Читать книгу All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator - Henry Scott Harris - Страница 13

E: I was excited. A real fight! No more fun and games, had to take my training very seriously. When I told Cherie about the fight, she was not overjoyed. “I am worried, you’ll get hurt. They’ll break my Sparrow’s wings. He won’t be able to fly with me. Or, you’ll be so successful you will forget Cherie, just like the others.”

“Cherie, I must be in bed, alone and asleep by ten. When I am a big hero, you’ll be at my side. But for now, I must get ready.” She pouted and replied, “I will miss you and will take the tent down.”

Everyday did exactly as Mr. Baldwin directed. Started early matin (morning) by running five miles. Came in and wrapped my hands and put on gloves. Ah, real fighter’s gloves. I felt like Jack Johnson, the black Champion. Shadow boxed until I felt could do no more and stopped. Mr. Baldwin bellowed, “Five minutes more!” and I did five more. Dodged and punched the big bag and heard him yell, ”Jab, jab and hit. Back away, then come in, dance your way clear. Now, move on to the small bag and get your timing down.” It came easy. I hummed a rhythm as I punched.

H: But Gene, you hadn’t fought anyone. Could you take a punch?

E: Mr. Baldwin was going to test me and ordered, “Okay Sparrow, you know how to move, let’s really find out what you got. Up into the practice ring with Davey and go a couple of rounds.” Finally, I was to get my shot in the ring. Didn’t hesitate. “Hey guys, here comes the Sparrow,” I announced. Rushed up the steps, and trying to show-off by easily jumping over the ring ropes, caught my foot and fell flat on my face on the canvas. A roar went up from the boys and they started to count “one, two, three.” I got up, embarrassed, hated the feeling of being down, and promised myself I would never be on the canvas again.

H: Well, how did it go?

E; Henri, punching bags don’t punch back. Davey was a pro. He overwhelmed and confused me, snapping my head back with a jab, or holding me in a clinch while he pounded my ribs. Lucky, I was wearing headgear or he would have taken my head off.

Heard Mr.B., “Sparrow, had enough? Ready to quit or will you wake up and fight? Damn, either do what I taught you or get out! Dance around him, jab, jab, use your speed. Don’t let him get close. Hands up, set-up, use your right. Be a fighter.” Okay, I imagined myself as a matador, moving in and out, turning gracefully and avoiding the punches. It worked. Gave as good as I got and when Chris rang the bell, the other pros applauded.

Along with the hurt was a great feeling to know all the months of learning and training were not wasted. I was a boxer ready for a bout.

H: You worked long and hard; when did you fight and where?

E: When I first came to the gym, I was a bantam-weight, small and light. Now, almost a year later, pounds heavier, mostly muscle, I had become a middle-weight. The end was in sight. I was actually preparing for my first fight after the long months of training sessions and still cleaning up the gym.

Luck held out its hand and I grabbed it.

My first fight was at the Liverpool Stadium, before thousands. Was I nervous? Damn sure. Yes sir, and excited. A professional fighter, earning money and performing before a crowd of fans. Mr. Baldwin had arranged a ten round bout with an Irishman named Bill Walsh. Of course, I wasn’t the headliner. An under-card for the main attraction, the English Welterweight Championship bout between Johnny Summers, the English Champion and the famous, “The Dixie Kid.” The Dixie Kid was an American Negro. His name was Aaron Lester Brown. As Walsh entered the ring, he nodded to Chris and laughing, snidely said, “Get your people out of the front rows or they will be splashed with your boy’s black blood.”

H: What happened?

E: What a night. What a thrill. Merveilleux! Hardly remember leaving the dressing room, or Cherie kissing me and those wishing me victory, or climbing the steps to the ring and being introduced to the people. “In this corner, wearing white trunks, from the United States of America, the Black Sparrow, Gene Bullard.” As I sat on the stool waiting for the opening bell, Mr. Baldwin remarked, “See that dapper man there, that is The Dixie Kid. He just kayoed Summers in the second round. Didn’t break a sweat.” I looked over. He looked up, smiled, put his hands together as a sign of good luck. Incredible. Walsh was older and certainly more professional. I could see he was confident that he would beat this young black novice. For the early rounds, he tried every trick. Tried to butt, hit me behind my head, but I had been taught what to expect. I ducked, danced away, frustrating Walsh. He would swing. I wasn’t there. He tried to push me into a corner, and I would deftly two-step away. The crowd cheered. I knew what to do and what Walsh would try. I would jab, jab, set-up, right cross, back away before Walsh could get set, always moving. Unfortunately, didn’t always work and I learned I could take a punch. At the end of the tenth round, we stood in the center of the ring; my hand was raised as they announced, “The winner, by decision, The Black Sparrow, Gene Bullard.” Walked over to Walsh, shook his hand and said, “Thank you, Mr. Walsh, for the lesson.” I smiled. Chris hugged me, smiled. “Now you can call me Chris.” We went back to the dressing room where Cherie and a crowd of glad-handers were waiting. I was a winner.