Champion
A Story of the Happy Life of Roman Lefthanded Losinski
Miles Cobbett
Copyright 2008 by Miles Cobbett
Smashwords Edition
“I was reading the story and I forgot where I was sitting…”
“I liked the part where Roman knocks the mean guy down.”
“Man I read your manuscript. It was great!”
Chapter
I
Hey…what about my money?
The desert air was clear and crisp, at the boxing camp of former heavyweight champ Frank L. Jackson, when Roman Lefthanded Losinski appeared.
Roman had answered a help-wanted ad in the Sedona Times Courier, for a gardener’s helper. As usual, the ad promised ten dollars-an-hour for labor work, but when Roman showed up to claim the job, he was informed that there was an ‘error’ by the newspaper and the most that he would be paid was eight dollars-an-hour (before deductions). He could have Sundays off, and working hours would be from 7 a.m. - 4 p.m. with a thirty-minute lunch. He could stay in the bunkhouse if needed, but it would cost him an extra twenty dollars-a-day, to be subtracted from his first paycheck.
The first days work was easy, mostly digging holes and putting in potted plants. His supervisor, an old Japanese gardener, took an instant liking to Roman and showed him where he could get water from a hose near the action of the boxing ring.
Roman noticed the Pro boxers sneaking looks at him as he drank water, but was used to people gawking at him. And besides, he was six foot eight inches tall and over two hundred-seventy pounds. Years of work for Alaska Glacier Seafood-loading halibut, some weighing over two hundred pounds, into freezer vans and various construction jobs across Alaska and the Pacific Northwest, mostly as a laborer, had developed Roman into a fine specimen of a working man’s man.
The Professional boxers tried to show off themselves a bit, as they punched the heavy bag, lifted weights, and showed their prowess with the speed bag. A couple of them, though including the training camp manager, couldn't seem to concentrate on their work and kept looking over at the big man from Alaska, with his shirt off and his working muscles glistening with sweat- and rippling as he punched holes in the ground with the post hole digger and then lifted the big plants up before lowering them gently into the ground. The clincher though, came when the Japanese gardener needed to go for a hydraulic jack to lift the big Ford tractor front end and put on a freshly-repaired tire and wheel.
“Wait right here,” he said before adding, “I’m going to go get a jack so we can change the wheel.”
Roman said, “Wait; I’ll lift it, you put on the new wheel,” as he locked his hands around the axle, straightened his back and proceeded to lift the left front wheel of the tractor off the ground with his massive frame.
Eyes bulged and heads shook as they, the now staring boxers, watched in disbelief at what Roman was capable of lifting.
At 4:30 after his supervisor had gone home, Roman wandered over for a closer look at the Professionals still working hard at their craft. The speed bag crashed away in a familiar rhythm as Frank L. Jackson, the owner of the training camp, hit the bag for an eternity with his fists.
“Speed, timing, and finesse are what a great fighter needs,” Roman remembered his Grandfathers’ friend from England had told him when he was a teenager in Poland. All through high school, retired boxing trainer Albert Day had patiently coached Roman on the ‘Gentlemanly Art of Boxing,’ as he called it. The lessons served Roman well in after school boxing bouts, and he later applied them once or twice while serving in the Polish army.
“Hey you,” the fight camp manager called to Roman. “Do you want to make some quick cash for half-an-hours work?”
“Yeah sure,” came the interested reply.
“OK here’s the deal, we need a new sparring partner for our boys, you put on these here gloves, climb in the ring, remain standing for thirty minutes, and I’ll pay you thirty bucks cash. Have we got a deal?”
Roman nodded his head in agreement.
Luis Raul Guzman, two hundred-eighteen pounds of finely tuned boxing muscle, was standing ringside and quickly answered the managers call to perform a twenty minute workout and give ‘our new volunteer’ a lesson on what a Pro can do.
Guzman advanced, the volunteer stepped backward cautiously. Roman gathered his wits and began remembering back to the lessons from Albert Day ‘…Focus on what you are doing, size-up your opponent carefully, keep your guard up & make him miss when you can. When you have figured his strength and style; begin peppering him with jabs, adding in a few stingers now-and-then to assume control…’
The right-hand jabs Roman began throwing were all accomplishing their intended purpose when suddenly he applied a bit too much ‘sting’ on one of them, and connected right on the button of Guzman’s jawbone. The professionals’ eyes glazed over, his knees buckled and down he went…
Ring assistants quickly helped Guzman out of the ring before the Manager gave the nod to Angel Rodriguez, another of the camps up-and-coming heavyweights. Roman was getting warmed up now and didn’t back-up as much. But Angel wasn’t in the ring more than a couple of minutes before he failed to live up to his first name and punched the Polish ‘volunteer’ four inches below the belt. Roman answered with four quick rights in succession; all of them found their mark on “Angel’s” face with the last by far doing the most damage and leaving the pro wobbling before falling face first onto the mat.
The big man still standing in the ring now had everybody’s attention, but one person who was focused on him more than the others, Frank L. Jackson the ex-heavyweight champ halted his speed bag work when he saw the second of his favorite heavyweights drop. He quickly stepped over to the ring, climbed in and told his manager, "Lace up my gloves; I'll finish his thirty dollar lesson!"
I'll give you two hundred dollars if you can knock me down!" Jackson growled at Roman Lefthanded Losinski, as he began stalking him around the ring. The seasoned pro really knew his stuff and was soon backing Roman up, jabbing and landing hard right-hand body shots and some well placed combinations. Two to the body, one to the head: And then again two to the body, followed by one to the head. The next time Jackson began that combination, he got the first two shots off to Roman's rib cage, just as the big Pole landed two stinging right-hand jabs of his own, square in Jackson's face, before instantaneously following them with a crashing left-hook to the temple sending Jackson into unconsciousness and leaving him flat out on the mat....
"What about my money?" Roman said, as the people at ringside began fanning towels at the unconscious ex-champ Jackson, and passing smelling salts under his nose.
"I've got your money over here," said a voice just a few feet away from the ring. Roman climbed out of the ring and walked over to a man who was wearing a blue night watchman's cap and pulling money out of a wallet.
"Two hundred-thirty dollars cash," said the man. "Is that right?"
Roman nodded yes.
"And will you step over to my car so we can fill out some paperwork?" The little man asked. He reminded Roman of his grandfather's friend Albert Day in a strange sort of way.
This gave Roman a good feeling and he instantly began to like the man in the little blue hat.
"I'm Doc Johnny DeAngelo. I just saw you put away two professionally trained boxers and knock out cold the former heavyweight champion of the world. I'll give you two thousand dollars-a-week if you let me train you, represent you in contract negotiations, and get you some top fights over the next three years. Do we have a deal?"
Roman nodded yes and he began to like his 'new' boxing coach more and more and the two of them drove off down the lane leaving Roman's eight dollar-an-hour job, and a ring full of confusion behind them....
Chapter
II
It's nothing just a boxer's break
“How old are you Roman?” asked Doc Johnny DeAngelo, as they turned onto the desert highway heading west and into a beautiful sunset.
“I'm thirty seven,” Roman replied.
“Hmmm... from now on, anybody asks, you're thirty one... OK?”
“OK. Is this going to be a problem...?” Roman said, as he lifted his left hand toward Doc.
“Let me see that hand,” Doc said as he tried to look over and keep the car on the road. “Ahhh... it's nothing just a boxer's break maybe. Open the lid on that ice chest by your feet and shove your hand into the ice water. We can stop at the next hospital for an x-ray and get a cast put on if we need it. No sweat, in six to eight weeks, it will be as good as new.”
Doc knew if he stayed on highway 89, they could be at the hospital in Prescott, Arizona in just under an hour. He hoped they would have a good doctor working the Emergency Room night shift. Their luck held out.
After filing out a clipboard of forms and Doc Johnny DeAngelo offering to pay cash or Visa, the reception nurse led them into a nearby examination room. In walked a beautiful female doctor.
"Hello I'm Doctor Jennifer Casey. How did you do this? Let me see your hand. Can you move your fingers?"
"Boxing... it hurts to move 'em. I've had my hand in ice for the last hour," Roman said, thinking that her touch and caring attitude was making the hand feel better already.
"I want our x-ray tech to get a picture of that, so we can know if there is anything broken," she said with one eyebrow raised and the hint of a smile, as she walked out the door.
A male x-ray tech came in and asked Roman to step down the hall so they could take a couple of pictures of his hand. With shots taken from various angles the tech was done, and he told Roman, "You can return to the examination room and the doctor will be right with you."
"Well by the looks of your x-ray, you have a break in two bones of your left hand, right behind your index and middle fingers," Doctor Casey said. "I recommend a cast of your entire hand and wrist and 'no boxing' for at least six to eight weeks..." she said, smiling as she added, "Does that sound OK to you?"
"OK," Roman said, nodding in agreement and a bit taken by her good looks and gentle manner.
"Well let's get that cast on you then. Do you have a color preference?" she asked, as she showed him a chart with various colors of the latest cast materials.
"This blue one," he said.
After she had finished wrapping his hand in the gauze bandage and applying the quick-dry blue cast material, she added, "I'll give you a prescription for pain medication, take it only if you need it."
"Thank you for seeing me Doctor Casey," Roman said.
She smiled, and replied, "You are welcome Roman," and then walked off toward the nurse’s station with his paperwork. They paid their bill, picked up his medication, (in-case he needed it), and were back on the road in under three hours. Roman nodded off to sleep and was soon dreaming of happy times....
Chapter
III
Running in sand
When Roman woke up they had crossed into California on Highway 10, and were just turning onto Highway 111 heading south.
"Where are we going anyway?" Roman asked.
"To the Salton Sea, I've got a little boxer training camp there in the desert south of Palm Springs. We can train there, get in some relaxation, nobody will bother us and it will give your hand some time to heal."
"Sounds good to me," Roman thought out loud, as the two continued down the long straight highway. Forty-five minutes later they turned off the road, traveled a few feet down a sandy driveway, and stopped to unlock a steel cable that stretched across the driveway.
The camp, "El Shacko" as Doc referred to it, was exactly twelve miles past the North Shore Yacht Club, (a bogus 'dream investment' pitched and sold to several of Hollywood's movie star elite crowd).
Doc's property consisted of a collection of old trailers and a couple of ramshackle buildings, his 'experimental' small sailing fleet, some exercise equipment, and a makeshift boxing ring.
"It's a great place to relax, and a light wind that is perfect for sailing comes up almost every afternoon," Doc said almost apologetically, and then continued, "I love this place. For you however, it's going to be one the places we use to get you in the best shape of your entire life. There is plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and the dry sand-lined stream beds make great running trails for you to get your aerobic exercise during long, slow distance runs. And just moving across the sand will help keep you limber and relaxed, and is reported to be an aid in the healing process of all the muscles, joints, and ligaments in the human body."
"An old Greek remedy," he added.
"Sounds perfect Doc," Roman said, as he looked across the beach noticing two small sailboats tied to a post-near, but not in the water. "I know how to sail a boat too," he said.
"Hmmm... really, well as you well noticed we happen to have two identical 12 foot Racing Beetle Cat Sailboats. I see a new sailing regatta shaping up already," Doc said, adding, "To be fair though, we are going to have to trim down your weight a little bit. What do you weigh now, about two hundred and seventy-five pounds?"
"Two hundred seventy-four, the last time I weighed myself," Roman answered, amazed at the accuracy of Doc's guess.
"We want you down around two hundred and forty for a perfect fighting weight by this time next year. Besides, it will make your reflexes even quicker and it will give you a better chance in our sailboat races," Doc said, as he smiled. "Well it's late and I'm tuckered out. Let me show you to your Penthouse Apartment."
Doc showed Roman to his new living space, an old silver trailer that was actually quite nice inside. "Make yourself at-home. There are clean towels and some workout clothes in the dresser; and the shower and bathroom are in the shack next to the boxing ring. I'm going to turn-in for the night, tomorrow is a new day, and we can get an early start then. Good night Roman."
"Good night Doc, and thanks for the chance," Roman added mostly to thin air, since Doc had already trudged off across the crusty sand toward his trailer.
Doc's trailer, and the attached scrap plywood patio was what he referred to as "El Shacko," it also served as the camp gathering spot, and kitchen and dining area.
The next morning Roman looked out the dusty window and saw doc scratching around the outside of his trailer gathering up the mast and sail rigging to one of his sailboats.
"Did you sleep well?" Doc asked, as Roman walked up to observe the sailing master.
"Like a rock."
"I've got fresh coffee brewed up just inside the door of El Shacko, help yourself," Doc said. "The wind is just right for an early morning sail. Walk around a bit, check the place out -and get the lay of the land. There is a little store just up the beach about a half-a-mile to the north of us at Bob's Playa Riviera. I'll be back soon," he said as he carried the mast and sail down to the waters edge and finished preparing the little sailboat -and then launched her off the beach, and into a light wind.
The morning desert air was clean and hardy, and yet had a vigorous salty smell to it. The Salton Sea, a 30 mile long inland salt lake, is 254 feet below sea level, and has a salt content close to 37 parts per million. That makes it one of the highest salt-concentrations of any body of water on earth, and is more than most fish can take, but one fish that survives, the corbina, is a favorite of the local fishermen. And flocks of seagulls seem to enjoy the taste, as they dine on the multitude of expired fish that dot the shoreline.
Roman's hand was throbbing and bothering him a bit, but it soon slipped his mind when he found interesting things to look at, as he walked the shoreline heading in the opposite direction from Bob's Playa Riviera, and away from any buildings. It began to remind him of quiet areas just north of Fairbanks, Alaska, where the buildings and people become sparse and then finally non-existent.
He didn't always like to walk alone... he thought, remembering back to some of the happiest times of his life when he and Antoinette walked hand-in-hand on the trails, and through the woods surrounding their mountain property. But she was gone now... and he must go alone, knowing that someday they would meet again.
And so he walked on alone, noticing how the gentle onshore wind produced small waves that lapped the shoreline. Waves that carried sticks, as well as odd bits of Styrofoam from discarded coolers and cups, along with the occasional dead fish and other bits of anything that floated, and left them at the high and low water marks, and mixed them with the sand and clay that formed the beach in its gentle slope toward higher ground. Every so often he came upon the end of one of the sand-lined steam beds that Doc spoke of. He could see them, wide and open at the waters edge, and then winding their way up, toward the hills to the east of him and his temporary home on the shore of the Salton Sea at Doc's El Shacko Resort and Boxer Training Camp.
Chapter
IV
Now we have some help
When Roman returned from his shoreline expedition, Doc had completed his morning sailboat voyage and was busy cooking lunch.
"I sailed over to Bob's Playa Riviera Store and picked us up some supplies for lunch, dinner, and breakfast tomorrow; and made some phone calls. Now we have some help coming and you will only have to put up with my cooking for a couple more days. I called two business partners and they are on their way to help us get you ready."
"Who are they" Roman asked.
"They are both retired professional boxers, who now offer their services to train the next generation. They are the best in the business. One is the best cook I know and will be our camp cook and a sparring partner for you. He fought as a middleweight, is as quick as lightning and hits like the thunder of a heavyweight. That's Gibby Goodman. The other one is Sebastian 'Serby' Mandino. He fought lightweight, and was known as 'The Intelligent Boxer with Fists of Steel' who had a body punch that produced knock-outs. And most of his opponents learned to respect him as someone who had knock-out power in either hand. Like I said they are the best in the business and we are lucky to have them on our team."
Roman smiled. "Thanks Doc," he said. “Thanks for everything."
"I hope you can ride a bicycle because Sebastian and Gibby are bringing one for you."
"I can ride," Roman said. "In Poland when I was 14, I won the Junior National Sprint Cycling Championship."
"Oh that's how you grew those tree trunks you call legs, and barrel-like chest."
Roman smiled again.
"Well since you raced bikes you probably know of, or have read about Eddy Merckx, right?"
"He was before my time," Roman said, "But I read about him, and I know he won the 3,000 mile long Tour De France Bike Race five-times, set the hour record for speed and distance, raced in the Six Day Trials Races on the track, and did Cyclo-Cross racing in the winter-mud just to keep in shape during the off season. I read that he used to beat his competitors so badly that they called him, "The Cannibal."
"That's the guy! Anyway the bike they are picking up for you is a road bike, a real Tour De France Road Racing Bike. It was made in Belgium by a man named Ferdi Kessels, who used to build racing bicycle frames from scratch and he was the one who assembled the actual racing bikes used by Eddie Merckx. And a close friend of mine, Roger McAlister, owns the Cycling Center in Santa Cruz and he just happened to have a couple of complete race bikes built by Kessels sitting on the shelf. One of them was a twelve-speed Main D'Or Road Bike fitted with the finest Italian racing components, and we think it should be just about the right size for you."
"How did you know my size?" Roman asked.
"I was a tailor when I was younger and still have a pretty good eye for measurement."
"Roman, like I said, Gibby and Sebastian will be here in a couple of days with some more boxing equipment, and they are bringing that bike for you. Consider it a gift, from me to you. And just so you know, Gibby and Sebastian each have their own areas of expertise. Gibby, besides being our resident athletic diet expert and camp cook, will also be your coach for calisthenics, strength training and most of your boxing ring work-outs. And Sebastian will coach you for your aerobic training by cycling and running. He is in his fifty's and has run the Boston Marathon twelve times and has finished in under three hours every time, and he loves competing in bicycle races that are over a hundred miles long. He has a degree in psychology with emphasis in Sports Psychology and Motivation. He will be our 'battle plan psychologist' and will help you understand each of your opponents and to understand yourself better...."
"Wow, sounds great Doc."
"If you want to you can begin your aerobic conditioning before they get here. Here's a watch, it's a scuba diver style with a movable bezel so you can see exactly how many minutes you have been running. It will impress the heck out of Sebastian. He loves these watches for keeping track of athletic improvement. Try running the stream beds, they lead all the way up to bat caves in the hills over there to the east of us. Just take it easy the first few days. Maybe start off with about sixteen minutes of non-stop running, and then add a couple of minutes each day. Remember, run some, then walk a bit, and then run some more if you feel comfortable."
"I think I'll go for a run now and check out those bat caves Doc."
"All right Roman, remember just take it easy running, and you can stop running anytime, but remember to keep moving by walking."
With that Roman took off heading east in a gentle jog, hooking up with a stream bed to run on the ripples of crusty sand, and to look for the bat caves. Each day for the next three days while Doc sailed, Roman ran, as he began the search for the best fitness of his life. As per Doc's recommendation he ran for only sixteen minutes on the first day, and walked the rest. The second day he added three minutes, the time it takes between bells for a single round of boxing. And then by the third day he added another three minutes and was up to twenty-two minutes of non-stop running, before walking at a brisk pace for the rest of the journey.
Doc's cooking wasn't the worst Roman had ever tasted, but when a 1963 dark blue Buick Wild Cat with a 430 cubic inch motor, came rumbling down the sand driveway, and two serious looking men got out and began unloading bicycles and duffle bags of fight gear, Roman guessed the food would be getting better, and real work-outs were about to begin....
Chapter
V
We got a winner this time