Hemingway

Round 6: "After The Storm"

You Could See the storm hadn't hurt Ernest's thirst. He pushed right by us into the bar and knocked off two big hookers of straight Scotch without bating an eye. Then he shook hands and I noticed it hadn't hurt his grip either. Those calouses of his made dents in your palm. Felt like he was holding a handful of marbles.

"How did you find the Atlantic?" I said.

"Big," he said.

"Have a nice crossing?" Floyd Gibbons asked.

"No," he said.

"Why?" I said.

"Ran out of liquor," he said.

"That's awful," Gib said.

"How about food?" I said.

"Raw flying fish," he said.

And that's about all we could get out of him. Just the clipped dialogue he puts in those books of his. You'd think he had just come from a row-boat ride in Central Park for all we could get him to say. Some boat ride. We took a bottle over to the hotel with us and watched him wolf a big steak. It was enough for a family of four.

"What do we do to get the story of the storm," Gib said, "wait for you to write it and then buy it?"

"No story," he said. "Just ran out a sea anchor and rode out the blow."

"Oh," I said.

"Like a tough fight," he said. "You just keep your head down and hang on."

"How about that fight on Duval Street?" I said.

"What fight?" he said.

Most fellows like to talk about their bar-room battles. I keep telling the same ones over and over to the same people. Get a kick out of it. But you couldn't get the guy to open up. Most people who drink get gabby. But he got cagier with each shot. No use trying to feed him a lot of drinks to get him to talk. You always wound up by telling him how you licked that big guy the other night.

While we were still in the dining room we had a couple of visitors. Here comes the floor show, I thought. They think of everything for this bird. But he warned us not to laugh. This was serious business. One of the visitors you could see was a person of some importance on the island. He was wearing a silk opera hat and tails. The question of white or black tie, I noticed, he had handled with great tact. He wore neither. In fact, he wore no shirt. His bare feet were the conventional black.

The other native wore nothing but red walking shorts. And what a build! He looked like a composite picture of Max Baer and Joe Louis. Stood about six-two and had long powerful arms that hung to his knees. Some reach. And you could see the long lithe muscles rippling like snakes when he moved. He walked like a tiger and looked about 21.

As they got to our table the one in the silk hat swept it off with a graceful gesture and crushed it flat against his chest. He spoke with an Oxford accent."My compliments, gentlemen," he said. "I am here to present the challenge of Mr. Disraeli."

Gib and I just looked at each other. We couldn't figure out what the big idea could be. Sounded like a duel. But Ernest apparently knew. He bowed in return.

"OK," he said, "get the gloves and the ring ready; I'll be out in half an hour."

Silk Hat Harry snapped his topper open with a ducal gesture and the two of them walked out as quietly as they had come. We turned to Ernest for an explanation. He seemed a little self-conscious, I thought.

"I have a standing offer of ten pounds," he said, "to any native who can stay two rounds with me, and Dizzy wants to take a chance. That's all."

"That's all?" Gig said. "You don't mean to tell me you're going to box that big guy now?"

"Why not?" Ernest said.

"You're not in condition," Gib said.

"Put it off until tomorrow," I said.

"I can't," he said. "They've been waiting for me all week. Told them when I left for Key West that I would take him on when I got back. I'm back now and I don't want to lose face."

"You'll lose your face if you do," I said.

"Don't be silly," he said.

How crazy can a guy get? I thought. He is 35 years old, has been fighting the elements four days on raw fish, no sleep and salt water and now he is going to fight a man bigger and younger than he is, right after eating. I might have bet on him if he had been in shape but he didn't even have his landlegs yet. Better try again to stop him.

"You can't go two rounds," I said.

"Any bets?" he said.

"No," I said. What's the use, I thought. It's his funeral.

After we had had a few more highballs he picked up a little hand-bell from the table and handed it to me. "You be the referee, time-keeper and judge," he said. "You won't have much to do. Don't count him out too fast, though. I always give them a long count. And don't pull us apart if we clinch. You might get hurt. If he bites me don't disqualify him. I'll bite him back. Watch the time carefully and ring the bell when three minutes is up. If he is still on his feet after two rounds he wins."

Some confidence, I thought. Losing never seemed to enter his mind. He felt the same about his fighting as he did about his writing. If he lost the first round he would get his knockout in the second. Hope he can fight better than he can write, I thought. He handed me ten dollars.

"This for me?" I said.

"That's the loser's purse," he said. "Slip it to him right after the fight." How do you like that? Some gall.

As we walked out of the hotel a cheer went up from the beach that could have been heard in Miami. They cheered in the English fashion, "Hip, hip, hur rah!" I've seen a lot of fights in my time but never an audience like that. Everybody on the island must have been there. They were all standing on the beach in the form of a ring. The inside row-- the boys in the ringside seats--were holding hands in a circle to keep the others back. That's the way they did in old England when prize fighting first started. That's why they still call our square boxing arenas "rings" I guess.

The ring looked just about the right size. Not having any ropes but the natives' arms it was flexible of course. But that was all right with me. It would be harder for Dizzy to get my man on the ropes.

As we elbowed our way through the cheering crowd you could see Papa was the favorite. He might have been a home-town hopeful fighting in his own club from the way they treated him. You could see he loved it too. Always wanted to be the champ and was getting a great kick out of it. He looked like Dempsey going into the ring only he had more hair on his chest and more belly.

When we got to the ring the boys who were the posts raised their clasped hands and we went under them like children playing London Bridge. But when I saw the professional gloves they were using I knew it wasn't any child's play. This was for keeps.

As they put on the gloves I sized up the two of them. And I didn't feel as confident as Ernest did. Kid Disraeli, in the red trunks, was at least ten years younger and ten pounds heavier. He had a longer reach and smaller belly. But, as I say, it wasn't my funeral. I picked up a couple of coconuts and tossed them out of the ring. A fighter in his bare feet could break a toe on a coconut. I looked up on the porch and there was Gib in a rocking-chair. He had an upper box seat and was laughing. I wished I had stayed up there with him. It was going to be tough keeping out of the way of these heavyweights in that soft sand.

I announced the fight as being for the championship of Bimini and got a rousing cheer. Then I glanced at my wrist watch and rang my little bell.

At the sound of the bell the giant in the red trunks came out of his corner like a bounding rhino. He came out slugging and you could see he had a haymaker in either hand. One sock, I thought, and the old-man-of-the-sea is going to be shipwrecked again. But they were not landing. The boy in the light skin was making him miss. He was moving gracefully to one side or the other like those bullfighters in his books. Then just when I thought he was going to get gored he got on his bicycle. How a man his size could move so fast with a metal knee-cap and in the soft sand had me puzzled. I was having an awful time just keeping out of their way. My shoes were full of sand and I was panting more than they were. The round must be about over, I thought, but I was afraid to look at my watch. Might get clipped.

Up until now Hemingway had not let one punch go. Stalling the first two minutes, I thought. He will probably go in now and slug out the last minute, like he said. But he didn't. The challenger rushed him again and this time got him right up against the living ropes and let go a roundhouse right that would have knocked the champ's head off if it had hit him. But it didn't hit him. He ducked and two of the ring posts dropped in their tracks instead. Some reach. As referee I didn't know what to do. But the spectators did. Two new posts just moved in, clasped hands, and the ring was whole again. Apparently it had happened before.

The incident gave me time to glance at my watch. Holy Moses, the round had lasted four minutes! I rang the bell and the round was over. The fighters didn't go to their corners. There were no corners to go to. They just laid down in the sand and shaded their eyes from the sun. That sun is going to win over me by a knockout any minute, I thought. The crowd went wild. This was the first time a native had ever stayed a whole round, I learned later. I gave the boys and myself an extra minute's rest to make up for the four minute round. Then I rang the bell.

You could see the extra rest had helped Hemingway somewhat. But you should have seen the other guy. Fresh as a daisy! Wasn't even breathing hard. He was smelling victory. Here comes the storm now, I thought.

And it did come; thunder and lightning and everything. The rhino thundered in for the kill. Two streaks of lefthanded chain lightning flashed suddenly in the middle of his stomach. Down came his guard and back went his head as a straight right caught him full on the chin. Some punch.

I knew the fight was over before Disraeli hit the sand. Didn't even have to count. But I did. Gave him the long Chicago count. But he never stirred. The man in the light skin had won by a knockout in the first ten seconds of the second round. I grabbed his big hand and held it up the way they do at the Garden. He was panting so hard he (concluded on page 75)Hemingway(continued from page 62) nearly blew me over.

"The winnah and still champion: Papa!" I announced.

"Cut that out and come up to the bar," he said.

I couldn't have gone anywhere else if I wanted to. In a second everybody had broken the circle and headed for the bar. I was carried along in the crush of cheering, yelling fight fans. They filled the bar and overflowed on to the jetty. Must be a regular ritual, I thought. But they didn't look like fight fans. They looked more like kids just out of school.

And the biggest kid of them all was Hemingway. He showed them how he let go that right while the four extra bartenders were passing out soft drinks. I noticed he wasn't drinking a soft drink. They could have anything they liked, he told me, but they liked the sweet stuff. I got a Scotch. I asked him if it was a legal holiday on the island. Nobody seemed to be working.

"Every day is a holiday here," he said, "unless you call fishing work."

While we were standing there the loser came in and got a big hand. They opened up a path for him to the bar. He was still a little wobbly but he ordered a root-beer. I slipped him the ten spot and he thanked me politely.

"My word," he said, "what happened?"

"You forgot to duck," Ernest said.

Gib and I got a great kick out of the big bruiser saying "My word" and drinking root-beer through a straw. Maybe he's not so tough after all, I thought. You know how it is. When you see a guy knocked cold he does not look so tough afterwards. And you get sore at the guy who hit him.

Ernest must have read my mind. "How did you like the fight?" he said.

"Too one-sided," I said, "and a little sadistic. You didn't have to hit the poor palooka so hard."

That ought to burn him up, I thought. But it didn't seem to. He just put his arm around me and hissed in my ear:

"Bet you a thousand bucks to a hundred you can't stay two rounds with him right now," he said.

That's a lot of dough, I thought. A thousand for only six minutes work. I glanced over at the loser. Those kids recover fast, I thought.

"Don't be silly," I said.

"Time for my siesta," he said and headed for the hotel. That was around noon and we did not see him again the rest of the day or night. About eighteen hours straight sleep. Some siesta.

Next Month:

Round 7: "Men Without Women"

Ernest ducked and two spectators bit the dust.