Somerville, MA Boxing Club
Paul Dalrymple
In Somerville, boxing fans hope to meet their match
By Rob Azevedo, Boston Globe Correspondent, 10/17/99
SOMERVILLE - Upstairs from Anthony's Function Hall on Highland Avenue, a
corporate-looking gent in his early 30s walks into the Somerville Boxing
Club with a gym bag in his hand and a champion's belt in his dreams. He says
his name is Dave and informs the man behind the desk that he's here to sign
up for three months of training: ''I wanna box,'' he says.
It's a line that Frank Murphy, 75, the man behind the desk and a trainer at
the club for 15 years, has probably heard a million times before. He points
to a row of plastic chairs and speaks in flat tones.
''Take a seat,'' he says.
Dave does, then begins to explain why he's here. He's studied karate, he
says, and he's interested in continuing to improve his hand-eye
coordination.
''Well,'' says Murphy, with a pause hanging in the air. ''You're gonna have
to get in shape. We'll teach you to box, but you gotta get in condition,
though, and you're gonna run on your own. Get yourself up to six wind
sprints, and stretch those hamstrings before you do anything. If they're
cold, you're gonna snap 'em.''
Then the bomb: ''And don't expect to get in the ring for three months. No
one gets in the ring until they have three months of training in 'em.''
What? No playing the role of Jake LaMotta next weekend? No bloody nose,
unless it comes at the hands of a speed bag snapping back and jamming him in
the face? Is this any way to treat the next Champion of the World?
At the Somerville Boxing Club, everyone starts out as the next Champion of
the World. Whether their journey lasts a week with muscle cramps or extends
to 20 years, climaxing at the MGM in Las Vegas, they all get equal treatment
on day one.
''Let me tell you,'' says Norman Stone, one of the club's cofounders and a
trainer there for over 20 years, ''97 percent of the guys who come in this
place are here to get it out of their systems. It's in their blood. It
always has been.''
He's known as ''Stoney,'' and at 51, he's still looking good. He's been 40
years around the fight game, the last 20 at the Somerville Boxing Club. He
and his pal Ralph Palmacci, 80, started it in 1975. The pasta belly is
kicking out a bit, the hair has gone gray, but Stoney looks good. Solid.
He's been in the fight game since he was 7, and he still looks as if he
could snap the ears off your head if he heard anything close to flippant
come from your mouth. After a few minutes with him, though, it's obvious
Stoney isn't much into dismantling the human body these days.
More likely, he'd invite you to his place to share a bowl of pasta and clam
sauce, or for an inspirational talk about a love gone bad.
Right now, standing in the middle of one of the club's two rings, Stoney
wears two windbreakers, a T-shirt, nylon sweatpants, and a pair of punch
mitts as he stands across from a kid no more than 13. The boy is thin,
shirtless, and full of teeth. He's enjoying this, swatting at Stoney's
mitts, hitting sometimes but mostly missing wildly.
Stoney's got a project on his hands. He yells, but it's obviously more about
tough love than impatience.
''Snap them punches!''
''Point your shoulder at your opponent!''
''Step in with your right hand! No, your right hand!''
''That's it! Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!''
Over and over, the verbal assault continues, an impressive dissertation on
the art of the game. As Stoney barks his commands, he dances as if the kid
were chained to the front of his pants, swinging high at his head, dipping a
shoulder into his chest, throwing the occasional jab just to keep him off
his heels.
''You got to learn the fundamentals. You just got to,'' he says between
rounds. ''I tell him to breathe because, well, you ever seen a street fight?
Street fights are over in 20 seconds. Know why? Because nobody's
breathing.''
Then Stoney is back at work, continuing to pound the fundamentals of boxing
into the kid's sweaty ears.
''Don't cross your feet!'' he says, his voice crackling like a machine gun
eyeing a slab of flesh, rattling off defensive and offensive postures in
rapid-fire succession.
''Move with me! That's it, kid! That's it! Work! Move! Move! Move!''
From around the club, where dues are $25 for three months, the smells begin
to form an amalgam of Vaseline, leather, and sweat.
The entire room is visible with a few turns of the head. Two heavy bags
wrapped in duct tape hang from the ceiling. Two mirrors fight with men named
Alvis, Joey D., and Lance through a film of condensation. Two speed bags
hang from a chain on a board nailed to a wall.
Gray rugs are spread from corner to corner. A half-dozen water bottles are
lined up and ready to be emptied. Fans blow from makeshift rafters, barely
moving the stale air.
Against the back wall, two shrines beckon for when the time is right. They
are the boxing rings.
As if intentionally placed at the most distant possible point from the
rings, behind the punching bags and above the mirrors, is a 3-by-3-foot sign
with these simple words: ''The will to win is not nearly as important as the
will to prepare to win.''
Prepare to win is precisely what Stoney and Palmacci try to help their
boxers do.
When Palmacci was young, he met a man who taught him how to box. Since then,
he says, ''it's been like a disease.''
Palmacci says boxing ''helps to develop the character of a person. It's
something you'll keep with you your whole life. This is where strength comes
from: self-control. This is a sport that gives you the skills of all other
sports, and then double that. This is the baptism of fire.
''You gotta believe that you can do it,'' Palmacci says, ''not for your
mother, your grandmother, or your blind aunt. You gotta do it for
yourself.''
The fellow known as the ''Quiet Man'' represents the payoff, the No. 1
reason men and boys bring themselves to the gym day in and day out to pound
bags and bodies after a full day of work. He's the reason trainers stay in
the fight game 20, 30, and 40 years, waiting for a champion to show himself.
He's John Ruiz, the 1998 WBC Boxer of the Year, and a product of the
Somerville Boxing Club.
Ruiz, a heavyweight who's now 27, came to the club when he was 16 and skinny
with an Olympic goal in mind. As the story goes, he got robbed at the
Olympic trials, but that's old news. He wanted to turn professional, and he
did. He wanted to fight for the championship; he will, maybe sooner than
expected.
The payoff awaits. Ruiz (35-3, 25 knockouts) knows many enter the gym
expecting to start fighting right away. He knows some become discouraged
upon learning of the enormous time and effort they'll need to develop the
fundamentals before they get to practice in the ring. More important than
fundamentals, speed bags, and crooked noses, though, is that this is a place
that removes kids from the streets, and teaches a whole lot about life along
the way.
''This keeps kids away from trouble,'' said Ruiz, who lives in Methuen and
still works out regularly at the club. ''Keeps them off the streets. Keeps
your body in shape. That's what we're trying to do here.''
In three months, if he's still around, Dave will be in the ring. Dave's part
of a tribe now, a tribe of students learning the fight game and the life
game all rolled into one. They'd be lying if they said their bellies and
hearts aren't churning with the image of a belt wrapped tight around their
gut as an announcer calls out, ''Introducing the new Champion of the World
... ''
Until then, he'll live with the simple, profound lessons of the Somerville
Boxing Club.
''Boxing is like life,'' Ruiz says. ''You never know what's gonna come up.''
Mi28w
Command...@webtv.net
let it be known from the word go that thorough
training and conditioning is expected from any
Dempsey wannabes.
Commander McHale