The Fight
Standing in the back of the auditorium wearing a red and gold robe with the Marine Corps emblem on the back, I watch the referee give instructions to the two fighters in the ring. This bout would be the first of six for the evening. Filling the vast Fieldhouse, where the fights occurred, were five thousand GI’s. Sitting in the darkened auditorium they were a faceless crowd. You could only hear their roar. Seated in the ringside chairs were the various generals from all the branches of the service. An inter-service boxing event brought out all of the top brass.
I grew more and more anxious about the evening. I did not want to appear this night. I wasn’t ready for it. It had only been four days earlier while working on the speed bag in the boxing room that a Marine Gunnery Sergeant approached me to watch my hands whirl different rhythms of the bag.
He asked, “You ever fight before? How much do you weigh?" I stopped and said that I had boxed a number times, since I was young, and my weight was 200 lbs.
“A heavy weight huh?” I said “Yes,” and returned to the music of the bag. He brought over the Marine boxing coach to ask if I would go a couple rounds with him. The coach didn’t look very athletic. He seemed all mouth and out of shape but he wanted to put on a show for his team and I was it. I agreed to go a couple rounds and as I circled him in the second round, I watched him dodge in out of my reach with what he obviously mistook for footwork.
We mixed it up a little and I noticed that as I leaned forward, he would step back lowering his hands to his chest level once he was out of my range. When he was ready, he would advance and has he approached my longer reach, raise his gloves to engage me. He did it once too often because when he came in raising his gloves, I stopped my backward motion, reversed direction and waited for him.
My feet were shoulder width apart with my right foot setback to the heel and to toe stance. A punch, like a bullet, cannot propel itself. The power of a punch isn’t in the hand. It starts with the planted feet set firmly on the ground with legs coiled to push that power up through the twisting torso as the force of the blow reaches the shoulder and the arm launches a loaded fist into your opponent's face.
His hands were barely up to his shoulders when I greeted him with the first left jab into his face. Knocking him back, I followed by a quick second jab which left him defenseless. Like a lightning bolt, my right cross surged with all my power from my legs to my glove and caught him full flush right into his face. The impact of the blow sent him falling back to the ropes. He quickly gathered himself together but as he approached me waiting for him in the center of the ring, the bell rang and the round ended. I took off my gloves, despite his protest to continue as I agreed to do just two rounds.
Leaving the gym, the Gunny asked me if I would fight on Tuesday night? Tuesday night gave me just three full days to train and I knew that I needed much more time. I said no but I will fight at the next event in two weeks and left.
Two days later the Army Special Services promoter called me to ask if I was from Portland.
“Yes, why?” I asked.
He responded, “I see your name down on the program to fight the heavyweight fight on Tuesday night.”
I immediately called the Gunny, who informed me in no uncertain terms that the Marines needed me for that fight and he reminded me with a threat in his voice “There are Marines down south fighting in this war while you have had pretty nice time on this rock. Either you fight Tuesday or I will put you in for a transfer.” I had three months remaining on my tour overseas. Orders to Vietnam would add twelve months more to my overseas duty.
Now I am waiting in the locker room for my name to be called. I was angry that I was put in this position. I knew what it took to be out there in the ring and I didn’t have the body or the soul to do it anymore. Three rounds did not sound like much but when you are there alone getting your head pounded for three rounds, you lose all sense of time passing. Being hit is a time less experience. It feels like it will go on forever. I promised myself that this would be my last match and if they sent me south then I will go.
I entered the arena and walked up the three steps to the ring. There were two stools, buckets, sponges, water bottles, blood scattered across the canvas, trainers and coaches all enclosed within the ropes that defined the 20x20 foot ring. In minutes we would be left alone to fight.
The shape of the ring is really a square which makes it more dangerous than a circle. A circle has no corners to get boxed into. In a square, unlike a circle, you can’t escape by moving sideways. Moving along the ropes trying to get back to the center is not an option. When the ring is cut off and the fighter is in retreat, he seeks escape in the corner for support and protection. His gloves are up covering his head but once he is pinned inside, the ropes clutch him in their web, leaving him helpless against a thrashing from his stalking opponent.
Pinned into the corner of the square, the only way out is through your opponent. Trapped like hunted prey in the corner, your opponent will ceaselessly barrage you with uppercuts, right and left hooks and vicious downward blows into every part of your head and body. The punishment is exhausting, leaving you unable to cover all the soft spots exposed to the pummeling hammer. Your legs will weaken, your knees will buckle and shake, right up to the moment he drills one into your head and you go down for the count.
Round one was an opportunity to see what this guy could do. I could see he was a novice and perhaps this was his first fight. He weighed in at 198, so we were close in weight but being nearly 6’ 2” I had a definite height and reach advantage. He had no footwork and no style. He just kept plodding forward with his hands up and his head down. He just methodically kept coming forward into my left jabs, looking for an opportunity to hit me.
I took advantage of my height, reach and experience and kept him back from me to score quick points while not exposing myself to much.
We moved across the ring and as we were next to the ropes, I saw him open up his gloves and quickly slammed two hard lefts and right cross into his face. He did not go down or back up as I expected. I realized I was now in his range and immediately knew I had to get out into the open center of the ring. It was then that I felt his punch hit me in the jaw. There is no pain to a hard punch. The torque of the jaw and a stunned numbing feeling causes you to black out. He hit me so hard that both of my gloves flew away from my body towards the center of the ring exposing my entire head to his punches. I was off balance and knew I was in trouble. I could see him advance closer to finish me. His right fist was cocked and ready to take my head off of my shoulders. My only thought was to fall down to the canvas, take a couple seconds to ruin his momentum and well earned advantage, then get up and beat the crap out him. I don’t recall anything after that. I had no idea that I was unconscious. I had no idea of what happened. Instead of being on the ropes, I found myself coming to face down in the center of the ring after doing two full pirouettes before falling unconscious.
The first clue that something was desperately wrong was when I heard the word “six.” Six? I tried to remember what it meant. “Seven,” came next. At seven I knew what had happened, where I was and what I had to do. Until you return to your senses there is no sound in the ring when you come out to from a knockout. With the huge bright lights over you can’t see or hear any of the faces screaming. All you can see are the shoes of the refereed, hear the count and stare at the white but rough texture of the canvas.
I was up and at him by nine. I chased and punched him like a bag hanging in a boxing room. I was so angry that I didn’t hear the first ring of the bell ending the round.
Round two, I came off my stool and was across the ring punching jabs, crosses, and uppercuts in an effort to knock him out. I was getting tired and frustrated by this guy until he advanced and as we exchanged punches, I tripped over his feet as he hit me with a faint left jab. Now once again, I found myself on the canvas while the ref starting the count again. I was up and at him again, scoring blow after blow but was unable to knock him down.
Thoroughly exhausted, I sat on my stool watching the doctor decide whether to let him continue. I had opened a large cut in the soft tissue of his upper eyelid. He was cut and bleeding. I prayed they would call the fight. I dreaded the prospect of going back out there once again. My anger rose as I thought to myself this would not be happening to me if the Marines had let me train. Two weeks was all I wanted but no, being the Marine Corps I had to get my brains knocked out for duty and honor. My heart sank as I watched the doctor signal the referee to continue the fight.
Round three. By now we both were exhausted. He wanted no part of me, nor I of him. In my mind, I had lost the fight. A knockout in the first and a knockdown in the second is hard to overcome on points. Since I had no one in my corner (as my coach never forgave me for embarrassing him) I had no idea of how I was doing and therefore was left with my all doubts and my fears.
I could see my opponent also wanted to run out the clock. I had hurt him but not enough to win. All I could feel was my lungs sucking for air, fatigue, and anger.
The ref called us to fight or face a stalling call. Clashing with him again, we were exchanging punches when out of nowhere, I felt the familiar thud of a right cross into the side of my head. I stepped back and momentarily went blank. The ref quickly stood in front of me examining my eyes.
He asked, “How many fingers do you see?”
I said, “Three.”
“Are you ok?” He continued.
I said, “No. I quit. XXXX this!” Then walked over to my corner.
There were thirty-three seconds to go. His corner jumped into the ring and raised his hand. I could hear the booing from some of the fans. No doubt many of them were Marines. But I didn’t care. I was the one up here in the ring and not a spectator sitting on my ass in stands. Nevertheless, I had never felt as ashamed and humiliated in my life until the next morning.
The photo of myself and my opponent was sitting on the front page in the sports section of the Morning Star. It was taken as we were along the ropes just before the knockout punch was thrown.
The headlines read: “Boone upsets McLalan.” I quickly read the article which described the fight as a clear victory for me until the third and final round. It said that in spite of the knockout, I carried the first round on points. I carried the second round too because it was ruled that I had tripped and not knocked down. But it ended with the curious question of why did I quit in the third round? I could have lost the last round and still won the fight.
It turned out to be my last boxing match as the Marine Gunnery Sergeant was unable to send me south and the coach wanted no part of me. Though I fought my last fight as a boxer it was not the last fight I would have. I had other fights waiting for me in my future.
I returned a few months later and recounted the story to my father. The shock and disappointment he expressed over my quitting was beyond his comprehension to understand it. It pained me terribly to see what a disappointment I was to him, the Marines and myself.
Years later I told this story to a friend of mine. When I finished he said that it must have taken a lot guts to climb into the ring. My response was instantaneous. ”you’re damn right it takes guts. There is no reliever in the bullpen or a second string player on the bench. You are out alone until it ends.”
He looked at me with a puzzled expression and asked: “How come you never gave yourself any credit for it?”
I didn’t have an answer for him. I just didn’t know what to say.
Life can give you a second chance to redeem yourself or make something right. That chance came for me during a martial arts tournament when I was 42 years old. Fighting as a heavyweight in the senior men’s division, I stepped out onto the mat to meet my opponent.
We were instructed on the rules regarding point fighting. When a clean blow is made the action has to stop. Unlike boxing there is no follow through or counter punching. One blow, the point is scored and then we move onto to the next round.
Martial arts fighters tend to keep their hand wider apart than a boxer. Boxers hold their gloves in close because the only target is the body above the waist. Hands in martial arts tend to be wider apart as the legs become the first line of defense My opponent did just that but as he advanced towards me, I pushed in close to his body with my head down and gloves closed in to protect me, I saw the open breasts bone on his chest and slammed it with a punch. I heard the sharp sound of air exhaling from his lungs and looking at his feet I saw his knees weaken and buckle. “This guy is going down” ran through my mind and within a second or two his body fell to the mat like a sack sand.
Thud.
Immediately the referee pushed me back and pointing at me and declared that I was disqualified because I hit him too hard. It didn’t matter to me. What mattered to was the memory of my old opponent Mr. Boone. I walked off the mat and feel that in so many ways I made up for the mistake that I made that night in Okinawa. I felt like I no longer had something to prove.