A Life of Friendship and Fists
I still remember the summer of 1994 when I first met Steve, a charismatic and rugged individual who would become a close friend. Our kids had become fast friends, and his father asked me to install an icemaker line for his new refrigerator. As I worked, Steve arrived home, shirtless and ripped, with a commanding presence that was hard to ignore.
We bonded over our shared love of boxing, and Steve revealed his impressive past as a Silver Mittens and Golden Gloves Champion. His trophies and photos adorned his garage, alongside his prized possessions: two Corvettes, a 1958 white convertible and a 1965 Nassau Blue Sport Coupe.
Steve’s infectious personality drew me in, and we started attending fights together. He introduced me to the world of boxing, where I met legendary figures like Marvin Hagler and Robbie Sims. Steve’s connections ran deep, and I found myself rubbing shoulders with the likes of Tony Petronelli, a retired boxer with a remarkable record.
As our friendship grew, Steve invited me to join him at various fights, where we’d sit ringside, sipping Sambuca and analyzing the bouts. He’d point out each fighter’s weaknesses, predicting their downfall with uncanny accuracy. His expertise was impressive, and I was in awe of his knowledge.
But Steve’s life wasn’t without its challenges. He was under suspicion by the FBI, and I found myself caught up in his world of intrigue. We’d attend fights, and Steve would disappear to smoke cigars with his buddies, leaving me to wonder what secrets they shared.
Despite the danger that lurked beneath the surface, Steve was a loyal friend and devoted family man. We’d attend our kids’ Cub Scout and Boy Scout events together, and he’d always keep a watchful eye over them. When his kids were young, we’d have epic barbecues at his house, complete with competitive games of volleyball and whiffle ball.
One memorable evening, Steve’s four-year-old son demanded that he say “excuse me” after a particularly loud burp. The tension was palpable, but Steve eventually relented, earning a smile from the little boy. It was a moment that showcased Steve’s softer side, a glimpse into the complexities of his personality.
As the years passed, Steve’s life took a tumultuous turn. He was dragged into court, and I watched in shock as the judge threw out the case, reprimanding the FBI for bad faith prosecution. But Steve’s troubles didn’t end there. He eventually found himself back in court, facing a ten-year sentence.
In the months leading up to his incarceration, Steve reached out to me for help with his heating system. I recommended a friend, and Steve was grateful for the assistance. As he prepared to serve his time, he asked me to send him stories and articles, which he devoured with enthusiasm.
One of my creations, Steve Chalupa, a charismatic and tough character, became a particular favorite of his. He’d send the stories to his cellmate, George Jung, aka Boston George, who was ghostwriting for several publications. George’s critiques were invaluable, and I owe a debt of gratitude to him for his advice.
Steve’s time in prison was marked by fights and injuries, but he never lost his spirit. When he was diagnosed with cancer, the prison administrators failed to act quickly enough, and Steve’s fate was sealed. He passed away in 2012, leaving behind a legacy of love, loyalty, and laughter.
At his celebration of life, I was overcome with emotion, but Steve’s son reassured me that everything would be all right. As I looked around at the gathering of friends and family, I realized that Steve had touched countless lives, leaving an indelible mark on each of us.
In the end, Steve’s story is one of friendship, loyalty, and the unbreakable bonds that tie us together. He may be gone, but his memory lives on, a testament to the power of human connection.
Leave a Reply