The Real Thing (11 page)

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Authors: J.J. Murray

BOOK: The Real Thing
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He looks confused. “Like a crush?”
“Um, no.” I don't know why I'm stuck on this. “It would have been purely sexual.”
“No. I have had no flings. I believe love and sex must go hand in hand. No love, no sex.”
He made that perfectly clear. “But if there's love?”
“Yes. It is natural because of love.”
I wish he had a ceiling fan. I am burning up! I had better change the subject. “Um, what have you been doing for the last ten years?”
“You have seen it. Fishing, traveling, staying in shape.”
“Why do you fish so much?” I ask.
He nods. “A good question. I think I fish to teach myself more patience. When I was young, I rushed to my opponent and tried to beat him early. My opponents hit me a lot. Since I have been fishing, I have learned much patience. I am learning when to strike and when to fight. It is a way to calm me down.”
Hmm. That quote is okay. It might go better in
Field and Stream,
though. “Why did you disappear?”
“I have not disappeared.”
“Yes, you did,” I say. “For ten years, the world has known nothing about you.”
He shrugs. “What was there to know?”
Here's a strange question for a celebrity: “Was it easy to disappear?”
“It was easier than you think. Not many recognize me wearing clothes and without my boxing gloves.”
I think I would.
“It was okay to be anonymous,” he says.
Back to Evelyn. Discussing her will cool me off even more. “Over the last ten years, did you ever try to rekindle your romance with Evelyn?”
“It is what I am doing now,” he says. “More flowers, lots of visits. She says to stop the flowers. I send more. The waiting room in the emergency room at University Hospital is always so beautiful.”
I'll bet. I'm sure they appreciate all those dying flowers rotting in their emergency room. “Why are you making a comeback now?”
“I have already told you. To win Evelyn back.”
There has to be more to it than this. “Are you financially strapped?”
“No. I have made good investments. DJ is set for life.”
I sigh. “Dante, you have to help me out here. If I don't tell people the real reason you're making a comeback, I'll need to tell them something else, something reasonable. You
will
be making a lot of money for this fight.”
“I do not fight for money. I have never fought for money.”
I know . . . he fights for love, yadda, yadda, yadda. “Why
else
are you fighting then?”
“What other reasons are there?”
He
really
doesn't know! “I don't know. Say you needed a challenge. Say you were bored. Say you have a grudge against Washington. Say you're having a midlife crisis. Something like that.”
“Oh. I see. Hmm.” He dribbles the tennis ball around his back. “Tell them I wanted to be a hero to my son. Be a good father. Give him someone to look up to.”
“That's better,” I say.
“It is true, too,” he says.
I believe it. I flip back a few pages to my notes. “Um, where is your mother?”
“Heaven.”
That was a quick answer. “What was her name?”
“Connie, but her friends called her Con. What does that have to do with me now? It has been many years since she died.”
I shrug. “Just background, you know, in case my editor wants to know. When and how did she die?”
“Before I turned pro, when I was eighteen. She smoked a lot. Lung cancer. Dead at thirty-seven.”
That sucks. “Did she get to see you at the Olympic trials?”
“Yes. She saw me lose in the semifinals. Then she died.”
In that order. Geez, I'll bet he blames himself for her death. “Do you still feel guilty about that?”
“A little. She was very sick. She should not have been traveling. Next question.”
I can't leave this line of questioning alone. This is crucial. “What kind of a woman was your mother?”
He smiles. “Best cook. Worked at Monte's Venetian Room. Never learned English. Never needed to learn. Carroll Gardens was like that. Sitting out on the stoop, she could talk to anyone. That was a long time ago. The neighborhood has changed. Cammareri Brothers Bakery is gone. Not so much Italian heard on the stoops. Mama would not like it as much.”
Good stuff. I underline this quote. “What about your father?”
“I do not speak of him.”
“Is he still alive?”
“I do not care.
Non importa.
”
He's not getting off that easily. “When did he leave?”
“I told you. I do not speak of him. Next question.”
I think of the hairy man in the picture. “Did he serve in Vietnam?”
Silence.
“Did he die there?”
“No. That is all I will talk about him. What does he have to do with me?”
It could mean a lot from the attitude he's giving me. “His absence doesn't motivate you in any way?”
“No.”
I will definitely have to research his father. Right now, though, I need to calm Dante down before he breaks that ball. “You're a wonderful father, Dante. I've been meaning to tell you.”
Silence.
“I mean, you're DJ's older brother, friend, confidant, trainer.... It's a rare thing.”
“It is the right thing.”
That
will be in any story I write about this man. “I agree. Do you get to spend as much time with him as you want?”
“I see him often enough.”
“No, I mean when he's away. He spends the school year with Evelyn, right?”
“I have an apartment in Syracuse. I see him often.”
Two houses, okay,
cottages,
and an apartment. Dante isn't hurting for money. “Do you see him as often as you'd like?”
“No. I am working on that.”
Dante is a psychologist's dream. He seems to be trying to reunite his current family because something tore his old family apart. I decide to change the subject again. “Why boxing?”
“Che?”
I don't mean to confuse him, but I find I'm most effective if I use no transition—or logic, sometimes—when I'm interviewing people. This method often catches people off guard, and they say things without thinking. “Of all the sports in the world, why did you choose boxing?”
Dante's eyes light up. “I was skinny.” He moves over to the opposite couch. “I was the smallest boy at school. There was this
bravaccio
named Franco. He chased me like dogs chase cars.”
Very cool quote. “So you jogged to school.”
“I
ran
to school. I was small, but I was
rapido.
Franco was
obeso.
He could only run so far. At school, though, it was not so easy. Very narrow hallways.”
“So . . . you started boxing to stand up to Franco?”
“At first.” He smiles. “I hit him only once in his
stom-aco
. He left me alone. This was before Gleason's Gym.”
Which begs the question . . . “When did you start training at Gleason's?”
“I just showed up one day after school. I was thirteen. Two miles to school, four miles to Gleason's, three miles home, nine miles a day I run.”
Geez, that's over . . . two
thousand
miles a year! “You must have been exhausted!”
“I do not get tired.”
I believe it. “Why Gleason's?”
“Gleason's is the best. Jake LaMotta, Rocky Graziano, Floyd Patterson, Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Roy Jones, Pernell Whitaker, Carmen Basilio, Arturo Gatti—they all trained there. They were the best. I wanted to be the best.”
Gleason's was also where Clint Eastwood trained Hilary Swank in
Million Dollar Baby,
a “best” picture. “Didn't you help out with Give a Kid a Dream?” Give a Kid a Dream is a program aimed at giving disadvantaged kids a chance to box.
“Yeah. I miss that. I should go back and help them train. Gleason's gave me a chance, so I should give back. There is a new generation of tough Brooklyn kids out there that could be champions. They are already running the streets. I'd like to make sure that running counts for something.”
This man is rare, and these aren't just empty words. He is already one of the biggest contributors to the program, even though he hasn't stepped foot in Gleason's in ten years. I believe Dante
will
go back, not just say he will go back. I star these quotes for my longer piece. “Why aren't you training at Gleason's now?”
“I am not a champion.”
In other words, he's embarrassed to show his face there. “Plenty of former champions train there.”
“I do not like that word ‘former.' It diminishes me. Once a champion, always a champion.”
“But a champion without a nickname,” I say. “Why do you think it took so long for you to get a nickname? I mean, you were the reigning champ for nearly six years.”
“My fans, they tried. They called me the Carroll Gardens Brawler. It did not stick.”
“Gardens . . . brawler. Kind of incompatible.” If he were from Red Hook, just one neighborhood over, he could be the Left Hook from Red Hook. I wonder if anyone ever thought to call him Dante Inferno Lattanza. He's certainly fiery enough. “Um, how frustrated were you that it took so long in your attempt to unify the title?”
“It was an outrage,” he says, his face getting red. “They always had some excuse. They wanted more money, they wanted a different ring, they did not like the referee, they wanted to use different gloves, they would rather fight in Las Vegas or Atlantic City, they had injuries. They were afraid of me in my prime. They were not true champions.”
“At least you tried,” I say. “You are one of the few who tried. How did you know . . .
When
did you know you were any good at boxing?”
“I still do not think I am that good,” he says.
Vain one minute and humble the next.
“I am not like those champions,” he continues. “I am, as you said, not as skilled.
Sangue e budelle.
Blood and guts. I have always been this. When I was little, I asked to fight the biggest fighters. They laughed at me but gave me a chance. I went home bloody, but no one ever knocked me down. No one. No one ever will.”
I can't dispute that. “What was your greatest moment?”
“Holding Dante Junior for the first time,” he says immediately.
I will use this quote, too. “I meant . . .”
“I know what you meant. Is not all about boxing with me. Boxing put money in my pocket to put food on the table, have a place to live. Is a job.
Occupazione.
Is all about writing for you?”
Well . . . yeah. For the most part. I can't tell him that, though. “No. I get to travel, meet interesting people, and learn about life.” Pop crayfish out of fish carcasses, get popped in the face . . .
He leans forward. “What was
your
greatest moment, Christiana?”
Ah. He's probing me now. I decide to be coy. “I haven't had it yet.”
“A wise answer. DJ says you are
saggia.
”
“What do you think?”
He moves over to my couch and sits at the other end. “I think you are sneaky. You are flirting with me, yes?”
The fire is hot, but his words are hotter. “A little.”
“
Bugiardo terribile.
You are a terrible liar.”
“Maybe.” I moisten my lips. “You, um, keep getting closer to me. Have you been flirting with me?”
“
Sì
.”
I shouldn't have worn these sweats. I'm, um, sweating. “Why? I thought you were fighting for love.”
“I am.”
Doesn't he see the obvious contradiction? “Yet you flirt with me.”
“I have a good reason to flirt,” he says. “I did not flirt with
giornalisti
in the past and they wrote lies about me. I flirt with you so you will tell the truth. Agreed? Is this why you flirt with me? To get me to tell you all my
pensieri seg-reti
, my secret thoughts?”
For some reason, I think this Brooklyn boy is working me instead of the other way around. “Maybe.”
“Ah.
Saggia.
”
“And maybe I'm flirting because . . . you . . .”
Stop right there, Miss Artis.
You do not want to go here.
This man is still in love with his ex.
He is
pericoloso, sì
, but you have more sense than this.
You cannot get involved.
Oh, sure, this is a romantic spot, he's just a few feet from you, he's looking sexy, you're sweating....
“Because I what?”
Don't answer.
Be
saggia
.
This has happened to you before.
Several hot celebs have come on to you like this, one while his sleaze of a girlfriend was sitting right there. He probably wanted a threesome.
You can do this, Christiana.
Don't give in to those eyes.
He moves closer, less than an arm's length away.
But he's hot, and I'm hot for him. He isn't married, right? She's not around. We're alone. We're consenting adults. Red vacated the house just so this would happen, didn't he? Go with the damn flow!
I sigh, shut up the journalist in me, and put down my notebook.

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