Classic Poem

A Fragment

" Final star bout! " the referee bawls,
" Ten rounds to a finish! We have — (catcalls)
Over here Kid Ketchel of New York — and here
The pride of Duluth, K. O. Kelly! " A cheer
Slashed through the smoke, ripped the roof off; the mob
Shrieked, whistled, went wild; some fan faked a sob;
Then they all booed and baited the Kid as he sat
Nervously jerking his glove-strings and spat
Into the sawdust. The dirt and the din
Were eating him up. . . . His lips licked a grin. . . .
Some roughneck sneered, " Who brung the chorus man in? "
Another bird chirped, " Ain't he got lovely skin? "

By now the Kid's feet were drumming the floor;
That crowd of toughs was beginning to roar
For blood: and in the Kid's corner a spatter
Left from the last preliminary matter
Of fifteen minutes of sheer bloodshed —
The Kleig lights kept drilling down on his head. . . .
Then the bell clanked; the Kid sprang cool:
Knockout Kelly tore off his stool;
And that whole bloody house yelled like a fool.
The Duluth Demon was all hopped up for a flash
As he swung a bone-crusher and split an old gash
Over the Kid's left eye; and the Kid
Feinted, then shot a right hook that just skid
An inch too high on the Knockout King's ear
Or the quarrel would have ended right then and there.
The crowd went crazy; they yelled and rose
Yelling for a knockout, yanked to their toes
Like a wolf pack snarling at the rumps of buffaloes.
K. O. Kelly dove into a clinch and held
As groggy as hell while the fight fans yelled
For the Kid to polish him off. He chopped
Loose and hooked with a short jab that dropped
The lad from Duluth to the resined mat:
The referee starts counting; the Kelly sprawls flat:
" One — two — three — four — five — six. " ... Mr. Kelly
Rocks himself slowly around on his belly. . . .
" Seven — " He pivots on one knee and spins
Punch-drunk and tottering onto his pins.

The Kid laughs out loud and measures him off
With his left, while the Irishman reels in the trough
Of the squared ring; and then, as the Kid gears to crash
The sleep-wallop home, that reopened gash
Over his eye sends a sudden red mist
Blindingly down: he flounders, his fist
Fumbles his staggering antagonist;
He plunges head-on to the ropes. . . . Someone hissed
" C'mon Kelly! Kill the bum! Don't let him stall! "
The crowd caught it up and howled through the hall.
The Kid straightened just as the going struck and took
A smash to the heart and a vicious right hook
To the head. . . . It loosed bedlam: the whole building shook
With the pounding of chairs and the yodeling and yelling
Of curses, foul oaths, filthy cracks that no telling
Could tell; the banana peel, peanut shelling,
Spit balls, paper darts, gum wads that went flying
All over the place; and the odors defying
The dirtiest adjective; body-vent seeping
Into the stale stench of smoke shifting, creeping
Sullen and sodden through the dank, flat air;
The alcohol cough, phlegm retched everywhere;
The belching; and somewhere the splashing of stinking
Tobacco juice, somewhere the smell of men drinking.

In the Kid's corner the handlers were busy:
Rocco the Wop, Lefty Spanish, and Izzy
Callahan (nee Kaplan) who had cooked not a few
Welters in his day, as clever a Jew
As ever stood in toe to toe with a slugger
Or sliced through the strangle-hold of a hugger.
In Kelly's corner the ammonia sponge
Fumed at the Irishman's nostrils; the lunge
Of the towels was lashing him back to a sort
Of second-wind frenzy: he met the report
Of the gong with a one-two that made the Kid snort
And paw at the powdered mat like a bull
Weaving and wobbling in the hot lull. . . .

Then Kelly was on him all primed up to pull
The hay-maker off; he rushed him; the Kid
Back-pedaled, dug under, bored in, and then slid
On the slippery canvas; but Kelly in lopes
Bounded atop him, and, roughed to the ropes,
The Kid grunted as Kelly pumped blow upon blow
That cracked like a piston; he covered to throw
The threat off; the crowd ki-yied; the K. O.
Hung for the crash. . . . But Kelly hit low,
And the Kid caved in, his knees slowly sagged
Under his weight like a buck that's been bagged.
The mob hissed the Kelly; they razzed him and ragged
The referee who, taking one look at the Kid,
The whites of his eyes fishing under the lid,
Raises his arms and starts counting him out;
But at " eight " the Kid groans and, stung by the shout,
Lurches to his legs with the snarl of a beast,
Eyes bloodshot and narrowed and needled, mouth creased
On the pain, teeth biting it back. . . . Then the bell —
But not before he had unleashed a short L.
That shoot K. O. Kelly like a shot out of hell
And drove the fight fans to their feet with one yell!

They worked on the Kid: his seconds unlaced
The blood-spotted gloves while the youngster grimaced
And went livid when they kneaded him down to the waist;
But his stomach was muscled and ridged as hard
As a chilled steel washboard, though mottled and barred
With blotches of crimson. . . . Kelly's handlers were set
Feverishly on one point: at all costs to get
Their man through the third session somehow; they'd bet
He would last that long; and in no mood to let
His battered half-conscious gorilla tin-can
Out of the brawl, his manager began
Slashing through bandage and tape with a pale
Sneer as he pushed the knife under the nail — —
And Kelly, screaming with the pain, came to,
Moaning like a wounded animal, blue
Ash in his color, a-quiver and wet
With the shock, dripping arnica and sweat. . . .

Then once more the bell foraged with its tongue
Licking at metal: the Kid took the gong
On his toes and was almost in Kelly's corner
Before Kelly, bullet-head hunched for a horner,
Ducked, and butting the Kid in the wind,
Swung him round gasping for breath as he pinned
The lad to the ropes. . . . The arena dinned,
Roaring in his ears. . . . The referee warned Kelly
On the break-away; but no use, for now that whole smelly
House was with him, fight fair or fight foul,
As they menaced the referee; and howl after howl
Greeted the Irishman who struck the Kid reeling
With everything but the arc-lamps and the ceiling.

Had he packed a little more steam in the leather
The Kid would never have been able to weather
That insane barrage, for all his tough loin
And tough heart; that recent right lunge to the groin
Was telling on him: it had broken his nerve;
But there's something, when strength oozes out, that will serve
For strength: and the Kid, buckling up in a curve
Of bicep and bone, shot a crazy left flush
To the button of the jaw! ... You could hear the swift hush
That fell on the crowd as Kelly keeled over
Kissing the reddened mat like a lover....
The referee had minutes and minutes to spare
Till the brute, glassy-eyed, came up coughing for air.