E: When I first came to the gym, I was a bantam-weight, small and light. Now, almost a year later, pounds heavier, mostly muscle, I had become a middle-weight. The end was in sight. I was actually preparing for my first fight after the long months of training sessions and still cleaning up the gym.
Luck held out its hand and I grabbed it.
My first fight was at the Liverpool Stadium, before thousands. Was I nervous? Damn sure. Yes sir, and excited. A professional fighter, earning money and performing before a crowd of fans. Mr. Baldwin had arranged a ten round bout with an Irishman named Bill Walsh. Of course, I wasn’t the headliner. An under-card for the main attraction, the English Welterweight Championship bout between Johnny Summers, the English Champion and the famous, “The Dixie Kid.” The Dixie Kid was an American Negro. His name was Aaron Lester Brown. As Walsh entered the ring, he nodded to Chris and laughing, snidely said, “Get your people out of the front rows or they will be splashed with your boy’s black blood.”
H: What happened?
E: What a night. What a thrill. Merveilleux! Hardly remember leaving the dressing room, or Cherie kissing me and those wishing me victory, or climbing the steps to the ring and being introduced to the people. “In this corner, wearing white trunks, from the United States of America, the Black Sparrow, Gene Bullard.” As I sat on the stool waiting for the opening bell, Mr. Baldwin remarked, “See that dapper man there, that is The Dixie Kid. He just kayoed Summers in the second round. Didn’t break a sweat.” I looked over. He looked up, smiled, put his hands together as a sign of good luck. Incredible. Walsh was older and certainly more professional. I could see he was confident that he would beat this young black novice. For the early rounds, he tried every trick. Tried to butt, hit me behind my head, but I had been taught what to expect. I ducked, danced away, frustrating Walsh. He would swing. I wasn’t there. He tried to push me into a corner, and I would deftly two-step away. The crowd cheered. I knew what to do and what Walsh would try. I would jab, jab, set-up, right cross, back away before Walsh could get set, always moving. Unfortunately, didn’t always work and I learned I could take a punch. At the end of the tenth round, we stood in the center of the ring; my hand was raised as they announced, “The winner, by decision, The Black Sparrow, Gene Bullard.” Walked over to Walsh, shook his hand and said, “Thank you, Mr. Walsh, for the lesson.” I smiled. Chris hugged me, smiled. “Now you can call me Chris.” We went back to the dressing room where Cherie and a crowd of glad-handers were waiting. I was a winner.
CHAPTER 9: THE DIXIE KID - FAREWELL LIVERPOOL, HELLO LONDON
E: Oh, what a night. It was a night of joy and tears. A night that would, then, unknowingly, set a path for my future. It was my night. I was in a good mood, not feeling the after-pain of Walsh’s punches. I won my first fight! There is something, how do you say, sensual, about defeating another man. Makes you confident. Dieu, it was a wondrous time. Didn’t matter that the walls of the small, shabby, dressing room were cracked and covered with dim gray paint, or the beat-up wooden locker doors wouldn’t close. It was paradise. Chris, my cut man, Cherie and boxers from the gym crowded the room and were laughing and shouting, “The Sparrow flies high.”
Cherie took a towel and wiped my face and dried a bruise. During the fight, I would sneak a look and watch her hide her face in her hands, not to see me being hit and hurt. She and I edged over to a bench and sat down. The door opened, a well-built, handsome, black man dressed to the nines in a white suit, wearing a black bowler hat and fancy two-tone shoes, made a dramatic entrance. It was The Dixie Kid. What was the champion doing here? The Kid walked over, winked at Chris, shook my hand and said, “Nice fight. Sparrow, I like the way you handle yourself. Quick, fast in and out, cute stuff that the crowds like. You got a style and with the right connections, right management, you could go far. You could be a headliner in London.”
“London?” I was astonished.
“That’s right, Sparrow. Got an idea watching you. I could take you to London and maybe the big time. No bottom of the fight card. If you are interested, I’ll train and sponsor you. You will work and then work some more. There will be very little time for relaxation or women. This is a top drawer chance for you. You’ll live with me and my wife. You and I will have fights in England and perhaps in France. I’ve thought about it. Now, you think about it. Big time, big money. I know it is a rush situation, but I am leaving for London in the morning and need your answer. Well, what say? Will you have dinner with me tonight and join me at the train station tomorrow?”
“France!” I exclaimed my delight. Then suddenly, as quickly as I was up, I was down when realized it was not to be. “Hold on Mr. Kid. I shook hands and made a deal with Chris. Never turn my back on friends. He brought me here. Thanks, but I’ll make it some other way.” Chris, in his usual gruff manner, interrupted and grabbing my shoulders, spun me around and bellowed, “Sparrow, get this straight. We had a good run, a great relationship, but we are no longer partners. This is as far as I go. You are damn free. Take my advice, take the deal. Go with The Dixie Kid. Just drop me a line every now and then, to let us know how you’re doing. Now wash up, pack up and shut up, and get ready for dinner and London.”
I was ecstatic. Positive about my future. My luck had held out. “Okay Kid,” I exclaimed, “now, I must shower and dress. Meet you at the café and we’ll talk and if it sounds right, I’ll be at the train station in the morning.” Cherie, sitting nearby, attentively listened to the conversation and my decision. The men watched her. She stood up, moved slowly toward me.
The room that had been wild with yells of congratulations suddenly became quiet. As lovers do, we stared knowingly into each other’s eyes. Everyone looked away. And as lovers know, at that moment, it was over. She dabbed away tears, gently stroked my cheek, tenderly kissed my lips and softly whispered in my ear, “Au revoir, mon amour.” Before I could answer, she walked out the door. I reached for her, but she was gone. I wondered, would I ever see her again? My heart went one way, my future another.
Chris, the Kid and I dined and talked the rest of the night. They answered my questions. It was all favorable. We shook hands, “Yes, I will be there.”
It was almost dawn when I arrived at “our” flat and found my fully packed duffle at the door. Knocked and knocked. I could hear her crying. “Cherie, please open the door.” No response. Pleaded again and again, “Open the door. We must talk.” Knocked until my knuckles were raw. Silence. I had lost part of my heart.
I boarded the London train with The Kid. It took a right cross to open the door to the future. My life changed. I was to be a boxer, a professional fighter. The Kid, his wife and I lived in a boarding house run for people in the fight game. Small and big-timers resided there. The Kid and I trained everyday. Soon, I was able to match his roadwork mile for mile, speed for speed. On the small bag, the big bag, shadow boxing and sparring, I went the same number of rounds, maybe more. Watched him, hoping for the recognition that he was satisfied with my efforts. Thought he would be pleased, as I tried to copy his style and mannerisms. He was famous for fighting with his hands down, teasing and tempting his opponent to take advantage of the trap he set. This was his signature style. One morning, while I was sparring, he screamed, “Damn it Sparrow, stop! You are not me. Remember each man is unique. Study fighters to learn their weaknesses and moves, but you must develop your own style,” he demanded.
H: A real taskmaster.
E: He was the Champion. He would never give an inch in public, but in private, it was different. He and his wife became the father and mother I hadn’t had for years. There was love, respect and underneath, a feeling that we were specially attuned to each other, both having run to Europe seeking what could not be in the States.
H: A happy time?
E: I missed Chris, and yes, I missed Cherie, but I concentrated on the future. The Kid drove me to do better than the day before. Never let up. At night, after dinner, he would go over what I did wrong and schedule the next day’s routine. Oh mon dieu, I worked, not daring to slack off, and I was growing stronger. On this particular morning, being young, confident and audacious, I yelled across the ring, “Hey