The Fighter (19 page)

‘One thing about Henry, he's always been respected, and one thing about fighters, they're salt of the earth. Friggin' salt of the earth, I tell you. That's what I love about 'em, and that's what I love about boxing. It can make a man out of a working-class boy. Teach 'em respect. Turn 'em into solid citizens. That's what makes me proud to know 'em.'

He pauses to down a few mouthfuls of champagne.

‘Besides, where else can two people belt the bejesus out of each other and become best mates afterwards? Where else can you draw blood, then down schooners and reminisce about it years later? Eh? Where else?

‘I went to Lionel Rose's wake after his funeral and caught up with the ex-boxers. I know them all, and they know me, and I was reminded, as if I ever needed reminding, that these guys are the nicest you can meet. Salt of the earth, that's what they are, and Henry's one of the best of them, a true gentleman.

‘I'm friggin' right. Believe me. I know a good man when I see one. Salt of the earth, that's what they are, and friends for life once you've met 'em.'

And as if to prove his point, Henry is on the move again. Posing for photos: arms round shoulders, faces leaning in, cheeks touching, fists jabbing the air in triumph. The hugging and kissing goes on even when the fighters are back in the ring for the third and fourth rounds.

‘Haven't seen you in a long time, Henry.' ‘Mate, how are you doing?' ‘Henry you ugly bugger, still down at the docks making a buck, keeping out of trouble?' A wink, a knowing smile, a whack on the back, a shove of the shoulder; and he loves it, loves the scene, loves the attention, though he hasn't got a clue who many of the well-wishers are. After all, his memory isn't what it used to be, and, besides, he's met so many people and been to so many fight nights and fund-raisers, sports nights and reunions, he can barely keep up with it.

And Queen are singing between each round, their addictive
song heightens the momentum, and unites the crowd with its hypnotic chorus. These boys are dogged fighters, and the referee has his work cut out stepping in—separating them in the clinches—but for the most part he is an inconspicuous presence, moving clear, out of harm's reach, dancing lightly in the shadows, eyes wide, hawk-like, ready to swoop if there's any punching below the waist, any illegal jabs outside the prescribed target. Ready to warn and admonish and, if need be, disqualify. And the judges are seated ringside, scorecards and computer screens at the ready, leaning over tables alongside broadcasters and promoters, making sure all is in order beneath the cameras that are zeroing in on the action.

The fight has endured through the middle rounds, and now, in the ninth, out of nowhere, the Ripper's coming in for the kill. He's got the sniff of victory. The Golden Boy's brow is bleeding again. There's blood on the Ripper's back, on his chest and stomach. Blood dribbling down his midriff—his blood and blood from his opponent's body.

Suddenly the Golden Boy is down—curled up within himself, a recoiling foetus seeking leave of the action—sending shockwaves through his camp, groans of despair and disappointment, a ripple of anxiety. But their boy unfurls himself and presses his hands to the canvas. He bounces back up like a fast-moving conveyor belt. The collective relief is audible.

His gaze is expressionless. He's showing no sign of concession. He has regained his rhythm and precarious balance, and he is fighting on, good on him. He is a legend in the making, and his trainer is yelling, ‘Just a minute of the round to go mate, hang
in there, keep your head protected. For god's sake, hang in there.'

When a fighter is wilting, seconds are an eternity, but the Golden Boy makes it to the end of the round. He stumbles back to the stool, and his trainer is clapping him on the cheeks, clearing the fog. Slapping him back to life, pouring water over his head, on his stomach, inside his shorts, and over his legs. And one more time over the head, like a baptism.

And all the while he is urging him on through gritted teeth: ‘C'mon boy. C'mon. You can do it.'

And Henry is exclaiming, ‘These boys are tough.'

And the enthusiast is out of his seat, yelling, ‘This fight's got legs. God bless 'em, this fight's worth the friggin' price of the ticket.'

Until now the night has seen a succession of boxers succumbing prematurely, fights abruptly stopped through injury, and one clean knockout—a true beauty—a right cross from nowhere breaking through the defences, sending an up-and-comer, an African import, crashing to the canvas, face first with a sickening thwack, mouthguard flying. There was no need to count him out. He was gone from the moment the punch landed.

‘You'd beat anyone with that punch,' says the old enthusiast. ‘That's what you call poleaxed.'

‘His mother used to do that to him when he came home drunk,' adds one of the younger bucks at the table, and the laughter erupts, full-throated roars, just for the hell of it.

That's what they're here for, a good night out, entertainment. These are the moments you live for—a quip, a ribbing, a shaft of wit—mate, don't take life too seriously. But the knockout
was in deadly earnest, clean and clinical and without warning. It happened so quickly you could be forgiven for missing it.

No problem, it was replayed over and over again on the rows of screens in the auditorium, just in case you wanted to relive it, or make up for being inattentive. The identical micro-story retold in multiple views, from above and ringside, front on, and from every angle, in real time and slow motion. Seventy-eight seconds into the first round it was over.

Never mind, this title bout's taken hold and both lads look like stayers, even though blood continues to drip from the Golden Boy's left eyebrow. But he has made it to the final rounds; he has kept his balance and composure, and has landed telling blows and rapid-fire combinations that have kept him within range of victory.

It's the end of the ninth and the boys are slumped on the stools, arms spread-eagled on the ropes, as their trainers and seconds work on them, wiping them down, massaging and kneading, pulling on arms, stretching out joints, mopping and wiping, holding out spittoons, while dousing them with bottles of water.

They are leaning forward before them, like mothers tending distressed children, soothing their pain, patching up cuts, engrossed in their injuries. And as they scrub and pummel and slap and grunt instructions, dancers from the Men's Gallery nightclub are climbing through the ropes to strut the ring in high heels. Barely clothed in slit-to-the-waist dresses, skimpy bikinis and mini-skirts, they hold up cards displaying the number of the next round. Stopping and swivelling for maximum effect,
smiling and pouting, doing one more round of the ring in case you've missed it. Then they slip through the ropes just moments before the boys are back at it; flesh giving way to flesh in a carnival of carnality.

‘They're hungry. Boy are they hungry,' yells the old enthusiast. ‘You don't see much of that hunger these days. Nowhere near as much as you did back in the fifties and sixties, the heyday, when boxing was front page and you couldn't get to a fight quick enough. When a hard-working boy would grab his chance to climb out of the crap and claim his own little bit of glory.

‘Nowadays there are too many walk-up bang-bangers who think it's their god-given right, who don't do enough work, not enough sweating. But these boys are an exception. I like the look of 'em. They're built right, got nice chins. Could go a long way. They've got a lot going for 'em. They are stayers, not one-round wonders.'

He is grabbing the champagne from the ice bucket, filling his glass, and lifting it high. Pointing it towards the ring, where the tension is building, and where the boys are slugging it out. Surely the climax is coming. All the while, Henry is out there with the punters, standing beneath the rowed seating, having the time of his life listening to the banter and the anxious barracking of the Golden Boy's supporters.

They are out of their seats, on their feet, climbing the rails, seeking the best vantage points, eyes riveted, fists compressed and arms pumping, aping the Golden Boy's movements. They love their man, and they're spurring him on.

‘Keep boxing bro'! Keep boxing!'

‘Keep the centre of the ring bro'! Keep the centre. Own it.'

‘That's it bro', keep it sharp, work in there.'

‘For god's sake, uppercut, get out of the fuck'n corner.'

‘Don't get boxed in, damn it.'

‘Keep those uppercuts coming.'

‘Don't let him back in bro', don't give him a sniff.'

‘Come on. Come on, keep going bro'!'

‘Right hook, right jab, go with him. Go with him.'

‘Keep movin', keep workin'.'

‘That's it bro', you've got him.'

‘Keep at it bro'. Keep at it.'

‘Qamil, Qamil, Qamil,' they chant. The last minute is approaching. Qamil, the Golden Boy, trains a mere three kilometres from here, and the punters have adopted him, warmed to his daring. They are willing him on, and willing the Ripper on as well. He has earned their respect—he has fought clean and with an endearing intensity—but the momentum is with the Golden Boy, the hometown favourite, just as it had been with Henry Nissen on the night he beat the Scot and earned the right to a World Title fight.

‘Qamil, Qamil, Qamil.'

Henry is forty years back, and the crowd is bellowing, ‘Nissen, Nissen, Nissen.' It was his time, his night of undisputed triumph, the night he beat the Scot and set the boxing fraternity alight and his stocks soaring. He looks about him now, and looks up at the patrons in the dark, in general admission. He surveys the tables and the rapt faces—the oneness of purpose—and he's elated.

And when it's blessedly over, both boys are lifted up by their seconds and carried around the ring in fatigued euphoria, and Queen are back singing their driving chorus, and the old enthusiast is leaning forward, delivering his verdict to anyone willing to listen.

‘That was a good honest-to-god fight,' he says, ‘a real crowd pleaser.'

‘Yeah, it was okay,' says one of his tablemates, shrugging his shoulders, as if to say I've seen better.

‘Can't please 'em all,' says the old man, ‘but I know boxing. I understand the fundamentals, and that was a bloody good fight. I know one when I see one and I've seen the best.

‘I was there in '51, the night Frank Flannery fought Hassen; the best friggin' fight this country's seen, I can vouch for it. I waited outside for hours for a cheap ticket. I was still a kid, I brought along comics to keep me company.

‘Five bob, that's all I paid for a seat high up in the bleachers. The crowd was crammed into the stadium, the tin shed we used to call it, and they were on their feet, the whole friggin' lot of them. Five bob, can you believe it, put that in your pipe and smoke it. I'd pay five thousand for a fight like that now. This one doesn't come within a bull's roar, nothing like it, but you got to hand it to 'em, it was a good one, no doubt about it.'

Now it's history, all done with, and the two boys are hugging, falling into each other's arms, exhausted, cheek on cheek, sweat on sweat, arms slipping over wet bodies. No hard feelings, mate, now that the battle is over. When they separate, their seconds step back in and unlace their gloves, freeing their hands, flinging
towels round their shoulders.

And the two boys are standing in the centre of the ring, either side of the ref, hand in hand, gazing ahead, their legs automatically slow jogging, their faces impassive, waiting for the result, maintaining their stoic acceptance as the scores are announced—the tallies from the three judges. A unanimous points decision to the blue corner.

The Golden Boy has triumphed. His hand is held high, and he is paraded round the ring, presented with the belt, and pronounced Australian Light Welterweight Champion.

‘Qamil. Qamil. Qamil.' The chant reverberates. The boys in his camp are ecstatic, strutting about like roosters, hitting fist against fist, jabbing each other with playful punches, embracing. Yeah, their man has done it. The victor is ecstatic, and the vanquished is slumped in his corner.

Then they are gone, the boxers and trainers, and the conga lines of supporters. The ring is deserted, the judges are stashing their papers, and the cameramen are dismantling their equipment. The cleaners are hovering at the edges, ready to move in with their mops and buckets. But the night is not over yet.

The carnival of flesh is still in full swing. The girls from the Men's Gallery are moving about, seating themselves on patrons' laps, flaunting their wares, caressing and fondling, sweet talking and flattering, pouting and posing as photos are taken—there is no shortage of cameras in the era of the iPhone—and conversations are breaking out all over the hall like hails of confetti now that there's no longer a fight to distract them.

‘Henry, my old sparring partner,' exclaims another ex-fighter.
‘Great to see you! We boxed heaps,' he says to his party of friends. ‘He was unbelievable. Should've been champion of the world. You were robbed mate. Robbed. I was there the night you fought Big Jim West. You had him. They shouldn't have stopped it. I feel for you. Believe me, I feel for you. You were robbed mate, anyone who was there could see it.'

He grabs a young boxer passing by and pulls him towards Henry. ‘One of the greats,' he says. ‘Boxing royalty, that's what he was, and what he'll always be. Boxing royalty. He was always on the front foot, a ball of fire, always at 'em. You could learn a thing or two from him. Learn respect. Learn hard work. Learn how to stay the distance. He was one of the toughest—but always fair and always a gentleman.'

True to form, the gentleman keeps circulating, shaking hands, hugging and kissing and reminiscing. He is one of the last to depart. The action is over and the last patrons are walking out, hunched into their jackets, hands in pockets, faces stung by the sobering night air as they hurry to their vehicles.