Old Joe’s Basement

            It always took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim light as I entered the dark hallway that led to Old Joe’s basement. Several naked light bulbs hanging on bare cords gave the basement a cavern-like feel. The first thing I always noticed as I descended the stairs was the smell. The combination of unwashed gym clothes, liniment oil, dampness, and sweat-stained equipment wafted up the stairs to greet the visitor. In the shadows I would just barely make out the silhouettes of figures shuffling and rhythmically pawing at the air with purposeful movements. The ever present drumbeat of the speed bag with its constant da dump da dump in combination with the thump thump thud of a heavy bag being assaulted pounded out a repetitive rhythm to the grunting breathlessness of the athletes exerting themselves. The whole scene sounded and looked like a ritualistic prehistoric dance being performed. One could imagine these shadowy images being transported to a dark forest around a blazing campfire, dancing and shimmying, moving to the drumbeat of heavy and speed bags. These sounds and smells indicate my arrival in Old Joe’s basement.

            In the late 1970s and throughout the 1980s access to boxing facilities in the Madison area was limited. Aspiring fighters would train at either the University of Wisconsin natatorium gym or the homemade gym at the graveyard across from Madison West High School. Then there was Old Joe’s basement, located in a modest three-bedroom house in a working class neighborhood on the north side of Madison. Despite his wife’s protests, Old Joe opened his home and his converted basement three to four times a week to train his “boys.”

            From the first time I entered Old Joe’s basement to train I was instructed to use only the back entrance. Not wanting to disrupt his wife’s routine, Old Joe had me enter quietly through the back of the house. Old Joe’s wife didn’t like or approve of fighters. In the almost fifteen years that I was a regular at Old Joe’s workout sessions, only once did I meet Old Joe’s wife. I neither asked nor was informed about Old Joe’s wife’s animosity toward his boys. Over the years I came to the conclusion that she might have been envious of the time Old Joe spent with his boys; weekends away, late suppers, and noisy goings-on in the basement may have all contributed to the distance between Old Joe’s boys and his wife.

            Since my work schedule conflicted with my workout schedule, I was often late.

As I reached the bottom of the creaking, narrow stairs I usually forgot to duck under the low-hanging beam, and the subsequent thump on the head was always a precursor to the pounding my head would receive shortly. I would be greeted with a warm smile and a hug from Old Joe. Then I would get a pat on the back and he would tell me, “Hurry up and get warm, the fellas are all ready.” 

            Many times I would reach the bottom of the stairs before Old Joe. With the help of a cane, Old Joe would hobble over on unsteady legs, the result of two hip replacement surgeries. We were all aware of the pain that even simple walking caused Old Joe. In spite of problems with his hips Old Joe still managed to swim three times a week and supervise workouts for his boys. As a result of the surgeries, the use of the cane, and over seventy years of living, Old Joe wasn’t physically as tall as his fully erect height of 5’6”. He always wore a sweater vest left unbuttoned that had pockets filled with red-striped candy mints that were dug out of his pockets at the end of workouts and given to his boys as treats. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was pulled straight back with grease, with a barely perceptible part in the middle of his somewhat round head. His thick, round glasses sat slightly askew on a flat “fighter’s” nose. Old Joe’s face was transformed whenever he smiled and all anyone saw were teeth and wrinkles emanating from this warm and gentle man.

             For many years Old Joe was a fixture on the Midwest amateur boxing scene as an official, referee, judge and corner man for his boys. Not once in all the years that I knew Old Joe did he ever require remuneration for training others and myself. Whenever my work schedule would allow, I accompanied Old Joe around the Midwest to help him work the corner with his boys. We would travel to Milwaukee and several Wisconsin lakefront communities to find fight cards on which our boys would fight, usually as a preparatory exercise for the Golden Gloves in the spring.

             I always found it interesting in the vernacular of boxing that a fighter was referred to as “Joe’s boy” or “John’s boy,” a reference to who was training you. This suggestion of a boy always caused me to chuckle inwardly because at 6’2” and around 220 pounds I towered over Old Joe. Although he was a somewhat diminutive man in stature, I am not sure I have ever met a larger personality in my life. Out of respect we never referred to our coach as Old Joe to his face.  Old Joe was pinned with this moniker because there was another coach in town who was also named Joe; the other Joe was African-American. To differentiate between the two Joes we called one Joe and the other Old Joe; it seemed more appropriate than saying “White Joe”, or “Black Joe”.

            Next to my father, Old Joe was as influential as anyone in my life affecting areas from speech patterns to values. A few of the lessons learned from Old Joe were how consistent hard work pays dividends, humility, and how people are people no matter where you are or where you go. There was a specific incident that encapsulates all of these points.

             In the fall of 1984 one of our amateur fighters, Tony, was contacted in regards to filling out a fight card in Chicago. He accepted the offer and asked Old Joe and me to come and work his corner. It was in preparation for this fight in Chicago that I learned how to prepare a fighter and build his confidence for an upcoming event. The ensuing weeks were some of the most demanding and brutally intensive workout sessions I have ever been involved in. I was instructed to let Tony “get off”; in other words, he was to lead and dictate the action in our sparring sessions. Not that I would let him “win,” as Tony needed my honed skills to develop his own sharpness, and in doing so Old Joe would slowly build a fighter’s confidence. Tony also received the special treatment all fighters received when they had upcoming fights. After these grueling sparring and workout sessions the fighter would be laid out on a padded table and rubbed down with liniment oil. The rest of us watched enviously as Old Joe worked the day’s effort out of Tony’s muscles.  All the while Old Joe would discuss strategies and workout regiments to be carried out at home.

            One of the warmest memories I have is of Old Joe following workouts. Cold glasses of orange juice were served to his boys. We would sit on the stairs and talk about boxing strategies, women, life, and then talk some more about women while we drank our juice. Before we would leave each of us would receive our customary red-striped candy mint, and then we would be sent on our way.

            Over the weeks I saw and felt Tony growing not only in confidence but in sharpness and ability as well. After many of these sessions my head would have given a phrenologist nightmares. My body also attested to the price I paid for helping Tony. I resembled a raccoon for three weeks, and I had ribs that sang an aria of pain. The day after the last hard workout Tony would have Old Joe and me sit down with a map to find out where the fight was being held. I noticed that the fight card was being held in downtown Chicago. Unfamiliar with the city, I asked Old Joe if we would be safe in a place since we were probably going to be the only white folks in the building. Old Joe’s response stuck with me for the rest of my life, “Folks iz folks and fighters iz fighters.” This simple phrase and philosophy is one that has stayed with me throughout my life.

            Old Joe was taciturn but effective and pointed. He had a uniquely simple way of looking at a complex world. This simplistic ideal was prevalent in all areas of Old Joe’s life, from the way he trained his fighters (we were often told “the old ways are the best”) to the way he lived his life. These things, along with his humility, were passed on to those lucky enough to have been trained by Old Joe. I once asked Old Joe why it was that fighters were generally a humble group, and with his razor sharp insight Old Joe said, “All fighters iz fight, one round, one punch from being humbled, and if you don’t get it, you will.”

             After driving for three hours we arrived at the building where the fights were to be held that night. To our chagrin we found the opponent that Tony was supposed to fight was unavailable. As often happens with smaller amateur boxing cards around the country, the local boys are put in the best position to achieve success. Since we had driven so far, the promoter had another fighter ready to step in and help us out so the trip wouldn’t be wasted. This was a dance we had done many times in the past only the partners were different. We both had an inkling what was coming. The promoter offered to let Tony fight the Chicago City Golden Gloves super heavyweight champion. When I heard this I was ready to pack up and go home. Tony had cut weight for this fight to get in at the agreed-upon weight of 180 pounds. Although physically impressive at 5’ 10”, Tony was dwarfed by the Chicago man who stood 6’ 2” and weighed 215 pounds.

             Four hours later, Old Joe was driving us home. Although Tony didn’t come home with the victory, the result of a split decision loss, he did come home with an offer to train with the United States national team in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Representatives from the national boxing team were in attendance to scout Tony’s opponent, and they offered the opening on the team to him instead. We were euphoric and giddy the entire ride home, retelling and reliving each round, each minute, and each second of this titanic struggle of wills. Tony ultimately declined the representatives’ offer; however, it was quite an accomplishment nonetheless. Tony elected to remain active in what appeared to be his full time job of alcoholism, drug abuse, and brawling with University of Wisconsin football players on State Street. Later in Tony’s life some of the lessons learned in the basement of a small house on the north side of Madison began to sink in, and he eventually righted his own ship.