Nevertheless, this scrap reinvigorated my interest in the world of fighting, so one night I went with a few lads to watch a friend of mine fight at a boxing show in Sunderland. The guest of honour was Ernie Shavers, the American heavyweight puncher from the 1970s. I used to love watching him fight, as he was one of the hardest-hitting heavies of all time. I couldn’t believe it when I saw him there. I shook the great man’s giant of a hand and asked him who was the best fighter he ever fought and without hesitation he said, ‘Muhammad Ali.’ There was a professional photographer there and he took a photo of us with Ernie. About a week later, the photos arrived in the post. I had them enlarged and sent all the lads a copy each. I got mine framed and it hung it by the stairs, where it proudly sits to this day.
I got to know the coach, Graham, at the Boys Welfare. He invited me to go to the gym and watch a few sparring sessions. While I watched, it started getting in my bones again. I decided to help out with the youngsters. I went on a coaching course over in Sunderland in order to get qualified. I hadn’t done any training for God knows how long and after the first day, I was wiped out. The next day, I had to go through it all again and was as stiff as a board. I was sweating bucket loads and one of the instructors said to me, ‘You should leave the beer alone the night before you come here.’ But I hadn’t had any beer – I was just unfit! The second part of the course was held two weeks later. My partner throughout the course was Neil Fannan, whom I knew from the old days. When we were going through various blocks and combinations I’d slip a hard one into his ribs when he wasn’t expecting it and he’d give me a ‘you crafty cunt’ look. Then just when I’d relax and forget about it, BANG! I’d cop the same treatment and I’d look at him and he’d have a big cheesy grin all over his face. A few weeks later, we got our results: both of us had passed with flying colours.
The 1998–99 season was a unique time in Hartlepool amateur boxing, especially for the Boys Welfare. Everybody seemed to come together from far and wide and we had three boxers in the National ABA finals, a feat never done before in the town and never likely to be achieved again. We had some good lads, at senior and junior level. We had one lad from Tunisia called Mo who was raw and needed schooling, but he reached the National Novice Final where he was out pointed. There were two lads fresh out of the army who came for a change of scenery to box for our club, one of whom, Kevin Bennett, a light-welterweight, was an England International The other one was called Billy Bessey. Billy’s brother, Chris, won six National ABA titles and regularly came up here to a boxing show or for a night out.
I enjoyed meeting all the younger lads, as they were all well mannered and a joy to be with. One night, I was sat in a club watching England v USA with two of the England boxers, Chris, who was the captain, and Ian Cooper. The Yank who Ian fought was called Jeff Lacy, who is currently the undefeated IBF Super Middleweight champion of the world. Ian gave me his vest and medal from the fight because he knew I appreciated anything like that. I framed the vest. Ian was a class act and reached the National ABA final at light middleweight in 1996, but went one better the next year and won the title at middleweight. I also became close friends with Kevin Bennett, as I liked the way he was polite and had nice manners. You go a long way when you have both, and he did. An old gypsy bare-knuckle fighter from years ago who lived round these parts used to say, ‘It’s nice to be important, but it’s important to be nice.’ After all, manners cost nothing.
We travelled all over the place for boxing shows. We especially had some good nights up in Scotland and we were always invited back. When we left clubs, there would be a crowd of people in the hall all clapping us off because they appreciated the quality of our boxers. They couldn’t believe that one club would go up there and beat the best lads in Scotland. We always had a warm welcome and a couple came down to watch the lads in the ABAs. I took two junior boxers to the Royal Armouries at Leeds. We went up with another club from the town to share the petrol. Graham gave us a van to go in and said the brakes were a bit iffy but to just ‘pump it and it’ll stop’. I didn’t like the sound of that.
On the way to pick the other club up, as I came to some traffic lights, I realised there were no brakes. I pumped and pumped and it still kept going. Incredibly, nothing came my way or it would have been a head-on collision. I was thinking, this cunt has set me up. Graham was always doing things like that. When I got to the club to pick Timmy and his boxers up I warned, ‘Timmy, you can drive that, I’m not, it’s a fucking death trap.’ There were a few hair-raising moments that night and we were nearly killed a couple of times. When Timmy got out, his hair was grey!
I was still doing a bit on and off with the cable installations. I was working with a lad called Stewart Lithgo, who was Commonwealth Cruiserweight Champion in the 1980s; he brought the title back to Hartlepool from Australia when he knocked the champion out in the 11th round. He was as tough as old boots and was no mug. He fought Frank Bruno and big Frank hit him with his best shots and couldn’t put Stewey down, it was stopped on cuts and Stewey protested furiously. He still runs and hits the bag a few times a week.
We had six boxers entered in the ABAs one year. Three of the lads fought the reigning national champions in the North East finals. At lightweight, Mo Helel lost a very close decision to Andy McLean. At light welterweight, Kevin Bennett beat Nigel Wright and at middleweight, Ian Cooper lost to John Pearce. With the others we had left, we realised we had a great chance of going all the way. The semi-finals were being held at the York Hall, in Bethnal Green, which promised to be a cracking show.
While we were there we went to Charlie Magri’s sports shop and I had a good chat with him. Charlie was World Flyweight Champ in 1983 and his fights were allaction affairs. We talked about various fights and fighters and we got talking about George Feeney. Charlie said that he came to Hartlepool as an amateur and boxed George and won on points. When he and his coaches left the club, they were followed and chased by a gang of skinheads. He said they ran like hell with the skinheads in hot pursuit but they never got caught. Not surprisingly, Charlie never fought in Hartlepool again after that. When I got back home, I relayed that story back to George and he laughed his head off and said it was true. Most of the skins were his mates who never took too kindly to their pal getting beat.
I bought a blue pair of Everlast mini boxing gloves off him and they still hang in my car. After we left Charlie’s shop, my pal Wally and I went to a pub called the Blind Beggar and had our dinner there. The pub, as most people know, was made famous as the place where East End gangster Ronnie Kray killed George Cornell with a bullet in the head. Strangely enough, the record playing on the jukebox at the time of the murder was by the Walker Brothers called ‘The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Any More’ and as Ronnie was walking out he supposedly said, ‘The sun ain’t gonna shine any more for George.’ The pub has changed a lot since then; it has been refurbished and is now a family pub. They do some nice scran.
We went back to the York Hall for the weigh-in and everyone started to think about the job in hand. As fight time approached, the place was packed out and everyone was buzzing. First up for us was Michael Hunter at bantamweight who boxed excellently and won by a wide decision. Then our light welterweight, Kevin Bennett, was in action. I’ve never seen Benny more fired up than he was before this fight; he really did have the eye of the tiger. He tore straight into Jon Honney and ripped him apart. It was all over in 45 seconds. Our last man was at super heavyweight, Billy Bessey. He fought a big fella from Swindon and stopped him in the second round for a clean sweep. We had three in the National finals.
The biggest day ever in Hartlepool’s amateur boxing history had arrived and a few coaches made the journey to the Barnsley Metrodome to support the lads. Ironically, our three boxers were up against three lads all from the same club, Repton, in London. They are the biggest amateur club in the country and have been for years. First up for us was a cracker, as Michael Hunter slugged it out with Andrew Wallace. Hunter came on strong in
the last, making it anyone’s title. The decision was announced as 10-9 to Hunter. Then we had Kevin Bennett against Danny Happe. I remember all the hair standing up on my neck with the noise and electricity as we were walking to the ring. Bennett was all over Happe in the first two rounds with Happe hardly throwing a punch because of the onslaught. He did connect a few times in the last round but we had Benny winning by a couple of points at the very least. But then the decision was announced as 9-8 to Happe. Benny said, ‘I’m absolutely gutted. I won that fight, I’m sure of it. I’ve worked really hard all season and had no easy fights. I think I deserved a bit of luck and I didn’t get it.’ I knew the feeling. We were all gutted for Benny; if anyone deserved a title, it was him. Billy’s brother Chris was in next at light middleweight. Chris beat K Hassaine from Balham, in London, by a score of 17-6. It was his sixth ABA title. He had won one at welterweight and five at light middleweight, putting him second on the all-time list with only John Lyon from St Helens ahead of him with eight titles.
The last fight of the night saw another Hartlepool v London encounter. It was the big men, the super heavyweights: Billy Bessey against Joe Young. It turned out to be a thriller and the crowd went wild. As the bell ended the second round, Young hit Bessey twice. Billy wobbled on unsteady legs back to the corner. Young should have been disqualified, which I think he would have been if Billy had stayed on his stool, but Graham said, ‘Go out and win it the proper way.’ Billy’s nose was bust and there was blood all over his face. When they went back at it, Young was looking for the winner when Billy pulled out a big one, which landed flush on the chin. BANG! Young was counted out in the third to spark delirious scenes.
Billy said it was the best punch he’d ever thrown, and the best moment of his life. He and his brother Chris wrote themselves into the record books, not only as ABA Champs, but also as one of only a handful of brothers to win titles on the same night. In the local paper Graham said, ‘I’m so pleased for him, he has lived in his brother’s shadow throughout his career and to win an ABA title is a tremendous and fitting reward for him.’ Underneath that feature, it read, ‘It was also a fitting reward for the Welfare coaching team of Reed, Neil Fannan and Richy Horsley, who guided three boxers through to the grand finals and ended the illustrious competition with two magnificent champions.’
Perhaps my biggest influence over the lads centred on a humble vest. I gave Billy one of my old Nike ones to replace his old white vest and, as I gave it to him, I joked that if he inherits a bit of my power from it he’ll be undefeated. All joking aside, when he wore it, he notched 13 wins in a row including the ABA title. So a bit of the Horsley magic did rub off on him.
CHAPTER 19
SUICIDE IS PAINFUL
My love affair with Scotland continued when I took Linda up there for a holiday. After finishing a cable job in Cardiff at the Millennium Stadium, the work had dried up and a few of us had got laid off for a while. In my first week off I took a trip down the bookies, and picked some horses out in an each-way accumulator bet. That night in the digs, I checked the Teletext on the TV. Blimey, they had all come in! My total winnings: £800. Linda and I loved it up in Scotland, and spent every penny of my winnings. We loved being surrounded by mountains and rivers; the scenery is truly breathtaking. You can relax and totally chill out. We went there a number of times, always to different places: Fort William, Ben Nevis, Grantown-on-Spey, Isle of Skye, Inverness, The Trossachs and Loch Lomond being just a few. I recommend it to anyone.
But with the cable work drying up, I had less excuses to be out of Hartlepool, meaning that that naughty lad Trouble started popping his head up again. Not long after returning from a break up in Scotland, I was in a club where one of my old boxing pals, Andy Tucker, was working the door. We were having a good natter about the old days when this geezer comes squaring up to me in a boxer’s stance and starts flicking out punches. Both Andy and I knew this nutter, so I told him to pack it in. Now he should have stopped then and everything would have been hunky-dory, but he just wouldn’t listen. I had a quick scan of the place and saw that a lot of people were watching; I started to feel embarrassed, as he was still flicking out the jab. Well, wherever there’s a crowd … I casually put my drink on the bar and proceeded to carry out a demolition job on the guy, duly flattening him with a road roller of a punch. I apologised to Andy and left. Another night spoiled over a dickhead being clever.
A few weeks later, I bumped into the prick’s older brother, who I knew as a fellow trainer of amateur boxers. He said, ‘What the hell did you do that to our kid for?’ I told him what had happened, which was different from what he had heard. He knew his brother could be a nuisance when he’d had a drink. He also added that his brother’s jaw was broken in two places and it was wired up. So it’s only rarely that I get down the town now – there’s too much hassle and it’s not worth it. I’ve been there, done it all, bought and worn the T-shirt, and I’ve now hung it up – still, I haven’t washed the blood off yet!
Yet you cannot delete a reputation like mine too easily. It will always create its own trouble. One afternoon, I got a phone call from a friend who wanted to see me. I met up with him and he told me that a few thieves he knew had got caught nicking scrap from a yard by the owner, who shouted to them that ‘Richy Horsley will be round to punch your heads in.’ This had happened a number of times, so my pal and I went round to see him. I never even knew the guy. When I asked him why he used my name, he just denied it, until I told him to stop taking the piss, whereat he claimed he’d only used it the once. But I knew he was bullshitting me, and informed him that I would be charging for the use of my name. I gave him 24 hours to get what was owed to me.
As we were leaving the yard, my mate gave him the back of his hand.
It turned out that the bloke was so beside himself with worry that he phoned the police. They were planning an ambush, but luckily someone I knew overheard the plotting and phoned me to warn me off. So we never turned up as we were supposed to. Within the hour, though, the police had burst into my pal’s house and locked him up for assault. He was told he was looking at some jail. I got a phone call from his brother warning me to be on my toes, so I made a hasty retreat. Fortunately, someone who knew the scrapman very well went to see him and promised him he would be left alone if he dropped the charges. When the scrapman phoned the policy accordingly, they tried to persuade him not to drop the charges, but they couldn’t change his mind, so my friend was released. The scrapman was left alone, as promised. What a fucking carry on though! Saying that, I think everyone involved learned a lesson.
The main stability in my life remained the boxing. Kevin Bennett and Ian Cooper had hung up their amateur vests and turned professional. Neil Fannan took out a trainer’s licence, and I was asked if I wanted one too, which of course I did. I had to go to a meeting of the Northern Area Boxing Board of Control and answer questions put to me by members. The former British heavyweight title challenger, Dave Garside, spoke up for me. I had to wait outside the room for five minutes before being called back in. I was told that my application had been successful.
The local paper came out and took some photos of Neil, Benny, Cooper and me. They featured a piece on the back page about the ‘New Stable’. At that time, Dave Garside got his promoter’s licence and was putting his first show on at the Tall Trees Centre in Yarm. It would be the lads’ debut pro fights. The show was a complete sell-out, and everyone involved was a bit nervy. Luckily we watched the Eddie Murphy film The Nutty Professor on the TV before the fight, which got rid of any nervous tension. Neil hadn’t seen it before and was laughing so much that he was slavering all over the place. Both Benny and Cooper won their fights impressively. On the same bill was a very historical fight between Jan Wild of Stockton and Audrey Guthrie of Newcastle. What was historical about it? It was the very first time that two English female professional boxers had fought each other. Every other pro fight up to then had involved a British woman against a foreign opponent. I work
ed in Wild’s corner handing up – meaning I was in charge of the water bottle and the spit bucket. She won a close decision even though I did think Guthrie deserved it.
I was the resident house second for about five of Dave Garside’s shows, all of which took place on a Sunday afternoon. At one show, the two guests of honour were Ernie Shavers, who I have told you about, and Brian London, who fought twice for the same title, losing to Floyd Patterson and Muhammad Ali respectively. Brian was originally a Hartlepool lad but moved to Blackpool when he was young. His father, Jack London, was from Hartlepool and was British Heavyweight Champion in the 1940s. When I think about why Hartlepool has produced so many hard men, I always come to the conclusion that it is down to its history. The town used to be known as ‘Little Chicago’ because of the amount of gangs it once had. There was the Captain Cutlass Gang, the Turquoise Gang, the Black Hands and loads more. Lots of tough foreign merchant seamen would stay in Hartlepool because it was a thriving seaport, and would spend their cash in a row of pubs called ‘The Barbary Coast’.
Just after Kevin Bennett turned professional, we went to Milton Keynes to do a bit of graft. It was an extremely bitter cold December and, to make matters worse, we were working outside. It was proper brass-monkey weather. Whenever we arrived back at the flat, the first one through the door would put the bath straight on, while the others waited their turn and thawed out with a hot cuppa. One night Benny decided to go out jogging and to have a bath when he got back. It was fucking cold outside, and he looked pissed off when he returned. But he was even more pissed off when he found out that all the hot water had gone. Was that the end of it? No, I’m afraid it wasn’t. He went into the kitchen to make the dinner that he had been really looking forward to. I was sat at the kitchen table tucking into a large plate of pasta with baked potatoes smothered in butter with a nice cuppa. Lovely. The aroma emanating from my meal was fantastic and it tasted even better, I can tell you. Anyway, Benny opens the fridge and goes for his meal but he can’t find it. Where the fuck is it? He asked, ‘Richy, have you seen my scran?’
Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley Page 15