Ham On Rye

25

Curly Wagner picked out Morris Moscowitz. It was after school and eight or ten of us guys had heard about it and we walked out behind the gym to watch. Wagner laid down the rules, "We fight until somebody hollers quit."

"0. K. with me," said Morris. Morris was a tall thin guy, he was a little bit dumb and he never said much or bothered anybody.

Wagner looked over at me. "And after I finish with this guy, I'm taking you on!"

" Me, coach?"

"Yeah, you, Chinaski."

I sneered at him.

"I'm going to get some god-damned respect from you guys if I have to whip all of you one by one!"

Wagner was cocky. He was always working out on the parallel bars or tumbling on the mat or taking laps around the track. He swaggered when he walked but he still had his pot belly. He liked to stand and stare at a guy for a long time like he was shit. I didn't know what was bothering him. We worried him. I believe he thought we were fucking all the girls like crazy and he didn't like to think about that.

They squared off. Wagner had some good moves. He bobbed, he weaved, he shuffled his feet, he moved in and out, and he made little hissing sounds. He was impressive. He caught Moscowitz with three straight left jabs. Moscowitz just stood there with his hands at his sides. He didn't know anything about boxing. Then Wagner cracked Moscowitz with a right to the jaw. "Shit!" said Morris and he threw a roundhouse right which Wagner ducked. Wagner countered with a right and left to Moscowitz' face. Morris had a bloody nose. "Shit!" he said and then he started swinging. And landing. You could hear the shots, they cracked against Wagner's head. Wagner tried to counter but his punches just didn't have the force and the fury of Moscowitz'.

"Holy shit! Get him, Morrie!"

Moscowitz was a puncher. He dug a left to that pot belly. Wagner gasped and dropped. He fell to both knees. His face was cut and bleeding. His chin was on his chest and he looked sick.

"I quit," Wagner said.

We left him there behind the building and we followed Morris Moscowitz out of there. He was our new hero.

"Shit, Morrie, you ought to turn pro!"

"Naw, I'm only thirteen years old."

We walked over behind the machine shop and stood around the steps. Somebody lit up some cigarettes and we passed them around.

"What has that man got against us?" asked Morrie.

"Hell, Morrie, don't you know? He's jealous. He thinks we're fucking all the chicks!"

"Why, I've never even kissed a girl."

"No shit, Morrie?"

"No shit."

"You ought to try dry-fucking, Morrie, it's great!"

Then we saw Wagner walking past. He was working on his face with his handkerchief.

"Hey, coach," yelled one of the guys, "how about a rematch?"

He stood and looked at us. "You boys put out those cigarettes!"

"Ah, no, coach, we like to smoke!"

"Come on over here, coach, and make us put out our cigarettes!"

"Yeah, come on, coach!"

Wagner stood looking at us. "I'm not done with you yet! I'll get every one of you, one way or the other!"

"How ya gonna do that, coach? Your talents seem limited."

"Yeah, coach, how ya gonna do it?"

He walked off the field to his car. I felt a little sorry for him. When a guy was that nasty he should be able to back it up.

"I guess he doesn't think there'll be a virgin on the grounds by the time we graduate," said one of the guys.

"I think," said another guy, "that somebody jacked-off into his ear and he has come for brains."

We left after that. It had been a fairly good day.