OLIVER, TWISTED AND TURNED
EXCERPT
Vince Sardi, was born Luigi DeSantis in a small village outside of Sienna, Italy. No father; his mother died giving birth. He came to America at age 16, barely able to speak English without making people smile, or outright laugh at his mangled pronunciations and inflections. He was sponsored by his uncle and aunt and adopted their last name, but their idea of family life soon proved too structured for him. The only asset he had to sell was labor. And, at age 16, the construction industry was eager to gobble up a young, eager, cash only, worker and he jumped into it wholeheartedly. English proficiency wasn’t entirely necessary, anticipation of what was needed was, and Luigi was quick to pick up on what was needed. It was work, money, a chance to practice English, and maybe put together enough to move out from his uncle’s house.
His first real American life’s lesson came on payday. He stuffed the small wad of cash deep in his front pocket. The sun felt great on his back as he walked down the street, and with the money in his pocket he felt like a millionaire. The lesson came soon afterward. It was taught to him in an alley by two street thugs who had watched the workers leaving the construction company gate. They knew when payday was, and they picked what seemed to be the weakest among those leaving. As he neared an alley, they grabbed him. He was frightened, beaten senseless and robbed.
Luigi hated himself for being so powerless. A few days later Luigi’s discovered the Kronk gym. He wandered inside, took in the rank smell, and watched the sparring and workouts. He saw a man barking instructions at two guys slugging it out in a ring. Luigi approached and stood, respectfully, at his side without saying anything and waited for his chance. A couple of minutes later the sparring session was over. The man took notice of him and gruffly said, “What’d’ya want.”
Luigi, put up his fists and circled them in the air.” “You show…?”
The trainer looked at the short, skinny kid with the black eyes and roughly abraded cheeks and said, “If the other guy doesn’t look like that, then, yeah, you need some training.” The English was pretty much wasted on Luigi. But, the man nodded his head. That was it, just the one nod.
Costa?” Luigi jutted his chin out as he asked, simultaneously gesturing with his hands, palms upward.
Greely looked at him closely. The kid’s clothes were seconds…maybe thirds. The instep of his left shoe, at the sole, was open slightly and he could see his naked foot; he was pitiful. He noted the boy hardly spoke English; guessed that he didn’t have any money; and his couple of words and hand gestures proclaimed Italian. Greely felt sorry for him. He cobbled his best street Italian together and said, even working in what he believed to be an Italian lilt, “Primo, no costa. Luego…” and held his hand horizontally, palm down, and rotated it at the wrist in a wagging motion, as he was used to seeing Italians do, giving at the same time a slight shrug of his shoulders. Then he recalled that “luego” was probably Mexican Spanish for “later”, but thought it was close enough. Luigi made the translation and nodded his head.
Greely, the trainer, always had time to cultivate a newcomer. There was no cost to him, except maybe some of his time. Perhaps, this kid could be the next world champion. Not very likely, but there was always the possibility; and then the money would flow. Greely crooked his finger at Luigi and led him to a locker room. He rummaged around in an old laundry bag and brought out a pair of shorts and socks, and he tossed him an old pair of gym shoes from a donation box.
Luigi put them on and came out. He looked a little comical because the shoes and trunks were too large. Greely held up a “wait- a-minute” finger and soon came back with a short length of rope. He tied it around the boy’s waist and that was that; he couldn’t do anything about the shoes. He led Luigi to a heavy bag and demonstrated what he should do. The other boys in the gym looked briefly, some smiled, but went back to their workouts. Luigi began pounding the bag. A minute later Greely grabbed his arms gently and showed him how to stand and roll his body to drive his punch into the bag, to move his feet with each punch, and simultaneously bring up the opposing hand to protect his jaw. Guiding his punches, he said: left, left, right, right. Slow at first, Luigi picked up on it and was excited when the bag began to move. He was deliberate and as he began to understand and feel the rhythm, he struck harder and harder. Greely took notice. For a newbie, the kid had power and showed spirit. His trainer’s mind focused on the boy’s moves. He was thinking, too early to tell, but maybe….
Luigi, thereafter, never missed a day. He trained hard and showed well in exhibition matches. His was a murderous instinct, fired by the memory of being unable to defend himself, being cowardly, and having the shit kicked out of him in the alley. He hated himself for that; he hated the spineless. His fury was awesome to behold. An opponent that showed fear enraged him, and he seemed to always provoke fear. His opponents buckled before his fierce, almost insane beating. Within two years he was a Golden Gloves contender.
His ring name—Vincent Sardi—stuck. A co-worker in the construction trade told him that Luigi was a crappy name anyway. After awhile, he was just known as Vincent Sardi, usually just Vinnie, and he wore the name like a championship belt. It wasn’t Vincenzo, Vinci…or, more especially, Luigi…it was a real American name! Vincent in Italian meant victor or conqueror; he thought it perfect.
Young Vincent Sardi, however, much to Greely’s great disappointment, had no intention of becoming a professional boxer. He had learned to box in order to defend himself and now felt confident and fearless. His focus was money and had been for some time. He wanted money now, not sometime down the hard road of boxing. When the opportunity came to partner with a co-worker in a business of their own, they left their jobs. Vincent Sardi’s English, improved greatly, and he was European hungry in the land of opportunity. The money in the home building business was better than boxing and less injurious. Three years later he bought out his partner and renamed the business the Sardi Construction Company.
Vincent discovered early on that non-taxed dollars were better than taxed dollars. He always had an eye open for a quick buck and was by any estimate cautious as a street hooker. The money in construction was always time and materials, but always allowed room for padding in addition to his cost. Sardi’s magical billing practices provided a good income. The money was good, but he always felt more was better.
Sardi took side bets on almost any boxing event. He bought and sold a variety of expensive construction equipment and tools—paperwork wasn’t a prerequisite, and his income tax returns were always fictional wonders.
But, in addition to these side enterprises, Sardi’s fascination with the ring was indelible. He visited Greely and looked over the boxing talent whenever he could. When Greely died, with equally mixed emotions of sentiment and interest, Sardi picked up Greely’s torch and took his place as a trainer. Greely had been desperate to make his mark, as a matter of pride and a meaningful life, as having trained a world champion. Sardi was no different.
Vincent Sardi had no time for a family. His sole interests were making money, running the Sardi construction company and managing boxing talent, in that order. As he got older, however, he couldn’t dispel a growing, inexplicable nostalgic interest in returning to Italy and living out his life in comfort. He was getting tired of waiting for his pot of gold to show up. In his mind, Italy was beckoning, louder each year. Italian women, Italian food, and Italian wine; and he would have them all. Sardi traveled to the old country every two years. He had friends and some distant family there. Each trip, he deposited a goodly sum of money in a different Italian bank. His shirttail relatives and friends believed he had a good pension, but none thought he was rich. And that is exactly the way he wanted it. Through the years he had put together a considerable nest egg. He felt he was almost ready to go…all he needed was one final, big score of dollars.
It was a warm June day, when Ray Oliver showed up and interrupted those day dreams. At first, all he wanted was to work out. Sardi watched him and not long afterward asked him to spar.
Ray was quick, strong, showed magical anticipation, and had a killer instinct; he wanted to win. That was championship material…could this Oliver be his world champion? He befriended Oliver, gave him a job at his construction company, and took great personal interest in his training.
For three years, Ray built homes for the Sardi construction company, fought matches at every opportunity, studied hard, and saved his money. Every penny he had earned had been earmarked—some for his mother, a minimum for his living expenses, and the rest for schooling. He was demonstrably bright enough to earn a full-boat college scholarship. Somewhere between his sophomore and junior years, he came to believe that being a lawyer would satisfy all that he desired. He worked hard and graduated with a BA and a GPA high enough to be accepted by law school. His mother died before he graduated. He mourned her passing and missed her, but was thankful for the inheritance. It would help see him through school. He was now twenty-two, recently accepted into the University of Michigan law school, and it was time to say goodbye to Vincent, the Sardi Construction Company, and boxing.
Sardi made one last emotional pitch to Ray to not abandon his future in the ring, including a last ditch, “all I have done for you” speech. Ray, for maybe the hundredth time, said he was grateful, but boxing wasn’t the road he wanted. Ray was resolute and it was no longer a point for discussion. Sardi had failed to turn him, and that afternoon Sardi’s world championship dream was over. Ultimately, they wished each other the best of luck, shook hands, and Ray walked out the door.