On the Ropes

ON THE ROPES©

By Pete Birle

Sometimes, you just don’t see it coming.

Ding!

Both my opponent and I stopped in mid-punch, conditioned as we were to freeze upon hearing that bell. We turned away from each other and started walking toward our respective corners. I was soaking wet and breathing heavily, my mouthpiece protruding from my lips. Instinctively, I tried to get more air to go into my mouth and, subsequently, my lungs. To those watching, it looked like I was having a hard time doing it. I was.

As I made my way to my corner, I looked down at my trunks. The black trim had begun to bleed onto my white shorts, my perspiration causing them to turn dull grey. I glanced across the ring. My opponent, wearing solid gold trunks, did not seem winded at all. He arrived at his corner a full three steps ahead of me. He had hardly broken a sweat.

“One more round, and he’s ours, TJ,” said his trainer, loud enough for me to hear. Trey Jackson’s cornerman turned his head sideways as he wiggled in through the ropes, carrying a three-legged stool. “C’mon, now!” he said even louder. On the other side of the ring, the conversation in my corner wasn’t as loud — or as upbeat.

“Listen to me, Johnny,” began Coach Mejia, in his thick, Colombian accent. “You’re running out of gas. … and out of time. If you’re gonna do this, you’ve got to do it now!”

I looked at my trainer with half-closed eyes. “I know,” I said. “I know.”

“Then, what are you gonna do, Collins?” asked Coach Mejia, rising up off one knee and onto his feet.

“Throw the left hook and follow up with a straight right,” I said between gasps of air.

“And keep doing it until you knock him out,” said my coach. “That’s the only way you’re going to win this thing. You got it?”

“I got it,” I said, trying hard to peel my eyes open.

Ding! I jumped up off my stool and, to those in attendance, I must have appeared to come back to life. I met the taller Jackson in the middle of the ring with a ferocious left hook to start the round, but the slick southpaw was waiting for it. He blocked it with his right forearm and, at the same time, he unleashed a left aimed directly at my forehead. I don’t know who knew it other than my trainer, but I had planned the whole thing. I knew that my big left hook would be spotted and blocked, and Jackson would come back with his signature punch, the straight left. Using my smaller size to my advantage, I ducked the left and, from a half crouch, shot a right uppercut that nailed Jackson flush on the chin. His legs gave out, and he fell hard. Before the ref even began to count, he waved his hands over TJ’s head, signaling the end to the bout. Although victorious, I collapsed on the ropes, exhausted, while the ref grabbed my arm and raised it. As he did, I looked over to my corner, where Coach Mejia and my best friend, Gil, were smiling and clapping. I then glanced into the crowd, a small group assembled on one side of the ring. Nope, there was no sign of him. My father hadn’t come. … again.

The air filled with the sounds of trainers shouting commands in Spanish and Portuguese. One could easily make the mistake and think he was in a gym south of the border. Not me. I knew where I was — right in the middle of the largest Portuguese community in the country, inside a city boasting the largest Latino population in the state. And I knew what I was hearing. I had grown up listening to these languages all day, every day. As one of the only Irish-American kids left on his block, let alone in all of Down Neck, I was comfortable among my Caribbean, Central, South and Portuguese-American neighbors. And I was most at home in old Pete Finn’s gym, where my best friend, Gilberto Oliveira, and I trained.

Gil and I started boxing around the same time, four years ago, when we were 10 years old. While most of the neighborhood kids were busy playing on the baseball, football and soccer fields of Newark, Gil and I found our way into the gym — and never ventured back outside.

“Scared? Stare the other guy down. Demoralized? Tell everyone you want a rematch. Angry? Never be angry. Fighting mad can get you hurt. Just execute the plan.”

The paragraph, written by some boxing columnist long ago, hung on the wall next to the entrance to the locker room. It always stopped Gil and me in our tracks. Not a day went by that we didn’t read these words, sometimes silently, sometimes aloud to each other. Coach Mejia — who came to Newark from Bogotá when he was a teenager and once fought for the lightweight title in New York City’s famous Madison Square Garden — loved this mantra, and made sure the kids he trained did, too. But he didn’t have to worry about his top two junior boxers, Johnny Collins and Gil Oliveira. We lived the words on the wall in everything we did, both in and out of the ring.

My dad knew those words, too, or some semblance of them, when he was an aspiring middleweight in the early 1970s. He lived them both in and out of the ring, too, first as a scrapper known to take a punch and, later, as a fearless fireman who worked Newark’s South Ward. But “The Shamrock,” as he was called when he was compiling a respectable 30-11 professional record, had grown bitter ever since he was forced to retire from the fire department due to an injury he sustained battling a blaze. Boxing had not left Mikey Collins with much, and he was resentful. Everything bad that had befallen him, he blamed on the Sweet Science. It was boxing that took away his youth. It was boxing that left him broke. And it was boxing that cost him the only woman he ever loved. While he believed the words on the wall, the last thing he wanted was for his only child, me, to fight. He thought his boy deserved better than that.

Gil was in a similar situation. His father didn’t want his son boxing, either. He wanted Gil patrolling midfield on the soccer pitch — with the rest of the neighborhood kids whose parents emigrated from South America. You see, soccer was the sport Gil’s dad Manny played while growing up in Rio de Janeiro, the bustling resort city on the Brazilian coast. He saw Gil as the next Pele.

Perhaps it was because of our fathers that Gil and I became friends. And, perhaps it was in spite of them that we managed to stay friends. …

It was one of those damp November days that tells you winter isn’t far away: The leaves are still on the trees, albeit falling fast, but the nip in the air says snow isn’t out of the realm of possibilities. Manny Oliveira pulled his jacket collar up around his neck and headed off down Ferry Street, past the numerous bakeries and fresh produce markets. His destination: Penn Station. But it wasn’t to catch a commuter train heading into New York City or an Amtrak on its way to D.C. He was going to a bar. Now, anyone who knew Manny knew that he didn’t drink, at least not at midday.

He was meeting someone. The funny thing about it was the individual Manny was meeting with didn’t know he was coming. My father usually started off his day of drinking, around 12 noon, at the Track One bar on the station concourse. It was a dingy place, barely lit, where hard men consumed hard liquor. Sadly, Pop was at home here. And, as Manny swung open the door, my dad and the two other patrons didn’t acknowledge his presence. None were expecting a visitor, and, by their reaction, they didn’t seem to care that one had arrived.

“Mind if I sit down?” said Manny as he sidled up to the bar. While doing so, he captured the bartender’s attention with a hand gesture that indicated he would not be drinking. “It’s a free country,” my dad replied, not taking the cigar out of his mouth or his eyes off his glass of whiskey. “Mikey Collins,” said Manny as he eased onto the stool. “You used to fight, right?”

“Who wants to know?” answered Pop.

“I’m Manny Oliveira. Our boys are friends.”

My dad turned his head to look at the tall, athletic-looking gentleman to his right, whom he had never met.

“Yea, I used to fight. What’s it to you?”

Manny was prepared for the indifferent, rather rude response. He had heard that Mikey Collins, especially when he was drinking, wasn’t the friendliest guy around.

“Nothing,” said Manny, just as abruptly. “I just remember you, that’s all. In fact, I saw you fight once. You knocked out Patsy Basciano in the second round at the old Armory.”

Mikey’s eyes lit up, if only for a moment. “The Armory, huh?” he answered. “Yea, I remember that fight. Basciano. He was tough, real tough. But I snuck one in. A left hook, if I recall correctly.”

“Yup, that’s what it was,” said Manny. “It was a great punch. I felt it all the way up in the nosebleeds.” Manny had done his homework alright, and it was about to pay off. He had never been to a professional fight in his life. He probably didn’t even know where the old Armory was. Besides, he likely was still in Brazil when Mikey Collins beat Patsy Basciano for his 18th victory. He never did bother to ask his information source what year the fight actually took place. Manny had done what he had intended. He had softened Pop up a bit. The ex-boxer’s defenses were down, which meant Manny could get in a shot or two of his own.

“What can I do for you?” Mikey asked, adopting an accommodating tone.

“I understand from my boy that you and I share something in common,” said Manny.

“And what might that be?”

“Neither of us want our boys to box,” said Manny.

Pop spun around on his barstool, so he was face-to-face with the well-spoken nightclub manager. He was about to speak, but Manny cut him off, deliberately. The only chance he had to elicit this ex-pug’s help was to say what he needed to say before “The Shamrock” took the opportunity to shut him up.

“I’m hoping we can help each other out, since I don’t want to see my boy hurt, and I know you don’t want anything to happen to Johnny, either,” said Manny. “Just last night, Gil came home black and blue, both his face and his pride all banged up. Up until now, I’ve been unsuccessful in my attempts to get him to give up boxing. But, I think, together, we can keep both these boys out of the ring.

“Are you willing to listen to a proposal?”

“The Shamrock” ordered another whiskey before responding, “I’m listening.”

Perhaps the scheme that Manny Oliveira had come up with to discourage both Gil and me from fighting would work. It seems that one of Manny’s regular customers at the nightclub had a cousin who trained at the Down Neck Fight Club. He happened to overhear Coach Mejia tell his two prized pupils that there was a good chance they might meet in the finals of the Newark Thanksgiving Boxing Tournament. He also happened to hear the boys’ reaction. … plus their subsequent conversation, when each said they’d quit the sport before they’d fight each other. Now, Manny had put together a plan that would guarantee we would end up facing off against each other in the tournament, something he had convinced my dad would surely spell the end of our amateur boxing careers.

It would cost a little, but Manny had the money. He had stashed a little away for a family trip to Brazil. And, while Pop had no cash to contribute, he did have contacts throughout the Newark boxing scene who could ensure that Gil and I had no trouble getting to the final match.

“Your boy was impressive,” my dad said to Manny Oliveira, as the two exited the gymnasium at Barringer High. “Even if the fix was in.”

“You think so?” Manny asked.

“I know fighters,” Pop said. “Your boy is a boxer, plain and simple. He knows what he’s doing. He’s not gonna get hurt, at least not in the amateurs.

“I’d like to see him in against someone who isn’t on the take.”

“Yea, I would, too.” The words were out of Manny’s mouth before he even knew he had said them. Call it curiosity, call it pride, call it whatever you want. All of a sudden, Manny Oliveira wasn’t so convinced that his son should never box again. Sure, he’d still rather he played soccer, his sport. But the ex-pro next to him was right; his boy was good. Maybe that’s what Manny had needed to hear all along — from someone as intimately familiar with the sport as an ex-pro. Sure, Coach Mejia had been trying to tell Manny for years how good Gil was. But Manny just figured that Gil had put him up to it, that he was trying to get to his dad through his trainer.

“Hey, your son looked just as impressive,” said Manny, opening the door to his car, “despite the opposition.”

“Yea, he looked pretty good tonight,” said Mikey, allowing himself a smile.

“We’re all set for Saturday night,” Manny said.

Pop thought he heard a twinge of indecision in the other man’s voice. Or was it regret?

The two best friends stood opposite each other in the center of the ring, half-listening to the referee’s instructions. After a few last-minute directives from each trainer in the combatants’ respective corners, the bell sounded. Gil and I moved toward each other slowly, neither making any indication that we had a desire to fight.

A chorus of boos accentuated the audience’s palpable displeasure. Thirty seconds passed. Not one punch had been thrown. Then a minute. Nothing. The two friends had done nothing more than circle each other around the ring. With Coach Mejia yelling for the two boys to mix it up — to no avail — the ref signaled to the timekeeper at the bell to stop the clock. He brought Johnny and Gil together for a talk.

“What’s going on here, gentlemen?” he asked sternly. “This is a boxing match, not a staring contest. You don’t get points for making the other guy flinch.”

Neither of us said a word.

“OK, have it your way,” the ref said. “I’ll give you until the end of the round. If neither of you throws a punch, I’m going to disqualify both of you.”

Sixty aggravating seconds later — amid a cacophony of Bronx cheers from every seat in the house, except the two occupied by Manny Oliveira and Mikey Collins — the ref stopped the fight. He then announced to the now-silent crowd that, when both boxers are disqualified, neither wins. It immediately became apparent that this was the boys’ intention all along: to be disqualified and, therefore, leave the 112-pound title vacant.

Pop and Manny Oliveira appeared from around the corner. Gil and I dropped our gym bags in disbelief.

“You saw the fight?” I asked my father.

“Yup,” he said. “Can’t say that you take a punch like the old man, though.”

Both Gil and I chuckled.

“But in the previous fight, you looked really good,” said Pop.

I couldn’t believe my ears. “The Shamrock” had actually come to one of my fights. No, make that two of my fights!

“You looked great, too, the other night,” Manny said to Gil. “I guess I just didn’t want to believe it. But now, after seeing you in the ring, doing your thing, I realized how stubborn I’ve been.”

Gil looked at his dad as tears began to fill his eyes.

“You’re looking at your No. 1 fan,” Manny said, wrapping his arms around Gil and hugging him tightly. “I’m not going to miss another one of your fights.”

“I won’t either,” Pop said, reaching out and tousling my hair. “I can’t wait to see what else you’ve got.”

Gil and I slapped each other five. It was the only time we’d come into physical contact with each other all night.

© Copyright 2026, Pete Birle All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.