I knew I couldn't box forever, but damned if I didn't try. I was forty-eight when I fought my last bout. It wasn't pretty. I was so slow. The molasses in my arms, I could feel it. And my footwork - it was like I was sludging through freshly poured cement. The ring wreaked of sweat and ammonium carbonate. That's smelling salts, which I needed to revive me between rounds. Somehow, I came away with a unanimous decision, and it's in the Ring Record Book:

3-27-59 "Irish" Pat Murphy (W) vs Ernie Belzer (L), Cambria AC, Philadelphia, PA welterweights 8 rounds, UD, 78-74, 77-75, 77-76.

I left on a winning note and that was important to me. Especially since I lost more fights than I won. But I always gave the crowd their money's worth. I bled almost every time I fought. Plenty of scars on my face to prove it. A lot of guys head butted me to make those scars. That's just part of the game. The only dirty tactic I really hated was when some bum would stick his thumb in my eye during a clinch. If a dirtball did that, I never fought him again. And I never forgot the names and faces of any of those filthy scumbags.

I was married twice and I wasn't a good husband to either of them. If I won a fight, I'd hit all the bars and get good and sauced. Then I went after the nearest skirt, and no good wife is gonna stand for that. Mine sure didn't. Got a son, I don't care what he does with his life as long as it ain't boxing. Unless your name is Sugar Ray Robinson, the ring is no life for a man. That's how I see things after twenty-nine years of leather in my face.

In my fighting days, I got to know the guys at my neighborhood produce stand. I ate a lot of their salads, trying to cut weight. The bossman said I should come work for him when I quit the ring. So now I drive a fruit and vegetables truck. I don't have to make weight anymore, so screw the salads. Steak and potatoes, that's the ticket. And ice cream for dessert. Yeah, I'm piling on the pounds, but who cares?

A few weeks ago, I was dropping off some melons and I ran into Fritzie Kovick. He's one of those bums who gave me the thumb. The anger came back to me like it was yesterday. I took an overripe cantaloupe half and smashed it in his face.

"I almost lost an eye, thanks to you, ya friggin' jerk," I told him.

He didn't retaliate at all. He just pulled out a handkerchief, wiped the orange slop from his mug, and started moping about how bad life had been since he'd gotten out of the ring. His wife had left him and he was having blackouts and migraines from all the punches he'd taken. He couldn't hold a job, he was on welfare - it was just plain sad. So I bought him a steak dinner that night and told him to call me. What else could I do? If anybody knew how tough boxing could be, it's me. I had to help the poor palooka.

It's a funny world, the fight game. Fritzie Kovick was one of those guys I hated for years, but now we've become buddies. We were both in the trenches of a rough, rough business. Only another fighter can understand that.