I signed a contract, my father received a nice sum of money on my behalf as I was less than eighteen years of age, and I was off to London with my trainer and manager. After only one day in “the Smoke” and many discussions on my behalf, I could not believe it when I was told that next morning we were off to New York. “That’s where Superman hangs out,” I thought. It was like going around the dark side of the moon. I had to grow up fast mentally. When we arrived, and after a taxi ride, we ended up in a then notorious area: the Bronx. Our first welcome to the United States was when we approached this American cop and asked him the directions to a particular gym. He thrust his truncheon into my trainer’s stomach and pulled out his .38 revolver with his other hand and shouted, “Get three paces back!” We immediately obeyed and repeated our previous question, to which he responded in that unmistakeable New York drawl, at machine gun speed and gave us the directions to our destination, ending with the words, “Now move on,” which we promptly obeyed.
They were expecting us as we arrived and they already had a fighter lined up to test me out. He was a Golden Gloves champion, a detail that was never mentioned before. I was allowed a quick change and was gloved up with 16-ounce gloves. They were well-used, cracked and sweat soaked and were like a pair of balloons. The fighter came tearing towards me, but I was too quick and side stepped him. My tactics involved practising my footwork and keeping away from him for the first round, which I did very successfully, much to the annoyance and frustration of him and the rest of the on-lookers. The second round was entirely different and I unleashed some heavy shots on him. This made him angrier and more aggressive and easier to hit, which I did several more times until one body shot folded him in two. That was an entirely different end to the planned fight. He was dragged away and a long conference took place. Phone calls were made and I was instructed just to work out in the gym. We did not know what was going on, so we talked amongst ourselves until an hour or so passed by and then the gym door burst open and four huge blokes strode in. One of them was about six foot six and around twenty-four stones and he was to be my next workout. He was to become a very well-known boxer, wrestler and movie star. His immediate mission was to give me a good hiding. This was communicated to me by one of the seconds who was gloving me up now with eight-ounce gloves. He told me to keep away from this guy for as long as I could (I had already figured that out) saying that he was probably the best three-minute fighter in the world and the type that would rather fight you in an hotel room or a telephone box.
As soon as he arose from his stool, I rushed over and planted a solid right hook on his nose which was, again, like a tomato exploding. This always seemed to work for me. Everyone must have thought that I had a death wish. This huge guy was then intent on carrying out his mission with gusto. He moved really well and was very athletic for his size. He was putting everything into his shots, which were all missing me, but I was very aware of the power in them as the draught of his gloves whisking by was very noticeable. They served as another reminder to keep well away from him. I began to unload on him to keep him away from me. When he was running out of gas, I became more ambitious and I was now hitting him as hard as I could. I wasn’t used to hitting someone as hard without any apparent effect. It was quite worrying, a confidence depleting syndrome. Indeed, he was taking most of my shots on his arms and shoulders and they were showing signs of painful bruising and were starting to weep blood. At the end of the obviously un-timed round, he was really exhausted. While I was having a rub down in my corner, he came over to me and said, “You young c--t, you’ve got me sore all over,” to which I nervously replied, “Thank goodness, I thought I was having no effect.” There was another conference behind closed doors. The door eventually opened and I was told to go back to our hotel and report back at ten the next morning.
We duly reported back promptly at ten the next morning. We were told to sit and await the arrival of the promoter. We waited only about five minutes when the door burst open and this larger than life black man with a Stetson and great fur coat breezed in with his entourage just about sweeping the floor in front of him. His voice boomed out: “Listen in – this is the plan,” and he proceeded to delegate his orders. Everyone listened intently and some were making notes. At the end he pointed towards me and said, “I’ve heard about you, so you will be on the undercard on Friday night at the Garden. You will take your instructions from him—” as he pointed to one of the trainers—“That’s all.” And he left as quickly as he came in, an air of relief becoming apparent as he left the room.
The “him” came over to me and said, “Well, you heard the man, you are to fight on the undercard at the Garden (Maddison Square Garden) on Friday night. Be here at seven sharp and ready to fight. Weigh-in will be at twelve sharp on Thursday.” He pointed to my trainer and manager and said that he wanted to see them right now in a back room, which he also pointed out.
I sat open-mouthed as the three exited. I could not believe it; I was to fight at Maddison Square Garden. This was a boyhood dream. I recalled listening to the crackling radio in the early hours of the morning to my heroes fighting at MSG. The likes of Rocky Marciano, Floyd Patterson, Brian London, Sonny Liston and Cassius Clay. Before them were all the old greats such as Jack Dempsey, Sugar Ray Robinson, Don Cockell and anyone who was anyone in boxing. I was still dreaming when my team returned. We left and headed to the nearest bar to celebrate.
At last, I thought, I am going to receive some recognition. Things were looking good.
We spent the following day having a good look around New York craning our necks looking at all the skyscrapers. The weigh-in came and went and I waited with nervous anticipation for the next evening’s fight.
Prior to entering the ring, we were visited in the dressing room by two hoods who informed us that I was to lose the fight at the end of the fourth round. We looked at each other in silence and we did not speak of the matter at all. As far as I was concerned, there was no way that I was going to ‘take a dive’ as they say.
When I entered the ring, I was so nervous. I could hear the crowd but did not see them except as a smoky blur. I felt as though I did not have the strength to stand up, let alone fight. I took a deep breath and pulled myself together and reminded myself that I was not going to allow anyone to hurt me, even if this meant running around the ring in circles all night. The bell sounded and all thoughts go out the window. My legs would keep me away from my opponent, and should he get near me, within punching range, then my last line of defence would be brought into action: some solid discouraging punches. Fortunately, I possess an extremely long reach which was also a great advantage. While you can think strategy in the ring, you cannot replicate the natural instinctive actions resulting from a fighter’s natural ability, which comes automatically from your subconscious being, much like breathing and your heartbeat. So, you have this system of reacting naturally to your opponent’s actions and another system of engineering movements which give you an opening to unleash a planned offensive. There is a huge difference between a naturally gifted fighter and a manufactured fighter. You cannot put in that which is not there, if that makes sense.
I quickly realised that this fighter in front of me had nothing with which to trouble me. Certainly not in the same class as the two sparring partners I had already faced. Why did they want him to win the fight? Was it to get a win on his record to climb the ranks, or was it a betting scam? Either way I was not ever going to throw a fight or more especially, let anyone beat me. As I mentioned earlier, if I had ever been beaten, I would have retired seeing no point in being second best. Anyhow without really trying, this guy walks onto a not very potent right hand and he fails to beat the count near the end of the second round. There were some very angry scenes around the ring. There was no pleasure or elation in connection with the win because of the undercurrent which was obviously now going to escalate.
We hurried back to the dressing room, not needing to be advised to get out of the place as quic
kly as possible. Obviously certain people were not going to be pleased. The dressing rooms and passageways were crammed with people bustling about, reporters, fighters, seconds. This assisted our very quick, showerless exit. I hated that. I also hated the fact that I did not get paid for the fight, nor do I even know how much I was to get. Presumably, it was based on outcome, and my outcome was not in the script. We ended up in the main street, not knowing which way to run. Should we head for the airport, the bus station, the underground railway, the docks or the railway station? Will anyone be following us? We couldn’t stand around debating so we jumped into a yellow cab and asked to be taken to the Bronx to collect our meagre belongings. We asked the taxi driver to wait for us while we grabbed our things. The other two were not amused and very anxious as I took the quickest shower and towel wipe ever known, changed my clothes and joined them in sprinting back to the taxi.
We went into a not very inviting or safe bar and discussed our next move. We assumed that anyone wishing to discuss the fight with us would assume that we would leave the country immediately, so we decided not to do that and to move to another state instead. We managed to get an overnight coach to Georgia. Ironically, Georgia presented great opportunities for fighters, but we thought it prudent to get the hell out and flew back to London on the first available flight.
We got back to Heathrow and grabbed the first train back home. We were all tired and agreed to meet the next day to discuss our next move. I went home and was greeted just as if I had been on holiday. In those days you went away for a fortnight and never telephoned home because most people did not have phones installed in their homes. Life was very different then; mobile phones were a long way off from being invented, even colour TV was yet to come. So my parents, and everyone else, had no idea where I had been. New York would not have even entered their imagination. I was able to convince them that I had been on a holiday and watching fights visit to London. The whole experience had been pretty daunting, and I decided, prior to my meeting with my trainer and manager, to put boxing out of my mind, at least for the time being.
Chapter Four
Post U.S
I was now short of cash and had no job. That night I met up with my girlfriend who obviously wanted to know where I had been and what I had been up to. She thought that I was living in fantasy land and she suggested that I had a talk with her brother who was a fireman. He worked two days, 9 to 5, followed by two nights, 5 until 9 the next morning, followed by two days off. He got paid for sleeping and eating and between nightshifts and on his days off he cleaned windows, painted and decorated, and drove taxis. What a life, I thought. The only trouble was that I was a couple of months short of eighteen years old, the minimum age to become a fireman. I needed money and a job right away. I decided to apply early to give the impression that I was really keen to join the service and get whatever I could in the meantime. My original intentions when I left school were to go into commercial art, and if that did not work out to join the police force. The minimum age for joining the police force was nineteen years of age, so I had a bit of time to fill in before I could take on that challenge.
My girlfriend’s brother told me of a way to make good money immediately. That was to become a bus conductor, taking money and issuing tickets. Not a very prestigious job, but one which offered immediate employment and remuneration. However, the minimum age for employment again was eighteen years. The solution for me was much nearer home, as my father was able to get me an immediate start at the factory where he worked. I started the next week working in the production office which did not really suit me and I learned of the opportunity of working on a lathe producing engineering components. Again, this was really boring to me, but I persevered. My income was supplemented by working on the door of a nightclub as a bouncer. I was grateful for any work-outs that came my way, which were not many as my reputation grew.
When I turned eighteen, the production manager informed me that I would now have to work every other week on nightshift. This I was never to do, and I resigned and decided to work as a bus conductor, for double the wages. My mother was appalled at me for doing such a degrading job after attending grammar school and such a promising start to my career. Out of the blue and with great timing, I received a letter from the Fire Brigade inviting me for entrance tests and interview in three weeks’ time. So, I worked as a bus conductor until the interview and tests and believe me I threw more people off the buses than I ever did out of nightclubs. I was duly recognised for this as the complaints flooded in. I resigned before my Fire Brigade interview, so the interview took on even more importance.
The Fire Brigade selection tests and interview were a doddle for me. I had the Chief and assistant Chief laughing and they were impressed with my physique, which they said was very handy for rescuing people. Following a medical examination, I was given a starting date in seven days. My mother was much happier with this new venture, especially when I told her that it was only for twelve months until I was nineteen and I could join the police force.
I was kitted out with a substantial amount of kit prior to my starting date. I struggled with some of the standard sizes that they had. The kit consisted of a dress uniform (called an undress uniform – I never did understand that) and a working rig, which included overalls and fire kit, including an axe mounted on a belt, and a gas mask. It was a real car full.
My mother was much happier with my new-found career and I decided to keep all of my other activities secret from her to avoid causing her worry and distress. She particularly disliked boxing, so I always entered the ring at the last possible moment and left even faster, so as not to be recognised. I had so many fake names it was easy to get mixed up. If my boxing career was to progress, keeping my identity a secret was going to become increasingly difficult.
So began a long string of adventures when I reported for my first shift, which happened to be a Friday nightshift. I was called into the station officer’s office and was met by the sub-officer as the station officer was on leave. This little man exclaimed: “By, you’re a biggun’!” He went on to ask If I could drive and did I drink, “Not at the same time,” I said. “Good,” he said, “Now go into the kitchen and get two enamel buckets and take the van up the road to the Stag’s Head pub and get them filled up with exhibition ale and don’t spill any.” What a first job. I duly complied and this little man consumed at least 16 pints of this beer. He said he worked better with it. He had the cheek to warn me about the leading fireman who liked to drink a lot. My first nightshift ended without any great excitement and I was shown a great pile of manuals of firemanship which I was told to get stuck into.
It was a very old-fashioned fire station, adjoined to a police station and it was three stories high with a sliding pole which went from top to bottom with access doors from the two adjoining floors. You had to be careful that someone wasn’t coming down when you joined the pole from the intermediate floors. You could get quite a speed up from top to bottom and you had to be sure to grip the pole tightly before you hit the bottom otherwise you would end up in an untidy, painful heap. The sleeping quarters or barracks were on the top floor. Wood panelled walls with doors ensured a bit of privacy, although you could hear someone fart at the other end of the room, which they often did. If you needed to pee or something else during the night, you had to go to the floor below to use a toilet. I was intrigued when I looked inside one of these cubicles as there were some typed notices drawing pinned on the wall. One read: “All toilet paper guaranteed fully reconditioned.” Another stated: “Please use both sides of the paper.” Another gave the advice: “Keep wiping until the brown line disappears.” What really struck me was the pair of scissors hanging by a piece of string from the window sill. I had to ask to confirm my suspicions. Yes, the story goes that if the fire bells go when you are in the middle of a certain transaction, then you use the scissors to snip it off. Actually, there was nearly a strike due to toilet paper. There were many complaints about the original toi
let paper which was like greaseproof paper, and as one fireman eloquently put it, “It just spreads it all over your arse.” Persistent pressure produced a radical new pink soft toilet tissue, which was much more acceptable to the delicate posteriors but produced an unbelievable rise in usage, probably due to a great deal being nicked.
The next nightshifts turned out to be more exciting. We were called to a large bonfire which had a telephone pole acting as a centre post. We began to extinguish it when an angry mob turned out from an adjacent pub and they accused us of spoiling the kids’ fun. We ignored them, but they became very threatening and we were given the order to draw axes. The crew were fully prepared to defend themselves; it was a different world then. So, we completed the task to a crescendo of boos.
I particularly enjoyed pub and restaurant fires when you always got a good feed or drink as a thank you. I earned a big reputation for my insatiable appetite. When we went to house fires we would usually be offered cups of tea and the like. My colleagues would advise home owners that their daughters would be safe, but to lock up their food. And so, I carried on as a fireman, while spending my days off in London sparring with well-known fighters of the day including visiting fighters, usually from the U.S; I was kept away from British fighters.
I was now earning a substantial amount of money from part-time ventures such as my sparring, a bit of ‘minding’ and driving and I was also now in charge of the bouncing staff at a large night club. My fireman’s salary was just left to grow in the bank. Most firemen have traditionally had additional jobs to supplement their income such as cleaning windows, painting and decorating, driving jobs, working for funeral directors and a range of building jobs. Some even had their own businesses and employed other firemen; quite a few would be making more money than Chief Officers.
Secret Squirrel Page 3