The year was 1956 and life was good for me and my bride of four years. The flat we rented at Cooper St. in Brooklyn's Bushwick-Ridgewood section had been upgraded from cold water to radiator heat - and in two years the place was finally furnished. Best news of all was no babies to shatter the serenity of it all - and then a knock on the door.

Kid's name was Paul ... big at 6'3" and the 225 lbs. was carried on a well distributed frame - asked to speak to George - said he'd just finished college where he played football ... and now wanted giving boxing a try. During conversation over coffee and cake I told him boxing, even at amateur level, was a whole different world than the football he had experienced on the gridiron.

We opted for low profile gym over in Greenpoint - began with the basics - jab, right hand and left-hook. Was surprised the kid showed none of the awkwardness usually seen in a novice heavyweight. In a single week he began to wear the look of a seasoned amateur while working the heavy bag and shadowboxing - but there was a problem - the GG tourney would begin in a short three weeks. Not nearly enough time for a kid in the learning stage ... but our guess was we'd buy additional time with the big guys rarely called to arms early on in the competition.

We added an inside uppercut to the kid's limited repertoire - and repeatedly reminded that his style would be that of a counter- puncher. The game plan was simple enough ... and the hope was with size and discipline, coupled with a strong, stinging jab we'd earn needed time to add to the kid's arsenal - and there was another matter - with no heavyweights at the gym he hadn't as yet sparred a single round.

Scanned the 'hood for volunteers to help with the much needed ring work ... and found one in my ol' pal Joe Nestola that had made the GG semis a few years back. Joey matched the kid in size at 230 and a shortage of punching power made him the ideal spar mate ... word on the street was Joey hit no harder than a middleweight. Only stipulation was the rounds be limited to one-minute durations since Joey was nothing near fighting shape ... both were cautioned it wasn't to be a war ... strictly a workout to spot flaws in the kid's technique.

We laced up the oversized mittens, adjusted the protective headgear, and applied the vaseline ... and a final reminder to the kid, "Remember ... discipline ... jab... jab ... discipline." Activity in the gym ceased as all eyes were on the big guys readying to do battle ... and then the opening bell. Pal Joey rushed to the kid behind a rapier-like jab ... bing, bing, bing ... right on the beak ... and then quickly covered in peek-a-boo fashion to avoid an expected counter. It never came ... and it wasn't discipline ... was more like unconditional surrender ... the kid backed away from punching range ... then touched the wounded proboscis with the right mitten and discovered it leaking red fluid ... his ... and then exited the ring in panic.

Returned to the gym the following night but something wasn't the same ...was walking with a limp. Said it was a groin pull and that his boxing experience was finis ... and that he was returning to his first love in elevator construction.

On that note I returned to the good life with my "BW" at Cooper Street ... and a serene setting that was to be shattered two years later with the shout, "It's a Girl!"

Keep the faith guys and gals ... and the hands up and head down.

Semper fi,

Geo El

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