He Liked Cigars, Boxing, & Corvettes, and Later Became Friends With George Jung; AKA Boston George...

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My oldest son became friends with a kid down the street when he was 6. Shortly after, his father called to ask if I could install an icemaker line for his new refrigerator. I told him I could, and we set up a date and time. It was during the summer of 1994.

When I arrived early afternoon, only his wife was home, so after brief introductions, I immediately went to work. Installing a new water line for a refrigerator is actually quite involving. You have to shut the water main, drain the piping, cut in a tee, and solder on a ball valve with adapters. Then, drill a hole under the refrigerator through tile and plywood for the 1/4" tubing you run to the ball valve. Back then, refrigerators didn't have integral filters; you had to install one in-line in a spot where it could be changed out.

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Steve came home while I was finishing up downstairs. It was a sweltering hot day, and I was standing on a four-foot stepladder sweatin' bullets when I heard him open the front door. By the time he came downstairs, he had taken off his shirt.

He was in his early thirties then, six years younger than me. He was six foot one, with short dark hair combed back, which, because he lightly gelled it, was spiked a bit. He had dark eyes that were hard to read, and he was absolutely ripped!

After we started talking, mostly about our kids, he said he grew up in Stoughton, the next town over from where I grew up in Sharon. I asked if he played high school football for the Black Knights, and he laughed, "No, I was a boxer and a Silver Mittens and Golden Gloves Champion." 

He led me into his two-car garage and showed me his trophies and photos. On the way, I tripped over his two Corvettes parked inside. One was a classic 1958 white convertible with a red interior, and the other was a gorgeous 1965 Nassau Blue Sport Coupe. I didn't know what was more impressive: his boxing trophies, the two Vettes, or his six-pack.

Steve's was all white without the red panels…

Ch L Bages. Shutterstock Images.

After I told him I was a big boxing fan, the two of us started talking about our favorite fighters. At one point, he asked me if I'd ever been to a live fight. I hadn't. I only watched on TV. He said the next time he went to a fight, he'd give me a call, and I'd go with him.

A lot of my plumbing customers said things like that, usually to get on my good side and maybe get a break on their bill. In most cases, whatever they promised never happened…

Three weeks later, Steve called me. He was heading to a casino in Connecticut for a fight and asked me if I wanted to go. I immediately said yes.

On the afternoon of the fight, Steve came by and picked me up. Two other broad-shouldered guys were in the Crown Vic; one was driving. Steve was sitting shotgun and was the most talkative, his dynamic personality on full display.

When we got to the casino, we secured some seats close to the ring. After we watched the opening fight, Steve said he had to talk to a few of his buddies, but he'd be back a little later. I watched him walk to the back, ten feet behind the last row of seats in a dark area of the room, where he smoked cigars with his friends. They were carrying on in a way I knew they had common interests…

I watched the fights, mostly alone, but Steve came back over for the main event. After the fight, we grabbed something to eat and then headed home. When the Vic pulled into my driveway sometime after 2:00 a.m., Steve said, "We'll do this again, Vin…"

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Pat and Goody Petronelli trained Steve at the Petronelli Gym in Brockton, City of Champions. 

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Before he hurt his right shoulder, he fought for the Southern New England Light Heavyweight Title. Even after his shoulder injury, the Petronelli's told him they could continue training him and help him win the championship, but the injury had minimized Steve's big punch, and he declined their offer but never stopped training. He was friends with Marvin Hagler and his half-brother Robbie Sims, who were both trained by the Petronelli's. He introduced me to Robbie at a fight one night.

I started going to a lot of fights with Steve. We went to a VFW hall in Roslindale for the Puerto Rican Lightweight Championship, and the fights in the crowd were as good, if not better than the fights in the ring. We saw James Toney win a championship, a fight that was televised on ESPN. We bumped into Johnny Ruiz at another fight, and after shaking his hand, Steve stood behind him to show us he was the same size as the then-heavyweight champ.

At each fight, Steve would leave me alone to go smoke cigars and talk to his buddies, which I was happy not to be part of. I didn't want to hear anything that wasn't meant for my ears…

One night, Steve and I went to a fight at the Roxie in Boston. By then, he was already under suspicion by the FBI. When I got in his car, he whispered, "The car's bugged. No talking about anything…" I was familiar with the saying, "Loose lips sink ships," so keeping my mouth shut wasn't a problem.

On fight days, I was in the habit of stopping at a liquor store on my way home from work and picking up a fistful of nip bottles, usually Sambuca, which we'd sip on the way into Boston. 

When we got to the Roxie, we met up with Tony Petronelli (career record 42-4-1, 22 KOs), who was retired from boxing by then, and his dad Pat, and I was seated between the two. Steve left almost immediately to smoke cigars with his buddies. Tony didn't do a lot of talking, but Pat leaned into me and pointed out each fighter's weakness and which type of punch he was vulnerable to. I couldn't believe how many times Pat was spot on, and a fighter would get knocked out by the exact punch he predicted. He'd lean in and give me a reassuring wink, and Tony smiled. His dad and uncle trained him, and he knew firsthand how good his dad was…

A young Marvin Hagler with Tony Petronelli

Boston Globe. Getty Images.

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After the main event, Steve and I went to a mob-owned restaurant in the North End to meet with a lawyer. We were seated in a semi-private area on the lower level of the restaurant, where we ate and drank while Steve and his lawyer talked.

I was a bit nervous with what they were saying, at times looking to me for approval. But after a few drinks, I became more concerned that there was only one way out of the room…

After that night, I hoped the FBI wasn't gonna interrogate me. They were watching Steve, and the two of us were spending a lot of time together. Occasionally, as we drove in his car, a helicopter would appear overhead, and Steve would shake his head and point. At the time, I thought he was being paranoid. 

One night, we went to another fight at the Roxie, and Steve disappeared but returned for the main event. We were seated behind two young kids who were there to root for the underdog, a Cape Verdean middleweight who was a little fleshy and not nearly as conditioned as the undefeated white fighter who entered the ring to loud music and a smoke show. I felt bad for the two kids, their fighter looked like a "tomato can" who was put in there to lose and pad the other fighter's record. 

When the bell rang, the undefeated fighter charged across the ring, full of energy, looking to end the fight quickly. But he didn't rattle his opponent, who had a solid defense and slipped most of the punches with ease. Once they settled down and started boxing, I could see the Cape Verdean fighter was throwing punches with incredible form, rotating his hips into every punch. The undefeated fighter was jacked, but he lacked form, and he was throwing ineffective arm punches. 

Then it happened. The undefeated fighter ate a perfect punch, and he went down. The two kids were going crazy. He got up in time to beat the count and get out of the round. 

The second round wasn't too unlike the first. One aggressive fighter looking to end it, while the other, more patient fighter, put up a good defense and threw perfect counterpunches. The Cape Verdean fighter found his opponent's weakness, hit him with the perfect shot, and knocked him out. I was shocked. The two kids went crazy, again. 

That night, there was a bachelor party at the gym Steve owned, so after we left the Roxie we headed there, but by the time we arrived, the party was over. It was my first time at the gym, and Steve showed me the ring. We were both pretty drunk and once inside the ring, Steve started demonstrating punching and hip rotation, explaining why the Cape Verdean fighter's punches were so effective. 

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He was circling me at first, but then he was on me, and my hands naturally went up. He started throwing hard punches that were only centimeters away from connecting, and at one point, I had to yell, "Hey, we're drunk. You're gonna slip and knock me out…" Long after he stopped punching, my hands remained up. I stared into his dark eyes, which suddenly looked very different, unrecognizable. I felt his killer instincts pressing down on me in the ring and it was scary, like someone flipped a switch…

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Steve and I hung out together a lot. Our kids were in Cub Scouts and then Boy Scouts. Once, they were both going camping for the weekend with the Boy Scouts. When the Scout Leader addressed the kids and their parents at the camp shortly after we arrived Friday afternoon to drop them off, I looked over at Steve. He was staring at the leader, and it wasn't a friendly stare. 

I tapped him and said, "Hey killer, what's up? You look like you got a hard-on for the scout leader…" 

"He looks like a molester to me, Vin. He lays a hand on my kid, and I'll kill 'em…" 

"Whoa. I don't think he's a molester, a weird dude, maybe… The uniform with all the badges and patches, especially the fucking shorts, high socks, and the goofy cap, is nothing we'd ever wear, but I don't think the guy's a molester…" 

Steve's focus didn't waver, and he kept staring at the guy. 

"I'll tell you what. Go up to him and let him know if he lays a hand on your kid or his friend LeVine, you'll kill 'em." Steve turned, cracked a smile, and then shook his head, signaling he was backing off. 

"Besides," I said, "you and I are both a little crazy, and there's a good chance we passed the crazy gene onto our kids. He touches one of them, and we won't have to step in, our kids will destroy the motherfucker!" He laughed out loud…

We picked them up on Sunday afternoon, and no one touched anybody, and they had a great time…

In addition to scouts, our kids played little league together, and our families started watching Super Bowls at my house, and we went to Steve's for Christmas with his extended family. His summer barbeques were incredible. At our first one, we ate burgers and hot dogs for lunch and drank some frozen mudslides one of the women kept mixing. We were getting ready to leave at 5:30, and when Steve saw us he asked, "Where you going?" When we said we had to get the kids home, give 'em supper, and get 'em ready for bed. He laughed, "Vin, when you come to my house, it's an all-day, all-night barbeque. I'm puttin' on some steaks and chicken. You're sticking around…"

We unpacked. I grabbed another mudslide. And then we had a very competitive game of volleyball under the lights. Steve and I were on the same four-man team, and we got nasty—nasty enough that Steve's wife called us on it. We didn't care. We were drunk and wanted to win, no, humiliate our opponents, which we did in grand fashion. 

At other barbeques, we played competitive whiffle ball and swam in his above-ground pool. It was always a great time.

When our youngest son was four years old he had some very peculiar behaviors. When someone at our dinner table burped he abruptly demanded that they say excuse me. And he would keep repeating, “Say excuse me!” until they did. It was annoying, so we all did it to keep him from getting too crazy.

Our entire family was invited to Steve’s house for dinner one Saturday night. We were all sitting at their dining room table enjoying a great dinner when Steve let out a hardy burp, the kind that lives in the bottom of your throat and resonates deep in your esophagus. My family immediately turned and looked at Dylan, hoping he wasn’t gonna demand anything; after all, we were guests in someone else’s house. While my family held their collective breaths, Steve’s family continued eating. Suddenly, Dylan looked up at Steve and, in a demanding tone, said, “Say excuse me!”

That got all the silverware to stop. I could tell when Steve looked up and saw Dylan staring at him he was wondering, “Who the fuck is this little kid asking me to apologize for burping in my own house." Now, all eyes were on Steve.

Steve stared at Dylan, and Dylan stared back at him. At first, you had to wonder who was gonna blink first, the light-heavyweight boxer or the demanding four-year-old with some serious quirks…

The look in Steve’s dark eyes was menacing, but Dylan did not back down; in fact, he said it one more time, but this time a little louder, “Say excuse me!”

Steve winced, and you could see he just wanted to get back to eating, but he wasn’t willing to immediately give in to the little guy’s demands. He stared at Dylan, trying to intimidate him, but Dylan wouldn’t budge. He needed an apology…

Then, Steve said, “Excuse me…” Dylan smiled, and everyone resumed eating… 

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At one point, Steve was dragged into court by the FBI, and it didn't look good. His kids came to our house after school on trial days. But, in a shocker, the judge threw the case out and reprimanded the FBI for bad faith prosecution, warning them not to do it in her courtroom ever again… 

For a while, Steve remained on the straight and narrow; he got back into building and renovating houses. He once asked me to take a ride to Chatham to look at a property he was renovating. Some work had to be completed before he could call for an inspection, and he was checking to see if it was done. We drove down in the '65 Vette.

Steve's '65 was Nassau Blue…

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On the way, I told him a story about a guy we both knew, another kid's father, who owned a hair salon; at least, that's what we thought. After baseball practice, I asked him if he could cut my hair, and he said he could, but only on Sunday morning. 

When I arrived, he was the only one there, and he let me in. He started explaining that he didn't really cut hair much anymore; he actually operated the place as a spa. Then, he started pitching his services. 

He said they did all kinds of healing massages. Then he pulled out a large, bulky pair of light therapy glasses, something he said he invented, explaining that the light penetrates the mind and can minimize anxiety and stimulate creativity. He said a lot of writers, artists, and musicians bought them from him. I listened, but all I really wanted was a fucking haircut!

Then he started pitching colon cleansing… He said the average person has close to 10 lbs. of shit lining their colon. By cleansing, you get it all out, feel lighter, absorb vitamins better, have better energy, and reduce your chances of getting colon cancer. He said when Steve Tyler and Aerosmith are in town, they always come by for the full spa treatment… Then he stared at me and asked, "Whataya say?"

I didn't know what to say. I went there for a fucking haircut, and now the guy wanted to give me a massage, make me wear bulky light therapy glasses to stimulate my creativity and finish my experience by sticking a tube up my ass and cleansing my colon… WTF!

After I told the story to Steve, he started laughing hysterically, and so did I. Then we each started adding our own comments like, "I better not catch him staring at my ass at the next little league game!" And, "Bend over, let me push in your stool." "Let me give you a massage, and after you wear the light therapy glasses, I'll stick a tube up your ass and cleanse your colon. You're gonna love it! Aerosmith does!"

By then, we were laughing so fucking hard that anything we uttered through the laughter was making us go off. I actually never laughed so hard in my entire fucking life, and neither had Steve. We almost crashed the Vette…

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It was only a few months later that our friendship unexpectedly came to a halt. We weren't hanging out much. He drove by the house in the '58 Vette, top down, and gave me a big wave and a smile as he passed, but that was it. It was funny how small the Vette looked with him in it, his big fist high in the air. He was truly larger than life.

Apparently, he drifted back into his old lifestyle, and the FBI was still watching. He was arrested and taken to Texas to stand trial, and he later told me in that part of Texas, the only jobs were in law enforcement and the court system. He was sentenced to ten years…

He was given some time to prepare before being incarcerated, and he called me to do some work on his heating system. I recommended a friend of mine to work on his AC. Nothing was more important to him than his family, which included four beautiful children, and he wanted to take care of any loose ends before he left. That was in 2006.

Once he was incarcerated, I started sending him articles and short stories I was writing at the time. One, in particular, was about a character I created, Steve Chalupa, who had all of Steve's charisma and toughness. 

I sent him a new chapter weekly, and he loved it. His neighboring cellmate was none other than George Jung (aka Boston George), a cocaine dealer the movie "Blow" was about. I actually loved the movie, and when I taught plumbing at Old Colony Trade in Brockton, and the students completed their eight-week course and got their certificates, I threw a pizza and a movie party afterward. I gave them movie choices, and Blow was their favorite, followed closely by Pulp Fiction and Fight Club.

My oldest son called me out for showing Blow, saying the Board of Education wouldn't be happy because the movie had nothing to do with plumbing. But it did. I explained to him that George's dad was a self-employed plumber from Weymouth, Massachusetts. If George had followed in his father's footsteps and entered the plumbing trade, he would've never ended up dealing coke and pissing off Pablo Escobar…

When Steve would finish a story, he'd send it over to George, who was ghostwriting for several publications at the time. He'd critique my writing, which at first pissed me off, but then I started to realize his suggestions were really good. He told me not to write but to paint. Describe everything in great detail so readers can visualize everything as they read. It was great advice, and I owe a lot to George for that.

RIP, George Jung…

Greg Doherty. Getty Images.

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Steve never backed down from anyone; it wasn't in his DNA, and as a result, he got into a lot of fights in prison. When he hurt somebody, they threw him in solitary, and other times, he was transferred to a different prison. He injured his shoulder again, and he had minor surgery while in prison. But then the news got worse. He had cancer, and the prison administrators didn't act quickly enough, and some believe they could have. Steve passed away in prison in 2012…

I believe he had served six years of his sentence, and I was anticipating his release and him driving by the house in his white Vette, top down, and giving me the big wave, but sadly, that would never happen.

In his final wishes, he asked that his friends not have to attend his funeral but that there would be a celebration of his life a couple of months later at a local restaurant he frequented. I received an invitation.

When I walked in, I immediately found his older son, and while telling him how sorry I was for his loss, I broke down and started crying. His son hugged me and said, "Everything's gonna be all right…" At that moment, I knew he was a lot like his father…

There were about 100 people in the private function room, and we all told each other stories about our friendship with Steve. When I bumped into one of Steve's sisters-in-law, I told her I was pissed. She asked why. I responded, "I thought Steve and I had something special. And what I'm seeing here today, Steve had something special with a lot of people."  She laughed, "If Steve loved you, he made you family. And everyone here today is family…"

Steve valued his friends and, even more, those whom he considered stand-up guys, which he told me on several occasions I was. That has always meant a lot to me.

I loved Steve like a brother, and I miss him dearly…

Donations can be made to The Carcinoid Cancer Foundation at  www.Carcinoid.org