A Beer with the Raging Bull
By
Richard J. Noyes
Marcel Cerdan of France knocked out reigning champion Tony Zale in 1948 to win the world middleweight crown. Cerdan defended his title against Jake LaMotta “The Bronx Bull,” in 1949. The heavily favored Cerdan injured his shoulder in the first round, fought with one hand, and lost on a TKO in the 10th round. A rematch was scheduled for 1950, but first some background.
We decided to wash down our New York evening with a late beer at P.J. Clarke’s. As we approached on 55th Street, and the little redbrick building came into view across 3rd Avenue, Gia said, “Look how it sits there so stoically among the tall filing cabinets.”
I was still smiling as we edged into the noisy crush. After threading to the end of the crowded bar near the garbage tray where it was quieter, we checked out the front-room action, ordered beers, and bantered with the bartender. Suddenly, he straightened up with the dumbstruck look and head turn of a Hollywood extra watching Jesus pass by on a donkey. The Look. Turning back to us, he asked in a voice combining reverence and delight, “Did you see who that was?”
Gia and I agreed later that we instantly thought the bartender was referring to Jackie Onassis. Since, a few years back, another Clarke’s bartender confided to us that the main reason Ari married Jackie was to insure that people recognized him at his front-room table. We caught a glimpse through the smoke and throng of a group filing into the back room. After we shook our heads no, the bartender said, “That was Jake LaMotta.” We talked about Jake’s fights, the movie’s realism, Scorcese's direction, and then Jake turned up at the bar.
“Who’s gonna buy me a beer?”
I said, “I will, Champ.”
“Thanks, Pal, a Bud.”
The bartender asked, “How come you’re out, Jake?”
“The wife’s in Jersey.”
Daringly, Gia inquired, “Which wife is that, Jake?”
“Fourth, but don’t tell her that.” Laughs and swigs on beers all around.
“Jake,” I asked, “Who did you win the title from?”
“Marcel Cerdan, the Frenchman. He was killed in the plane crash on the way back for the rematch, a great fighter. I met his girlfriend too, that little singer.” Jake held his right hand at shoulder height.
The bartender offered, “Edith Piaf.”
Jake grinned and said, “That’s right, yeah, they were some couple.”
As Jake pulled on his bottle of beer, I said, “A friend saw the February ’51 title fight with Sugar Ray Robinson in Chicago Stadium. He said he was half-dead from pneumonia but didn’t go to the hospital until the fight was over.”
“Hey, that’s good. It was February ’51. I was half-dead, too. He almost killed me. Sugar Ray was best man at my third wedding, a nice guy, a good friend. He was the best fighter pound for pound who ever lived.” It was a thrill to hear Jake LaMotta say that about Sugar Ray. Better than a hundred sportswriters banging it out.
Gia asked, “Did you ever fight Rocky Graziano?”
“No, we were signed, but he broke his hand training. I woulda killed the bum.” Jake smiled and said, “Actually, we’re good friends, but his wife won’t let him out anymore.” While Jake was shaking hands and kidding with a passing admirer, I was thinking how Rocky had been a cheerful regular and unofficial host at Clarke’s for years. When Jake turned back to us, I asked what he thought of “Raging Bull.”
“It won the Academy Award, didn’t it?”
“How did you like De Niro’s performance?”
“He won the Oscar, didn’t he?”
Jake was smaller than I expected, around five seven and lean, not the physique of the fearsome mid-century brawler who had never been knocked down, or later fatty. Unlike most people, Jake didn’t stand obliquely when conversing. He faced you dead-on, balanced on the balls of his feet, hands hanging at his sides, ready. I pasted on a pleasing smile, adopted deferential body language, and decided to phrase further questions more carefully. In particular, I decided against asking him about an earlier fight he was alleged to have thrown for the mob.
Jake’s gaze was intense, almost staring, good concentration. He became distracted between questions, yet the responses were quick and pungent. Except for the somewhat-flattened nose, his white, baby-soft-looking skin was surprisingly unmarked, with very little scar tissue around the eyes and mouth. Jake didn’t look like he had gone through all those brutal ring wars we watched, listened to, and read about.
Unexpectedly, he said, “I gotta go.” The crowd had thinned, and the three bartenders on duty gathered around, hands on each other’s shoulders, leaning over the bar toward Jake, an ideal tableau for an Edward Hopper painting. They said in turn, with caring:
“See you next time, Jake.”
“Be careful, Jake.”
“Safe home, Jake.”
We watched Jake’s rolling, light-on-his-pugilist’s feet exit down the room and out onto 3rd Avenue. One of the bartenders said, “I’ll bet they still couldn’t knock him down.”¹
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“The town that has no ceiling price, the town of double-talk. The town so big they named it twice. Like so: New York, New York.” –Christopher Morley
(This story was excerpted from Guts in the Clutch: 77 Legendary Triumphs, Heartbreaks and Wild Finishes in 12 Sports)
Richard J. Noyes, former Associate Director, Center for Advanced Engineering Study, Massachusetts Institute of Technology is a consultant to public and private sector organizations.
Noyes is the co-author with Pamela J. Robertson of Larceny of Love, a provocative print and eBook novel that traces the interwoven careers of three men in jeopardy (one is a professional pitcher who experiences sudden, unexplained, career-threatening wildness) and the unforgettable women in their lives. http://larcenyoflove.com/
“Whenever dramatic storytelling about people you like is created around business, sports and film, I'm a happy reader. I'm sure you will be as well.” –Kevin Marcus
Another recent print and eBook by Richard Noyes and Pamela Robertson: Guts in the Clutch: 77 Legendary Triumphs, Heartbreaks, and Wild Finishes in 12 Sports, with a Foreword by Drew Olson of ESPN. http://gutsintheclutch.com/
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