Before I Forget

1

In the basement below the arena, four hefty men laid Ricky “Bronco” Campione on the long wooden table in the locker room. His upper arms, elbows, forearms and gloved hands lolled over the side of the table.

Bruises had swollen both eyes shut. Both eyebrows seeped blood that trickled down both sides of his face to both temples. His nose lay to the left at a peculiar angle. His chin and left jaw sported friction burns.

Bronco’s right ear, currently a bright, cherry red, held its normal position and shape. The right one was cherry red too along the outer edges, but the center was the same pallid grey-white it had assumed after soon after it went cauliflower a few years earlier.

When he felt the table under his back, Bronco flinched. His left wrist and shoulder flexed as if trying to flash into a sharp hook. Then the wrist relaxed and he rocked his head slightly. “Hey, hey, before I forget, t’anks, guys.”

Bronco’s trainer, Michael Tatlione, frowning with concern, unconsciously straightened the black tie hanging loosely in a Y over his white shirt, which was open at the collar. His suitcoat still hung on a metal hook above the bench along the wall where he’d left it before the fight. The thick stub of a cigar protruded from his mouth.

He removed the cigar with his thumb and forefinger and wagged that hand in the direction of the four men, three of whom had already turned for the door. Quietly, he growled, “Gowan, yous.”

The doctor, who had approached the table even as the trainer shooed the men away, said, “They heard you, Mr. Campione. How do you feel?”

“Hey, that’s the doc, right?” Bronco smiled, though his bottom lip, the left side of which had swollen to the size of a thumb, almost disallowed it. “Hey, before I forget, Doc, I feel good, y’know? You know, considerin’.” He rocked his head side to side for a moment. “Hey, Doc, before I forget, my wife an’ baby, they’re a’right, yeah?”

The doctor glanced down over Bronco’s chest to his abdomen. Both were similarly pockmarked with bright red splotches, some of which were turning blue around the edges. That was to be expected. One bruise, midway down the ribcage on the left side, was already blue, a little swollen, and going purple. Probably a busted rib. That was fine too as long as the fighter didn’t move around too much before they could get it wrapped.

“They’re fine now, Mr. Campione.” But the noticeable swelling on the left side of the abdomen—that concerned him. “You know that was a few years ago, right?”

“Oh yeah. A few years ago. Right. ‘At’s good, right? T’anks, Doc. Hey, ‘at’s good.” Bronco paused and tried to frown. “Why’s ‘at good?”

“They weren’t with you tonight, Mr. Campione. You weren’t in a traffic accident this time. You were in a fight. A boxing match, remember?”

“Oh.” Bronco’s eyebrows moved slightly closer to each other as he tried to frown. “Yeah? So that’s all, eh? Only a fight?” He paused and tried to chuckle, but he erupted into a coughing fit. Blood speckled with transparent reddish-pink air bubbles spattered over his chin and chest. When the coughing subsided, he said, “I fight too much, don’t I, Doc? Only we ain’t in no hospital, right? So we’re good, right? See? I get it.”

The doctor almost smiled. “No, Mr. Campione, we aren’t in a hospital just yet. We’re in the locker room below the ring.”

“Oh. Yeah yeah, the ring. Right. I got her a beeyoutiful ring, Doc. I mean, it wasn’t as big as she deserved.” He tried to shrug and managed a little with his right shoulder. “You know. Who can afford that? I mean, to get ‘em what they deserve? But she said it was nice anyways.”

“I’m glad, Mr. Campione. She seemed like a sweet young woman. It was Amy, right?”

“Yeah, my sweet Amy. Yeah, she is. What a looker, eh? An’ ‘en she gave me my little girl.” He tried to chuckle again, and again he coughed and spewed blood. When it subsided, he said, “How can us guys compete with any’a that, eh?”

The doctor didn’t respond. Instead, putting off the bigger problem until later, he pressed on the right side of Bronco’s abdomen. “Tell me, Mr. Campione, any pain here?”

“But hey, dat’s good. So th’ wreck wasn’t so bad, eh? Hey, speakin’ of which, my wife an’ my little girl. They’re all right, yeah?”

A little gruffly, the doctor said, “They’re fine, Mr. Campione.” He frowned. “Tell me, do you feel any pain?”

Bronco tried a smile again. “Heh. Hey, only everywhere, am I right?” He tried to chuckle again, coughed once, and caught himself.

“I mean do you feel any extra pain where I’m pressing?”

“Nah, no pain like that.” Again he tried to frown. “Where you pressin’, Doc?”

The doctor pressed again. “Here.”

“Yeah? Oh yeah, on my gut, right? Nah, hey, no extra pain there.”

The doctor moved his fingers to the left side. As he pressed again, he said, “How about he—”

“Oww! Hey!” Bronco’s abdominal muscles contracted as he attempted to sit up, but he was unable to rise from the table.

The trainer needlessly put one palm on Bronco’s left shoulder. Quietly, he said, “Take it easy, kid. It’s a’right. You’ doin’ good.”

Bronco grunted. He rolled his head to the left and forced a smile. “Sure, sure.” He paused. “Micky, right? Micky Tats? Hey, you ain’t connected, right? Some’a the guys say you’re connected.”

The trainer glanced quickly at the doctor, then back to Bronco. “Hey, if I was connected, why would I be wastin’ my time on my favorite fighter, eh?”

Bronco seemingly ignored that. He shifted his head slightly, the half-smile still on his face. “Hey, you tryin’a hurt me down there, Doc? Don’t hurt me, a’right? I’m your favorite customer, am I right? Eh?”

The doctor smiled in spite of himself. “At the moment, you’re my only customer, Mr. Campione.”

“Yeah, good. Hey, you’re slick, y’know? But I get’ya.” Bronco paused and tried to frown. “But hey, Doc, before I forget, my wife an’ my baby girl, they’re doin’ a’right, right?”

“They’re fine, Mr. Campione.” The doctor eyed the swelling on the left side of Bronco’s abdomen again. It was larger. He frowned, then looked at the trainer and nodded.

The trainer turned away and started for the wall phone next to the door.

“Hey, could’ya put my gloves up on th’ table, Tats? They’re weighin’ on my arms.”

The doctor turned, took a step, and reached to raise Broncho’s left arm onto the table. Halfway up, he stopped. Bronco’s left temple was swelling too. It was almost touching his ear.

He glanced in the direction of the phone. Calmly, he said, “Mr. Tatlione, tell them there is a doctor present and he said to please rush.” He lifted Bronco’s arm and glove and laid them on the table, then walked to the other side of the table and did the same with the right arm and glove. He glanced down at Bronco. “Is that better, Mr. Campione?”

Across the room, the trainer turned away from the phone, held up his right hand, and splayed his fingers, then rotated the hand slightly. The ambulance would arrive in five minutes, more or less.

Bronco muttered, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s better. T’anks, Tats. It’s good to have ‘em safe again. I gotta take care of ‘em, am I right? My wife, my Amy, she ain’t but 23, y’know? An’ the baby, she’s only almost one. Damn guy. Damn lousy guy ran a damn light. Damn lousy guy t-boned us, y’know? An’ right on Amy’s side’a th’ car! I should’a... Oh!” He rocked his head side to side. “I should’a... I really should’a....”

The sentence died away as Broncho lapsed into sleep. His left arm and glove slipped off the table again.

The trainer released Bronco’s shoulder and moved to raise the left arm and glove again.

Wide eyed, the doctor rushed past him. He yelled, “Mr. Campione? Mr. Campione!” In a possible breach both ethics and safety, he shoved hard on Bronco’s left shoulder with both hands. “Mr. Campione!”

The trainer looked at Bronco for a brief moment, then lifted the arm and glove. He rested the glove against his chest and started untying it.

The doctor checked beneath Bronco’s chin, first for a long moment on the left side. Then for a briefer time on the right.

He stepped away for a moment, shook his head, and glanced at the white clock in the round black circle on the pale-green wall of the locker room. It was 6:03. Just as if it mattered, but the paramedics would want to know. If they ever arrived. It was 6:03.

He watched what the trainer was doing, then walked past Bronco’s bruised, swollen face to the right side of the table. He lifted the arm and started untying the right glove.

The trainer glanced over and nodded, then slipped off the left glove and dropped it behind him on the floor. He put the left arm and hand gently back on the table.

*******