DOWN BUT NEVER OUT                                                        © Charles Redner, 2005-2007

Prologue -- Three Hundred Yards

July 20, 1968 • Chicago

On an overcast day in the overheated steam room that defined another Chicago summer, the former middleweight champ knelt down just off the cinder oval surrounding the grassy Soldier Field gridiron.  His weary thirty-eight year-old legs creaked as he lowered himself.  Lined up beside the faded 20-yard line marker, he assessed the competition and checked for the direction of the prevailing wind.  Sweat ran in shoulder-width bands under both his arms and soaked the silk shirt that clung tightly to his chest.  He wore the Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap that Johnny Callison, the club’s popular home run-hitting outfielder, had once given him.

            Joey placed a hand on his 14-year-old son’s shoulder and locked his eyes onto Carman’s.  “Now listen to me!  This is a long race.  Three hundred yards. Okay?” 

Carman nodded, but his father wasn’t sure that he understood. 

The champ paused.  Carman turned his head and leaned his ear closer to his father’s mouth.  He stood rigid, waiting for him to speak again.

            “Here’s what I want you to do.”  The champ spoke slowly, willing his son to understand.  “When you go around the track, I want you to run second.  Right?”

The boy’s head bobbed and he looked back at his father. This time the champ saw recognition in his son’s big wide-set, bright green eyes.  “Good.  Now stay second until you see me.  I’ll be standing right here.  Understand?”

“Okaydad.”  The two words, spoken in a low monotone, merged together.  The champ was accustomed to his son’s unorthodox manner of speech.

“Now, when you pass me, go for it. Go for the lead and run as fast as you can.  Got that?”

His son nodded once more.  “Yeah.  I run fast when I see you.”

The champ tightened his grip on the shoulder.  “No, no.  When you run past me, here.”

“Okay—when I pass you.” Carman repeated.

“Right.” 

The champ struggled to his feet and tugged up his son’s crimson racing shorts.  He patted Carman’s shoulder, and with both hands, gently guided him toward the starting line, where nine other anxious competitors had already assembled. 

Carman grinned and wrapped his arms around himself.  He seemed to understand that he knew something none of the other runners did: how to pace himself on this hot afternoon.  He trotted away, then looked back and waved at his dad.  He stumbled and smiled even more widely, his eyes still fixed on his dad.

The champ smiled, shook his head and laughed.  Then he closed his eyes in reproof and waved him on.  He watched Carman turn his attention to an official who led the boy into the middle of the line.  The champ offered a quiet prayer.  “Dear God, thank you. Thank you for this blessing.”

The starter’s gun went off.  The champ, who had been looking heavenward, flinched.  He then turned quickly to inspect the runners.  He watched as Carman jockeyed into position a stride behind the leader and stayed there.  Halfway around the track, another boy challenged for the lead and took it.  Carman, now running third, pushed past the former pacesetter to regain second.  As the field made its final turn, Carman’s eyes met his father’s well before he reached him.

The champ’s body tensed.  “Steady, Carman, he murmured.  “Not yet.  Wait.  Wait”

The boy held back until he arrived even with his dad, then burst for the lead.  With ample reserve, he easily passed the tiring leader.

Carman won by five yards. 

The champ leaped up.  He screamed, “Yes!”  Poised to run toward his son, he stopped, bowed his head and crossed himself.  “Dear Lord, thank you.  This is the greatest moment … better than the title.  Amen.” 

He blessed himself again and hurried to Carman, picked him off the ground, and swung him around.  “You won!  You won!”

Carman held his ever-present smile.  “You — you crying, Dad?”

The champ put his boy down and rubbed his eyes on his sleeve.  “Nawwwh. Wind blew dirt in my eye.” 

Carman accepted the excuse and spun around in a tight circle until he was dizzy. Then he staggered and fell, laughing all the while.  The champ bent over to help him up, but Carman pulled him down and the champ faked a fall and rolled over on the turf beside him.  Carman gulped air and tried to catch his breath as he continued to laugh.  For a minute, the champ feared that his boy might convulse, but Carman gained control of his breathing and excitement.  The champ stared at his red-faced, ever-smiling, Down syndrome son.  “Carman, you make me so proud to be your father.” 

All nine runners walked over with their parents to congratulate Carman, who stood up to meet them.  The champ stayed on the ground and watched.  God had been good to him – could it get any better?

Later that afternoon, standing across from the winners’ podium, the former middleweight champion, Carmine Orlando Tilelli, known in the ring as Joey Giardello, watched Eunice Kennedy Shriver, organizer of this, the first-ever Special Olympics, place a gold medal over his son’s head.

There was no dust blowing, but the champ’s eyes glassed over again.

Mrs. Shriver recognized Joey in the crowd of parents.  She knew that Joey had met with her husband, Sargent Shriver, a year earlier and had impressed upon him the importance of sports in the early development of children afflicted with mongolism (Down syndrome).  She motioned for him to join her in front of the stands and asked if he’d please address the crowd.  He stepped forward and stood next to her.  She reached out and took his hand for a moment.  Joey turned to face the hundred-plus proud parents who waited for him to speak. 

Joey opened his mouth.  Before any words came, his shoulders rose up once, twice, three times.  He closed his mouth and attempted to smile, but his mouth turned downward.  The mind that had maintained complete control over the professional boxer’s finely tuned body for nineteen years now lost the battle to help the man sustain his composure.  Tears overflowed the puffy banks of his bottom eyelids.  He squinted, squeezing out even more moisture.   He didn’t look at Mrs. Shriver, but turned and walked away.

            Mrs. Shriver smiled, then with a slight nod and a shrug, acknowledged to the crowd, that it was okay.  It was okay.  That simple shrug said that it was understandable how any proud father might become overwhelmed with emotion, when he watched his son win a gold medal. Especially a son who entered the world with the odds stacked higher against him than anything Joey experienced in the ring.

Especially here, at the first-ever Special Olympics, a mere forty-five days after Mrs. Shriver’s brother, Bobby Kennedy, had been felled by an assassin’s bullet.  And in three months hence, Kip Keino and Bob Beamon would dazzle the world in the summer games in Mexico.

Chapter 1 -- The Knockout Birth

February 5, 1954 • Philadelphia

Rosalie Tilelli sat up straight, or as straight as she could five days after giving birth.  She adjusted one of the three pillows between her back and the hospital bed, her eyes locked onto a tiny black and white television bracketed near the ceiling across the room.  Her second son, Carman, exposed little more than a tiny face, his eyes tightly closed, his fists clenched beneath a much faded baby blue blanket no bigger than a beach towel. He tucked inside her right arm, unmoving. 

            The miniature figures on the screen stood in the center of a boxing ring.  The 10:00 pm live telecast emanated from the famed boxing Mecca known by many simply as MSG – Madison Square Garden.  Another famed Gillette Cavalcade of Sports’ Friday night fight was about to get underway and one of the two combatants, her husband, Joey Giardello.

            The referee barked out instructions for a nation to hear: “Watch the low blows. No holding behind the head. In case of a knock down, go to a neutral corner. Break when I say so. Let’s have a clean fight, boys.” 

The men turned from the referee as Rosalie strained to hear.  This late in the evening, the volume on the set was almost inaudible after being turned down by the nurses.

            Rosalie Tilelli lowered her eyes and spoke softly to the near comatose baby. “Now you should be awake for this; it’s the first fight for your daddy since you were born.”  She ran her hand over the child’s head and softly kissed his cheek, but she didn’t really want to wake him. 

            The referee nodded and each boxer returned to his corner.  Joey hurried faster than usual back to his trainer, Joe Polino, and cut man, who stood just outside the ropes.  “Guys, I gotta get out of here,” said Giardello.  Rose’s still in the hospital with the baby.  I shouldn’t be here.  I shudda cancelled the fight.”  He took a deep breath and held it.

Joey’s cheeks puffed and reddened.  The crowd babble rose in anticipation of the fight’s start. He exhaled fully, then threw out his next words: “I’m gonna blow this guy away.  Quick!”

            “Whoa.  Hold on, Joey,” said Polino. “Watch this guy for a few rounds; he could be dangerous early.”

            “Marone,” Joey countered. Always his strength, countering.  Polino jerked the towel from around his neck just as the bell rang.

            Joey turned and met his opponent in the center of the ring.  Joey backed away one step and faked a defensive posture.

            A nurse hurried into the room, walked over to the bed, and reached for the baby. “Time for sleepy bye, Rosalie.  Give me Carman.”

            Rosalie’s eyes shifted back to the small screen. “Wait!  We have to see this fight.”

            The nurse pulled back her arms, then walked to the foot of the bed.  She removed Rosalie’s chart, made a note, replaced it on its hook and returned to Rosalie’s side.

            Joey flicked out a left jab, lowered his head, and threw a right uppercut that emerged like an iron dragon from below his knees.  The blow landed flush under the chin of Walter Cartier.  Joey planted every ounce of his 160 pounds behind the punch.  The opponent’s head ripped backward, taking his body with it.  Cartier never left his feet, but instead rotated upward on his heels.  Gravity took care of the rest.  He slammed down onto his back, eyes closed, legs twitching.  His head bounced once. He lay face up, his back flat to the canvas.   

            The crowd stood as one, roared to life, and filled the arena with sound louder than a 747 at takeoff.

            Smiling widely, Joey slowly walked to his corner. 

            The referee turned to Joey, pointed to a neutral spot and waited.  Joey scrunched up his face and obeyed.  He moved a little faster, since the ref was waiting on him before starting the count.

            “Alright!”

            Rosalie screamed much louder than she knew she should have, a realization that came as soon as the word had left her throat.  “Sorry,” she said, almost too softly to be heard by the nurse. 

The nurse turned her attention to the television as Rosalie prepared to hand her Carman.

            The referee eyeballed Joey all the way to the neutral corner, then turned to the fallen boxer.  “One …two …three …” 

            If the force of Joey’s blow and his descent to the canvas had initially knocked out Cartier, the head bounce had revived him.  Slowly he sat up, leaned back on both arms and looked up at the referee.  He began a slow, awkward ascent to near vertical, a wobbly Tower of Pisa.

            “… eight…nine.” The ref stopped the count. 

Amazed that the man had even managed to get up, the ref looked hard into the fighter’s eyes for a full five seconds.  “How many fingers?”  The ref held up his index and little finger like the Texas hand signal for ‘hook ‘em horns.”

            “Two.  I see two,” said Cartier.  He guessed right, perhaps because, as a seasoned fighter, he knew most times a ref holds up two fingers . If it wasn’t the ‘hook ‘em horns’ version, then the ref went with an index finger from each hand held about two inches apart.

            The nurse again reached for baby Carman, but Rosalie had pulled the baby back to her bosom while watching the unbelievable—her husband’s foe, getting to his feet, preparing to continue the fight.   

            Joey moved back toward his corner, preparing to leave the ring.  The ref wiped Cartier’s gloves on his shirt and motioned for Joey to come forward to resume the fight.  Joey looked at the ref, then Cartier and shook his head.  “Bad judgment, ref,” Joey said under his breath as he moved toward his opponent. Cartier backpeddled onto the ropes.  Normally a counterpuncher, but just as lethal as any other fighter when he senses the kill, Joey threw a jolting lead right to the midsection.  Fortunately for Cartier, he bent forward from the blow, causing Joey’s ‘good night’ left hook to miss.  Cartier fell into Joey, then slid down onto his knees.  Joey backed away.  This time he trotted to the closest neutral corner, turned, leaned back on the ropes and waited.

The nurse involuntarily turned her attention to the little screen. She followed the action with Rosalie.  Rosalie tried to hand over Carman, but the nurse had become so engrossed with the action that she ignored the request.  Rosalie pulled Carman back once again. Mother and child would watch the end of this fight as they’d watch many future fights, sitting together in front of the television set.

            Cartier had the wind temporally knocked out of him, but reared up on the count of five.  Joey didn’t need prompting a second time; he bolted toward Cartier as soon as the referee stepped back. 

            Joey decided to resume the body attack.  He bent to his right and pulled back his left, but before he could release it, a left-right combo from Cartier landed solidly on Joey’s chin.  Joey staggered backwards.  The blows stung, but not like they would have if Cartier hadn’t been thoroughly weakened already. 

            “Ouch!  That must’ve hurt some,” said the nurse, who never looked down at Rosalie but stayed focused on the tiny tube.

            Joey peddled back, gave himself a little more room, then closed the distance to his opponent, who had moved sideways to his left along the ropes. More cautious this time, he faked a right hand to the body and delivered a left hook to the face.  The left hook, Joey’s signature punch, had never landed more solidly in his already stellar six-year professional career.  The meeting of leather on bone sounded like a ram butting a mattress. Fans heard it twenty rows back. 

            The force turned Cartier’s body towards the ropes.  He tried to hang on, but his gloves slipped from the first strand to the second…then the third. Finally, the tough but outclassed boxer found himself on all fours and facing the well-dressed fans in the front-row seats.  Blood seeped from the sides of his mouth.  He closed his unfocused eyes while reaching for the ropes, attempting to raise himself up again, with more heart than sense.

            This time, the ref rapidly waved his arms over the fallen warrior, signaling the end of the bout. The three-knockdown rule took effect.

            Cartier’s corner men jumped in the ring.  They cut the gloves off their fallen fighter and administered ammonia.

            Joey climbed out of the ring without waiting for the referee to raise his hand in victory, or for Polino to ceremonially spread the ropes for him.  He jumped down and sprinted up the aisle toward his dressing room, with his entourage five steps behind.  A press mob clamored behind them.  The stunned crowd remained seated and strangely quiet.  Many more spoke softly in reverence for the condition of the loser, just now standing up, than in jubilation for the winner.

             “Finally,” said Rosalie. 

At that moment, Carman began to cry.  “Think he needs a diaper change.”

            The nurse looked at Rosalie and asked, “Which one is your husband?”

            Handing the nurse Carman, she glanced up at the woman with a quizzical expression. “The one who’s in a hurry, naturally.”

            Ring announcer, Johnny Addie looked around for Joey and saw that he’d already left the ring.  He picked up one of Walter Cartier’s cut-off gloves lying on the canvas and lifted it high in the air as he made the announcement.  “And the winner, by a TKO in the first round, Joey Giardello.  Giardello.” 

Now the crowd roared its approval.

            Carmine Tilelli, known in the ring as Joey Giardello, had just won his 56th fight, 24 by knockout— with exactly a third of his KOs coming in the first round, like this one.  The fight enhanced Giardello’s reputation as a tough, gritty fighter. The quick knockout, and even quicker exit from the ring, would surely help him retain his status as a top middleweight contender. Just a month earlier, Joey had KOed Garth Panter, a crowding fighter who had never been knocked down before, in five rounds. One month hence, he would KO Willie Troy, a rising young star, in seven rounds. 

Look out, middleweight division. Joey Giardello just served notice that his punches packed a thump to go with his ring cageyness.

            Joey pulled his car across the street from Methodist Hospital in south Philadelphia and parked.  He shut off the engine and sat for a moment to collect his thoughts.  He let the radio play.  Dean Martin was singing “That’s Amore.” Joey loved Dean, even met him once backstage at the Latin Casino, and this song was one of Joey’s favorites.  He sang along:

“When you dance down the street/

with a cloud at your feet/

You’re in Love.” 

He turned the volume down until the radio clicked off.  Joey indeed was in love — in love with the whole world.  Heaven can’t be much better, he thought. The Tilellis had already decided that if it was a boy, he’d name the child after himself, Carmine, but spell it differently: C-A-R-M-A-N.  What could possibly be more honoring in an Italian family, a bigger slice of heaven, than to have a son named after you?

He stepped out of the car and walked toward the brightly lit entrance to the hospital.  He was still humming bars of “Amore” when he pushed through the lobby door.  It was two in the morning.  Joey desperately wanted to see his wife and newborn. He was doggedly determined to see them.

            The hospital staff had other ideas. “Visiting hours ended long ago.  Go home.  Come back tomorrow at ten,” said the duty nurse.  “No way you’re coming in here now.”   She stood up and puffed up her five-foot-two inch frame from behind the front desk.  Joey stopped humming and smirked to keep from smiling at the sight of this small, insignificant obstacle standing between him and his desire.

            “No way yourself.  I’m gonna see my boy and Rosalie.” The boxer’s raspy, bass voice blasted down the halls and reverberated back almost as loudly. He pounded his massive fist on the counter, rattling the glass top.

            Across the lobby, a supervisor heard the commotion and walked behind the counter to where the duty nurse steadfastly held her ground.  The supervisor had recognized the famous boxer and whispered into the nurse’s ear.  The nurse nodded slightly, then lifted her chin.  She glared back at Joey. “Okay!  IF you quiet down, I’ll take you to the nursery to see your son.  But you can’t disturb your wife — she needs her rest.”

            Back in her room, Rosalie heard her husband’s voice at the center of the big fuss. She quietly laughed at his antics.

            Joey nodded, accepted the deal and followed the nurse.  Soon he was looking through the nursery glass at his son.  He couldn’t see much, just the same view Rosalie experienced all night — a tiny, pink bald head barely poking out of a blanket.  Joey noticed that the neatly block-printed sign on the bassinet had the name “Tilelli” crossed out. “Giardello,” someone had scribbled in ink.

            Joey lowered his head and smiled contentedly.   He felt a tug on his shirt from the impatient nurse.  He looked down at her.  He smiled again, and meekly followed her to the front door.  The roaring lion had been tamed, for the moment, by a docile, tiny wisp of a human…his second son, Carman.

Chapter 2: “You the Champ, Daddy.”

New York • October 21, 1965

Two hours remained until Joey Giardello would be called to walk over to Madison Square Garden from his hotel suite.  As daylight faded the neon lights of the Garden brightened in strength along 8^th Avenue declaring it “Championship Fight Night.”  Joey placed the middleweight belt on the line with the man from whom he took it 22 months earlier – Dick Tiger.  Joey needed to rest. First, he wanted to get it behind him, rather than waiting until later: The Call.  He’d promised to talk with his kids before the fight.  Normally irritable, anxious, and edgy before stepping into the ring, he was even more so with this call on his mind.  

The phone rang; the hotel operator put the call through as he had requested.  Joey lunged for it.  After a few minutes talking to Joseph, his 13-year-old, Joey asked for Carman.  Eleven-year-old Carman, born with Down syndrome, meant more to Joey than all the titles, belts, awards, and honors he could accumulate. “Hey, Carman,” the champ said.

            “Hi Daddy…come home.”

            “I got to fight first.”

            “Don’t fight first.  Come home first.  I said a prayer for you.”

            Joey took a deep breath, “I might lose.”

            “You the champ, Daddy.  You never lose.”

After good byes, Joey stretched out on the bed.  It was tough, but he pushed thoughts of his children out of the way.  He closed his eyes.  He envisioned how Tiger would come at him. He watched himself avoid the charge, then turn the attack to his advantage with counter punches – especially the lethal left hook.  He moved through this process for all fifteen rounds.

            The clock in Joey’s head told him the fourteenth round would be over in five seconds.  He connected with a lead straight right hand to Tiger’s head at the bell.  Needing a break for his wobbly 35-year-old legs, Joey flopped on the stool as soon as the trainer thrust it inside the ring.

            After cut man Adolph Ritacco finished his work on Joey’s bruised eyes and cheek, and he quickly rinsed his mouth, the Champ looked down at New York Post writer Al Buck and asked, “How is it?”

            Buck raised his shoulders. “You’re behind.”

            Indeed the champ was behind.  His corner told him after the twelfth, “take these last three rounds and we win.”  The corner was wrong; Buck was right.  Of three reporters unofficially judging the fight, only one gave Joey two of the last three rounds. The other two reporters scored all the rounds for Tiger.  In the end the official score cards read: 

Judge Tony Castellano        8 – 6 – 1

Referee Johnny LoBianco   9 – 5 – 1

Judge Al Berl                 10 – 5

For the second time, Dick Tiger of Nigeria had become the new WBA and WBC Middleweight Champion.  His nation would celebrate starting immediately in Tiger’s dressing room.  Fellow Nigerians dressed in flowery agbada gowns, and highly colored hats called  filas danced to the beat of Tiger’s resident drummer, Olatunji who’s wooden drum could be heard throughout the arena.

            ”He didn’t hurt me.”

            The four words, croaked softly rather than spoken, came from the man who, from now on, would be addressed as the former champion.  He hadn’t yet changed from his black nylon trunks, high-top sneakers and one of his eight-ounce gloves. His trainer wrestled with the laces of the second glove as Joey talked.  A sweat-soaked towel draped loosely over a shoulder.  His robe tossed on a chair.

            Almost all of those packed into dressing room #28 at Madison Square Garden close enough to view his body might have disagreed. 

            Crimson to deep purple welts swelled beneath each eye.  A gash high over his right brow no longer bled but drew one’s attention.  The random blotches on his arms and shoulders offered perfect examples for first-year medical students of burst capillaries coagulating.  Soon those wounds would be covered by a long-sleeved shirt; his face would remain bare for all to see, sans the near-opaque sunglasses held at the ready by his trainer.  Sweat dripped slowly from an uneven band of dark curls plastered to his forehead. 

            Melvin Krulewitck, chairman of the New York State Athletic Commission, made his way to the front and reached out to shake hands. “A marvelous display of courage,” he said.  Joey accepted the gesture with an almost imperceptible nod as he reached out his still gloved right hand.  Concluding the ceremonial requirement, Krulewitch hurried away from the ex-champ and departed the quiet room for the festive winner’s dressing room.

            Rosalie pushed forward next and carefully kissed her husband on the corner of his uncut but slightly swollen bottom lip.

            The kiss set off Joey’s inner struggle between maintaining composure and losing it. He lost it. Rosalie grabbed her husband by the shoulders and turned him away from his manager, trainer, cut man, promoter, friends relatives, press mob, all of whom were squeezed into the dressing room. She guided him away as tears flowed down his bruised cheeks.

            Consoled for a few moments, Joey walked back, faced the reporters and explained, “I don’t have a tear for the title.  Retirement don’t mean nothing.  It’s just my son.  I hurt my children.” 

            He was referring to his two boys, Joseph and Carman, who watched the fight from their New Jersey home.

            Close to tears again, Joey walked to the back, where a phone sat on an uncluttered desk.  The press mob waited again, talking in low voices, trying to overhear the ex-champ as he talked on the phone.  Once again, Joey spoke to the eldest son first, then Carman. 

            “Daddy’s no longer the champ,” said Joey.

            Joey shared the earpiece with Rosalie. Carman’s small voice responded, “Daddy, you always the champ.”

            Joey said goodbye, hung up and wiped the tears from his eyes with the soggy towel.  Rosalie handed him a handkerchief. He blew his tender nose, collected himself again, and walked back toward the mob.  Time to handle the tough interview he knew would be coming, leeches after the blood of a man who had just lost his championship crown.  Each reporter looking for tomorrow’s seventy-two point headline quote to go along with the picture of the beaten brawler.

"Cliff Place, Mesa Verde"   18" x 24" oil on canvas

Note:  All art in this website by my wife Judith Redner,
please visit www.jdiart.com for more of her work.

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Copyright ©2007 Charles J. Redner
Manuscript excerpts provided for review purposes only and may not be reproduced without  written permission from the author.