Discovered: Dressing room of a boxing arena. A small bare room containing a rubbing-table over which is suspended a green-shaded bulb. Air is blue with cigarette smoke.
On the table is seated the Palooka, a worn-out boxer in an old purple silk dressing robe. He looks grim and cynical. Beside him, on the bench, is a kid about to engage in his first professional match, very tense and eager. By the door, pacing restlessly is another old boxer.
PROMOTER [entering with cigar]: Awright, Jojo, you’re on!
ANOTHER OLD BOXER: Okay. I’m comin. [Swaggers out.]
PALOOKA: He won’t go more than two rounds.
TRAINER [taping the kid’s hands]: Naw. He’s too old. [Rises.] Excuse me, boys, I’m going to take a gander at this.
PALOOKA [as the trainer leaves]: Sure. They like to see an old palooka get knocked for a loop. Listen to ‘em. They’re yelling for murder. And they’ll probably get it. The bastard’s too old. He can’t take it. Hand him one on the button and he’ll fold. I guess you think that’s funny, me calling another guy old. I’m not one of this year’s kisses. Thirty-eight. In the insurance racket or selling bonds or anything else but the fighting game they’d say that you was still young at thirty-eight. But when a fighter’s that old he’s a worn-out palooka. He starts talking funny, dodging things that ain’t there. And the crowds yell at him like that cause they want to see him knocked out cold. Maybe five or ten years ago he was their hero, their favorite boxer. What the hell do they care now? [Pause.] Why don’t you say something, kid? Are you nervous?
KID: Yeah.
PALOOKA: Don’t be nervous. Whatcha got to be nervous about?
KID: This here’s my first pro bout.
PALOOKA: What of it? You got what it takes. You’re young.
KID: I got no experience, have I?
PALOOKA: Naw, you ain’t got no glass chin yet.
KID: If I don’t make good they’ll never give me another match.
PALOOKA: That’s the attitude, kid. Do or die. Who you fighting?
KID: Blackie Shaw.
PALOOKA: Him? That slap-happy palooka? [Gives a “bird.”] You’ll bust him into the middle of next week!
KID: Know him, do you?
PALOOKA: I seen him fight.
KID: He’s plenty big, ain’t he.
PALOOKA: Plenty of beef, yeah, but no form, no technique. For you it’s a breeze, a push-over!
KID: Zat so?
PALOOKA: He’s a sucker for a left uppercut. Leaves himself wide open. You wade right in there and hang one under his jaw right here or in the breadbasket. And he’ll fold his tents like the Arabs.
KID: I guess you know a good deal about boxing.
PALOOKA: I seen lots a fights in my time. From inside and outside the ring. I’ve known some real scrappers.
[Kid rises and starts pacing floor.]
PALOOKA [lighting a cigarette]: Take it easy. What’s the use of burnin’ shoe leather? Sit down. —Ever heard of a palooka named Galveston Joe?
KID: Sure. He wasn’t no palooka. He used to be the light heavy-weight champ.
PALOOKA: [with slight smile]: Yeah. He wasn’t no palooka.
KID: You know he wasn’t.
PALOOKA: Know what’s become of that guy?
KID: Him? I don’t know. I guess he must’ve quit fighting by now.
PALOOKA: Retired? Yeah. He’s lined his pockets with lotsa mozooma. Made lots of dough.
KID: Sure. He was a big-timer. A swell guy, too. Everyone liked him.
PALOOKA: When was the last you heard of him?
KID: Oh, I don’t know. When I was a kid selling papers. He was my hero then. Galveston Joe, I had his picture pasted up in my bedroom—
PALOOKA: Did ya?
KID: —and I used to stand up in front of it and square off and imagine myself like him, the light heavy-weight champ.
PALOOKA: Why not? You’re going places.
KID: I remember the time when he come into town for his match with the Mexican Puma.
PALOOKA: Yeah, the Puma. That was a breeze for him.
KID: God, how the kids mobbed the station! Musta been thousands of ’em shoutin for Galveston Joe. And the women, too.
PALOOKA [dreamily]: Yeah, the women.
KID: Fightin’ to get up to him.
PALOOKA: Kissin’ him an’ beggin’ for him to sign his name. Jerkin’ buttons off his coat. Snatchin’ his green carnation.
KID: Green?
PALOOKA: He was Irish you know.
KID: You seen it?
PALOOKA: Naw, but I can imagine. You see, I used to know him.
KID [eagerly]: Didja?
PALOOKA: I guess I did. Useda work in his corner. I used to give him the sponge.
KID: God! It’d be an honor to give him the sponge.
PALOOKA: Honor? Hell, it was a privilege, boy!
KID: Say! I sure would like to have been a friend of Galveston’s. He sure had something about him that—
PALOOKA: Yeah. Lotsa glamour. That’s what they call it in Hollywood.
KID: That’s it. Glamour.
PALOOKA: Lived like the King of Siam. Stopped at the best hotels and always traveled in a drawing-room. Spent money like water. Best accommodations was never too good for old Joe. Generous too. Ask him for a ten spot— Go on! Take half a grand!
KID: Where is he now I wonder? You know? [Pause.]
PALOOKA: Sure. Sout’ America.
KID: Yeah?
PALOOKA: Yeah, he’s made a big fortune down there. Oil business. That’s why you don’t hear him mentioned so much any more. He’s retired from the fighting game and made good on Wall Street. I mean on the – Argentine board of trade. He’s got a monopoly on natural gas or something down there.
KID: Jeez! Think of that! It ain’t surprising, though.
PALOOKA: Naw. Nothing that Galveston Joe could do would be surprising. He was that kind of guy.
KID: Still is? Is he?
PALOOKA: Sure! Why not? You oughta see the stations now when he comes into town!
KID: Crowds?
PALOOKA: Crowds! They tear the place down. Have to build a new depot every time he takes a trip. Kids yelling his name.
Galveston! Galveston Joe! [Half rises.] And the women—fighting like wild-cats to get a button off his vest or snatch the green carnation from his lapel or—God a’mighty, I tell you the fans go wild!
KID [dreamily]: Jeez! It’s sort of—inspirational—that’s right. That’s the word for it. To think of a guy getting famous like that. Celebrated!
PALOOKA: You bet.
KID: I guess he was just a young punk like me to start with.
PALOOKA: Uh-huh. The same as you are.
KID: And now just look where he is!
PALOOKA: Just look where he’s got to now!
KID: Lissen!
PALOOKA: Yes, the fight’s over! They musta murdered the stiff! Awight! You butchers! I’m on next!—And then you ….
KID: Me?
PALOOKA: Your big moment kid. —How you feel?
KID: Swell!
PALOOKA: You tell ‘em. Do like I told you. Wade right in there the first round and hang one right under his jaw like this or in the bread basket. You’ll bust that palooka into the middle of next week—
TRAINER [entering quickly]: Awright, you’re on, there! C’mon, c’mon let’s keep this show moving.
PALOOKA: Okay. I’m comin’. [Walks slowly, lifelessly through the door.]
TRAINER [with a hard laugh]: He means he’s going. To the slaughter! Lissen to ’em yelling out there.
KID [awed]: What for?
TRAINER: That new monicker of his don’t fool the old-timers. They know him.
KID: Know him?
TRAINER: Sure. They recognize Galveston Joe.
KID: Galveston—Joe!
TRAINER: Yeah, the biggest has-been in the racket. Lissen to ‘em yelling! They love it! Like feeding Christians to the lions—This won’t take long. The Palooka’s got a glass chin! How are you feeling, sonny? Okay?
KID [slowly]: Yes. I’m feeling okay.
[Roars continue. Black out.]
CURTAIN