Read Online Portraits by Cynthia Freeman - Free Book Online Page B

You got a forrtune in them, me boyo.” The older man laughed.
    “In my fists?”
    “And that ain’t no lie.”
    Jacob was beginning to get interested. “Explain it to me.”
    “You been to a prize fight, ain’t ya?”
    “No.” Jacob shook his head.
    “You was never at a fight?”
    “Never.”
    “Well, now me boy, how would you like to be going with me? I go ever’ Tuesday and Thursday nights.”
    “How would going to a fight make me money?”
    “Let me tell you what I have in mind. I think you ought to be thinking about gettin’ into the game. There’s a lot in it.”
    Jacob took a look at his hands. He could make money with them? The man said they were worth a fortune. If he was telling the truth then that would mean he could bring Lotte over sooner. And what was going to school compared with that?
    “Where is this place?” Jacob asked eagerly.
    “On Chrystie Street there’s a big gym. It ain’t Madison Square Garden, but that’s where some of the big ones got started.”
    Thoughtfully, Jacob took out the corned beef sandwich and offered half to the Irishman. As the two men ate, Jacob thought, this really is a wonderful country. Where else could a Jew and an Irishman become friends? Although Jacob was not yet aware of it, Patrick Michael O’Leary and Jacob Sandsonitsky had just become partners in a new venture.
    When Tuesday finally arrived Jacob was filled with an assortment of guilts. He knew his mother would object to his going to a prize fight…she didn’t believe in fights of any kind. She would object to his getting involved with what she thought were bums and lowlifes, and she would certainly forbid him to mingle socially with goyim . They drank whiskey, smoked cigarettes, slept with bad women; in short, they were without morals. For two thousand years, the Jews had lived with a rigid code of morality, but the goyim were so mixed up they didn’t even know who God was. They worshipped idols, pagans, like in Egypt.
    Jacob left his mother to meet Patrick with many misgivings.
    He sat on the wooden bench next to Patrick, listening to the sounds and repulsed by the sights. The crowds roared as an upper right landed, hitting the opponent so hard he hung like a doll on the ropes, then dropped to the canvas. Two new contenders replaced the last. Again the bell rang and the fighters came together. There was a brutal foray.
    It seemed to Jacob the referee took his time in separating the fighters. One to the right, then the left, short jabs to the kidneys, then biff, bang, one to the jaw, and it was over as the winner held up his arms clasping his hands together over his head. Shifting gracefully from one foot to the other, he laughed triumphantly. The crowd went wild.
    Jacob despised it. This was not a contest; it was a savage, pagan rite, it was the Roman arena, the pogroms. He looked around at the evil delight on the faces of the spectators. They wanted blood. And this is what men did for money?
    On the way out Patrick said, “Well, boyo, now you saw your first prize fight. That’s what you call sportin’ fun.” When Jacob didn’t answer, Patrick smiled and said, “You thought it was a little too much, did ya? Well, let me tell you, me bucko, life ain’t exactly a circus.” Laughing, he cuffed Jacob on the arm and added, “The first time it might seem a little rough, but the next time it won’t seem so—”
    “There won’t be a next time,” Jacob answered quietly.
    “Ho, now, me boy. Weren’t you the one sayin’ just the other day how much you wanted to make more money?”
    “Yes, but I didn’t think that a prize fight was—”
    “Let me stop you right now. What you saw tonight was the manly art of self-defense. Now you just think about it, me boy. I’ve been around fighting all me life, and let me tell you, if I had your body and those hands instead of being the leprechaun I am, I’d have been in that ring tonight. Now I’m strong enough, mind you, to work the way I do. Make