On, Brave Old Army Team

"No, well...once." While answering, he skipped faster and faster, whipped the rope over his head and under his legs at an almost manic pace. "It was Memorial Day, right after my brother was killed in Vietnam, and this guy with a flag on his butt was saying things.... Anyway, I hit him. I was sorry as soon as it happened. I felt terrible." The rope slowed. "It was the only time."

Nothing seemed to work out in Michigan Center. There were fits and starts. No continuity. Fracker's father, a sensitive but uneducated man who worked for a local power company, was disabled when a pole he was climbing snapped. After agonizing months of surgery-therapy-surgery he regained the use of his legs, but was too proud to accept the only work available, as a janitor. There were money problems. That is when Al's brother enlisted. Al started college, dropped out, drifted through factory jobs, tried school again, drifted away, worked at a funeral parlor. And the good fights grew harder to come by. Most top amateurs looking to compile an impressive record ducked him. "In "71 Glenn got me a fight in Cleveland with Sylvester Wilder, who was runner-up in that city's Golden Gloves and was about to turn pro. I beat him. Afterward, we were showering and Sylvester's manager came in screaming and yelling. He called Sylvester a punk and said, 'The deal is off.' He said that if Sylvester couldn't beat me there was no sense in his turning pro. After that, the only way I could get a good fight outside a tournament was to go around to the prisons." Fracker smiled. "With the records some of those guys had, they didn't mind losing a boxing match."

Eventually, Fracker enlisted—drifted in, really. After basic training he was admitted to the U.S. Military Academy Prep School at Fort Belvoir, Va., passed his exams and entered West Point.

He continued his workout, sparring a few rounds with a cadet named Boog Powell, the intramural champ. Powell scored well at first. His fluffy, 16-ounce sparring gloves splatted against Fracker's chest and headgear. Finally, Fracker got started and landed a series of triphammer punches to the body. Herb Kroeten, Army's civilian boxing instructor and a former light heavyweight Golden Gloves champion, was clearly dissatisfied. "I wouldn't say Al lacks the killer instinct," Kroeten said. "The other fella just has to hit him a few times to get his attention."

Kroeten was asked how he thought Fracker would do in the Gloves.

"There's no telling. He's never faced this kind of competition before. Eddie Davis, the defending champ, may be the finest amateur light heavyweight in the country. And Eddie's brother John is in the tournament this year. John Davis may have a better right hand than Eddie. I hope Al at least makes the quarterfinals so he can meet some of the better fighters, the people he's going to have to learn to beat if, well...."

"You mean to make the Olympics?"

"It's a little early to be talking about that."

"How good do you think he can be?"

"Honest, his potential is frightening. He hits like a mule, he won't go down, and he's got the best endurance I've seen in a kid his size. But he's always been a slow starter."