"Ladies and gee-entlemen, we have a winner!!! After this fierce display of machismo, adrenaline and sheer muscle power, a champion has emerged. Let's hear it count for Frank Washington, "The Bull"!!!!"
Screams, spittle and beer foam alongwith a good many other things go skyhigh. The audience is thrilled and wowed beyond comprehension! "Bull, Bull, Bull"the crowd's chants had reached fever pitch and the happiest among them all, even if none of it shows, is none other than "The Bull" himself. Christened Frank Washington at birth, re-born as the "The Bull" on 26th June 1932 in midtown Chicago.
The fighting was terse and long drawn, and Frank's opponent Joe "Hammerhand" Carver seemed to have the confidence of an imminent victory. Hammerhand had all the reason to be confident, but on that fateful day, he forgot one of the basic tenets of any student of combat. His opponent had come prepared to block his winning strike.
Life sounds quite rosy don't it despite the Great Depression raging out there in the country? Well, things weren't so rosy not very long ago. Wind your clocks back by two years and there's a very different picture materializing. The winter of 1930 was frosty as could be in Cicero, suburban Chicago. To add to the gloom, the stock crash of 1929 had just begun, and the effects of this depression were now beginning to count their scalps claimed. The soup mission lines stood long and a good job was hard to come by. Certainly not the time to be caught unemployed.
It's easier said than done, and Frank Washington, the champion of the ring was one of those few who could breathe easy despite circumstances. The "King of the Ring", Frank was a tough opponent to win and his famous hook had left many a boxer short of a tooth or two. It was that fateful winter when Frank met his worst nightmare.Joe "Hammerhand" Carver was a nobody, fighting in the illegal rings of South Side until his name gathered enough dust to muster some good earning. Tough times meant that the bookies could pay only so much and good fighters were hard to come by. Many good fighters had migrated eastward, and some went to Europe fighting in international bouts.
Christmas 1930 was the day that'd see Hammerhand's fortune skyrocket. Fate wasn't a level playground, more like a seesaw. If one was to win, the other just had to lose. Two men were about to see the greatest transition in their lives, ever...Washington came in warmly dressed in his mink and ermine fur coat and both arms straddling a pretty somebody. Joe was a stark contrast to this scene. Dressed almost monklike betraying no sign of emotion spare his glowering eyes which were locked on Frank who seemed to show no sign of acknowledging this budding new fighter.
Frank was a player. Quite literally! His dancing moves, swaying back and forth avoiding jabs made him look as if he were playing with his opponent, and when the opponent tired, a single smash to the jaw sent home the knock out, and the game was over.
Dawson, Frank's agent warned him against Joe's freestyle and often unpredictable moves. "It's ok! Ain't nobody who's gonna grapple Frankie! Don't worry, i'll finish him at the count of three" Frank sounded just as optimistic as he always was. That heady dash of optimism and overconfidence...
"Ladies and gentlemen, presenting tonight to heat up the ring with searing passion, please welcome, the butterfly of the ring, Frank Washington!" The crowd screams with excitement.
"A budding new champion, forged in the hell of South Side, clashing with Frank, Joe 'Hammerhand' Carver" Not so much screams except from the white minority in the arena.
"Joe shows no sign of relenting just as much as Frank wouldn't stop playing. Is this going to be a tie? Joe's freestyle moves threaten to nail Frank but then the butterfly can't be caught without great effort, can it?"
Joe shows signs of tiring. Frank senses the opportunity for the knock out, and closes in. Rushing in with a jab, Frank's expecting Joe to fall face up when...
"What's this ladies and gentlemen? Joe has brilliantly side stepped Frank's jab" The crowd is dead silent and the whoosh of Frank's move can almost be heard. The next 30 seconds seem to take an eternity to elapse.
Frank stumbles but manages to regain balance. Joe hunted bears in Chippewa Falls during the season and tried a time tested Indian technique for killing bears. "Let the bear close in for the final hug. When he's too close to back out, nail him with a jab..."
Joe sent in a pile driver straight into Frank's stomach. Spittle and blood flew out alongwith a weird sound from Frank's lips. Frank was winded. A swinging hook and Frank hit the floor. He'd been winded.
The next ten seconds seemingly dragged on for hours. The referee's excited counting, Frank's fans looking miserably crushed, and of course Joe's smirk. He mouthed a few words out of which Frank could make out "The right place for you, nigger!". Darkness...
Next month, the bout was declared again, this time in Arlington. Frank was pitted against a local tough, Lee Harper. Frank fought the way he knew best, the butterfly. He should've won the bout, but things weren't so simple. He saw Joe and his smirking smile yet again. "The right place for you, nigger!". This moment of distraction was all that Lee needed. A series of crashing punches and a pile driver, and Frank hit the floor again.
Frank's reputation as a fighter melted before the winter snows did. He was rarely invited for bouts, and he now had to scrounge for fights in lower South End. It was shameful. The money had now dwindled to a trickle and outstanding bills and rent meant he had to forego his luxuries.
"It's the end of the line for you Frankie. Find yourself something worthwhile, or its the soup mission for you..." Dawson was cruelly blunt. Dawson was Frank's agent, but not his best friend. Dawson now pitched and set matches for Joe "Hammerhand".
Frank's morale was at an alltime low, and the ghost of "The right place for you, nigger" followed him everywhere...
Screams, spittle and beer foam alongwith a good many other things go skyhigh. The audience is thrilled and wowed beyond comprehension! "Bull, Bull, Bull"the crowd's chants had reached fever pitch and the happiest among them all, even if none of it shows, is none other than "The Bull" himself. Christened Frank Washington at birth, re-born as the "The Bull" on 26th June 1932 in midtown Chicago.
 |
| Pile Driver punch |
Life sounds quite rosy don't it despite the Great Depression raging out there in the country? Well, things weren't so rosy not very long ago. Wind your clocks back by two years and there's a very different picture materializing. The winter of 1930 was frosty as could be in Cicero, suburban Chicago. To add to the gloom, the stock crash of 1929 had just begun, and the effects of this depression were now beginning to count their scalps claimed. The soup mission lines stood long and a good job was hard to come by. Certainly not the time to be caught unemployed.
It's easier said than done, and Frank Washington, the champion of the ring was one of those few who could breathe easy despite circumstances. The "King of the Ring", Frank was a tough opponent to win and his famous hook had left many a boxer short of a tooth or two. It was that fateful winter when Frank met his worst nightmare.Joe "Hammerhand" Carver was a nobody, fighting in the illegal rings of South Side until his name gathered enough dust to muster some good earning. Tough times meant that the bookies could pay only so much and good fighters were hard to come by. Many good fighters had migrated eastward, and some went to Europe fighting in international bouts.
Christmas 1930 was the day that'd see Hammerhand's fortune skyrocket. Fate wasn't a level playground, more like a seesaw. If one was to win, the other just had to lose. Two men were about to see the greatest transition in their lives, ever...Washington came in warmly dressed in his mink and ermine fur coat and both arms straddling a pretty somebody. Joe was a stark contrast to this scene. Dressed almost monklike betraying no sign of emotion spare his glowering eyes which were locked on Frank who seemed to show no sign of acknowledging this budding new fighter.
Frank was a player. Quite literally! His dancing moves, swaying back and forth avoiding jabs made him look as if he were playing with his opponent, and when the opponent tired, a single smash to the jaw sent home the knock out, and the game was over.
Dawson, Frank's agent warned him against Joe's freestyle and often unpredictable moves. "It's ok! Ain't nobody who's gonna grapple Frankie! Don't worry, i'll finish him at the count of three" Frank sounded just as optimistic as he always was. That heady dash of optimism and overconfidence...
"Ladies and gentlemen, presenting tonight to heat up the ring with searing passion, please welcome, the butterfly of the ring, Frank Washington!" The crowd screams with excitement.
"A budding new champion, forged in the hell of South Side, clashing with Frank, Joe 'Hammerhand' Carver" Not so much screams except from the white minority in the arena.
"Joe shows no sign of relenting just as much as Frank wouldn't stop playing. Is this going to be a tie? Joe's freestyle moves threaten to nail Frank but then the butterfly can't be caught without great effort, can it?"
Joe shows signs of tiring. Frank senses the opportunity for the knock out, and closes in. Rushing in with a jab, Frank's expecting Joe to fall face up when...
"What's this ladies and gentlemen? Joe has brilliantly side stepped Frank's jab" The crowd is dead silent and the whoosh of Frank's move can almost be heard. The next 30 seconds seem to take an eternity to elapse.
Frank stumbles but manages to regain balance. Joe hunted bears in Chippewa Falls during the season and tried a time tested Indian technique for killing bears. "Let the bear close in for the final hug. When he's too close to back out, nail him with a jab..."
Joe sent in a pile driver straight into Frank's stomach. Spittle and blood flew out alongwith a weird sound from Frank's lips. Frank was winded. A swinging hook and Frank hit the floor. He'd been winded.
The next ten seconds seemingly dragged on for hours. The referee's excited counting, Frank's fans looking miserably crushed, and of course Joe's smirk. He mouthed a few words out of which Frank could make out "The right place for you, nigger!". Darkness...
Next month, the bout was declared again, this time in Arlington. Frank was pitted against a local tough, Lee Harper. Frank fought the way he knew best, the butterfly. He should've won the bout, but things weren't so simple. He saw Joe and his smirking smile yet again. "The right place for you, nigger!". This moment of distraction was all that Lee needed. A series of crashing punches and a pile driver, and Frank hit the floor again.
Frank's reputation as a fighter melted before the winter snows did. He was rarely invited for bouts, and he now had to scrounge for fights in lower South End. It was shameful. The money had now dwindled to a trickle and outstanding bills and rent meant he had to forego his luxuries.
"It's the end of the line for you Frankie. Find yourself something worthwhile, or its the soup mission for you..." Dawson was cruelly blunt. Dawson was Frank's agent, but not his best friend. Dawson now pitched and set matches for Joe "Hammerhand".
 |
| The soup mission line |
Frank's morale was at an alltime low, and the ghost of "The right place for you, nigger" followed him everywhere...
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