Superman wasn’t the person my friends and I from Bessemer-belching East Chicago and once-green Gary, Indiana, idolized most back in the dimly-remembered 1940s. It was Tony Zale – that handsome, chisel-jawed, 160-pound, body-crunching left-hook artist, who was a superman to us. The so-called “Man of Steel” emerged steamy and sweaty from the sweltering smelters of Gary in the highly-industrialized Calumet Region of northern Indiana and Illinois. Slinging ingots in his stinging left and lethal right, Tony crossed up Al Hostak, “The Savage Slav” from Seattle, for the NBA title, then bested Georgie Abrams for the uncontested world championship belt. How “The Region” fans must have cheered that night in 1941. I was only four, but old enough at six in 1946 to listen, rapt, with Max, my dad, in front of our big Philco radio as spunky Don Dunphy broadcast, and Ruby Goldstein refereed, the first of Tony’s ferocious fights with Thomas Rocco Barbella, a.k.a. Rocky Graziano. All the while, I threw frantic, frenzied punches in the air, urging Tony on with support he very much needed. After four long ring-rusty Navy years in WWII, Zale was the champ, but also the underdog. That figured: Tony was six years senior to fast-climbing, recently resurrected Rocky – a slugger on a soaring seven-fight streak, famed and feared for barbaric bouts and a clubbing, clobbering, clock-’em-out overhand right.
1946. Opening bell. Elation! Tony rushes in, cracking The Rock to the canvas. But hope is soon dashed. Rocky rises at five, hammering hard, dropping Tony, who is up fast but wrenches his right (broken?), yet boldly braves Barbella’s bashing and is rocked for four more ruthless rounds.
Round six. Bleeding and exhausted, Zale staggers out slowly, seeming ready to go. Rocky races in recklessly for the kill, his ravaging right cocked, left a little lax, when – HAIL MARY – Tony rips his badly bruised right brutally to the belly, then a lethal left to the jaw for a crippling KO.
Glory in Gary! Heaven in the Harbor! I dance a jaunty, joyous jig: the Man of Steel has won the 1946 Fight of the Year. Max makes a bundle, wisely wagering on Zale. Parties proliferate, fanatical fans in The Region celebrate, and we all anticipate a raucous rematch in ’47.
1947. Round One. “Tony, Tony,” I blare into the radio. “A looping left and Rocky’s done in one,” I shout. And sure enough, a looping Zale left sends the Rock crashing to the canvas and me into a swoon, preening with pride for my sweet-science-savvy, certain my fast-finish prediction will come true.
But No. Rocky’s up ramming rights, lobbing lefts like a lunatic, Tony returning fire in a toe-to-toe tussle that goes one way, then the other, and back again. Until the feverish, fateful sixth, when three colossal kryptonite Graziano rights send sainted Superman down. He’s up bravely, but finally left dangling on the ropes, looking like limp linen.
Despair in Gary. Heads hang in the Harbor. This furiously fought second Fight of the Year has ended in anguish. Soon, tattered old Tony is tirelessly training again, facing 12-5 odds against reaching redemption in the rubber match. Only faithful fanatics like Max and me give past-his-prime-Tony a prayer of a payback.
1948. Mirabile dictu: Tony’s equipped to get the job done. In a seminal slaughter, Tony pummels Paisano, dancing with finesse, causing distress, hooking hard, rocketing rights the rest of the night, ending it in the third with a lethal lightning left. Revenge is sublime, as Rocky’s counted out.
Toppling Rocky, a moment of glory, drains tough Tony’s tank, his finest fistic years lost in WWII. Despite once-storied skill, he’s over the hill. A few months later, sinking in a swan song to France’s Marcel Cerdan, Tony retires without remorse or regret, pursuing public service, coaching kids, and venerating vets: celebrated son of The Region.
Coda:
I met Tony Zale once at the end of his life, in a nursing home where my mother was recuperating from an illness. When I learned the old champ was in a room down the hall, I went to visit him. It broke my heart to see how decrepit The Man of Steel had become. Once an incredible physical specimen, he was now frail and hunched over in a wheelchair. His puffy eyes gave the impression that his vision was blurred, and he had huge “cauliflower ears” with enormous hearing aids. I wasn’t sure he could see or hear me when I leaned over and said loudly in his mangled left ear, “You were a great fighter.” He did hear me, though, because he nodded weakly and managed a broad grin. I was glad I had met Tony Zale, local hero of my boyhood. Tony Zale was inducted into the Boxing Hall of Fame in 1991.
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David Blumenfeld is a former philosophy professor and associate dean who resumed writing literature after a break of more than forty years. Since 2022, he has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize three times. One of his publications received a “notable essay” commendation in Best American Essays 2023, another appeared in Best American Haiku 2023, and 12 of his works were finalists or received other high praise in literary magazines. Blumenfeld also writes for children, under the pseudonym Dean Flowerfield. Davidcblumenfeld.com.
