'Time to go.' Hymie called softly, holding out the blue-and-yellow silk robe with 'The Tadpole Angel' embroidered on the back.
Peekay. held his arms out for Hymie to slip the sleeves of the silk robe over them. First tying the front of the robe, Peekay put his hand on Hymie's shoulder and they walked out together to the sudden and growing roar of the crowd. Hymie could feel the slightest tremble coming from Peekay's hand. It was a good sign. The adrenalin was beginning to pump; Peekay was ready to fight.
The roar of the crowd lifted as they came into sight. There wasn't any doubt Peekay was popular, the noise had a shrillness to it, pitched high. 'The women, they love you, Peekay.' Daddy Kockle shouted. Peekay entered the ring, the lights overhead at first blinding him, so he looked into blackness as he acknowledged the audience, one glove raised above his head.
The Odd Bodleians had risen as he entered. Each wore a yellow rose in the lapel of his evening suit with a flash of blue ribbon laced through the buttonhole. Aunt Tom was dressed in a dinner suit, a brooch of canary yellow diamonds and blue sapphires clipped to her lapel.
Mrs Smith, seated at the piano, looked like an enormous party decoration in a full length, fitted evening dress made entirely of electric blue sequins. Pinned to her large bosom was a corsage of tiny yellow roses. Peekay, raising his glove, acknowledged them with a grin. Then he walked over to the rosin box in his corner and dusted the soles of his boots before sitting on the pot.
The applause as the champion entered was tumultuous; the home-grown boy was getting the acknowledgement he deserved as a great fighter. Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson came down the aisle surrounded by his large entourage, led by half-a-dozen policemen. He climbed into the ring, jumping up and down with his arms held high above his head, twisting with each jump so that as he landed he faced a different section of the crowd. The tremendous noise hadn't stopped since he'd first appeared in the aisle.
Daddy Kockle began to massage Peekay's shoulder lightly.
'Righto, my son, let's concentrate on fightin' fifteen rounds.' Dutch said.
The ring announcer now stepped into centre ring and the microphone was lowered down to him. He was a small, bald man, dressed in a white tuxedo jacket and black evening pants. The bow tie to his white shirt was no more than half-an-inch wide but stuck out nearly six inches on either side of the tiny centre knot. The first quick impression he gave was of someone with an arrow through his epiglottis who'd had both ends sawn off for the sake of mobility and convenience.
'Ladies and gentlemen, be upstanding for the national anthem.' To everyone's surprise the usual scratched record didn't come wheezing on. Instead the opening chords of 'The Star-Spangled Banner' came from Mrs Smith at the piano where one of several microphones was located. The Odd Bodleians picked up the beautiful anthem and carried it to the crowd. It was stirring stuff and Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson stood at attention in the centre of the ring while Peekay stood quietly in his corner. The applause was tremendous as they came to the end, the crowd conscious of the compliment they were being paid.
The crowd returned to their seats and the Odd Bodleians remained standing. The noise in the huge place died down as the prelude to the Concerto for the Great Southland played, merging quickly to the start of the great Zulu chant. The voice of Mrs Smith called to the chanters in song urging them to declare for the great Shaka King of the Zulus. The male voices responded. At first like distant thunder, when the great clouds on the Drakensberg are still tipped with white, then louder as the storm clouds mulled and gathered, swelling and building following the beautiful contralto voice as it called down in the valleys and up in the high mountains for the young men who had killed a lion and who had lain with a maiden to come and declare themselves for the great warrior king. Then Jam Jar, laying aside his violin, took up the calling. The voices rose in the great war cry, the blooding was coming, when the great Zulu impi would descend in waves, like wind in the grass, to crush the enemy.
Jam Jar's voice held high and then died slowly as he mourned the Zulu dead. Then it rose again as he called the living to pay homage to their fallen comrades. Softly, tenderly the deep male voices rose, like far-off thunder rolling across the valley of a thousand hills, building the sunlight, wiping the sky clean; then again the thunder of their voices rolled louder and louder until it crashed into the valley of the dead and rose again in one sudden, stricken, terrible outcry and stopped. Only the single cry of Jam jar's violin was left to bring the chant to a close. The enemy was vanquished and the dead returned to their shadows.
For a few moments there was no sound, the crowd stunned by the impact of the chant. Then they rose as one and applauded. They all knew suddenly that this was a challenger who had come to fight for a title, if necessary to die, rather than to walk away without it.
The ring announcer raised his right hand high and, holding onto the microphone with his left, intoned, 'Under the authority of the State of New York Boxing Commission and the New York Athletic Commission, the World Boxing Council, I declare the welterweight championship of the world open to contest!'
He paused, looking over at Peekay and indicating with a jerk of his head that he should rise. 'In the blue corner, weighing one hundred and forty-three pounds and twelve ounces and wearing blue shorts, with fourteen professional engagements for thirteen knock-outs and one decision on points, the British Empire Welterweight Champion and the Welterweight Champion of Europe, the contender, from Oxford University, England and South Africa, Peekay, the Tad-a-pole Aing-el!!'
Peekay lifted his arms to acknowledge the tremendous and sustained applause. He returned to his stool and the announcer waited for the cheering to die down before he turned to face Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson. Jackson was pumped up, already standing, his gloves held above his head, running on the spot and jumping in small, excited jerks.
'In the red corner, wearing white shorts, weighing one hundred and forty-four pounds, with thirty-two professional fights for thirty-two wins and thirty knock-outs, the undefeated genius of the square ring and welterweight champion of the world, from Louisville, Kentucky, Jake "Spoonbill" Jack-son!!'
The crowd went wild and it was nearly two minutes before they could be stilled again.
'Your referee for tonight, from Mexico City, Mr Emmanuel Sanchez. Judges appointed by the State of New York Boxing Commission are Judge Joseph Tesoriero, Judge Mannie Mankerwitz and Judge Hoover J. Booker.'
'We got ourselves a I-talian, a Jew and a coloured man, no goddamn Irish; can't be no fairer than that!' Daddy Kockle announced, satisfied.
The referee called the two boxers into the ring and gave them the usual instructions to break at his command, to retire to a neutral corner in the event of a knock-down and not to hold in the clinches; finally, he described the deduction of points or disqualification for a foul. Peekay, as usual, looked down at his feet while Jackson stared directly at him, hoping to catch his eye and stare him down.
Sanchez directed them back to their corners: 'Come out fighteeng, boys!'
Peekay returned to his corner and Hymie removed the lion's tooth from about his neck. 'Gideon goes with you, Peekay,' he said quietly.
The warning bell sounded and then the bell and the two welterweights came out of their corners fast, Jackson covering more ground so that they met on Peekay's side of the ring. Jackson threw a left which Peekay parried and moved left, so that they now stood in the centre of the ring. Jackson threw another left and followed it with a right, Peekay taking both blows on his gloves. Jackson's stance was slightly stooped and he held his gloves wide. It was a sign of a very quick fighter who was confident he could close up in time from a left lead, no matter how fast it came. Peekay thought he might be bluffing, seeing if he could get away with the arrogance of the hit-me-if-you-can stance, at the same time trying to intimidate his opponent from the very start.
Peekay's left lead shot out so fast that Jackson had no time even to blink. It hit him
square on the mouth, knocking his mouth-guard half out. It wasn't a bad punch but it was a brilliant insult. Jackson backed away fast and Peekay let him go. The referee called a stop, allowing Jackson to replace his mouth guard. 'Box on, boys!' Sanchez called.
Peekay's lightning left had been sufficient to tell the other fighter he was going to have to work for every point he scored. There had been absolutely no margin of error for the punch and it hadn't needed any. It carried the hallmark of a classic boxer. Jackson's gloves closed noticeably and Peekay realised he had earned the first psychological advantage.
Some fights take time to settle down, the boxers playing out a number of ploys, each probing for weaknesses, testing a theory; but Peekay's left had come so piston straight and so clean and fast that Jackson knew instantly how perfect his opponent's timing was. The games were over and the serious fighting had begun.
The two men traded punches in the centre of the ring for a moment, each scoring, Jackson with a nice right hook and Peekay with a right cross. Both were throwing a lot of leather, but their mutual defences were superb. It was hard to find a fault in either man's technique. It was beautiful boxing and Jackson managed a pay-back for the punch on the mouth when, towards the end of the round, he caught Peekay with a long, raking right flush on the jaw which spun him around. It was a lovely punch and if Peekay hadn't been going backwards it could have done a great deal of damage. The bell went for the end of the first round without either boxer seeming to have gained any advantage. 'Can you see any weaknesses?' Peekay asked Hymie and Dutch.
'It's early times yet, my son. But he's no faster than you. If anything you've got the edge. The left to the mouth, that was magic.'
'He lifts his left shoulder up a fraction, perhaps to protect his jaw,' Hymie said.
Peekay nodded. If Hymie was right, later on in the fight when Jackson had lost a bit of speed he might not see a left cross coming at him quite as quickly. It wasn't the deadliest punch in the book, but behind the right pair of gloves it could do a lot of harm to a fighter slowing down.
The bell went for the second round. Jackson came out hard and scored well with three good punches. He was very fast and put his punches together beautifully; Peekay was hard put to keep him out. Jackson came in a second time, but Peekay tied him up. The referee called for them to break and Peekay got in a beautiful hook under the heart. It was the best punch of the fight so far and he heard Jackson grunt as it landed.
Peekay was a body puncher, preferring gradually to weaken the structure rather than to try and knock it out with one blow. Jackson's inclination was to go for the head. His speed against previous opponents had generally been enough to get through their defence and, with a knock-out punch in both hands, he only needed a couple of good blows to the head to beat an opponent.
But Peekay was too fast and made him miss, which hadn't happened very often in his career. Both boxers were scoring but not doing much damage, although in the second round Jackson hit Peekay with a left jab in the eye and had the satisfaction of seeing it puff up towards the end of the round. It was a close round, but if anything it was Jackson's.
The third through to the seventh were much the same, both boxers learning quickly and punching accurately. Both were fighting at a furious pace. It was going to be a matter of who lasted the distance.
Dutch had doctored Peekay's eye and the swelling had receded. Jackson had tried getting back onto it, but each time he'd thrown a left jab, Peekay's right hook found its mark under the black fighter's heart. Jackson's skin was too dark for the familiar red blotch to show but Peekay knew it was there and Jackson too was aware of what was happening. He dropped his right just a fraction to keep Peekay out, leaving the way to his eye open. Peekay sent a good punch in, testing Jackson's eye.
They came out for the eighth round, meeting in centre ring, both fighters on their toes. Peekay opened up a cut above Jackson's eye; it wasn't big and he wasn't interested in working on it yet. The punch which had opened the eye hadn't been that hard, which meant Jackson had a weakness. Weaknesses are for exploiting later when some of the fight has gone out of your opponent. Jackson's eye would keep.
The black fighter tied Peekay up in a clinch, trying to swing him around on to the ropes. The referee called for them to break and Peekay stepped back. The left hook coming at him seemed to be in slow motion; it caught him flush on the jaw and dropped him sprawling to the canvas. Peekay felt nothing, except that his legs wouldn't work. Above him Sanchez was flicking his fingers into Peekay's face counting him out. At six the pain came into his legs and by eight he was standing, his head clear but his legs still heavy. Jackson came at him and Peekay tried to tie him up, but Jackson hit him with a right hook under the heart and down he went again. But, surprisingly, this time his legs seemed to be getting better and he rested until eight before getting up. Jackson came in hard, his hands wide again, the way he'd started out in the first round. Some guys never learn. This time the straight left from Peekay was right on the point of the chin with the full weight of his shoulder behind it, with Jackson moving into the punch. The black figure simply stopped coming forward and then seem to be propelled backwards, losing his legs from under him he landed on the seat of his pants and lay sprawling on his back. Peekay turned to move to a neutral corner when the bell went for the end of the round.
Jackson's seconds rushed out, dragging the unconscious fighter back into his corner. Jackson's eyes had opened by the time they'd seated him onto his stool. The referee signalled for a doctor but by the time the doctor had climbed into the ring his eyes were clear and he stood, ready to come out fighting.
Peekay felt better. He'd taken two of Jackson's best shots and he was still on his feet. On the other hand, if Jackson hadn't been rescued by the bell the fight would have been over. Jackson wasn't invincible. He'd keep fighting the percentage way, wearing him down, first with the head then with the heart; it was familiar territory for Peekay. If he could stay away from Jackson's big punch, he could play in his paddock.
The ninth round was the sort of round good fighters use to pace themselves when they know they've got a long fight on their hands. But in the tenth Jackson caught Peekay on the ropes and put in nine beautiful punches to his opponent's torso, each one slamming into him as though a hole had been punched through his rib cage; the last, a vicious left hook, seemed to lift Peekay's heart up through his rib cage, into his lungs. A terrible pain rose up from his chest, a molten substance rushing up through his mouth and nostrils like a solid object bigger than the spaces through which it was trying to escape. He didn't even sense he'd fallen, only the sensation of rushing head-first down a narrow, stainless-steel tube at great speed with light bouncing off the inside surface of the tube, burning out his eyes, a caterwauling scream echoing down the luminous tube. He came out of the other side of the tunnel like a cork forced out of a bottle, to hear the referee count to seven. To his surprise he was on his haunches with one glove resting on the canvas. But his legs held; the punishing miles running up the mountains in the high altitude were paying off. He stood upright at nine and he could see the surprise, even consternation on Jackson's face as he came in to kill him off. Nobody had ever taken a nine-punch combination from Jackson and got up off the floor.
Somehow, by hanging on grimly, using everything he knew about ringcraft and clinching whenever he could, Peekay managed to get through the remainder of the round. Jackson too was near exhaustion, or Peekay would never have got away with it. Something had to happen; neither of them was capable of fighting another five rounds. The bell went for the end of the tenth round and Peekay moved wearily to his corner.
Hymie towelled him quickly while Togger squeezed a sponge over his head, repeating the process three times so that Hymie's towelling was to no avail. Dutch grabbed a towel and wiped Peekay's head and started to work on his eye which had begun to close again. Daddy Kockle standing behind Peekay was massaging his torso around the heart, the pain
of his hands working almost unbearable.
Hymie looked at Dutch and Peekay caught the look in his eye. They were going to throw in the towel. 'Don't, don't do it! We haven't begun to fight yet.'
As though on cue, Mrs Smith's piano started, picking up the very last part of the Zulu chant; instantly Jam Jar's violin cut in and the male voices rose, deep and strong, rising to a crescendo as the bell went for the eleventh round.
Jackson came out as a southpaw, obviously hoping to open up Peekay with his left. Peekay immediately changed to fight him the same way. To his surprise, the shoulder Jackson had kept up high in an orthodox stance he now dropped too low. Jackson threw a left which missed Peekay, but the right cross with which Peekay countered hit Jackson flush on the jaw. The black fighter staggered, grabbing onto the ropes. Peekay moved in and hit him two good right hooks under his heart. Jackson grabbed Peekay into a clinch and they wrestled for a few moments before the referee managed to part them.
Both fighters were oblivious to the roar of the crowd which had continued almost non-stop through the fight. They were witnessing one of the greatest title fights ever seen at the Garden and for the most part they were an audience who knew their boxing. As Jackson and Peekay broke from the clinch Jackson reverted back to an orthodox stance. He'd come off worse in the change of stance and he could feel the tremendous pain building up under his heart. Towards the end of the round Peekay got him with another hook to the heart and Jackson went down. He was in luck again; Peekay had left the punch too late and when the black fighter rose to his feet at the count of nine he had only fifteen seconds to survive to the end of the round. Going into the twelfth round they had two knock-downs each and it was still anyone's fight.
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