BlitzBlog

After writing the previous post, I got to thinking about my grandfather.

Isidore
Greenbaum was born in 1894 in the Bronx, and became a profesional boxer
about the age of 16. Poppy fought under the name of Jack Sayles. For
the life of me, I cannot figure out where he came up with that name- my
guess is some promoter did- but Jack Sayles began his fighting career
in 1912 against Frankie Brown. 4 years later, going in with a mediocre
5-4 record, with one knockout, he fought Bantamweight champ Jackie
Sharkey to an impressive No Decision- essentially a draw. (see link:
http://www.boxrec.com/boxer_display.php?boxer_id=129174)

In any
case, my memories of Poppy, who passed away when I was 16, are a mixed
bag of warmth and sadness. Warmth for all the times my mother and I
would head in the City, usually every other Sunday, when my mother
would go to clean Poppy's apartment in Harlem. Mom would drop me at the
American Museum of Natural History, usually around 1pm with instruction
to be waiting at the statue of Teddy Roosevelt out front, promptly at
5:30, where she and Poppy would pick me up. We'd then head downtown to
our usual Chinese restaurant for what we called the now very un-PC
“Sunday night Chinks.” (Oy!)

The times were different then, as
the phrase might suggest, but the fact that an over-protective Jewish
mother would let her 8-12 year old son wander New York's American
Museum of Natural History with $3 in his pocket for 4 hours shows how
different they really were.

At some point I recall overhearing
Mom and her brother, my uncle Buddy discussing that Poppy was getting
too old to drive. To a young kid this was an odd concept. I couldn't
wait to get old enough to drive, so I couldn't imagine ever being too
old to drive. Anyway, I realized they were right one Sunday evening,
when instead of showing up to get me at the museum in my mom's car,
Poppy's black Chrysler Imperial jerked to the curb. I got in the back
seat and we headed down Columbus Ave. It wasn't long before I noticed
the difference between Mom's sedate driving style and Poppy's, um, more
aggressive one. I was sliding around the back seat (Seat belts? What
are seat belts?) peering out the windows as we seemingly almost clipped
doorhandles and mirrors with every other car on the street. Red lights
seemed to be a suggestion, and as we swerved around one bus and just
missed a parked car, I decided the safest place was down on the floor
between the seats. I recall humming to myself and trying to occupy
myself with a toy dinosaur I'd bought at the Museum gift shop.

Later
that night, when I was safely in Mom's car on the ride home, I told her
that I think that she and Uncle Buddy were right. And that being a
passenger with with Poppy at the wheel was scarier than any ride I'd
ever been on at Palisades Park. Mom agreed, reminding me that it was
even scarier being a passenger in the front seat.

Anyway, as the
next few years passed, the memories became sadder as Poppy began his
onset of senility. It was a long slow process, so many times were as
normal as before, but once in a while, Poppy would slip into a state of
confusion, which caused me, as young boy, as much confusion.

On
my 10th or 11th birthday, I was given a pair of boxing gloves. (What
good 1 pair of boxing gloves is, without a set for a friend to wear and
spar with, I'll never know. What were they thinking?). So Poppy and I
were out on the front lawn, and I had the gloves on. As the
rambunctious youth, I was bouncing around, peppering Poppy with weak
jabs, listening to his sage advice on how to box. I was circling Poppy,
jab-jab-jab! “C'mon Poppy! Show me what you got!” I recall saying- or
something to that effect. Poppy restrained himself, amused at my
inexperience and exuberence.

For a while anyway.

I
woke up, looking up at a very blue sky, with clouds that seemed to be
spinning. “Can clouds spin like that?” I thought. I was a bit foggy,
and I realized I was laying on the ground, flat on my back. I tried to
sit up, but I flopped back down, so I rolled over and push myself to my
knees, getting up unsteadily. I got to my feet, and waited for while
for my head to clear.

I was alone on the lawn. No sign of Poppy at all. I had no idea what happened.

I
stumbled into the house, and made my way to the kitchen, where Poppy
was sitting, talking to my mother, who was getting dinner ready. They
were in mid-conversation, so I just left and went to my room, took my
gloves off and turned on the TV. I have no idea how long I had been
laying there on the lawn- could have been 5 minutes or an hour. I sat
there staring at the TV, not really watching it, kind of in a fog, when
it slowly dawned on me.

Poppy had just cleaned my clock.

That
senile old geezer had popped his 10 year-old grandson, knocked him out,
left him lying on the lawn, and then he meandered back into the house
and sat down in the kitchen and started talking to his daughter like
nothing had happened!

I didn't know what to think. Should I say
something to Mom? And what would happen if I did? Would I be in
trouble? Would Poppy be in trouble? Would they put him in a home? Would
I get yelled at for fighting with Poppy? Or worse, would they take my
gloves away?

I figured it was best to let it drop, and in the
next 5-6 years before Poppy eventually passed away, I never spoke of it
to anyone in my family.

Poppy always told me the old boxing saw
that the most dangerous punch is the one you don't see coming. I may
not have remembered it that day, but I will never forget the day Jack
Sayles scored his last knockout.

The year was 1971. I was 11 years old. My grandfather was a retired
boxer who'd fought to a No Decision for the Bantamweight championship
in 1916. Poppy was still very connected in boxing circles and in
February he told me, in a few weeks, he was taking me to see “that
loudmouth get his pie hole shut by Joe Frazier.”

“That
loudmouth” was of course, Muhammad Ali, and my grandfather was not a
fan. I on the other hand gravitated to the rebels, the “cool” ones.
Ali, not Frazier. Joe Willie, not Unitas. And of course, the ultimate
in cool, Clyde. All the older men I knew despised Ali. All my friends
worshipped him. Such were the times.

I was excited, not only to
see one of my heroes, but I knew this was going to be one of those rare
late nights, where I got to stay out, maybe even past midnight. So on
March 8th, my mom drove me into the city to meet Poppy. We met across
from the Garden by what was then the Statler Hilton. Poppy and I went
around the corner and down an alley off 32nd to our “regular” Chinese
restaurant and had a great feast. I say “regular” as we'd met Poppy
there almost every Sunday evening for as long as I could remember.

After
our meal, we headed to the Garden. I loved the “new” Garden- how modern
it looked. How it was like this giant round spaceship plopped into the
middle of all these big square buildings. I liked it much better than
the “old” Garden, which I remembered only as being a plain building
where I got to see the circus.

We headed into the lobby, by
the ticket booths with the model of the arena under the plastic bubble
nearby. I looked in the bubble and asked Poppy where our seats were- to
show me on the model. But the model was only of the hockey rink, so he
pointed to the ice and said we were gonna be sitting near the blue
line. I was a bit confused by this, but he smiled and pulled the
tickets out and showed me that they were $150 each! This was an
astronomical number fro my 11 year old mind, and to spend it on
something that only lasts one night- a few hours even- well, I was
flabberasted!

So we headed into the arena, and I followed
Poppy, who seemed to know everybody. “Hey Jack!” (Poppy's real name was
Isidore, but in New York, everyone knew him by his boxing name, Jack
Sayles). “Jack! How ya doin'?” seemed to ring from every side of us.
Poppy shook hands with men in tuxedos, men with huge cigars, pinky
rings, and some of the most made-up women I'd ever seen in person,
wearing dresses that glittered like stars.

Poppy stopped by one
seated elderly black man. He was graying. I could see he was old, and
kind of shaky too. He turned and saw Poppy and smiled and slowly got to
his feet. “Julius,” Poppy called to me, (Poppy called all his grandkids
Julius. I have no idea why, but my guess it easier than actually
remembering all our names) “Julius, I want you to meet someone. This is
the greatest fighter who ever lived.” The old man reached out his shaky
hand and in a flash I was gripping Joe Louis' hand.

In all
honesty, I get chills thinking about it now, but at the time, all I
could think was, “Huh? THIS old guy was the greatest? No way. Everyone
knows Ali is the Greatest of All Time.”

But I was polite, and
smiled and said it was “nice to meetcha” and then stood around looking
at the crowd while Poppy made small talk with the Brown Bomber and a
few other old men. I did recognize some of the people in the crowd as
stars I'd seen on TV, and I was really enjoying the scene. Poppy put
his hand on my shoulder and led me to our 5th row seats.

I
remember being in awe during all the pre-fight introductions, and
getting impatient to see my hero Ali. When he finally came through the
ropes (not 20 feet away!), I was mesmerized. He moved like no one I'd
ever seen- so smooth, like a cat. But he was so big to my 11-year-old
eyes, I couldn't combine the concept of someone so large moving across
the earth so lightly.

The fight started and Ali came out
jabbing. I'd only seen him fight once before, on TV, so I had no idea
what the sound of a fight was like. Muhammad made this sort of hissing
noise through his teeth as he jabbed. And the leather landing on the
opponent's flesh was a thudding noise I couldn't believe a body could
stand.

The fight itself is history, and of course I was
disappointed with the outcome that night. But I recall Poppy admitting
a new respect for Ali's ability, but he was sure glad Joe Frazier had
finally taught him a lesson that night.