You usually saw him drinking with the expats in Tom’s Bar on Calle Constitution in Ajijic, Mexico. No one knew where he came from in the States. He always wore wrinkled khaki clothes and looked like a busted bundle walking down the street in the dust. He was a big man with a square jaw, and for the price of a beer he would chinwag all his professional fights. If Tom saw him coming he’d ring a small bell and all the regulars would roar and the big guy would bob and weave down the length of the bar, all the time people cheering or slapping him on the back as he shadow boxed, a big grin on his face. No one knew his name, most called him 32-11 and 2 for his record as a professional fighter.

Some nights he fought every named heavyweight of the Twentieth Century to including Mohammed Ali, Joe Louis, Jack Dempsey and even Rocky Balboa.  But his fight stories were all exciting and entertaining. The ending to the fights might change, but that was the lure of  32-11 and 2’s stories.

Then, if on cue, a regular would buy him a beer and he’d begin another tale of the sweet science.

“Yea, me most poetic fight was against an American black man called Tugboat Willie in Jersey. He was a muscle guy who worked on the docks and when God was handing out bodies, Tugboat was first in line. He had stomach muscles so ribbed you could do your wash on them and biceps like loaves of bread . . . So, after the third round, my manager said Tugboat was too strong for me. So I said to my manager in the corner, Jerry, that was his name, this is a fight, what am I gunna do, tickle him to win the fight? No, my manager says, you got to outsmart him. So I said back, outsmart the guy? Is this a game of checkers? Jerry said you got to set him up. I said set him up? Like what are you talking about? So Jerry said he’ll watch Tugboat and get back to me by round 5. I said, don’t make it too long before you get back to me or I might lose the fight. Jerry said hold on and don’t walk into a right hand . . . So we fight for about two more rounds and I’m holding on any time I can.  I asked Jerry at the end of the fifth round what about this plan to outsmart him and he said he’s still working on it. We’re only going to 10! I shouted back.  So Jerry said I should start talking to him in the clinches. Talking? What do you want from me, poetry? Jerry, that doesn’t seem like a good plan. Do you have plan B? He said if I didn’t like his suggestions go back to plan A. I said what’s plan A and he doesn’t answer because the bell rings and I’m back out there trying to stay away from a bone crusher right.”

32-11 and 2 paused to take another drink of beer.

“So, I got to thinking Jesus is right. Maybe I should start talking to him, and recite some poetry. So the next time we get in a clinch I start with ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are?’ The next clinch I say, ‘Georgy porgy pudding and pie, kissed all the girls and made them cry.’ End of round six I staggered back to my corner, ready to give up the ghost, and Jerry didn’t say a word. I guess he didn’t hear me . . . For the seventh round, the first time we get in a clinch Tugboat starts reciting poetry to me and it sounded Oriental. He whispered in my ear, ‘And how clear in the water the nearness of heaven. I leave my message with the moon. And turn to my bed, hoping for dreams.’ 

So I’m thinking at the time, Tugboat is pretty good, if you know what I mean, considering we’re both trying to beat the Jesus, Mary and Joseph out of each other. In the eighth, he said in the clinch, ‘Stories of passion make sweet dust. At sunset, when birds cry in the wind, petals fall like a girl’s robe long ago.’ After a round or so of this I am enjoying the clinches because he is reciting some beautiful words. The last round Jerry asked how it’s going and I say I have a plan. He looks at me strange like, and said that it better be good because unofficially I’m behind in the fight. The tenth round starts and we are clinching and Tugboat is reciting more poetry. So we’re banging away and this time I fake like I want to clinch. He leans forward to embrace me and starts in with, “Why should I frighten sea-gulls when whispers of night clouds float on my . . .” That’s when I tag him with a good left uppercut. He staggers back and I hit him again and drive him into the corner. I’m pounding away and to my surprise, the referee jumps in and stops the fight. Jerry and my corner men rush in and grab me and says how did I do it and I said, ‘The poems of greater fighters are my bones.’ That’s when he looks at me all queer-like.”

When the story was over the regulars all cheered and someone mentioned the last time he told that fight story it ended in the 8th round and the fighter was Mexican and quoting Cervantes. 32-11 and 2 just shook off the comment saying he might be wrong sometimes because fighting does that to a man. And we are all just finding our way, until the bell rings.

About the Author:

Michael founded, produced, and performed in an improvisational comedy theater for 20 years. In 2005, he escaped to Mexico to live and write.