JOSHUA NICHOLAS HILL

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CHAMPEEN OF THE WORLD
Honorable Mention, Fiction

     San Quentin, 1966:
     See that dude over there in the corner? Yes, that one right there, the black man working the speedbag. That's Raynard Johnson. If you're a serious aficionado of the fight game, and you have a really good memory, you might remember his ring name, Jackhammer Johnson.
      In 1951, at the age of 23, Raynard Johnson had a professional record of 12-0, with eleven straight knockouts. He was just one solid victory over a reputable opponent from achieving a top ten ranking. This would've automatically made him a contender for the middleweight crown. However, Johnson never made it that far. First, he encountered the same problem many gifted young fighters did in those days: He was too skilled for his own good. His reputation as a devastating knockout artist with fast hands and superb ring mastery scared the shit out of everybody in his weight division. The fighters who were ranked above him, all trying to position themselves for a title shot, could not risk a loss, especially by way of knockout, to an unranked fighter. Likewise, the managers of the up-and-coming fighters ranked below Raynard didn't want their pampered young wards anywhere near a ring with Jackhammer Johnson. His second stumbling block was his prison record. He had served three years for his conviction for a strongarm robbery, which occurred when he was 17. This was known to fight promoters in all the influential boxing meccas throughout the country. The idea of promoting an ex-con on their fight cards made them very, very nervous.
      One night in Detroit, where his manager and his trainer were trying to set up the first fight in three months, Raynard got into a brawl outside a cocktail lounge. He demolished the two guys who started the fight, and then tore up two of their friends who jumped on Raynard from behind. Two patrolmen arriving on the scene made the mistake of trying to subdue Raynard with their nightsticks. Both of them ended up in Emergency. One of the officers did not regain consciousness that night. He remained in a coma for several days.
      At that time it was the law in Michigan that the hands of a professional boxer were dangerous weapons, legally recognized as such in all court proceedings. Jackhammer Johnson was convicted of armed assault and felonious battery, six counts each. He spent the next eight years at Jackson State Penitentiary.
      When Raynard was released from Jackson the first thing he did was put as many miles between himself and Michigan as possible. He caught a bus to Chicago and, again wasting no time, was out on the highway before first light the following morning, hitching a ride west. Three days later Jackhammer Johnson was back in the city from which he had begun his ill-fated odyssey almost a decade before. Oakland, California. Home.
      While Raynard was still behind the walls his father had arranged a job opportunity for him at the same factory the senior Johnson had retired from in 1954. Melvin Johnson was able to do this through his best friend and fellow worker, Willy Tibbs, whose nephew was now a foreman at the factory. Two days later Raynard had himself an honest job as a laborer, entry level, at the Amalgamated Can & Container Company in Alameda.
      Employment at Amalgamated began a period of stability, healing and general constructiveness in Jackhammer's life. The days slid by at an easy, comfortable gallop revolving around a routine that was neither spectacular nor extraordinary, but one from which Johnson drew a sense of fulfillment. He worked five days a week, 8:00 to 4:30. After work he drove back to Oakland in the 1952 Dodge that Leotis Billings, who had been Melvin Johnson's barber for 37 years, was leasing to Raynard until the younger Johnson could save up enough money to buy a used car of his own. In the back seat of the Dodge Raynard kept a canvas tote bag full of his training gear (trunks, handwraps, hightop boxing shoes, etc.) so that he could head straight to a local gym for a rigorous two-hour workout. Then it was back to his modest apartment for a shower, a light meal and a little TV. Raynard was in bed by ten o'clock every night just like the old days, when the world knew him as Jackhammer Johnson and he was knocking out every motherfucker with enough balls to lace up a pair of boxing gloves and step into the center of the ring with him.
      Trainers and managers around the gym were quick to notice his skills. Raynard had done his best to keep himself ring-sharp and well-conditioned during his years in the joint. It didn't take much polishing to bring back the gleam of his golden talent. Soon he was being asked to spar with other fighters. A very short time later he had a manager, a trainer and a contract. Raynard had five fights in 1959. He won them all by knockout. He began the following year with two knockouts in January, a unanimous decision in February, another knockout in March and a spectacular TKO at the end of April. It was after this last fight that articles appeared in the sports pages of both the Oakland Tribune and the San Francisco Chronicle. The articles, accompanied by photos of the victory, raved about the rampaging, mysterious gladiator who had suddenly burst upon the Bay Area boxing scene and was routinely dispatching all comers.
      I wish I could report to you that Raynard Johnson went on to become the middleweight champion of the world, that his career was crowned with riches and glory, and that he is now greeting guests at one of those gaudy hotel casinos in Vegas, Reno or Tahoe, the way Joe Louis did. But you already know that such was not the case, and so it becomes my burden to set down what really happened. Raynard's meteoric resurrection was short-lived. A veteran sports writer with one of the New York papers recognized Jackhammer Johnson. Moreover, he was familiar with the circumstances and details of Raynard's arrest and conviction. In due course another article appeared in The Tribune and The Chronicle, this one titled, "The Self Destruction of Jackhammer Johnson". Two days later the California Boxing Commission banned Raynard from fighting in the Golden State for three years because he had failed to register himself with the Commission as an ex-felon. Raynard's employer soon fired him for lying about his arrest record on the job application. He lost his apartment because he could not pay the rent. He lost the support of his family because all he wanted to do was to drink himself into a stupor each day, rage against the injustices of life and light up anyone who looked at him twice.
      A year later he was on skid row, living in abandoned buildings and panhandling for wine money. One day Johnson and another vagrant got into a skirmish over a bottle of Boone's Farm. The other man picked up a two-by-four and swung it at Raynard. Until this very day Johnson cannot clearly recall beating the man to death with his fists. He was found guilty of murder in the second degree and came to the joint with a five-to-life. Raynard now has his "minimum" in, as they say in the pen. Which means he's been down for the lowest part of his sentence. He is 38 years old.

Johnson left the speedbag and went over to one of the heavybags. With measured, controlled barrages Johnson punished the sand-filled, wide-girthed cylinder, blasting it was salvos from every angle. Convicts all over the gym paused to watch him work. Someone called out, "'Shotshine' for me one time, Raynard."
      Johnson machine-gunned the bag with a rat-a-tat combination from the bottom to about three quarters of the way up, hands close together in front of him, working like pistons. He finished off the combination with a crisp, crunching left hand that caused an impressive reverberation throughout the gym. There were "ooohs" and "aaahs" and low whistles of admiration from the onlookers.
      Johnson pulled off his bag gloves and began unwinding his handwraps. He was through for the day.
      Just then someone said, "Dig it, Thunda's fixin' to git his."
      Most of the penitentiary boxers present at the time went over to the ring and climbed up on the apron. They leaned over the ropes and watched intently as a young middleweight and his trainer began working in the center of the ring, practicing combinations. The young boxer's name was Alonzo "Thunder" Green. He was a professional boxer with a perfect 8-0 record in the free world. He had knocked out all eight of his opponents in less than three rounds. He was in the joint because his parole officer had "violated" him for leaving his county of residence without permission. Green had been paroled to Los Angeles County. His last fight had taken place in Las Vegas. Several days ago Green's manager assured Thunder that the parole officer had agreed to reinstate his parole within two weeks. In the meantime he was causing a sensation among the prisoners of San Quentin, especially the black boxers. Green trained for two or three hours each day, an hour of which was devoted to ring work. For the past few sessions Raynard had been observing at ringside along with the others. He climbed onto the apron now and posted up outside the ropes at the nearest corner. Raynard scrutinized Thunder Green's every move closely as the young fighter went about his craft, evaluating his performance with a keen, critical eye.
      Green and his trainer, Bump Jackson, were working by the usual single round increments, three minutes of getting busy followed by a minute of rest. During the next respite Jackson came over to where Johnson stood. The two men had been friends for twenty years. Bump was wearing large black leather mitts. These mitts were very similar to the kind catchers wear, only the pockets of these mitts were the targets of punches instead of baseballs. "He raw, but he be hittin' hawd," Jackson commented. "I feel it right through dese here thangs. Knock fire from a mothafucka's ass, sho nuff."
      Johnson nodded. "But he still throwin' that right hand too long."
      Jackson agreed. "Sho iz. An' I done tole him about it, too. But you know how dem youngstas iz."
      "Anotha thang," Johnson continued, "when he inside he be usin' too much arm wit' that left hook. He need to snap that elbow an' turn that hip."
      "Say, man, you tawk lotsa shit for an ole mothafucka," interjected the subject of the two men's conversation. Green had overheard Johnson's comments as he moved around the perimeter of the ring, trying to stay loose by doing footwork and side straddles. "You wuz tawkin dat same-ass shit the otha day, how I ain't doin' dis right an' I ain't doin' dat right. Don't nobody wanna hear dat shit, mothafucka."
      "Don't mean nuthin by it," Johnson responded. "Jes passin' on to you whut othas done passed on to me."
      Thunder Green continued as though Raynard had not spoken. "An' who the fuck iz you anyway, mothafucka, standin' up here fatmouthin' wit' yo' antique ass."
      There were chuckles and snickers and outright laughter from
      the ringside---little dogs siding with the big dog, as convicts do.
      "Why you disrespectin' dis man?" Bump Jackson interposed. "Dis here is Jackhammer Johnson. He wuz ranked numbuh thirteen in the world when yo' black ass wuz still shittin' yella. You need to thank the man, nigga, dat's whutcha needs to do. He takin' de time to putcha up on sumpin dat might keep yo' shit-tawkin, nappy-headed ass from gittin knocked smooth out."
      Shee-it," retorted Green. "Ain't nobody bin knockin' me out. Ain't nobody even laid a glove on Thunduh Green yet. Dey gits too close, dey gits they muthafuckin dick knocked in the dirt."
      "Das right," yapped one of the little dogs.
      "He a bad mothafucka," barked another.
      Bump Jackson was quick to put a damper on the peanut gallery. "Shit, mothafucka, you ain't had but eight fights. Dey gits smarta as dey goes up, nigga."
      "Man, fuck boaf you ancient mothafuckas, wit' yo' good ovah-the-hill asses," snapped Green. "I tells you whut," he said to Johnson. "Since you know so muthafuckin' much, brang yo' ass up in here, show me whut you tawkin 'bout."
      Johnson shook his head. "I ain't lacin' up jes to prove sumptin to you or ennyone else. I ain't got to impress nobody."
      "Ain't nobody axin you to impress nobody, man. An' you ain't got to put on no gloves neithuh. Jes show me some a dat 1940-ass shit you be tawkin 'bout mothafucka."
      Johnson climbed into the ring.
      Green shuffled toward him immediately. He threw a long lead right hand, the same punch Johnson had criticized earlier.
      Raynard, of course, knew it was coming. The young fighter had stepped forward with his left foot. And it wasn't a jab step, it was a power step. Johnson bobbed low, weaved under Green's overextended right arm and delivered a short, snapping left hook. He stopped the punch before it made contact with Thunder's jaw, then spun and danced away.
      Eyes widened all around the ropes. There was silence among the little dogs.
      Bump Jackson was standing with his arms across his chest, smirking. "He had sumpin for yo' bad black ass, now ditten he? You lucky he helt up, nigga. Dat hook woulda straighten out haf de naps in that swolt up haid."
      Thunder wasn't paying attention to this. The youngster was following Raynard as the older man slipped through the ropes and out of the ring trying to talk him into puttin on some boxing gloves.
      "C'mon, mothafucka, break out some mo' a dat Worl'War Two-ass shit on me. Somebody wrap dis mothafucka's hans an' lace 'im up, he so bad an' shit."
      Jackhammer Johnson jumped down from the apron and walked away from the ring without looking back.
      "Yeah, uh-huh, you doin' the right thang, mothafucka." Thunder Green called out.
      "Shit, you bettah let dat bad mothafucka go befo' he come back here," Bump Jackson said to the youngster. "You doan wants to see whut else he got. Dat hook woulda to' you a new asshole if he let it go."
      "No bullshit," agreed one of the little dogs.
      "Square biz," chimed in another.
      Thunder Green was still watching Jackhammer Johnson, "I'll beat a old mothafucka's ass!" he yelled.
      But by then Raynard had pushed open the exit door and was stepping out into a perfect sunlit afternoon.

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     It's evening now. Raynard's in his cell, doing the same thing he does just about every other evening. He's sipping penitentiary pruno from a 10-oz. MJB coffee jar. Raynard always buys enough to fill three such jars. He trades bonaroo sandwiches and other food for the pruno---cheeseburgers, baked chicken, pork chops, thick slabs of roast beef, whatever he can get hold of through his job as a cook.
      Usually Raynard doesn't have anything to celebrate. But on this occasion he's drinking to his public mortification of Thunder Green. "Showed dat nigga sumptin," he mutters, and chuckles with a deep satisfaction. However, instantly Raynard's mood passes from exhilaration to a bottomless despair. You see, back in the younger days Raynard had always imagined himself referred to as "Champeen of the World" by one and all. And it's quite possible that would've been the case had not Fate grabbed him by the scruff and dragged him down an entirely different path. And so this is the Jackhammer Johnson we find before us now. A sad, hopeless, wreck of a man, his life so pathetic he's reduced to celebrating cheap victories over the likes of Thunder Green. "Fuck it! Just fuck it, goddam me!" he resonates suddenly, and his defiance is like a sob, a mournful remembrance of dead dreams and squandered talent and a wasted life.
      Raynard raises the jar and gulps down the remaining pruno. He screws the lid back on the crude goblet and, though very drunk now, manages to place it carefully under his bunk. This done, Raynard lies down, head spinning, and awaits the familiar, compassionate veil of blessed oblivion to pull him mercifully into its folds.