EXCERPT FROM A CHAPTER IN A MEMOIR

It was all incredible to me. Just five years earlier, I was homeless, sleeping on the streets of Toronto, and now I was gearing up to fight at Madison Square Garden. Word had spread among my old high school friends, who, despite being in college and tied up with summer jobs, managed to wrangle a couple of days off to witness the fight. A few of them, thrilled at the idea of attending a match in New York, hastily organized a road trip.

Three days before the main event, Chuvalo, his entourage, and mine (which, at this point, comprised only Bev, my trainer, and myself, as Bertie and a couple of Lansdowne guys were coming in for just one night) arrived in New York. We all checked into the New Yorker Hotel, a venerable establishment nestled on Seventh Avenue between 33rd and 34th Street. It stood just south of what was arguably the seediest area in New York City, quite possibly in the entire United States. This neighborhood was infamous for its porn shops, strip joints, and a mix of greasy eateries like the original Tad’s Steakhouse, sprawling northward up to 43rd Street, where the Broadway Theatres began. On the southern border lay Eighth Avenue, home to the main bus terminal, Port Authority. Within a block or two of the Port Authority, a series of the most desolate-looking hotels offered rooms by the hour.

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