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BOXER 3/30/2013 6:44:20 AM
Ross Virgo was a Rochester welterweight, a gentleman boxer long after Errol Flynn (despite his manly chest and pointed nipples) portrayed James J. Corbett on the screen. Virgo’s main claim to fame occurred nine years after the Flynn epic, in September 1951, when he beat Carmen Basilio in a boxing match in New Orleans. Ironically, the fact that he had also defeated Chuck Davey (two months earlier) is seldom, if ever, bragged about.
Virgo won 46 of 48 matches before turning pro; he achieved a record of 26-2-2 (both losses were split decisions); he rose to the #5 welterweight in the world before abruptly retiring in 1953 for family reasons (he was a true gentleman who always bowed to his family’s wishes).
True, he never fought Micky Ward or his half brother Dicky Eklund, but before shuffling off his mortal coil in 2011, he established (or bought) a first-class restaurant and drinking hole called The Dickens on University Extension, in the suburb of Brighton.
I do not know if Virgo knew much about Charles Dickens, or was he more of an Ozzie Sussman aficionado? Perhaps he once appeared as Tiny Tim in a grammar school production of A Christmas Carol — or maybe he thought A Tale of Two Cities was about Buffalo and Syracuse (I just do not know).
Anyway, The Dickens eatery was in the same neighborhood as the TV studio where I was a star, and I soon became a habitué, especially on Thursday nights during the ‘60s and ‘70s. It was called The Dickens — do not confuse it with the place similarly named in Burlington, Milton, London, Toronto or Tokyo — it was simply a Brighton landmark that may or may not be around today.
But back then, during my salad days in broadcasting, it was the place to go and be seen frequently. And Ross Virgo was the reason why.
We were on a first-name basis, and I erroneously thought it was due solely to my celebrity, plus the fact I often spent as much as $10 during my weekly visits. Their specialty was a famous shrimp cocktail for about $2.50, and it featured six jumbo crustaceans drenched in a cocktail sauce that was to die for. I rarely ordered it, unless I was there as someone’s guest and they were paying.
I more often than not preferred one of Ross’s superb vodka martinis. For 65¢ he would prepare a Gordon’s concoction over which he would breathe the word vermouth, add a lemon twist and just the right number of ice cubes in a five ounce tumbler — and set on the bar before you a repast that would take as long as ten minutes to consume.
Of course, they never made a movie about Ross Virgo. Too bad. If they had, David O. Russell would have directed a show to rival Raging Bull or, at the very least, Rocky.
There was one night I happened to run into Floyd Patterson outside my dressing room at the studio; I quickly stole him before our sports director had him on the air. I told Virgo about my conversation with the renowned heavyweight. . . Do you know his license plate is FP-1! I reported.
Virgo did not so much as look up behind the bar. No shit, was his only comment.
Patterson and I had talked at length about the brutality of boxing, and Ross said, Yeah. Floyd is right. There is a lot of injuries in boxing, even a few people die. But none of them is serious enough to worry about.
I recall one snowy Thursday I arrived at The Dickens late in the evening after dallying too long downtown at the Eggleston, the Stone Street Grill, Nick Tahoe’s and the Swiss Chalet. Aware of the hour and ignoring a ritualistic stop at the Top of the Plaza, I made tracks for The Dickens to have a nightcap before returning to the studio for the late news and weather. Ross, as usual, was on duty behind the ornate curved strip.
You wanna fight? I immediately challenged.
Say what? was his jolly rejoinder.
You claim you once beat Carmen Basilio.
I did.
Well, he is nobody. Think you can beat me? I asked
I hit you I get arrested for assault with a deadly weapon, Virgo stated. I’m a pro. My fists are like two sticks of dynamite. Besides, you are drunk. Go do your show.
There were at least twenty people at the bar; maybe a hundred more enjoying a late dinner. I addressed them.
You folks wanna see me floor the champ, here?
Nobody paid any attention; they went back to their drinks and shrimp cocktails. I looked again at Virgo.
Can I get a vodka martini? I asked. Onna rocks?
No, Virgo said, flatly.
No? You say No! to me? I’ll knock you on your ass!
You had enough. Go do your show, if anyone’s watching, which nobody is.
I would never admit it, of course, but Ross Virgo probably save my career that night. He died forty years later; The Dickens may be gone, too. I am now retired and living in metro Atlanta. I have no idea what, if anything, is in the building where The Dickens was on University Extension, in Brighton.
With Virgo gone, I no longer care a whit about Charles Dickens or the restaurant that bore his name. I think Virgo knew more Yogi Berrisms than I did, and I knew them all. At least, I thought I did.
