Remembering: The Granite Man (Red Flesh Brooding Dedicated to Don Quinn)

He had 32-fights, won 22, lost 10, between l956, and l964; was picked to fight Clay but would never make it to the ring whom was a younger fighter back than D.Q.; between May of 1960 and February 1962, had won ever fight he fought, all 13-battles right in a row. In 1962 he lost two, and in ’63, he won two. He lost all three of his last fights in 1964. He was the Heavyweight Title holder. I had met him personally once at his house (perhaps twice, I only remember specifically once talking to him though, in April of 1964); we talked briefly that forenoon, a sunny Saturday, just before one of his last three fights he’d have: March, April and November would be his finality for the big time. I was at that time, sixteen years old.

Considered up to his last three fights, the roughest and toughest fighter in Minnesota, and one of the boldest in the nation, this was his claim to fame; the public clambered for him, a love and hate calmer, he was the Minnesota brawler (D.Q.). Years later he’d go to the corner bar, where I hung out, and give a little lip service to a few of my tough friends, some would back down, some wouldn’t—but all knew he was no push over, hands and a head like granite, a will of iron, and he could take a blow. He took punches as if he had whalebones; swayed with the wind and shifted back to his fighting stance.

When I had first met him with his brother-in-law, Sid—Sid being a drinking buddy of mine at the time, we went to high school together, and we hung around, he introduced me to him, his sister was married to him; his hands were as big as my head I remember.

Said Sid, “DL, he’s a nice guy, but drunk he’s a madman, punch crazy, beat up my sister, stay away from him.”

I guess his wild swings were more dangerous than his planned ones. He left a blood trail anyway, and cloudy minds wherever he fought, to include his. He was kind of a hero of mine, until Sid told me of his sister getting hit a few times. I still liked the guy, and in time I learned our neighborhood was no different than his way of thinking, and like him, we all were St. Paul, Minnesotalits.

His massive head, and blazing eyes gave men the terror, weakened their knees, prompting dread, just his name, like Mike Tyson, or Sonny Listen. Toward his last three fights, he was slipping, as they say, perhaps too much drink, not enough training, or if it was adequate, he was perhaps cracking from other things in his life: taking the iron blows to his face, skull, ribs, under his heart. He lost fights, but came back to win them also, as I said before, until the last three. People paid to see this granite man, to see the brawl, they didn’t care about a scientific fight, and the papers would pick it up as a tough mans fight.

He was a slugger, brawler, with a savage determination. He gave out punishment, and took it, haymakers missed him, and some didn’t, crushingly.