The Golden Gloves: Sport, Beauty, An American Dream

The Golden Gloves

Went to the Golden Gloves in February in a Brooklyn snowstorm. Bay Ridge. The Verrazano a picture postcard against black sky at the end of 4th Ave. St. Pat's and their nice, tight grammar school gymnasium hosted.

Arrived early with my friend John the Designer. Ring set up center court. Folding chairs all around. Smoke. Schoolgirls deliver draft beer to your seat. Neighborhood jamokes short and tall, cops, moms, dads, kids. Black, white, Hispanic. Good New York crowd. Then the fighters?oh, so pure?the fighters. Fresh, young, bold and brave. Tattoos and sneers, confidence, arrogance. Where do these guys come from? Who do they think they are?

DlNG DING DING DING DING... DING DING DING DING DING.

A wiry leather-skinned Puerto Rican ref cradled the mic like a newborn babe and sang the national anthem. Raw. Real. Sincere. Then he killed me, he broke me down.

Laaaddiiieeeess annndda genntlllemmennn...

I turned away. It hit hard. I remembered in an instant what for so long I had forgotten. My stomach caught in my throat. I couldn't talk. I know where they come from. I know who they are.

I remember like it was yesterday: Buffalo Ray Banks, my boy, an overgrown, baby-faced neighborhood bully with more than 300 masturbations in three months to his credit (you do the math), in the ring with Lackawanna Ray Whetstone, a recently acquitted killer freed on a bullshit technicality.

It was the 1966 Western New York Golden Gloves Finals in downtown Buffalo's War Memorial Auditorium. I lost one of my low-cut Chuck Taylors storming the gates with about 30 other dirty bastards from the Southside and First Ward. We owned the Aud in those days and would beat down any usher dense enough to fuck with us. Lucky for them they were all cousins and brothers and uncles and fools.

Banks, aka Raymie, whom we used to throw up against future NBA Hall of Famer Bob Lanier in vicious PAL scraps (Raymie's game was measured in elbows), wanted Whetstone bad. So did the bunch of us. After several months training in the bars and snowy side streets of the city, Whetstone and his evil cohorts had administered the first humiliation of our young lives as bad boys. The Gloves were our shot at redemption. We staked our shaky self-esteem on Buffalo Banks.

A typical weekend evening for two or three months leading up to the GG's went like this: six, eight, maybe 10 of us would meet in Mischler's, a beat gin mill willing to serve stale draft beer to anybody and their baby brother able to toss two dimes and a nickel up on the bar. We'd pool our money and drink 'til broke. And drunk. Really drunk. Loud, obnoxious, poor-Irish-teenager drunk.

Then we'd go looking for trouble. One of our favorite spots was Red Slater's Tavern, what we considered upscale but in reality just another hole-in-the-wall neighborhood bar catering to an older crowd. We'd send in one or two inconspicuous or less notorious members of our pack. Known, sure?everybody knew everybody?but without the troublemaker reputation or juvenile police record of the rest of us. We considered this approach subtle, sophisticated criminal behavior: it was a goal every neighborhood punk aspired to. We'd mill about outside?snowballing traffic, jurving buses, harassing women?waiting for a predetermined signal. When the sign came, we'd line up behind Raymie and storm the joint. Inside we'd overturn tables, swipe money off the bar, punch old drunks in the nose, break pool cues, steal liquor. If anyone was lucky enough to actually catch the detestable Slater?big-time kudos and a heftier slice of the pie. More often than not, somebody's brother, or father, or uncle would be on the receiving end of an ass-whuppin'.

Oh, how they hated us.

After laying waste to Slater's, or Talty's, or Boon "The Loon" Cleary's, we'd be off to some other part of the city for more of the same: stealing purses, banqueting cabs, outrunning the cops. We'd hit-and-run on the Italians in their little olive garden bars up on the West Side, the Polish and Germans in stinkin' sausage factory dives on the East Side and the preppie college dicks in North Buffalo. We loved the college joints best because that's where the easiest money was. After a good night, we'd end up at the downtown strip clubs jerking off on barstools, copping cheap feels off peroxide blondes with 40-inch tits and yellow teeth. That was the life.

Then Lackawanna happened.

 

Lackawanna is a "suburb" of Buffalo, just across the city line from the Southside. In reality, L.A., as it's less than affectionately known to Buffalonians, is a skanky outgrowth of the Bethlehem Steel Plant that used to pollute Lake Erie in the 50s and 60s along Buffalo's southern flank. It was soot-smothered, cheap clapboard houses that leaned this way and that, single-story plaster-shingled projects painted Army green or shit brown, pothole-infested asphalt roads that dead-ended into rusted fences intended to keep you either in or out of the dingy plant. It was a northeast urban Dogpatch populated by a black, white and Puerto Rican underclass that somehow paralleled both contemporary Soweto and Dickensian London.

I don't remember whose idea it was to go on a "training" mission to L.A., but I do remember it was a mistake. Nine, 10 of us piled on a bus outside Mischler's and commandeered the back. Three or four more jurved the bumper and side door. Snow fell. Snow in Buffalo is like fire in hell?ever-present and no big deal. But these were silver dollar flakes, rich and round that had no melt when they hit the ground. Three inches an hour.

After an uneventful ride across the Father Baker Bridge into the dark heart of L.A., we stumbled off the bus onto what appeared to be empty streets. It was so quiet you could hear the snow whisper past your ear. We started shouting and beating on each other as we lurched and staggered down Ridge Rd., Lackawanna's main drag lined with churches, bars, cemeteries and liquor stores that fed directly into Bethlehem Steel's Four Gate, an evil-looking filthy black archway that swallowed shift workers like the jaws of death. The closer you got to Four Gate, the further back in time you traveled.

We checked a few dusty gin mills for action?the Alamo, the Steelhouse, O'Malley's?nothing, just old farts pounding boilermakers and dragging shot glasses through their hair. They had trouble enough and couldn't offer much of a challenge. Then we hit the Astra Light. Bingo.

The Astra Light is an L.A. institution. They had go-go girls before go-go girls were invented. The very same ones were still go-going. I'm sure they're there today. Raymie was the only one of us who was 18, the legal drinking age at the time, and the Astra Light was one of the few bars that seemed to give a fuck, probably because of the "dancers." We decided Raymie and Tubby, a "mature" 16, would enter first and then slip the rest of us in a few at a time or, failing that, we'd rush the place en masse wreaking Hun-like havoc.

Again, because of the dancers, the A-Light's front window was ludicrously high, maybe 8 feet. Since I was one of the few normal-sized punks (I'm not short, goddammit!) in a crew of overgrown potato-heads, it was my responsibility to leap up on toothless Charley Canaan's bony-broad shoulders and see what was happening. At first, it was too dark and smoky for a clear view. But as my eyes adjusted and Charley steadied his footing, I spotted our pointmen wandering gingerly through the mixed-race Lackawanna crowd. So far so good. While Tubby and Ray ordered drinks, I scanned the scene more thoroughly as a tiny ball of apprehension began growing in my little belly.

It was Hells Angels meets Yojimbo meets Cell Block H meets Oz meets the Pittsburgh Steelers meets Psychedelic Shack. Uh-oh. The collection of mugs and thugs before me sapped my adrenaline and crushed my bravado like Godzilla did Bambi. My friends and I were a ragtag collection of underaged Caspar Milquetoasts by comparison. Even Raymie, 6-5 and 220, seemed like a tourist from Kansas.

As I relayed observations to my uncomprehending friends, I noticed a commotion in the area where I'd spotted Raymie and Tubby. The bartender was yelling (never a good sign) and a jostling crowd began to swell. I saw Raymie rising up and backing off but couldn't see Tubby. Then a punch was thrown.

"Fight!" I screamed.

In a Pavlovian response with not a thread of common sense we stormed the Astra Light. Fifteen-, 16-, 17-year-old punks-in-training, spoiled by the success of earlier sparring sessions with unseasoned or, more appropriately, unwitting opponents, we were about to be taken to school.

I was knocked out two or three times. When I finally came to and these guys allowed me to stay conscious, a big, black motorcycle stud was firing a handgun into the ceiling and spraying beer on the go-go girls. Everyone from the Southside was bloodied and mangled; some were still unconscious. Two grizzled steel-plant types relentlessly pummeled my good friend Wilbur because he wouldn't stop saying, "Your mother." Worst of all, a vision I struggle with and will undoubtedly take to the grave: Raymie and Tubby, in separate go-go cages, pasties on nipples, BVDs covering their asses, frugging away like there was no tomorrow. Which, if they didn't dance, I'm sure there wouldn't have been.

Oh, how they hated us.

 

Which brings me back to the Aud and the Golden Gloves.   The big black motorcycle guy was Ray Whetstone. Whetstone and Raymie had been rivals during their serious training at Singer's Gym, downtown Buffalo. The trainers and management wouldn't let them spar because they could tell these two were heading for a showdown and didn't want to spoil dinner. That was up to Raymie's bad habits and equally bad associates. I didn't realize it at the time, but the Astra Light was a mere prelim to the main event.

The finals at the Aud were big-time in Buffalo. Guys like Sonny Liston, George Chuvalo, Willie "The Worm" Monroe and Cleveland Williams would show up. The place always sold out. Beer, popcorn, pimps, hookers?the whole bit.

The Southside had two of our own in the finals: Wolf Powers and Raymie. Powers was a surprise. More tough talker than tough guy, who knew how to load dice or slip an ace out of his sleeve, he somehow managed to outbox two deadbeat Canadians and ascend to the pinnacle of neighborhood celebrity. We were proud. That didn't last long.

When the outer lights dimmed and the overheads burned down on the square circle, with the crowd in his corner and everlasting glory within grasp, Powers jumped on his bicycle and rode. Three rounds of backpedaling and nine minutes of operatic boos later, the referee raised the bloody glove of some Wayne Wahoo from Hockeypuck, Ontario. I hung my head in shame.

"Laaadieeees aaaanndda gennntlemenn..."

I snapped back. This was it. Banks-Whetstone.

Raymie came bouncing out of the tunnel, pounding gloves together, turning, circling, smiling. Resplendent in gold silk robe with black piping and white cursive lettering on his back that spelled out BUFFALO RAY BANKS, Raymie danced up the steps and into his corner. He was ready. Twelve thousand people cheered.

Then Whetstone, Listonesque: black robe, trunks, shoes. I shouted to the ref to frisk him, then quickly sat down, mindful some Astra Lights were lurking nearby. A roar swept down from the cheap seats and filled the Aud as Lackawanna Ray ducked under the ropes and hit the canvas.

The fighters met center-ring for instructions. The ref disappeared between their stares. Raymie sweated. Whetstone was cool. He had to be 30. Touch gloves and back to corners. Robes fall off. Raymie's pumped, solid. Whetstone, fat.

DINNGGG.

Raymie bolts from his corner, circles left. Pop! Pop! Whetstone sneers, snorts. Hooks. Misses. Jab. Jab. Raymie backs off. Circles. Stops. Pops! Whetstone shrugs, rolls shoulders. Hook, hook, cross. Raymie backs off. The crowd's in it. Smell blood, fear, violence. It's coming, it's coming...BAM! Whetstone's rocked! Raymie's on him. Slug, slug, short jab, hook. Whetstone backs off. The fighters circle. Circle. Whetstone charges! BAM, BAM, BAM! Raymie's on his bicycle, backpedaling. Shades of Powers. Oh no! Whetstone's chasing, crouching, bobbing, weaving. Explodes. Raymie sidesteps. Pop. Whetstone's twisted up, disoriented, awkward. Raymie's on him. Hook. Hook. In the ropes. Jab, jab...

DING...DING...DING...DING...DING.

The crowd roars. You could eat tension if you bit and chewed the air. Everybody's talking, laughing, pushy, hootin' and hollerin'. It's on, baby. It's a fight.

DING.

Whetstone's out first. Angry. Eager. Raymie's cool. Skips, slides, shuffles, jabs. Pretty. The fighters circle. Soft jab, soft jab, miss. Whetstone backs off, refocuses, advances. Pop! Raymie gets him good. Whetstone straightens, sneers, spits. Raymie dances, dances, he's dancing... Omigod! He's dancing! He's doing the frug! He's doing the fucking frug! He's doing the frug every day and the night! The mashed potato! Holy shit! He's go-goin'! Raymie's throwing the Astra Light back at Whetstone! The crowd's nuts. They love it. Pointing. Laughing at Whetstone. Brilliant. Raymie's brilliant! Pop! Uh-oh. Smack, smack. Raymie stops dancing. The fighters circle. Clinch, wrestle, push. Break. Raymie breathes deep, relaxes and...Whetstone charges! BAM! BAM! BAM! Oh shit. Rubber legs, rubber legs, Raymie's legs are rubber legs. He backs away. Whetstone chases. Smack, smack, into the ropes. Raymie elbows, pushes, ducks, rolls. Whetstone unloads. Hook, hook, hook, hook, jab, jab, hook...

DING...DING...DING...DING...DING.

The joint's hoppin', on their feet. Thunder in the night. Peanuts, popcorn, cold beer here. You can feel it, smell it. It's beautiful. I'm crying, scared, excited, full of fear, pain, violence. The dancin', the dancin' was poetry, payback, genius. The Aud is a cloud of cigarettes, cigars, reefer. Smoke 'im, Raymie, smoke 'im.

DING.

Again, Whetstone rushes out. Raymie's tentative, wary, looking for his legs. Circles, slides, buying time. Whetstone wades in. Left, right, hook, hook. Air. Thin air. Whetstone backs off. Measures. The fighters circle. Raymie shuffles, reverses. Stops. Pops. Stuns Whetstone. Hook, hook, left, left, right! Whetstone staggers! Off-balance. Raymie charges. This is it! This is it! The moment. Whetstone plants. Fires back. Raymie plants. Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Windmills, uppercuts, crosses, cuts, blood, snot, screams, grunts, moans. It's a brawl! Both fighters unloading. All these months "training," the bars, the streets. Raymie's hurt! He's hurt. On the ropes. Rolling. Escaping. Evading. Whetstone's on him. Boom. Boom. Boom. BOOM ! Raymie's down! He's down. One...two...three... Oh shit, oh shit. Seven...eight...get up, Raymie! Get up! You're out. Oh shit.

I remember like it was yesterday.

 

There were 12 fights that night at St. Pat's. As I watched each one, constantly perched on the edge of my wooden seat, I glimpsed flashes of Raymie: his round, puffy muscles, his wide-open affectless face that camouflaged a wild, aggressive nature, his heart, his joy, his rubber legs. I saw guys jump on electric bicycles and, like Powers, motor backwards around the ring for three swift rounds, and I saw Whetstone, the villain, glowering, angry, two steps from prison. Twenty-four fighters, 24 stories. I saw friends of the fighters, the posse, not so tough, but loyal, passionate, living and dying with each punch, each round, each fight. And I wished I knew all the stories, all the crazy, stupid, foolish things each fighter and his crew lived through on their way to this night on center stage.

But most of all I saw that fighters and the fights never change, entourages and villains and referees and beer and the lights going down and the roar of the crowd, the sweet science, the sweat and tears, the raw, visceral drama, the trainers and refs and smoke?the pungent, acrid smoke rising to the rafters, even in a cramped grammar school basketball gymnasium in Brooklyn. When the bell rings and the lights go out, it might as well be Buffalo in 1966. Or Chicago '77. Or Erie, PA. Or Philly. Or any other place in the country where tough guys and punks come from the neighborhoods to throw leather at each other until one or the other is declared champion.

The Golden Gloves finals?an oasis, sport, beauty, an American dream?come to the Theater at Madison Square Garden this Thursday and Friday, April 5 and 6; 307-7171/[www.thegarden.com](http://www.thegarden.com) for tickets and information.