I Start to Love Boxing - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

I Start to Love Boxing - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

Though it might be a school night, Dad took me to the boxing matches at the Rhode Island Arena on Monday evenings. He instilled a love of boxing when we watched the Friday night fights on television.

Monday night at The Arena was the live extension of those Fridays.

The Rhode Island Arena was a bulky, brick building, home to the Providence Reds Hockey Team and the venue for a variety of events; the Ice Capades, high school and college hockey, Boy Scout jamborees, rodeos, Roy Rogers, Range Rider, and the Boston Celtics. I spent many exciting hours in that grand old building.

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On fight night, the place was hopping. The Arena smelled of peanuts, steamed hot dogs, mustard, relish, onions, butter, sweat, and leather. Hung high in the foyer were posters of hockey stars . . . Topper, Scherza, Bennett, and others, the iconography of Providence’s professional hockey.

On a podium in the center of the foyer rocked an unshaven, gruff man, with a half-smile and a few stained teeth hanging in different directions. He was wearing a striped uniform and barking as if he were calling his pigs.

“Hey, oinnngg, getcha book…Ma-si-anh-no, Za-nell-a, A-ru-jo . . .  getcha su-va-neer . . . hey… su-va-neers, heeya, su-vaaa-neeers!”

Spotlights were beacons that shined on the center ring; the same spot where a ref would drop a puck or cowboys and horses circled the wagons. But on Monday nights, the ice and dirt were replaced by an elevated, roped-in, padded stage with a stool in each corner. Spectators were crammed around the ring. Boxing talk hovered.

“No way can he beat ‘im.”

“The Rock will kill ‘im.” Rocky fought there often.

“The Rock is on his way tooda title. Nobody messes wit the Rock. He kin take a punch, but if he hits ya . . . yer gone, dead.”

I sat between Dad and Uncle Carlo, a big man whose frame smothered my armrest. Dad held his cigar with his front teeth; Uncle tucked his into the corner of his mouth. I had a hot dog.

“Ladees . . . and Jen-tell-men . . . in this corner . . .” The crowd squirmed like chickens in a pen. The bell clanged. Punches thumped and shoes squeaked.

“Hit him . . . git off the mark . . . uppercut, jab. Cross. Move.”

“Don’t let ‘im off da hook.” My eyes watered. I had a cone of ice cream.

“Short punches from the shoulder hurt the most,” said Uncle. I had popcorn and a Coke.

“This guy has a weak chin.”

As we filed out after the last fight, our feet crunching peanut shells, I looked back at the lights shining on the empty stage, at the discarded programs and stomped-out butts, and thought, “I can’t wait until next time.”

Sure, smoke and fatigue are a bad combination on a school night. Sure, I felt a little sick and too excited to sleep. It didn’t matter.

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli is the author of three popular memoirs, “Growing up Italian; Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories”, “What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner” and “My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High.”  Learn more HERE. NOW, he has written his fourth book "A Whole Bunch of 500 Word Stories."