I had previously been trained by a private eye in New York City who had been a former French Foreign Legionnaire. His name was Armand Sereghetti. Like Boomer, he was a man of enormous charm. One of the first things he taught me was never, never to advance on an opponent. You let him advance on you. Plus, you never ever made eye contact with him. You kept your eyes fastened to his chest, watching for any tensing of muscles that telegraphed a punch. Armand had once found himself on the brink of a bar fight with another man who turned out to be a legionnaire, but Armand didn’t know it at the time. He discovered it in a strange way. The two men refused to advance on each other. Instead, they kept their eyes fastened to each other’s chests for twenty minutes until one of them took a safe step back and sought eye contact, found it, and the standoff was ended.
He taught me never to exchange insults before you palm jabbed someone or struck the side of their neck with the edge of your hand. The Hollywood scenes where men stood chin to chin, jeering at each other, were not only fatuous, they were dangerous. Armand taught me excellent judo throws and arm and wrist locks. When I was an assistant coach, (I was still a teenager), a burly football player tried to knock me over in practice. He had knocked me over the first time. The second time, I threw him over my hip, and he landed flat on his back.
So the training with Boomer began. I had lived with the 4,500 member Blackstone Rangers, a black gang in Chicago. I got many death threats, but I still saw them as human beings. At first, Boomer’s practices were pretty taxing. He used to spar with his brother, and Boomer once told me: “My brother had me by my nut sack, and he wouldn’t let go, so I bit him across the bridge of his nose until he passed out.” After that, the two brothers didn’t spare any more. Boomer played for keeps.
One day, Boomer asked me if I had every done squat jumps. I never had, so he asked me if I could do fifty. To my own amazement, I did them, and he remarked, “A lot of guys cannot to that amount even after a lot training,” which made me less of a hopeless case in my eyes.
At that time, I lived in an apartment complex in Southwest Washington across the street from a black, lower-income housing project. (I know that, today, blacks are called African-Americans, but they weren’t called that then.) The day before my family arrived, a lawyer named John Black, white, age 40, and had been shot dead in the parking lot near a black high school. A gang ran the black housing project, headed by a guy named “Skinny Pimp.” He was supposedly the terror of the neighborhood.
I had been doing a lot of weight lifting when I met Boomer. I was doing 328 pounds at a body weight of 170-2. I did a 425 squat or something. That strength Boomer taught me to employ with effect. In the gym where I worked out, there was an old punching bag hanging from the ceiling. Over time, all the sand in it had settled into a rock-hard layer at the bottom. If you sat on your knees, you had to hit your knuckles 300 times a day to toughen up your knuckles to drive the sensations out of them. The same thing had to be done for your shins and the knobs of your wrists and ankles. Three hundred or more times a day, you had to take a short club and hit those spots. Finally the day came when Boomer could come up with his paratrooper boots and kick my shins without hurting them.
Because my knuckles had no sensation, I could hit an object very hard. One man bet me $50 that I would ruin my hand if I hit a tree with all my might. (We had been drinking, needless to say.) I smashed at it with all my force, and while my knuckles with a little red and a little swollen, my hand wasn’t damaged at all. That is what conditioning can do. At a drunken Georgetown party, the owner of an apartment bet me I couldn’t knock his front door off the hinges. I did.