She and I edged over to a bench and sat down. The door opened, a well-built, handsome, black man dressed to the nines in a white suit, wearing a black bowler hat and fancy two-tone shoes, made a dramatic entrance. It was The Dixie Kid. What was the champion doing here? The Kid walked over, winked at Chris, shook my hand and said, “Nice fight. Sparrow, I like the way you handle yourself. Quick, fast in and out, cute stuff that the crowds like. You got a style and with the right connections, right management, you could go far. You could be a headliner in London.”
“London?” I was astonished.
“That’s right, Sparrow. Got an idea watching you. I could take you to London and maybe the big time. No bottom of the fight card. If you are interested, I’ll train and sponsor you. You will work and then work some more. There will be very little time for relaxation or women. This is a top drawer chance for you. You’ll live with me and my wife. You and I will have fights in England and perhaps in France. I’ve thought about it. Now, you think about it. Big time, big money. I know it is a rush situation, but I am leaving for London in the morning and need your answer. Well, what say? Will you have dinner with me tonight and join me at the train station tomorrow?”
“France!” I exclaimed my delight. Then suddenly, as quickly as I was up, I was down when realized it was not to be. “Hold on Mr. Kid. I shook hands and made a deal with Chris. Never turn my back on friends. He brought me here. Thanks, but I’ll make it some other way.” Chris, in his usual gruff manner, interrupted and grabbing my shoulders, spun me around and bellowed, “Sparrow, get this straight. We had a good run, a great relationship, but we are no longer partners. This is as far as I go. You are damn free. Take my advice, take the deal. Go with The Dixie Kid. Just drop me a line every now and then, to let us know how you’re doing. Now wash up, pack up and shut up, and get ready for dinner and London.”
I was ecstatic. Positive about my future. My luck had held out. “Okay Kid,” I exclaimed, “now, I must shower and dress. Meet you at the café and we’ll talk and if it sounds right, I’ll be at the train station in the morning.” Cherie, sitting nearby, attentively listened to the conversation and my decision. The men watched her. She stood up, moved slowly toward me.
The room that had been wild with yells of congratulations suddenly became quiet. As lovers do, we stared knowingly into each other’s eyes. Everyone looked away. And as lovers know, at that moment, it was over. She dabbed away tears, gently stroked my cheek, tenderly kissed my lips and softly whispered in my ear, “Au revoir, mon amour.” Before I could answer, she walked out the door. I reached for her, but she was gone. I wondered, would I ever see her again? My heart went one way, my future another.
Chris, the Kid and I dined and talked the rest of the night. They answered my questions. It was all favorable. We shook hands, “Yes, I will be there.”
It was almost dawn when I arrived at “our” flat and found my fully packed duffle at the door. Knocked and knocked. I could hear her crying. “Cherie, please open the door.” No response. Pleaded again and again, “Open the door. We must talk.” Knocked until my knuckles were raw. Silence. I had lost part of my heart.
I boarded the London train with The Kid. It took a right cross to open the door to the future. My life changed. I was to be a boxer, a professional fighter. The Kid, his wife and I lived in a boarding house run for people in the fight game. Small and big-timers resided there. The Kid and I trained everyday. Soon, I was able to match his roadwork mile for mile, speed for speed. On the small bag, the big bag, shadow boxing and sparring, I went the same number of rounds, maybe more. Watched him, hoping for the recognition that he was satisfied with my efforts. Thought he would be pleased, as I tried to copy his style and mannerisms. He was famous for fighting with his hands down, teasing and tempting his opponent to take advantage of the trap he set. This was his signature style. One morning, while I was sparring, he screamed, “Damn it Sparrow, stop! You are not me. Remember each man is unique. Study fighters to learn their weaknesses and moves, but you must develop your own style,” he demanded.
H: A real taskmaster.
E: He was the Champion. He would never give an inch in public, but in private, it was different. He and his wife became the father and mother I hadn’t had for years. There was love, respect and underneath, a feeling that we were specially attuned to each other, both having run to Europe seeking what could not be in the States.
H: A happy time?
E: I missed Chris, and yes, I missed Cherie, but I concentrated on the future. The Kid drove me to do better than the day before. Never let up. At night, after dinner, he would go over what I did wrong and schedule the next day’s routine. Oh mon dieu, I worked, not daring to slack off, and I was growing stronger. On this particular morning, being young, confident and audacious, I yelled across the ring, “Hey Old Man, I’m faster than you. How about sparring a couple of rounds, Champ?” Previously, every time I privately challenged him, he refused. But this time I went too far. Did it in public and embarrassed him in a crowded gym. He was annoyed, but could not refuse or back away. The Kid had pride. “Yes, it is about time to teach you another lesson, a real one. Sparrow, let’s do it.” “Hey Sparrow, are you nuts?” the trainer exclaimed. The other fighters gathered around the ring. I was in my work-out shorts and noticed The Kid hadn’t removed his sweat shirt.
We went to the center of the ring and shook hands. I smiled, he didn’t. Just stared into my eyes. The bell rang. I immediately danced forward, jabbed and danced away. I tried a right, missed. He stood in front of me, hands down. How did I miss? I tried another easy jab. He slipped under it. The Kid, anticipating my every move, was blocking or ducking all of my attempts to hit him. He never took a backward step or acknowledged a punch. Ah, I had thought, what an easy target. I am too fast for him, weaving in and out, like a knight, seeking to dethrone royalty. Smiling, did my fancy two step and then SOCKO, a stiff right to my gut, that stopped my breathing. WHAM, never saw the left cross that landed on my chin. I folded and sank down to the canvas. In less than a minute he showed why he was the Champion. The Kid helped me up, held me as I staggered to a bench, saying, “Nice fight Sparrow. You are fast and fancy, but your feet are still too small for big shoes, though your head might fit.” He roared with laughter and said, “Important lesson: never get into a fight not knowing your opponent.” The gym erupted with applause as he raised his hands over his head in the sign of victory, and smoothly leaped over the ropes. I knew The Kid was the King.
H: Did he ever tell you why he was fighting and living in Europe?
E: Few people knew, and when I asked, he ignored my question. Knew better than to ask again. Then one evening, at dinner, there was an unusual tenseness in our conversation. We weren’t talking about boxing; we were talking about the United States. I had told them, in detail, why I left and what happened to me, and my desire to go to France. They understood. Mom Brown looked at The Kid and it seemed a message passed between them. She looked up, her eyes glazed with tears and said, “Time to tell him, Aaron.” The Dixie Kid wasn’t quite sure of himself. He paused, took a deep breath, moved his chair back from the table and turned to me. ”It is not a pretty story. I was a good, young fighter, real good, working my way up to the big prizes. Not to be. A ridiculous incident changed my life. I remember it was almost raining, just a drizzle-damp day in July, 1902. I was doing my roadwork, trotting down a street in Philadelphia. Stopped at a shoe shop to get a breath. You know my weakness for good looking shoes and these were outstanding. Concentrating on the shoes in the window, I became aware of a man’s reflection back of me. Suddenly, I was being pecked and prodded by an umbrella. A voice demanded, “Out of the way, you black scum. Move. Move now!” Turning, I saw a white man waving an umbrella and poking me. Each time he attempted to hit me, I smacked it away frustrating him. I didn’t move on, just smiled, turned back to the window, and the umbrella slashed across my head. “Damn you nigger, get in the gutter,” he said, as he continued his onslaught. I grabbed the umbrella and was prepared to lay a stroke on him, but a crowd, led by a policeman, gathered. I was
