2022
Arturo Gets Up michael steffen
I need to erase that picture of him lying half-naked on a hotel floor in ponding blood, eyes pouched and blackened— my fiercest opponent, my closest friend, Arturo “Thunder” Gatti. Without him, no one remembers I’m “Irish” Micky Ward. Two years after retiring, coroner says he hung himself with his wife’s purse strap, his body dangling awhile before it fell. This was his final fight? Impossible. The Arturo I knew was a warrior. Most bouts, his eyes puffed like fried eggs, but even from Queer Street, he could buckle Death’s knees. The ninth round at Mohegan Sun in ’02, when I snatched his breath— I never saw a guy’s body fold up when I hit him. Arturo drops to one knee, lower lip quivering. I’m hoping he stays down, takes an eight-count, waits for the air to come back. But this is Arturo. He gets up, blood shining his gloves. I pummel him, pillar to post, hoping he doesn’t see panic in my eyes. I mean, why is this guy still standing? I’m punched out, but he’s ripping my body, backing me up. We clinch for the first time in the round. When we break, I land a right to his head, he lands a hook. Blood runnels my face. Arturo’s gone 122
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