat, face first. There was a slight pause before the uproar when the crowd of Americans realized Tatum was not going to get up. My Uncle jumped for joy, grabbing me by my stiff shoulders, shaking me like salt. I started to laugh not knowing why it blurted out. That’s when the chant began, and I swear my Uncle was the one who set the steady wave in motion.

JEREMIAH

I could see the blue haze of smoke slowly rise high above the open stadium, forming look-a-like rain clouds, probably fooling people around the city, unaware of its origin. “The Stunner” stood in center on the sweaty ring, his fresh arms and shiny-gloved fists extended high above his dry head, directly into stale air. His glory and legendary status stretched far beyond the distance eyes could see or stale cigar smoke could float. He regained his prowess and intimidating body texture that once filled American hearts with hopeful passion during the rebuilding-era known as the 1930s. “The Stunner” just knocked out Germany, and regained what he once possessed, the label of champion. The people’s champ bunny hopped to rousing cheers. Johnny stepped through the ropes, exiting the ring with a damp towel dangling atop his head, following his trainer’s lead. The thrilled spectators stood, tracing Johnny’s every move. A chant began to swarm the arena like killer bees, gaining momentum with every buzz. Stunner, Stunner. The crowd of enthused boxing fans shook their forearms on pace with the simple and clear repetitive statement. It was 1938, two years after The Stunner’s last and only defeat, when his belt was unexpectedly snatched away. He reclaimed his glory, while Tatum Diefendorf laid face first on the canvas.

I only got to see my hero for what felt like a millisecond before he was wisped away into the dark tunnel, gloating all the way. But I did get a good, long look at his defeated opponent. I watched two men tend to the woozy giant who appeared hurt but not broken. His face is an image I will never forget. The pain and agony rushed through his vein-flushed body, leaving nothing but disappointment behind. I felt bad for the German. New Yorkers celebrated that evening by climbing rooftops to light fireworks and blast gunshots. The Nazi Germany response was predictable. They accused the black man of stuffing his gloves with lead plates.

WALTER

We cheered “The Stunner” until he was not visible. We also realized Tatum was still sitting in the ring with black gloves wrapped around his dejected face. I saw a cigarette pack fly into the ring. At first I thought someone was offering him a smoke thinking it would help his pain, but after a cup full of beer, two magazines, one that struck Tatum on the back, and a lace shoe packed the ring, I realized these weren’t items of warm sympathy. The ring quickly became a garbage dump. Tatum sat in a pile of compost with little effects almost as if he was unaware of the distasteful scene. Tatum sat on his butt, his elbows to his knees, staring blankly, as raging spectators continued to toss items and any other debris they could scrape off the floor at the crestfallen athlete. He just sat there, logy, not flinching an inch.

That’s when I noticed a white kid no older then seventeen, leaning against the far ring post, slamming his hands on the mat. His nose, slightly broken, pointed off center, threw my attention from his colorful curls of hair. I thought the kid was going to pivot into the ring, charge and spear, maybe straighten his nose on impact. I saw him cover his mouth and scream out. The sly crowd hummed with a depth that muted surrounding voices so I couldn’t hear what the boy was saying, but he was definitely trying to get Tatum’s attention. And for the first time in nearly five minutes, Tatum moved. He turned to face the screaming kid who stood at the far post. Tatum braced himself on his right hand and stood quietly, despondent in the tender event. The ex-champion boxer slid over to the boy, oblivious to objects bouncing off his sore body. The lanky white kid looked up at the giant German and spoke; I counted four words leaving his mouth. With that, Tatum torn off his massive glove and tossed it to the valiant boy. The kid looked in all directions, shocked, amazed by the gesture. The dark-haired kid seemed to fumble, unsure of his whereabouts and then in a flash, he straightened out, like a solider anticipating his lieutenant’s presence. The teenager dipped into his buttoned shirt and pulled out a silver chain. He curled it off his neck, dragging it through his wavy hair and over his head. The kid kissed the pendant that dangled from the glittery chain, held Tatum’s bulky glove under his arm, then tossed the chain over the ropes, lassoing the prizefighter’s thick-haired forearm. Tatum looked over the prize, nodding as he did, and then fired a gracious smile at the boy, one that was missing two teeth. The white kid took off running, eventually catching up to the filtering crowd with the German’s glove covering his teenage hand. Uncle Joe ran out of objects to throw so he tapped my shoulder blade and said, “let’s go.”

JEREMIAH

I knew what I said to Tatum was a lie, but maybe if I said it, he would actually believe it was true. The look on his face was proof enough. No Nazi would ever look at me that way. I took one final look at the spectacle behind me. Tatum was gone, no longer in the ring, there were just men picking junk from its canvas. The crowd murmured as we tiptoed our anxious feet toward the exit. Finally, I stepped out of the stadium, back into the real world, standing amongst feeble men once again, my right hand protected from anything in my way. I started to run east on River Ave, wanting to rush home as fast as possible, but then I pulled up, slowed to a jog, which soon became a stand still. I realized I couldn’t go home. If my father saw Tatum’s glove growing off my skinny arm, he would disown me. If I told him it was the glove of Johnny Sacks, he would make me toss it in the trashcan and never discuss it again. I bowed my head and began to walk, pondering a solution to my predicament.

Don’t ask me why I loved Johnny so much because I honestly didn’t know. I never had a black friend, let alone knew a black person. I was trekking down River Ave when I touched shoulders with a stranger, both our bodies turning ninety-degrees, our faces met. It was a black kid, who appeared my age. He wore tobacco brown slacks and a bottle-green scarf tucked around his charcoal neck.
“I’m sorry,” I said, barely making eye contact with the boy.
He looked me over, squinting his eyebrows, rippling his forehead, something definitely sprinting though on his mind. My instinct said he was going to start swinging, tapping my nervous face, emulating his hero Johnny “The Stunner” Sacks.
“I saw Tatum give you that.”
The black kid aimed his eyes on my glove. I had forgotten it was there covering my hand. My chances looked brighter, I figured the glove gave me a slight advantage in our inevitable fight.
“Don’t worry about it. It was as much my fault as yours,” the black kid said.
The kid turned and continued on his way. I loosened, letting out a sense of relief. I gathered my thoughts and began walking in the opposite direction of the stranger I just encountered. I didn’t get far when I heard footsteps approaching from behind, each one quicker then the last. I tightened my fist. My breaths shortened.
“Hey.”
The voice was familiar. I didn’t need to turn around to see a black kid in brown slacks, I knew he was there, and he was coming to demonstrate how Johnny Sacks knocked out Tatum Diefendorf. I halted in my nervous tracks. Then, when I was sure the boy was close enough, I spun around with a cocked fist, ready to go.
“Hold on, we just met, the kid you bumped into remember?”
Instantly I realized he wasn’t here to fight and slowly unwound my sweaty glove, put my left hand in my pocket, and let the gloved-hand swing along my waist.
“What did you give Tatum?” the black kid asked.
“What?”
“After he gave you the glove, you tossed him something, what was it?”
I paused slightly, not sure how to answer the question. Was it a set-up or could he genuinely want to know? He didn’t appear angry, he wore a look of interest; curiosity spawned his face.
“My Star of David.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a symbol, a Jewish symbol. It brings me good luck.”
The kid slightly nodded. I could tell he was a bit confused. We stood there for what seemed like an eternity but it couldn’t have been more then ten silent seconds.
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him he did well.”
The black teenager thought it over, flipped the tail end of his scarf, gave me a delicate wave, then continued on his way down River Ave, catching up to an older black man who was shadow boxing the cold New York sky.