by Arnold Zable
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.
And Henry is bringing up the rear, having reluctantly said his last good-byes, and his signature refrain, love and good wishes. He unlocks the Hyundai door, settles in his seat, and eases it from the kerb. And he is off and moving again.
He is Hammering Henry the Hustling Hebrew. Henry, the Star of David. Marauding Henry. Could-have-been-champion-of-the-world Henry. Just one more round, he pleaded. He had him cornered, had him on the ropes, just one more friggin’ round, that’s all he needed.
He is Bombardier Henry, the reffo kid. The boy from the block who has remained on the block, friend to the down-and-out, the bewildered and unwanted, who would do anything for a mate, or a stranger. Who would lift you out of the gutter, no questions asked, no reward expected.
All you need do is call and he’ll be in your corner, tending your wounds with affection, sponging you down, administering advice, urging you to keep going. Then propelling you back into the ring, back into life, and yet another chance at redemption.
Another chance!
He is steering his mini gold chariot through dark thoroughfares, towards the lights of the city, moving in and out of the shadows, cutting through backstreets and bluestone alleys, and through deserted parklands. Wherever you are, if you’re in need, he will find you.
The city continually changes. Many back lanes have disappeared, and many a vacant lot has been built over. Many a hangout has become prime real estate. Yet Henry remains constant.
He is on the move, mobile phone on the seat beside him, ever ready for the next call, the next plea for help, the next cry of a wounded spirit in search of an arm or a shoulder, a return to childhood, a father’s protection.
A mother’s love.
Human contact.
Rapture.
Don’t do anything stupid. He’s on the way. Vanishing into the night.
Hang in there.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is an account of Henry Nissen’s life and the forces that shaped him. I have drawn on many sources—Henry’s siblings and people who have known him and his parents; media reports of Henry’s fights and youth work; historical documents—and on time spent with Henry on the wharves, at boxers’ reunions, at fight nights, in rooming houses and courtrooms, and on the streets of his various beats and neighbourhoods.
The story took on a momentum of its own, and led me to research and include the perspectives of other people crucial to Henry’s life, in particular, his mother, Sonia, and his father, Simche. Sonia’s haunting presence became central to the story. I was compelled to enter her world and recreate her point of view, and to reconstruct the scenes that depict her descents into madness and her brave battle to be a loving mother and grandmother.
There are many people to thank. Henry Nissen, and his identical twin, Leon Nissen—identical also in generosity of spirit. Henry’s brother Paul and his sister Sandra—her quest to understand her family history was an inspiration. Raimond Gaita for his encouragement at a critical time in the writing. Mischa Merz, Richard Freadman, Frank de la Rambelya for reading early drafts. And Peter Read, Leon Kurop, Henry Erlich, Bloss MacDonald, Rose Banks of the Gatwick, Vicky Flynn, Frank Bourke, Forty Koumakis at the Port Diner, the folk at the Seafarers’ Mission, Barry Michael for fight nights at the Melbourne Pavilion, the Australian National Boxing Hall of Fame, the Victorian Past and Present Boxing Association. Jane Pearson, for her dedicated editing and belief in the book, Chong Weng Ho for the striking cover design, Glyn Davis for his encouragement during my tenure as VC fellow at Melbourne University, and the late Jimmy ‘Hoppo’ Hopkins who would get the Princes Hill mob together at the Kew Junction Hotel. Memuzin River and Jayden Hill, and their fellow workers at the Father Bob Maguire Foundation, and the legendary Father Bob himself. I am grateful for the assistance this project has received from the Australian Government through the Australia Council for the Arts, its arts funding and advisory body.
As always, I thank my partner, Dora, and my son, Alexander, who have supported me in many ways.