(Fourth in a series)

The “Joe Palooka” comic strip in the Cedar Rapids Gazette inspired me, at the age of 10, to become a boxer. My dreams of glory in the ring distressed my father. Although he was a sports fan himself, he was wary of his son’s interest in an activity that punished even the best in the business.

I had boxed once. On a rainy day at Camp Wapsie Y, the counselors matched willing boys of similar ages against one another in short bouts. There were four boys in my category. In the first match, a very strong boy—who looked as if he had experience—mercilessly pounded his opponent.

My opponent was as ignorant of the sport as I. He swarmed at me with flailing fists, and I closed my eyes, backed up and stuck out my left hand. My attacker walked right into it.  His nose caught the end of my glove, his eyes filled with tears and he dropped his hands to his sides. I opened my eyes to witness the counselors stopping the fight.

I had won on a TKO with a single punch. I was lucky and I knew it. Had I been matched against the stronger boy, I would have been seriously pummeled and probably abandoned any interest in pursuing the sport.

Joe Palooka made it look easy. He was a blond heavyweight only slightly more intelligent than Li’l Abner, but his ring generalship was impeccable. He was a superb defensive fighter who packed dynamite in both fists. He also was a true American, dedicated to clean living, fair play and good sportsmanship.

Joe did not fight often. The strip was devoted mostly to various predicaments involving Joe and his inner circle. The group included his manager and trainer, Knobby Walsh; Joe’s girlfriend (and later wife), cheese heiress Ann Howe; and his enormous friend, Humphrey Pennyworth. But when Joe had a fight, I absorbed every move and even cut out the strips to make a scrapbook.

BOXING WAS a major professional sport in the 1940s, second only to baseball in popularity, with far more exposure than professional football or basketball. The Gazette ran boxing stories and photos almost every day, and there were national radio broadcasts of major fights every Friday night.

There was a single champion in each weight division, and top contenders were, as Marlon Brando pointed out, “somebody.”

Joe Louis ruled the heavyweights, holding the crown through 25 fights over nearly 12 years, including a hiatus when he served in the army during World War II. He made personal appearances and fought exhibition matches, becoming an American hero.

Sugar Ray Robinson, “the greatest fighter pound for pound,” not only then but perhaps for all time, won both the welterweight and middleweight titles. He was on the way to winning the light-heavyweight crown from Joey Maxim when he withered in the 103-degree heat under the lights at Yankee Stadium and was unable to answer the bell for the 14th round.

Tony Zale and Rocky Graziano fought three epic battles at middleweight. Willie Pep, a featherweight, befuddled opponents with the slickest moves in boxing.

I studied magazines and books on the history of boxing. I learned about John L. Sullivan, who could lick any man in the house and catch a fly on the wing with his bare hand.  Sunny Bob Fitzimmons was a broad-shouldered light heavyweight who brought down bigger men with his deadly “solar plexus punch.” Jack Johnson, the great black champion, was persecuted because of his defiance. Jack Dempsey weighed 190 pounds and fought with unbridled fury.

I could recite from memory all the heavyweight champions, in order, from Sullivan to Louis.

I BEGGED MY father for boxing gloves. Before he gave in, my father made one last effort to dissuade me. He took me to a night at the Golden Gloves, the amateur competitions sponsored annually in Cedar Rapids by the Gazette and held in two rings set up in the Memorial Coliseum.

It was my first real view of boxing. My father hoped that the brutality would open my eyes. For three rounds, mostly inept fighters unprotected by headgear flailed at one another to the point of exhaustion. I watched as tough farm boys and football players inflicted pain, drew blood and delivered concussions. Instead of being repelled, I identified with the winners who most resembled Joe Palooka, took mental notes and came away more committed than ever.

The set of gloves my father got me were beautiful. He did not skimp on his purchase; the two pairs were real leather with white laces, perhaps 12 ounces, and definitely not toys. They were the only boxing gloves owned by any boy in our neighborhood and perhaps the whole town.

I began to introduce the manly art of self-defense to the boys of northeast Marion. We fought in front yards, back yards, side yards, vacant lots and, on cold or rainy days, in our basement.

ONE DAY, it came to me that we should form a boxing club. We would acquire a speed bag, a heavy bag and other equipment and outfit my parents’ small basement as a gym. I really wanted a speed bag. We could all train there, I thought.

The funding mechanism would be a series of fights to be held in our basement.  We would charge admission and the proceeds would go toward the equipment. I outlined my plan to my young friends, and they agreed to participate. Their enthusiasm for a boxing club appeared to equal mine.

We put together a card of about five fights. My father, concerned for the safety of the fighters, agreed to be referee. My mother muttered her disapproval several times but did not argue for a cancellation, at least not in my hearing.

As a special added attraction, I proposed to create a re-enactment of the title fight between Joe Louis and Jersey Joe Wolcott. The fight was to be held a few weeks before ours, and restaging it, I thought, would have tremendous audience appeal, since Louis was widely expected to score an early knockout. The re-enactors would be two 8-year-old boys, my brother and a boy his age from down the street.

We printed up flyers promoting our fight card and nailed them to telephone poles throughout the neighborhood. I can’t remember the price of a ticket, but it was no more than a quarter; probably 10 cents for children, 25 cents for adults.

A few weeks later, Wolcott stunned the fight world by going the full 15 rounds with Louis. In the eyes of many, he won the fight, but Louis was awarded a split decision. Although I took notes on each round, we had no choice but to strike the re-enactment from the program as far too complex. We just had the little kids fight each other in the opener.

ON THE DAY of the fight, we drew a standing-room-only crowd to the small basement of my parents’ two-bedroom bungalow. We folded up the ping-pong table in one corner to make room for about 10 fans. Another 10 or so sat on the wooden stairs, while a smaller number crowded in on either side of the stairs, though my mother’s green wringer-washer took up a lot of space.

The boxing ring itself was a small open rectangle between the furnace and one wall. With 10 boxers, one referee and more than 20 spectators in her basement, my mother surely tried to retreat to the farthest corner of the house, but no matter where she went she was directly above the arena.

I had argued for three-round fights, like the Golden Gloves, but my father ruled that each bout would be only two two-minute rounds.

My opponent was Mike Kepros, whom I had never fought. I danced around on my toes, as I imagined Joe Palooka would, flicking out my left jab and looking for an opening. Kepros uncorked a round-house right that dumped me on the seat of my trunks. I bounced up immediately, unhurt, and we finished the contest without doing any damage. No one was keeping score, but had there been judges, they would have awarded the fight to Kepros. The knockdown was decisive.

The other fights were evenly matched and unmarked by injury. There were no other knockdowns.

AFTER THE FIGHTS, we counted our take. Several adults had generously contributed a dollar or more. Altogether, the gate was about $10. I explained to my future club members that this would not be enough to equip our gym, but with additional fights and more fund-raising events, we could be certain of having a fine training facility.

That was when the fighters explained to me that they were not interested in having a club—especially since it would be in my basement and the equipment essentially my property. What they wanted, right now, was money, their share of the gate.

I realized that to resist would ruin my life. So we divided up the take, with perhaps a lesser share for the younger fighters.

Although we doubtlessly continued our impromptu fights for a time, and I remained a boxing fan for years, my career as a fighter lost momentum. I turned my energies to team sports.

I never got that speed bag, to the everlasting relief of my mother and father.

(Dan Kellams, who graduated from Marion High School in 1954, is the author of “A Coach’s Life: Les Hipple and the Marion Indians.”)