by Lee Cooper
Dedicated to
My Mother, Grandmother, and friend Leigh Henderson.
Parents are not to be put to death for their children, nor children put to death for their parents; each will die for their own sin.
Deuteronomy 24:16
Only a man who knows what it is like
to be defeated
Can reach down to the bottom of his soul
And come up with the extra ounce
of power it takes to win
when the match is even.
Muhammad Ali.
Chapter 1 The Beginning of the End
Chapter 2 Stuck in a Rut 2014
Chapter 3 Boxing as a Teen
Chapter 4 Strange Turn
Chapter 5 The House and Home
Chapter 6 Butterflies
Chapter 7 Kilgours
Chapter 8 The Spar
Chapter 9 The Aftermath
Chapter 10 Good Feeling
Chapter 11 Preparation
Chapter 12 The Eyes
Chapter 13 Old Man
Chapter 14 The Training
Chapter 15 The Hard Truth
Chapter 16 Montrose
Chapter 17 The Venue
Chapter 18 The Fight
Chapter 19 The Buzz
Chapter 20 The Hangover and Ride Home
Chapter 21 Back to the Same Old Same
Chapter 22 No Choices
Chapter 23 Back To The Slog
Chapter 24 More Lies
Chapter 25 Bad Memories, 2003
Chapter 26 The Fountain
Chapter 27 Coffee
Chapter 28 Blood
Chapter 29 Wounded Knuckles
Chapter 30 Mike and Dad
Chapter 31 Ticking Clock
Chapter 32 In Anticipation
Chapter 33 Pre-Fight
Chapter 34 Skinner
Chapter 35 The Victor Claims The Spoils
Chapter 36 Sunday Morning Blues
Chapter 37 Job Prospects
Chapter 38 Working Life
Chapter 39 Paranoia
Chapter 40 Weekend Blues
Chapter 41 Junior
Chapter 42 Phone Call
Chapter 43 The Chase
Chapter 44 Northern Ireland
Chapter 45 The Meeting With Mr Dean
Chapter 46 Changing Times
Chapter 47 New Life
Chapter 48 Been Here Before
Chapter 49 Restraining Order
Chapter 50 Pre-McGregor Fight
Chapter 51 Ball Point
Chapter 52 Matt McGregor
Chapter 53 Date With Destiny
Chapter 54 Pumped Up
Chapter 55 Micky
Chapter 56 Grief
Chapter 57 In The Zone
Chapter 58 Mags
Chapter 59 The Docks
Chapter 60 Back To The Interview
Chapter 61 The first half of the meeting with Mr Dean after returning from Northern Ireland
Chapter 62 Lousy Bastard
Chapter 63 Pre-Fight
Chapter 64 The Beginning Of The End
Chapter 65 The Reaper
Chapter 66 Remorseful
Chapter 67 The Eidolon
Chapter 68 Lukas
Chapter 69 Fate
Chapter 1
The Beginning of the End:
Standing in this run-down, retired shipyard building on the banks of the Clyde, a desolate part of Glasgow, staring down at the palms of my shaking hands wondering what my fists had turned me into. Wondering how I let things escalate this far.
Across from me was a beast, a monster like no other I had seen, a modern day Barbarian only interested in seeing me defeated, lying in a puddle of my own blood and piss. A man that had no mercy and had destroyed everyone he had faced. He earned his reputation as the hardest man with two fists in the country.
The nonchalant look as he stared me down across the circle of thugs and gangsters was one I had never seen, no signs of weakness. Instead, a burning fire of hatred for life, hidden beneath intense, intimidating eyes. The doubts were racing around my head like never before, where will I be after this is all over? Will I get through this?
But this was no time to reflect. I had to stay focused on the task at hand, or I’d be lifted off this cold concrete floor in a body bag.
It was the money, or so I kept telling myself, but to be truthful, I was hooked on the game. The buzz of the crowd, the feeling of tearing your opponent apart, the pure adrenaline you get when you swap punches, and of course the sight of your foe lying on the floor partially paralysed. The cash handed to you after victory was secondary to the real reason I stood in this building.
The countdown was on. Five minutes to go.
There was going to be a duel between two warriors that no one in this crowd of peasants had seen before and a battle no one in this room will forget. My hands began to feel clammy with sweat and my legs started to shake with fear. All this was hidden on the inside, but on the outside, the only feeling that was projected from my face and pumped-up frame, was the need to see The Reaper broken down, in pain, bloodied, bruised and begging for his life.
I was the main man. The top dog. Not him. He was just some cunt in the way of me becoming the hardest in the country. I had come too far, gave up everything. Lost the love of my life and my two kids, to let this degenerate Liverpool faggot beat me.
Time was ticking and I could smell his blood, I could picture me smashing his head off the concrete floor. He gave another stare from across the room. He looked as pumped as I did, standing a few inches taller than me and every bit of his body ripped with muscle. His arms were bulging, his stomach, body and back were all ripped, with a set of traps on him that made seeing his neck difficult.
His physique and the look of hatred in his eyes made him spine-chillingly evil to face. His two sidekicks looked as if they were giving him his last pep talk. That wasn’t going to help him, no pep talk was going to stop me fucking him up and sending him in a taxi to the morgue.
I took my eyes off his, turned my back and gave myself a final word, as the memory of my murdered mate ran through my head.
Things went unusually dead in the room, as if the crowd were awaiting the start of a hundred metre race. Everybody knew what they were about to witness, they knew history in the underworld was about to happen. I briefly felt a shiver up my spine and the strangest feeling I had been here before, or maybe this was my destiny?
A shout of a minute to go came. This was it. The time had come to dethrone this cunt and separate his head from his body. My heart beating like a mad man, the adrenaline kicked into overdrive and my blood pumped through my veins with fear, my breath heavy in anger and anticipation of the first exchange of fists.
Tim, one of a few friends I had left that didn’t fear me, turned and fixed his stare into my eyes, nodding his head. “You fucking ready for this, Joe?”
“Born ready, my friend.”
“Last-man-standing, no fucking mercy, or you’ll be a dead man.”
“There will be none!” I answered, no sign of remorse for what I had to do. Or, what he might do to me.
“No guts! No glory!” Tim grunted from the depths of his throat.
“Let’s get the show on the road.” The so-called ref in the middle of me and The Reaper shouted.
Tim took a step back, still looking me with overwhelming uncertainty and anxiety written over his face, as if this could be the last time we exchange words.
I turned around, stepped towards The Reaper, leaving all doubt behind, ready to fight for my right to exist. As The Reaper did the same, our eyes locked, glaring at each other like a couple of battle-hardened w
arriors.
We met in the middle…
Chapter 2
Stuck in a Rut, 2014:
Living in a prosperous town in the North East of Scotland called Inverurie, with a population of roughly eleven thousand, my life was like any typical family man. A clique wee place where rumours grew legs and limbs, making their way from one side of town to the other.
The place had the usual scuffles outside the pubs during the weekends, the usual alkies every town acquires, propping up the bars in their local boozers. Tearaway youths and twenty somethings binging on coke and illegal highs like MCAT, going wild at the weekends.
Having a football team in the Highland League, Inverurie Loco Works, gave the families of the town something to cheer at the weekends. An excellent school system and plenty for the kids to keep them occupied.
Overall, a better place to bring up a family than Tilly.
Things were tough at the time. I was skint, the family was skint. It wasn’t always like this though. Only in the recent months after losing my job at the Paper Mill in January, that things started to go downhill.
The Mill went bust resulting in three hundred and twelve workers losing their livelihoods. The company called us to a meeting out of the blue, and that was it, the Mill had to close. I didn’t know the ins and outs of the finance part of the shutdown but I know this, it left us with nothing. Everyone was in the same boat, devastated.
Sacked without any kind of redundancy because the company went bankrupt. A lot of empty pockets hovered around town at that time, leaving the town in a big hole. The Mill was the main source of income for the many of families in the area. I’d been there since leaving school and it left me with nothing.
All the years of breaking my back, keeping up with my jobs and taking orders from arrogant arseholes that thought they were big dicks because they’d been placed into a supervisor's role, was all for nothing in my eyes. My loyalty to the place was not to be rewarded.
I was content with the routine, job and life in general. It paid me to raise a wonderful family and keep a house. But that all changed rapidly in the next two years. We had savings, but it was never going to last long with the cost of living getting higher and higher. Where was I going to get another job? I didn’t have any skills or any kind of trade.
I missed out on getting involved in the oil industry that thrived around Aberdeen and the surrounding areas and the money that went with it. It would cost an arm and a leg to get survival and medical certificates now, and I didn’t have that cash.
Making it even more challenging to get a job was the fact I didn’t drive. There wasn’t any need growing up and I didn’t need a car to get back and forth to work when I stayed in Aberdeen, catching a lift from a workmate that shared the same shift. Then living in Inverurie, I cycled to work. A driver's licence was a waste of money to me. The cash it would take to get a car on the road nowadays was outrageous. We would never be able to afford that.
For the next six months after losing my job, I sank further into the normal life of an unemployed man, picking up the role of house-husband which definitely didn’t suit. I made every effort to pick up another job here, but with three hundred people all chasing new employment at the same time, it made it almost impossible.
There was a recycling plant nearby, three positions were advertised. I applied but so did countless others. It was just luck of the draw that would claim you a job. Forty people got interviews with three chosen, probably because they knew the right person in the right place.
It’s who you know rather than what you know.
After three months, the savings started to dry up and the bills started to pile up. May, my wife of eight years, had been hassling me since getting paid-off to apply for welfare, but being as stubborn as shit, I wouldn’t do it. A man that has to sign on to support his family wasn’t something to be proud of. But running out of options, I had no choice in the end eventually, signing on and receiving my entitlement of £155 a week.
May had a part - time job in the local corner shop. Worked twenty hours a week paying next to minimum wage, £135. The combination of these two things were never going to pay the mortgage and mounting bills every month, plus keep food on the table and clothes on the kids back. But, as little as it paid, we were very thankful that May had this job.
The constant hunt for work was frustrating, getting pessimistic and passive about my situation. When you’re out of work for a while, stuck in a rut, it can drain your desire and enthusiasm for life, which had a knock on effect. Most days I was left to handle the kids and tackle the household chores.
When there wasn’t anything else to do, lazing around watching the pish daytime TV was routine. When I could be bothered, weights or hitting the boxing bag would keep me busy.
Working in the Mill since I left school at the age of sixteen was almost all I knew, well I say almost because…
Chapter 3
Boxing as a Teen:
I was a fighter at heart.
My entire life, fighting in some form or other, followed me around like an unwelcome shadow. Witnessing punches being thrown in anger, right back to my first memories. My old man introduced me to violence from an early age along with boxing at the age of fourteen to ‘toughen me up.’ It soon became obvious I held a talent for it.
By the time I reached eighteen, I had developed into a five foot ten beast of a man. I was battle hardened and living under my father's reputation. Having all I needed at my feet to become a well-known face in the boxing world. Dedicated, hardworking, with a head like granite, broad shouldered, good tempered, muscles ripped and hardened with the constant years of hard training, never showing an ounce of fat, fighting around eighty-five/seven kilos in the cruiserweight category.
As a teen, I had sun-streaked, curled blonde hair, flowing down past my ears and into my eyes. At times I couldn't be arsed getting a cut, but always kept a smooth chin, carrying a smashed-up nose that came from countless breaks. Bright blue-green eyes that came from being fit and healthy, although quite often had shades of black and purple surrounding them. I kept myself well-dressed outside the gym as there was never a money shortage growing up.
The other kids were quite jealous of the labels I wore.Tilly wasn’t exactly the catwalk of fashion.
I quit boxing at twenty-three because I made the classic mistake that any good coach would tell you not to do. ‘Don’t fall in love, or your career will go down the shitter.’
I’d had my fair share of amateur fights by that time, guessing around fifty. I never kept a good log of them. To be honest, once Junior, our first kid was on the way, that signaled the end of my boxing career, didn’t want him growing up around any kind of violence after my own childhood of horror.
Guys in the boxing game used to say I had a promising future, could’ve had it all, but I wasn’t interested.
Now thirty-two, patches of frosty-grey growing through my clean cut hair and lazy-cut stubble, I had developed a slight overhang in the belly department, and I was getting older and slower, my enthusiasm for life also getting grey.
Being a lot heavier too, maybe around the hundred kilo mark, I couldn’t tell to be exact as after the boxing finished, the scales were the first thing to go. They were your enemy as a fighter, going through the constant battle to hit target weight. Once retired, they were the first thing I binned.
I never wanted to stop boxing, but a violence-free life for my kids is what I yearned for. If I was to get any kind of crazy injuries that could put me on the sick from work, I wouldn’t be able to afford to look after my wife and kids the way they deserved.
My sole important thing in life was to keep a roof over their heads, clothes on their back, grub on the table and love in their hearts. Protect them, idolize them, and be with them through heartache and hardship. Strangely, that is exactly the reason I travelled down the wrong path, to keep money coming in again. I’d been employed for the last sixteen years and it got me nowhere. I didn’t take the piss at work
, only ever took my due breaks, was never late and never took a sick day. The only time I had taken off was the days my children were born, the short time I required off to look after May in her time of need and the ten week spell after my poor mother committed suicide.
A model employee as they say, but look at me now, totally skint, not able to provide for my family. Not able to buy any luxuries for May or the kids. Not able to take the kids on holiday or even go out to enjoy a meal.
The whole situation really started to piss me off and it had to change.
Chapter 4
Strange Turn:
Things took a strange turn one late Indian summer’s night around eight o'clock. The sun beaming down over the red cloud-line and the air fresh. Taking advantage of the fine night, I went out jogging, the streets quiet enough at this time for some solitude. Jogging the odd night was a great way to get out of the house to clear my head of all the stress and worries hounding me from the ever increasing bill stack in the top drawer.
Quite a long run, around four and a half miles, which would take me about forty-five minutes. A good amount of time to be out the house, the longer the better. The fresh air and time on my own was therapeutic.
I worried so much, not knowing how we would be able to pay the mortgage and bills in the coming months. The £155 welfare went into the bank each week along with May’s £135, but it just wasn't enough for us. The savings now gone. Our pot was empty.
My jog took me round the outskirts of Inverurie via the dual carriageway, returning over the river Don bridge heading back into town and toward my house. This bridge was the main road in and out of the place towards Aberdeen. Passing the bridge and listening to Oasis ‘Morning Glory’ blasting in my ears, I vaguely made out somebody shouting at me.
“Joe! Wait! JOE!”
I stopped on the pavement, removed my earphones and turned around looking to see who the Hell was shouting. A silver Mercedes was doing a U-turn in the middle of the road, redirecting straight towards me, as I stood silent on the pavement. As the car approached, I still couldn’t figure out who it was with the low sun blinding me. The car pulled up beside me, the window rolled down, and I then instantly knew exactly who it was. My old boxing pal Tim! I started to grin, happy to see my old friend again after all these years.