Michael Steffen Arturo Gets Up

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

but not out. He doesn’t have the strength to fall down. His eyes are swollen shut, but he’s got no quit.

Matching me with him was almost criminal: someone would’ve had to quit for us, but who— the ref, our trainers, the announcer biting his white towel?

I was horrified and thrilled whenever I’d watch tape of Zale and Graziano pounding each other senseless, Ali getting waylaid by Frazier at the Garden.

It’s rare to see fighters like that blending into each other—a plodding dance, beautiful and ugly at once—revealing who they are

with each punch. I thought it was nothing fancy— just who’s more willing to die—but now I believe there’s something beyond that willingness,

beyond wins and losses, bone and muscle, some invisible sinew binding fighters and fans. When the last bell rang, I hugged Arturo.