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Ezzard & Rocky

Thomas Elson

    “If you don’t like the weather here in Berdan, wait twenty minutes and it’ll change,” said Jack Gates, one of the bellhops at my grandad’s hotel. Except it never changed.
    June of 1954. Sweltering. Ninety-two degrees at seven in the evening. Seventy-four percent humidity. Standing outside for any length of time felt like ten minutes – underwater.
    Summer had a mind of its own - determined to keep everyone docile as it stripped our topsoil and displaced amber waves of grain with stunted stalks. The Ninnescah River, a source of life in Berdan, reduced to a mere trickle. The older grown-ups fretted about a replay of the Dust Bowl.
    Berdan’s two block downtown consisted of the Barron Theater with two seating sections and two drinking fountains, two swimming pools in separate quadrants of town, a single department store with distinct entrances - one in front, the other in the alley, a single barber shop catering to a single group. No daily newspaper, no television station, no air conditioning, three-digit phone numbers, and my grandad’s eight-story hotel.
    Five days a week, Jack Gates walked through the hotel’s back door, and assumed his place in the lobby on a cane-backed chair near the polished brass door of the elevator he operated with a surgeon’s precision. Between calls, Jack would scoot the chair forward, then tilt back against the marble wainscoted wall next to the reception desk. His long legs draped in razor creased slacks that extended to his mirror-shined coral-brown wingtips.
    Each weekday after school, I walked across the street to the hotel to be with Jack. Earlier that year, he had taken me to meet the Original Harlem Globetrotters - Goose Tatum and Pop Gates (his uncle) - then demonstrated the more subtle points of how to shoot baskets.

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    One evening, I heard the crackling from Jack’s radio, and saw him standing on the dusty chat parking lot behind the hotel. The chat now dark under a waning moon. The darkness of the evening broken only by the narrow shaft of light that travelled from the lobby, past the service elevator, out the rear door. Wind rattled the flagpole chain near the municipal building behind the hotel. The smell of grilled steaks drifted through the hotel restaurant’s exhaust fan.
    “Whatcha doin?”
    “Lookin for the fight on the radio.”
    “Where’s it from?”
    “Yankee Stadium.” Jack’s voice came out fast.
    “Why are they fighting where the Yankees play baseball?”
    Jack did not answer.
    “What’s the fight about?”
    He placed his hand on my shoulder but didn’t smile. “You’ll know later.”
    I listened to the announcer’s voice barking with the intensity of the man who described the Hindenburg disaster.
    “In the blue corner, the heavyweight champion of the world, Rocky Marciano – five feet ten inches, one hundred- eighty-eight pounds, born in Brocton, Massachusetts.
    And in the red corner, Ezzard Charles – Six feet, two-hundred pounds, born in Lawrence, Georgia.”
    “Who ya for?” I asked.
    Jack opened his mouth, but made no response.
    “And the bell.” The announcer’s staccato voice hit my ears. Round one... “Marciano... Left hook to the jaw ... Charles... Right to the body... Charles battered by a left hook... Marciano takes a glancing right hook to the chin... Less than two minutes to go in the round... Round Two... They go in close... Round three... Charles staggering... Marciano’s tired too...”
    Jack looked down – his knees slightly bent, legs churning and brushing one against the other. “Hit him...Again... Do it... Punch... Punch... That’s right...” Jack’s hands clamped into fists. He swayed, dodged unseen blows. His arms carved and chopped the air. No longer my grandad’s bellhop, he moved in synch with the announcer’s voice. His feet barely grazed the ground.
    “A left and a right... Another left...” Words sped by as fast as the tapping of Morse Code.
    “Round five... Charles beat Marciano to the punch... Marciano seems tireless... Charles keeps belting away...Marciano misses a few...” Jack’s right hand chiseled the air as if something invisible blocked his way.
    “Round seven... Marciano’s nose is split in two and covered with some type of bandage... It’s a legitimate target for Charles who is beginning to show the signs of wear and tear... “
    Minutes pass with rapid commercials between rounds: Gillette razors - “To look sharp...” Palmolive after shave – “It smells good, and that ain’t bad.” Pabst Blue Ribbon beer - “What’ll ya have...” Then it’s back to ringside.
    Static battled with the voice from the radio. “Good combination punches by Marciano. Charles may be in trouble again...” Jack’s arms and fists veered and pitched. His upper body feinted.
    “Marciano’s eye and nose may be cut, but his hard punches are leveling Charles... Six devastating punches... Charles is still standing. Wait! Down he goes! Charles is down! He’s getting up, but he’s dazed...”
    Round fifteen.
    The final bell.
    The fight is over.
    “Jack-”
    “Wait. Wait for the decision.” Jack flinched when a burst of wind raised the dust that scraped his eyes like sandpaper.
    A moment of silence, then, “The first judge scores the fight, 8-6-1. Marciano. The second judge, 8-5-2. Marciano. The referee, 9-4-2. Marciano.”
    A loud, sharp voice screamed through the radio. “Marciano wins! Marciano wins! Marciano’s still the heavyweight champion of the world!”
    “No? No! Robbed. Damn.” Without a word, Jack lowered his head and reached for my hand. We walked side by side toward the rear entrance. Our silence broken by the exhaust fan from the restaurant kitchen.
    Once inside, Jack yanked the cord from the wall, wrapped it around his battered radio, carried it into the lobby, placed it under his designated chair. He scooted forward, tilted back, then sat quietly between the front desk and the elevator – his shoes covered with dust.
    And I stood inside my grandad’s hotel still not understanding what really happened or why.

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