I'm a New Yorker. Everyone knows me as Graziano. It’s a name that suits my build — I have big, imposing frame. I like smoking cigars and going to boxing matches. Last night, I was disgusted to see a fight turning into a brawl outside the ring. A bunch of white southerners were attacking blacks in the hall. They couldn’t stand the fact that a black boxer, Jack Johnson, had just won the world heavyweight title. It was a legendary fight. Johnson hit hard and dodged like a cat. He stitched his opponent right up. He beat the hell out of him. He stretched the fight out because he was enjoying it. Didn’t want to knock the other guy out in the first round. Johnson wanted to savour the moment. To tell you the truth, I was in his corner. I cheered him on all the way.
In New York, only the moment counts. Only the win. I don’t know what tomorrow holds in store; nobody does. It’s hard to earn a living in this town, especially after the stock market tanked in ‘29. All those shares in Coca-Cola, Ford, J.P. Morgan, Colgate and the rest went to hell, and a lot of rich folks lost all their money. You might say, ‘what does that have to do with you, Graziano?’, but the crash hit us all hard, from the top to the bottom, and then the folks at the top stepped on the bottom to get their footing, and the poor got poorer, and the rich got just as rich as they were before. Luck always comes back around for the lucky ones here in New York, just as sure as it don’t come round at all for some folks.
But in New York, you got to savour every moment that this metropolis gives you. The skyscrapers rise up like great long arms reaching into heaven, the cabs scurry through the streets like worker ants, people come and go, being born and dying into indifference, living amidst the chaos, the violence, the hot and cold brutality of the city. And New York never sleeps. I’m from the Bronx; in this neighbourhood, all the Italians know me. They respect me, too, because I like helping people out. I’m a big guy, but that don’t mean I’m a bad guy. I might look like a gangster, but that don’t mean I wanna hurt nobody. I'm a nice guy, my heart’s as big as a bus.
I don’t get involved much with those families who pick kids off the streets to fight in their gang wars. I try to keep my distance from the Mafia dons. I fly under the radar. But the dons know me. I’m not the type to go off talking about their affairs or blabbing to the police, I ain’t a rat. They could have got rid of me a long time ago if they’d wanted. But like I told you, I’m a good egg and I do a lot around here to help the Italian community in the Bronx. Sometimes a father will ask me to go pick up his kid from school. Sometimes some old lady will ask me to bring her a pound of polenta so she can make dinner. Old people have trouble getting around. Sometimes it’s a single mother who can’t make ends meet, and I’ll slip her a few dollars. Sometimes the police will be after some kid, and I'll let him hide out. But I don’t want any trouble with the cops either; they don’t go easy on guys like me, guys who got nothing to hide but who look suspicious anyway, immigrants who know too much and don’t want to do anything with it. I avoid corruption like the plague, and snitching like a holy pestilence. It’s true that I’d have plenty to tell them; I’ve seen stuff you wouldn’t believe, and heard more besides. But I’m as tight-lipped as a clam, steady as a tree, a big rock, silent and immutable.
You’re probably wondering how I make a living. I’m mad about boxing. So what? People say boxing’s for Italians from the Lower East Side, they say it’s for blacks, that it’s a gangster sport, or that it’s not a sport at all! None of that’s true. Boxing is a noble sport. It takes skill and a hell of a lot of training. That’s how I earn my living. I organise friendly matches between experienced boxers. I take a commission on the tickets I sell. Not much, of course. To give you an idea, the cost of a ticket for the Jack Johnson fight was a hundred dollars. For the fights I organise, a seat will cost you three dollars. Once I’ve paid for the hall, the ring and all the other stuff, I have a few dollars left over to pay the rent on my room in the Bronx and to buy cigars. I couldn’t live without cigars. That’s when I’m happiest — watching a fight with a cigar between my teeth. A real fight, and a real cigar — that’s what New York is all about!
Alan Alfredo Geday