Some said the name came from the way he fought his Golden Glove bouts — a punch so powerful it could knock another boxer into next week. But the name was given to him on the docks of New York. A foreman, he supervised the unloading of precious fruits and vegetables in the early thirties when people were desperate. Friends and strangers alike came to him begging for work and he would say, "See me on Monday." He took each request as a personal challenge, though sometimes he failed. When he had to turn someone away, he did so with a crate of produce. "They're bruised, we'll only throw them away." Then he'd shrug and peel an apple, a continuous crimson spiral that danced as it unwound like one of Salome's seven veils. In the shuffle of a corroding Monday, they buried Joe. The scent of orchards clung to his clothes like a flyweight on the ropes just before his fall.