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Smoky and the Color Line by Willie Pep 229
Early November 1932, a small smoker in Hell's Kitchen, New York City
Promoter: I told you Smoky I don't use no Negros; you said he was Irish.
Smoky: I said he was Black Irish.
Promoter: That's not what that means.
Smoky: What's the difference this kid can fight.
Promoter: Yea, like the last two bums you brought me. One didn't make it out of the first round and I was amazed the second one got past touching gloves.
Smoky: Well that was unfortunate but hey, I said this kid can fight.
Promoter: Yea sure, but I don't use Negros, causes too much trouble.
Smoky: What trouble?
Promoter: (Indignant) What trouble? The last time they started throwing chairs when that colored boy you brought me knocked out Sailor Bud.
Smoky: Hey, throwing chairs is part of the fight game, happens all the time. But that kid sure could fight couldn't he?
The Promoter waves his hand in disgust and starts to walk away. Smoky chases after, pulling up his pant leg.
Smoky: Look here (pointing at his leg.) I got that last year, the night they disqualified Carnera. You remember?
Promoter: Yea, you're damn straight I remember. - put your leg down I don't want to see your battle scars.
The Black Fighter: Look Mr. I fight real clean, I ain't no dirty fighter. I promise . . .
Promoter: (Cutting the kid off), It ain't you kid I just don't use colored fighters no more, just isn't worth it.
The Promoter turns to walk away but Smoky is after him.
Smoky: What about the purse, you promised me 50 bucks?
Promoter: (Annoyed) And you promised me an Irish kid.
Smoky: Black Irish!
Promoter: (Really annoyed) That's not what that means!
Frustrated the Promoter mumbling, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. Smoky eyes the thick wad with envy. The Promoter pulls off a five and offers it to Smoky.
Smoky: How about ten, five for the kid and five for me?
Promoter: You want the five?
(Smoky grabs the five and the Promoter walks out towards the arena.)
Smoky eyes the five in his left hand and with his right pulls from his pocket a quarter, a dime, and three pennies.
Smoky: (To the kid.) Why did you tell me you were Irish for?
The kid gives Smoky a confused look; Smoky walks over and sticks the five dollar bill in the kid's big hand.
Smoky: Go eat kid.
Hungry the kid doesn't hesitate and vanishes out the door.
Smoky looks longingly down the corridor into the arena. He can see the ring posts and the ringside crowd cheering the fight. After a moment Smoky opens the locker room door and steps out into the alleyway. He hears the bell ring ending the round and the crowd cheer as the door slams shut silencing the crowd.
A cold November wind chills him and he turns his collar to the cold. He take his fedora, blocks it, straightens its peak and settles it back onto his head. Pulling a half cigar from his coat he chops down on it, walking slowly towards the street, hoping he will stumble across a soup line.
Early November 1932, a small smoker in Hell's Kitchen, New York City
Promoter: I told you Smoky I don't use no Negros; you said he was Irish.
Smoky: I said he was Black Irish.
Promoter: That's not what that means.
Smoky: What's the difference this kid can fight.
Promoter: Yea, like the last two bums you brought me. One didn't make it out of the first round and I was amazed the second one got past touching gloves.
Smoky: Well that was unfortunate but hey, I said this kid can fight.
Promoter: Yea sure, but I don't use Negros, causes too much trouble.
Smoky: What trouble?
Promoter: (Indignant) What trouble? The last time they started throwing chairs when that colored boy you brought me knocked out Sailor Bud.
Smoky: Hey, throwing chairs is part of the fight game, happens all the time. But that kid sure could fight couldn't he?
The Promoter waves his hand in disgust and starts to walk away. Smoky chases after, pulling up his pant leg.
Smoky: Look here (pointing at his leg.) I got that last year, the night they disqualified Carnera. You remember?
Promoter: Yea, you're damn straight I remember. - put your leg down I don't want to see your battle scars.
The Black Fighter: Look Mr. I fight real clean, I ain't no dirty fighter. I promise . . .
Promoter: (Cutting the kid off), It ain't you kid I just don't use colored fighters no more, just isn't worth it.
The Promoter turns to walk away but Smoky is after him.
Smoky: What about the purse, you promised me 50 bucks?
Promoter: (Annoyed) And you promised me an Irish kid.
Smoky: Black Irish!
Promoter: (Really annoyed) That's not what that means!
Frustrated the Promoter mumbling, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. Smoky eyes the thick wad with envy. The Promoter pulls off a five and offers it to Smoky.
Smoky: How about ten, five for the kid and five for me?
Promoter: You want the five?
(Smoky grabs the five and the Promoter walks out towards the arena.)
Smoky eyes the five in his left hand and with his right pulls from his pocket a quarter, a dime, and three pennies.
Smoky: (To the kid.) Why did you tell me you were Irish for?
The kid gives Smoky a confused look; Smoky walks over and sticks the five dollar bill in the kid's big hand.
Smoky: Go eat kid.
Hungry the kid doesn't hesitate and vanishes out the door.
Smoky looks longingly down the corridor into the arena. He can see the ring posts and the ringside crowd cheering the fight. After a moment Smoky opens the locker room door and steps out into the alleyway. He hears the bell ring ending the round and the crowd cheer as the door slams shut silencing the crowd.
A cold November wind chills him and he turns his collar to the cold. He take his fedora, blocks it, straightens its peak and settles it back onto his head. Pulling a half cigar from his coat he chops down on it, walking slowly towards the street, hoping he will stumble across a soup line.
Keleneki
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