Interviewing boxers, you soon discover that most of them are adverse to everyday violence. With the notable exception of such head cases as Sonny Liston, who broke a cop’s leg in a brawl, most boxers avoid kinetic stupidity outside the ring. My new friend Columbine Joe is no exception.
Brother, thirty-seven amateur fights and never got my nose broken. Only had one loss. But then again I didn’t score a lot of KO’s. Fought out of Eddie’s place up behind the Cross Street Market. He was still fighting—undefeated pro at the time. So I was managed by another guy, and honestly did not get the attention I needed from Eddie. On top of that my style suffered from being the only welterweight in the gym.
This was particleboard-walled shack of a gym that seemed like an old carriage shed, abutting the back of a building, that had ‘boxing’ scrawled in white chalk on the two padlocked green-painted doors. It was out of business well before 2000.
Six foot and one-forty-seven. I was a stay away keep the jab in your face kind of guy, which was accentuated by the fact that I had to spar with all of these giant heavyweights. Especially if they were fighting a lefty, then I had to spar with these big mugs. That encouraged my on the outside style.
Most of the guys I boxed would be like five inches shorter than me, and here I am, a left-handed pain in your ass, running behind the jab. Some of them would get so mad they’d bumrush me and throw me to the ropes, like they were trying to kill me. I boxed from thirteen until just before I turned sixteen and developed a taste for other things. Thirty seven fights and never had my nose broken.
One time, I had just killed a fifth of vodka and had washed it down with a forty—all on my lonesome. I don’t recall where I was going, but I was riding my bike. Everybody grows up knowing that drinking and driving a car is a bad idea. But put that demolished nervous system in command of two wheels, and you have a pretty much guaranteed accident.
I don’t even remember how I got on the ramp, but the front wheel caught on something—probably because it was not pointed in the right direction—and I have no reaction time. Smack, boom, I did a full face plant into the concrete—ate the road.
God only knows how long it took me to get up, or if the cop was just driving along behind me waiting for me to dump it. He came up to me as I’m trying to stand with my bike like a respectable cyclist, and says “Son, you know it’s against the law to drive your bike under the influence.”
I gathered myself as well as I could and said, “Officer, I did not know that. But in light of recent events, I can see the wisdom in that statute.”
Generally, if you do not fight or run from or backtalk the cops, they’re not abusive. And if you show some humor they tend to appreciate it. The cop said, “Look son, I don’t really have time for the paperwork and you need to get your face looked after. So how about if you walk that thing home. Walk it home and we’re straight.”
Somehow I walked that bike home—don’t remember how or how long, and when I woke up my nose was pointing the wrong way. It’s crooked to this day. A fifth and a forty brother, ‘ill put you down harder than a heavyweight.
