Ladeeezz and Genlemun!

In 'Dis Corna...Irish Tim Murray...
By Martin Hintz
 

It's the 9th annual Ringside benefit for the Mercy Home for Boys and Girls and the 10th floor dressing room of Chicago's Downtown Marriott is filling with tuxedoed fellas named Bob and Jim. They like hanging around fighters, chatting them up but thankfully knowing they'll never have to go glove-on-glove with any of 'em. 

Lalo Beas, Luis Ortez, Mario (call him "The Ice Man") Florio, Andy (Pit Bull) Hibbard and the other boxers have donated their services for the cause. A few flex and preen in front of the mirrors. Irish Tim Murray stands alone, nodding to the conversational buzz even as it is addressed to him. In a few minutes, he'll begin on his long, lonely walk down the too-bright corridor to the elevator leading to the Loop hotel's 7th floor.

There -- in a ring set up in the middle of the main ballroom with its black and white tablecloth/napkin motif, surrounded by dozens of tables with their flickering candles and glittering stemware -- he will meet Sasha (The Bohemian Brawler) Allan for a three-round headbanger for charity. The high rollers from Chicago's elite financial community have purchased tables ($150 a plate) and are already bidding on silent auction items flooding the hallways outside the ballroom. And, judging from the prefight noise, they are already eager to see the rest of the action.

Let's talk about heavyweights. Mayor Richard Daley and Chicago financial wizard Pat Arbor are the night's co-chairmen. David Brennan, head of the Board of Trade; Bill Brodsky, chair of the Merc; James Tyree, chair of Mesirow Financial; John Vitanovec, general manager of WGN-TV; and a host of others have thrown their influence and substantial pocketbooks behind the project. The evening will raise almost a cool half million smackers for the 113-year-old residential care facility for troubled youngsters.

The boxers are equally as serious. Each is hungry for a win. After all, their day jobs also involve winning. But that is in a fierce financial sense. All are traders and clerks from the Chicago Board of Trade, the Chicago Board Options Exchange and the Mercantile Exchange who box to keep fit after verbally brawling in the pits or over computer screens for themselves and their clients. 

As with the Big Fella -- Murray -- they work out regularly in the Sheraton Park Gym on Taylor Street or the Matador on the Windy City's West Side, under the careful tutelage of trainers like the Sheas, pug Irish ex-fighters -- two brothers whose stable of top amateur boxers is legendary even in a such a generally jaded city as Chytown. 

For Murray, who works from 7:30 a.m. to mid-afternoon, the 10-minute drive to the gym is relaxing and the regimen once there is exacting. He generally spars four rounds, jumps ropes, shadow boxes, pounds the heavy bag and does dozens of pushups.

"I'm getting a little long in the tooth for this. But at least my nose isn't coming out the side of my head," the 37-year-old laughs.
Now a clerk in the bond pits, relaying information to his broker boss and "keeping him out of trouble by losing the least amount of money as possible," Murray has been in various jobs at the Merc or the Board of Trade since 1986. A graduate of Chicago's Mount Carmel High School (home parish: St. John the Fisher), he is an alum of St. Ambrose College in Davenport. His dad, Hugh, was a police detective and grandpa Frank was a beat cop in Calumet and in Bessmer parks. Murray's mom, Dagney, had died when he was only 15 so the Hugh Murray raised Tim, his two brothers (Andy and Michael) and sister Eva. Great-great grand-da John Murray came to Chicago prior to 1851 and was a bootmaker.

"I started boxing at Mount Carmel, on the intermural team as a freshman. Some of my buddies goaded me into it, saying they'd go out if I did. So I went down and signed up and later found out that none of them did," he recalled with a grin. "My dad was against me boxing but when he found he couldn't change my mind, he lined up me with Mike Fitzgerald, the best trainer he could find," Murray said.

Murray went on be a Golden Gloves winner in high school and college under the careful eye of "Uncle Mike." He tried his hand at the pro circuit, winning his only two fights before deciding life on the road was not for him. "You're always last in line to get paid. But at age 22, it was a big deal for me. In the meantime, you are getting socked. Hey, I'm a realist so I got out," Murray recalls. 

But boxing remained his workout of choice. Glen Leonard, a friend and sparring partner, convinced Murray to come out for the Mercy event. "I didn't know much about it but they brought us over to Mercy Home. We had lunch and they showed us what it was all about. Thank, God, something like Mercy is here for these kids," he says of that initial tour of the care facility.

For the night's event, the fighters wait in the kitchen hallway behind the ballroom. Fr. Jim Close, president of Mercy, has said grace and the room roars. Out front, svelte young ladies escort the gladiators as giant television screens flicker overhead, strobes flash and the punters eye who might be the winner. Jim Williams, of ABC-TV's Chicago bureau and a Mercy board member, is announcer. His voice rolls above the din.
Murray flexes. A tattoo on his right shoulder reads "Jacko," in honor of his 5-year-old son. "He hates boxing," says Murray of the little boy. "Afraid his dad's going to get a pounding." But experience counts. "Some guys lose their mind after getting popped in the melon a couple of times and go in like they are trying to kill somebody. That's not the way to do it. Try to keep your composure. Look at the other guy. Take all advantages you can. Concentrate," Murray indicates.

While they wait their turn, Murray jokes with tank-like opponent Allan, a pleasantly smiling body-builder. This his first public fight But at 27, the kid has 10 years on Murray, who carefully sizes up the younger man's generous biceps and long reach. Allan, of Norwegian-Bohemian ancestry, is a clerk at the Options Exchange and a product of Carpentersville's housing projects. He learned how to protect himself on the streets without the benefit of 16-ounce gloves.

Names called, they head for the ring. The cheers grow louder, it's the heavyweight fight of the night.

After the initial dancing and weaving and a few clinches, the two settle down for some solid punching. Thuds announce connections and Murray later admits he's glad when each 90-second bell rings. The two go three rounds.
At the end of the second, Murray plops on his stool as Allan leans casually against the ropes in his corner, as if asking for a drink at the bar.
Out again, ducking, feinting and connecting...more of Murray's seem to land harder. Apparently, ring judge John McCarthy agrees. He gives the match to Murray, 60 points to 57, pointing out that Murray's left hook and solid jobs win the day, his third straight Mercy victory. After the appropriate pause -- referee Gerald Scott lifts the fighter's arm.

And it'll be a dandy time in the pits the next morning, with the usual jokes about the old guy putting ashtrays in his gloves in order to win. But, despite being sore and nursing a day-after headache, Irish Tim Murray remains king of the heap.

"Maybe I'll step down this year while I'm ahead," he says. "But I'll always try to stay involved with Mercy."