Read Online William F. Buckley Jr. by Brothers No More - Free Book Online
Authors: Brothers No More
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theater and was in on the landing at Nettuno. But it was successful, initially at any rate; surprise landing—you probably read about it. It was the Navy that delivered an Army corps in what was really total secrecy. It wasn’t the Navy’s fault that the ground commanders were too timid to exploit the opportunity before them. Kesselring had nothing in the area, largely due to the fact that the Navy conducted a highly successful diversionary landing at Civitavecchia, sixty miles to the north. Here at West Point do you get any training in naval warfare, or does that come only after you get to be a colonel or something?”
The maneuver worked. It helped that the cadet, it transpired, was the son of a naval captain. For the rest of the lunch they fought happily the naval war, 1944–45, and Henry minded not at all when the action moved to the Pacific.
The Yale bus drove to the Greyhound station and when it stopped there to let Henry out, his teammates cheered him. He grinned broadly and, putting his gym kit down on the ground, gave his teammates the boxer’s triumphal hands-clenched-over-head salute, and went then to the ticket window to buy a ticket to New York.
The old gray bus was on time, and he worked his way to the rear. It was not crowded, but he did not want to risk sitting down within earshot of the gray-haired scrawny driver who listened to the baseball game on his portable radio as he punched the tickets. Henry was not in a mood for offhand conversation with the driver, or indeed with any one of the dozen riders sitting about the bus, men and women of all ages bound for New York for whatever reason. As the bus moved along on the western shore of the Hudson River, Henry observed offhandedly the light water traffic on the river. But there were a few sailboats, happily confirming the arrival of spring.
It was a good thing that he was unaccompanied, he reflected, since he had no intention of going to the prizefight. He wasworking in his own way, systematically, to overcome his fear of physical violence and he was making progress in his own deliberate, deliberated way. It is one thing, he told himself, to hit another student with a well-padded glove in a college gymnasium, something else to do the kind of thing that would be done at Madison Square Garden in pursuit of a half-million-dollar purse. He had seen enough newsreels of the great fights in which Joe Louis had been boxing’s king almost as long as Henry could remember. Louis was a good clean fighter and often he knocked out his opponent, but almost always there was blood and pain and flesh mutilation. When this happened on the screen Henry would close his eyes, and no one would notice. He would hardly go to see the real thing and run the risk of closing his eyes.
What he would do was listen carefully to the fight over the radio and read accounts of the fight by the sportswriters and—he thought this would be an amusing exercise—perhaps go on and write a column for the
Yale Daily News
on what it had been like, live on Saturday at Madison Square Garden. He smiled confidently. His piece would be full of local color. “At the opening of the third round the fat lady in the front row stood up on her seat and screamed, ‘Kill him, Joe! Kill him!’ She ran a far greater risk of getting killed than Joe Walcott.” That kind of thing. Who would contradict him? He could pick up some of what he needed in the way of atmosphere by listening intently to the radio.
He walked with some excitement across town from the bus station outside the Dixie Hotel and soaked in the excitement of what surely was the most vibrant city on earth. Everyone seemed to strain to welcome the summer. He walked on Forty-second Street and headed west. The streets were being cleaned and a spray truck passed by, dampening the afternoon dust. On Broadway the whole world lit up in front of him, and he remembered his very first sight of it as a little boy, and his settled conviction that he was
The maneuver worked. It helped that the cadet, it transpired, was the son of a naval captain. For the rest of the lunch they fought happily the naval war, 1944–45, and Henry minded not at all when the action moved to the Pacific.
The Yale bus drove to the Greyhound station and when it stopped there to let Henry out, his teammates cheered him. He grinned broadly and, putting his gym kit down on the ground, gave his teammates the boxer’s triumphal hands-clenched-over-head salute, and went then to the ticket window to buy a ticket to New York.
The old gray bus was on time, and he worked his way to the rear. It was not crowded, but he did not want to risk sitting down within earshot of the gray-haired scrawny driver who listened to the baseball game on his portable radio as he punched the tickets. Henry was not in a mood for offhand conversation with the driver, or indeed with any one of the dozen riders sitting about the bus, men and women of all ages bound for New York for whatever reason. As the bus moved along on the western shore of the Hudson River, Henry observed offhandedly the light water traffic on the river. But there were a few sailboats, happily confirming the arrival of spring.
It was a good thing that he was unaccompanied, he reflected, since he had no intention of going to the prizefight. He wasworking in his own way, systematically, to overcome his fear of physical violence and he was making progress in his own deliberate, deliberated way. It is one thing, he told himself, to hit another student with a well-padded glove in a college gymnasium, something else to do the kind of thing that would be done at Madison Square Garden in pursuit of a half-million-dollar purse. He had seen enough newsreels of the great fights in which Joe Louis had been boxing’s king almost as long as Henry could remember. Louis was a good clean fighter and often he knocked out his opponent, but almost always there was blood and pain and flesh mutilation. When this happened on the screen Henry would close his eyes, and no one would notice. He would hardly go to see the real thing and run the risk of closing his eyes.
What he would do was listen carefully to the fight over the radio and read accounts of the fight by the sportswriters and—he thought this would be an amusing exercise—perhaps go on and write a column for the
Yale Daily News
on what it had been like, live on Saturday at Madison Square Garden. He smiled confidently. His piece would be full of local color. “At the opening of the third round the fat lady in the front row stood up on her seat and screamed, ‘Kill him, Joe! Kill him!’ She ran a far greater risk of getting killed than Joe Walcott.” That kind of thing. Who would contradict him? He could pick up some of what he needed in the way of atmosphere by listening intently to the radio.
He walked with some excitement across town from the bus station outside the Dixie Hotel and soaked in the excitement of what surely was the most vibrant city on earth. Everyone seemed to strain to welcome the summer. He walked on Forty-second Street and headed west. The streets were being cleaned and a spray truck passed by, dampening the afternoon dust. On Broadway the whole world lit up in front of him, and he remembered his very first sight of it as a little boy, and his settled conviction that he was
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