Monday Night Fights

The old RI Auditorium was THE place

Like no other, the Rhode Island Auditorium, the Arena on North Main Street was a bulky brick building, home to the Providence Reds hockey team and the venue for a variety of events; boxing, the circus, the Ice Capades, Sunday afternoon skating, high school and college hockey, Boy Scout jamborees, rodeos, music, Roy Rogers, Range Rider, the Boston Celtics, etc. I spent many exciting hours in that grand old building.

Monday was fight night.

The place was hopping. As I sped along with the crowd streaming into the foyer, my excitement grew. The Arena dripped with the smells of peanuts, steamed hot dogs, mustard, relish, onions, butter, sweat, and leather. Draped high in the foyer were primitive pictures of hockey warriors --- the Topper, Scherza, Bartlett, Bennett, and others, our icons of professional hockey. We went for hockey games where chicken wire protected fans from a flying puck.

On a podium in the center of the foyer was an unshaven, gruff man with a half-smile and a few stained teeth hanging in different directions. He was wearing a striped shirt and barking as if he were calling pigs.

“Hey-a, uh, getcha book…Ma-si-an-no, Za-nell-ee, A-ru-jo…see ‘em all . . . getcha su-va-neer of the fights…hey… su-va-neers heeya, su-vaaa-neeers!” as he hawked his programs. Dad bought me a set of miniature plastic boxing gloves on a keychain and a picture of Rocky Marciano.

Even though it was a school night, Dad took me to those boxing matches. He instilled my love of boxing when we watched the Friday night TV fights from Madison Square Garden and he rated the fighters; Gavilan, DeMarco, Robinson, Basilio, Young, announcer Johnnie Addie, etc. Monday night at The Arena was the live extension of those Fridays. We went with Uncle Carlo.

From the foyer, they walked, I loped up the cement stairs to the amphitheater entrance. And there, the grimy, crowded arena. The spotlights were beacons through a fog of smoke. They shone on the ring below in the center of the auditorium, the same spot where a ref would drop the puck or rodeo cowboys on their horses circled the wagons. But on Monday nights, the ice and dirt were replaced by an elevated, roped-in, padded stage with a stool in each corner. The spectators, mostly men, were packed around the ring. As we walked down the aisle, boxing talk floated.

“No way can he beat him.”

“The Rock will kill him.”

“I work with Zanelli, ya know. Me and him are wit da city.”

“The Rock is on his way (to the heavyweight title). Nobody messes wit the Rock. Don’t bet against him. He kin take a ponch, but if he hits…boy…yer gone, dead.”

Rocky Marciano was from Brockton, Mass., but many of his great fights took place at our place. He fought more than twenty bouts in the Arena.

Rocky, Undefeated at 49-0

“Arujo is in way ovah his head ta-nite.” And on it went.

RI’s own George Arujo

We walked down the cement steps to our seats. I sat between Dad and Uncle; a big man whose frame spilled over into my seat and smothered my armrest. Uncle Carlo spoke little, smiled as if he knew something, and tucked his Dutch Master into the right corner of his mouth. “Love it when Zanelli crouches.” That was about it.

Dad held his cigar with his front teeth.

“I made a sandwich for Zanelli ( the middleweight champ) one day.” Uncle owned a grocery store. “Big sandwich. Good guy.”

RI’s own, Ralph Zanelli

I had a hot dog.

“Ladees… and Jen-tell-men….in this corner…”

The crowd tensed and squirmed in their seats like chickens in a pen. The bell clanged. The slapping and the thuds of the punches sped through the arena.

“Hit him…get off the mark…uppercut, jab, jab, jab. Cross. Move. Move.”

“Don’t let him off the hook.” More smoke; more noise. My eyes began to water.

“Work him over.”

I had a cone of ice cream.

“He’s just waiting for him to make the first move, and then he’ll counterpunch.”

“Notice how short those punches are,” Uncle said. “Right from the shoulder. That’s the way to throw a punch. They hurt the most.”

“The solar plexus is at the bottom of his breastbone. A hit there could kill a guy.”

I had popcorn.

“This guy has a weak chin.”

I had a candy bar.

“In the gut. When he drops his hands, he’s done.”

“This guy wants to mix it with the Rock, and as soon as he does, he’s a goner.”

A knockdown, the crowd gasps, Dad smiles. “I knew it. The guy’s a bum.”

As we filed out after the last fight, our feet crunching peanut shells, I looked back at the lights shining on the empty stage, at the discarded papers and wrappers, and stomped out cigar butts and thought, “This was great. I can’t wait until next week.”

Sure, I had trouble keeping my eyes open. Smoke and fatigue are a bad combination. And yes, it was a school night, and I was home too late. And yes, I felt a little sick. And yes, I was too excited to sleep. But it didn’t matter.

I went with my Dad and Uncle Carlo to The Arena. And the fights.

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