Like Tyson in Tokyo — but I missed the punch (a street story)

It was a crisp evening, about 20 years ago, with a taste of spring in the air. I de-boarded a train on the elevated N line — having just finished my shift as a trainer at a gym in midtown Manhattan. I walked down the subway steps and onto 31st Street, under what we call “the el.” It was probably about 7:45 P.M.

The area was quiet enough that the barking sounds of a heated male argument could carry for a block or more. When men fight, their voices colonize their surroundings. I reached the combatants and gazed at them from across the two-way street.

Having witnessed (and participated in) a fair amount of heated male conflicts, I knew to initially keep my distance. The likely origin of this encounter unfolded easily for me: 

The white guy in a beat-up delivery van was about to pull out of a parking spot when the black guy in a well-kept classic Lincoln Continental blocked him in by double-parking. Those old Lincolns really took up space.

Nothing particularly interesting here except the black guy was big, tall, and maybe 25. The more aggressive white guy was short, paunchy, and maybe 45. He was really in the black guy’s face. I suppose that takes some guts — definitely not brains.

I was walking slowly as I watched. From out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a livery driver (long before Uber) cruising in my direction. 

I turned my head a millisecond to make sure I was not in the line of fire of the turning car when I heard it: flesh and bone hitting flesh and bone. It was Rocky Balboa uppercutting in the meat freezer — the familiar sound of impact with lethal intent.

When I quickly looked back, the white guy was already flat on his back. He looked dead and I’ve seen enough dead bodies in the street to know. Full disclosure: The martial artist/boxer/street kid in me wished he had at least seen the punch. 

Anyway, the black guy’s got that post-one-punch-KO swagger as he re-enters his car and backs up to make room to drive away. I cringe and yell out — anticipating the Lincoln’s tires rolling over the white guy’s head but somehow, he avoided further contact.

The Lincoln screeched off and the white guy wasn’t moving. This was years before I got my first cellphone so I’m looking around for help. Across the street was a hair salon. I could see three young female employees nervously looking out the window at what just transpired. 

They were just a few feet away from where the white guy was lying in the gutter, under the el.

I crossed the street to get a better look at the dude — super cautious. He was bleeding, still not moving. When I got to about five feet away, he surprised me with a shake of his head. This led me to move towards the salon and try the door. It was locked.

I guess it was past closing time and well, a felony assault/possible murder just took place right outside the premises. Locking the door was a prudent move. 

The three women had moved away from the window and were eying me warily. I was wearing a black jacket and a black winter cap. It was dark and the street was empty except for me and the unfortunate guy who pushed his luck. Why in the world would or should those women trust me?

So, I pantomimed the situation — trying to explain that: 

A man was hurt.

I had nothing to do with it.

I didn’t have a phone.

It would be super cool if they called for an ambulance… pronto.

The three women shrugged me off so I escalated things a bit. I yelled through the glass that this guy looked like he really needed help. The woman who appeared to be in charge made the executive decision to send me away.

I wish I could have seen my own shocked face at that moment. 

Just as I was about to run back to the train station to find someone with a phone, I saw the flattened white guy stagger to his feet — shaking his head like Tyson in Tokyo all those years ago. 

Amazingly, he got himself back into the van and with another shake of his head, he drove off. I glanced back at the salon but the women were no longer watching the proceedings.

I stood there for about a minute before I went home to tell my then-partner the story — still wishing I had at least seen the punch.