JOEY. Absolutely.
MICKEY. No question.
DREW/REPORTER. Sid?
Beat.
SID. Yeah, I can.
DREW/REPORTER. Okay. (Moving on.) Now obviously the big talking point in British boxing at the moment is the rise of new welterwight wonderboy Ricky Burns who recently claimed the British title in emphatic fashion. Did you see the fight, Sid?
SID. No.
DREW/REPORTER. But you heard about it?
SID looks around for support, then:
SID. I heard it was quite a knockout.
JOEY. We’re not here to talk about Ricky Burns –
MICKEY. Other fights with other boxers are none of our business.
DREW/REPORTER. But they will be if you win next week. If you beat Hayward you’ll have to go on to face the likes of Hooper and Kosky and Burns who are certainly not thirty-eight and who are, at the moment, a class above.
Beat.
SID. I take each fight as it comes, I don’t want to speculate on –
MICKEY. Sid Sparks is the best welterweight in Britain. When we’re done with Hayward we’ll continue to challenge up the rankings. If any other boxer thinks they’re good enough to beat him you tell us where to sign.
They break. The scene resolves itself back to ‘The Pub’.
Scene Seven
MICKEY. He just sat there!
JOEY. Yeah.
MICKEY. Just sitting – not saying anything.
JOEY. Yeah.
MICKEY. It’s an interview for christsakes, he had to say something.
JOEY. You’d have thought.
MICKEY. But no, all this ‘I take each fight as it comes.’ How about selling some bloody tickets?!
JOEY. I hear you, Mick.
MICKEY sits.
MICKEY. I worked months to get this fight and he can’t even talk it up.
Pause.
DREW. Howard had a point.
JOEY. Eh?
DREW. He had a point. If Sid beats Hayward we’re going to have to think seriously about who he fights up the rankings.
JOEY. Slow down, Drew. They’d eat him alive.
DREW. My thoughts exactly but he disagrees, what was it, Mickey? ‘The best welterweight in Britain’?
MICKEY. What’s wrong with that?
DREW. Asides from the fact it’s not true?
MICKEY. Ah, shut up.
DREW. He’s not even close.
MICKEY. I was trying to shift tickets.
JOEY. Never know, might rattle Hayward.
DREW. Don’t be silly, Joe.
JOEY. What?
DREW. Mark Hayward is the most experienced boxer in the weight class. He’s not going to get rattled by some kid and his team mouthing off on TV.
JOEY. Maybe now he’s getting older…?
DREW. No chance. He may be getting on but I watched him fight Lanyard at Wembley last year. Tough as old boots that man.
JOEY. Can’t be that confident. I heard he’s trying to dodge Ricky Burns.
DREW. Everyone’s trying to dodge Ricky Burns.
MICKEY. And what was that about Jeff Beck? Since when has Sid been hanging out with pop stars?
JOEY. No idea. I’ve noticed the hangovers though.
MICKEY. He was a mess yesterday.
DREW. We don’t exactly set a great example, having our meetings in here.
JOEY. What’s wrong with The Albion?
DREW. Nothing, nothing. Maybe he’s just blowing off steam. He’s only twenty-four after all.
MICKEY. He should be focusing on the fight. That’s his job. Joey, have a word, will you? Try and settle him down, it’s getting silly.
JOEY. Yeah, will do. Shall we head back?
MICKEY. Yeah, course. How’s he looking?
JOEY. Good as ever.
MICKEY. Is he planting his front leg on the jabs?
JOEY. He’s jabbing like he jabs, Mick, since when was his leg a problem?
DREW. Where’s his head?
JOEY. Not like he’s ever had an issue with nerves.
MICKEY. Maybe not, but mark my words, second Mark Hayward steps into that ring and starts moving about he’ll be shitting himself. C’mon let’s go.
They walk downstage to the very bottom then turn, in a line, upstage. MICKEY, JOEY and DREW face towards the audience. They are preparing themselves, doing hair, checking pockets, etc.
Scene Eight
DREW. Joe, might not hurt to pack some extra cottons.
JOEY. Yep.
MICKEY. I’ve got some already.
JOEY. Can’t hurt to be prepared. Don’t want him to get cut and then run out of gear.
Slight pause.
MICKEY. Might want to pack some extra Vass as well then.
JOEY. I got it, Mick.
Pause.
MICKEY. How we doing, Sid?
Beat.
Sid?
SID appears. He looks tense, ready to fight.
JOEY. Here he is.
DREW. Feeling okay?
SID nods and sets himself, he’s already begun twitching.
JOEY starts working his neck and shoulders (note: this is done in the way an owner pets a dog, it’s unconscious for both parties). Gloves on.
SID. You’re all looking very dapper.
MICKEY. Well, someone’s got to take the attention off you.
SID. No chance of that.
JOEY. That’s it. Good boy.
Pause. MICKEY has either procured some pads or goes bare-handed. He holds up his hands and calls out the punch he wants which SID responds with. They constantly move and bounce throughout this exchange. Boxing is not a static sport.
MICKEY. One.
SID instantly responds with a left jab.
Good. One.
Punch.
Good. On your toes. Come in, one-one, and then out.
SID starts to bounce, takes a step in, throws two jabs, and bobs just out of reach.
Again.
Repeat.
JOEY. Stay off him.
MICKEY. Good. One, two, roll and six.
SID jabs a left, a right cross, MICKEY drags his left hand over, SID rolls under to throw a right to the ribs/MICKEY’s right hand.
Again.
Repeat.
And then a one-two.
SID throws a one-two.
Good.
There is a momentary pause when MICKEY is still stood in range and SID has just finished throwing. He relaxes a tiny bit before throwing a five-five-three-two with incredible speed and aggression. None of these make contact, it’s simply a burning-off of adrenalin.
JOEY. Attaboy.
More rubbing, massaging from all. They slowly group around SID so he is facing the audience, hands on him like a group of bodyguards.
DREW. Ready?
SID nods. They move forward. Lights out.
DREW/ANNOUNCER. Ladies and gentlemen, in the red corner weighing in at a hundred and forty-three pounds… Sid Sparks!
Lights out.
They huddle upstage-left as if by a turnbuckle.
JOEY steps forward.
JOEY. Mark Hayward had been around for years. He was an immovable part of boxing, like the furniture. We were all terrified of what would happen if Sid got caught or lost concentration for a few seconds. Hayward could have knocked him out with either hand and in big fights like that one it helps to have been around a bit. But we were in the same boat as Sid, we’d never been that far or fought someone that good. We just had to hope the work we did paid off. But we had a plan. We knew Sid wasn’t going to knock Hayward out, he was hardly a power-puncher, so that fight was going to be decided on points or it was going to get stopped. The longer the fight went the more chance there was of Hayward catching Sid so we focused everything into getting the fight stopped. We had to give the referee a good enough reason to call it off. Now an old-timer like Hayward, he’s got one of those faces. Scar tissue on scar tissue, all around the eyes. This big craggy brow like elephant’s skin. That
was our ticket. Flesh that’s been knocked about over the years is easier to split open. And, as he’s a right-handed boxer, he’d have taken most of these shots to his left side. So we sent Sid out for that fight with one very clear instruction.
MICKEY (back in the corner). Go get that eye.
Lights up, mid-round, all are shouting advice. These should be somewhat coordinated, not just mindless shouting, have a build, moment of doubt, moment of success.
Careful now. Stay off him, stay off!
JOEY. Right! Right, keep your eyes on the right.
DREW. Dance, Sid, side to side! Christ.
JOEY. Wrap him up for fuck’s sake, Sid.
MICKEY (to DREW). He can’t take many more of those.
DREW. Stay off the fucking ropes, Sid, Jesus!
JOEY. Hook’s coming, Sid, hook’s coming!
Slightest pause as they watch the punch get thrown. Sudden elation.
Good boy! Cut and move.
MICKEY. Double it up, pop pop.
DREW/ANNOUNCER. Ten seconds!!
JOEY. That’s it, Sid, keep at him with those jabs!
DREW. Follow him in! Let’s be busy!
JOEY. Now with the right, no fucking daylight!
DREW. Yes!
MICKEY. Jesus! Attaboy!
Bell goes. All swarm forward as SID appears on the stool. Vaseline goes on, water bottles, No Swells, massage, cold coins to ears, etc., etc. Like a pit stop, incredibly efficient and coordinated. The other two work while MICKEY talks to SID.
SID. He hits like a hammer.
DREW. Breathe it in.
SID. He doesn’t bloody stop!
MICKEY. Good boy. Good boy. That’s it breathe it in. Deep breaths. Now listen, he’s running on fumes at the moment, he’s got very little left. Keep making him swing and miss, he won’t like it. And his left comes down after throwing it, you see that? Just for a second, a little wobble. Means he’s getting tired. So every time he throws a left, you’re straight in there with the counter, see how that works for a few rounds.
JOEY. Busy, let’s be busy.
MICKEY. And keep at that eye! It’s starting to really swell up, you see that?
SID nods.
Keep poking away at it. He can’t last long, soon enough his hands are going to drop and when they do you go straight in with the right, y’hear? Pop it open like a fucking blister.
DREW. Breathe.
MICKEY. I want his eye cut so large you lose your glove in it.
SID nods.
DREW/ANNOUNCER. Ten seconds!
MICKEY. Right, on your feet, show him how fit you are.
DREW. Keep dancing about.
JOEY. And stay away from his big shots. He caught you a few times back there.
MICKEY (placing his hands on SID’s face). Stick to the plan, this is yours for the taking. Go get that eye.
SID nods. Bell. SID moves out, the others stay at the turnbuckle. JOEY moves forward.
JOEY. Thing about cuts is they bleed. Obviously. They become big red markers that a boxer is hurt which everyone can see. Now mouths, noses, ears, they all bleed, hit them enough times and they’ll start to show it but eyes… eyes are the worst. They gush blood, they’re almost impossible to stem, and it’s the cut most likely to get a fight stopped. See, to a referee, a boxer with big swollen eyes that won’t stop bleeding can’t see what’s going on, can’t defend himself and therefore shouldn’t be allowed to continue. Fight gets stopped. For eight rounds Sid had done nothing but jab at Hayward’s left eye and the swelling was growing out of his face like a poppy. We had to just wait, either Sid would get caught, or he’d split Hayward open.
Back to the corner.
MICKEY. Good boy!!
DREW. Double it up.
MICKEY. Oh!
JOEY. Now get out, now get out!
MICKEY. Smooth as you like, look at that!
DREW. Don’t get cornered.
JOEY. Watch the feet, the feet!
DREW. God, he moves well.
MICKEY. Keep at him, no breathing room!
JOEY leaps forward.
JOEY. For two more rounds this went on. Hayward swinging wildly, Sid slipping out of the way where he could and always, always poking at that left eye. Until eventually Hayward walked straight into a right cross and –
ALL (as JOEY lands the imaginary punch). Boom.
JOEY. Such a pretty river of red like nothing you’ve ever seen. Ten rounds of swelling and damage all goes pouring down his chest, onto his shorts and dripping down onto this immaculate white canvas. Perfection. Sid kept hammering away and soon you could see these big red marks where Sid was leading him around the ring. Looked more like bullfighting than boxing. On and on around that ring he went until, in the eleventh round, Sid Sparks established himself as a genuine contender, someone to be reckoned with. We were going to have to fight the bigger boys now, whether Sid was up to it or not.
Bell, all group together.
ALL. Ladies and gentlemen, your winner by way of technical knockout… Siiiiiiid Spaaaaaaarks!
All four actors raise their arms in celebration with SID in the middle, they savour the moment then slowly transition into:
Scene Nine
All actors are on stage getting ready, they check their appearance in imaginary mirrors behind which sit the audience. MICKEY, DREW and JOEY are all tense and fussing in the mirrors. SID is calm and collected.
JOEY. How do I look?
DREW. How do I look?
JOEY. You look fine.
DREW. You too.
MICKEY. I’m sweating.
JOEY. So am I.
DREW. Why are we sweating?
JOEY. We’re nervous.
MICKEY. It’s our party, why are we nervous?
DREW. It’s not our party.
JOEY. It’s a party for us.
MICKEY. Right, but why am I nervous if the party’s for me?
SID. The party’s for me.
Beat.
DREW. Eh?
SID. The party’s for me. It’s to celebrate my victory.
Collective ‘ooooh’.
What? I won the fight. I get the party.
MICKEY. And who got you that fight?
JOEY. And who got you ready?
MICKEY. Exactly.
DREW. We’re a team, Sid. No one got here on their own.
MICKEY. So whose party is it, Sid?
SID. It’s our party.
ALL. Exactly.
Car horn.
JOEY. Taxi’s here!
ALL. Bollocks!
The tempo increases.
JOEY. Do I smell all right?
MICKEY. There’s a stain on my shirt.
DREW. Don’t rub it!
MICKEY. What do I do?
DREW. Just leave it.
JOEY. No one will notice.
DREW. They’ll be looking at your face.
SID. They’ll be looking at me.
JOEY. Shut up!
SID. There’s no stains on my shirt.
MICKEY. Do you want one?
DREW. My hair won’t stay down.
JOEY. My hair won’t stay up.
MICKEY. Am I balding?!
Beat. All the boys look in the mirror to MICKEY.
DREW. No chance.
JOEY. Course not.
DREW. Just a tight cut.
JOEY. It’s all the rage.
SID. We’re gonna be late.
ALL. Shit!
JOEY. Ready?
DREW. Ready.
MICKEY. Ready?
SID. Born ready.
They all change places and are at the party. They line up at the bar. ‘Let’s Dance’ by David Bowie builds on the speakers.
MICKEY. This is amazing.
JOEY. Look at that dance floor.
DREW. Look at that bar.
SID. Were all these people at the fight?
MICKEY. Guess so.
SID. Wow.
JOEY. Always looks smaller from under the lights.
DREW. Four pints please.
MICKEY. Go easy, Sid.
SID. It’s my night off.
JOEY. Go easy!
SID. You lot are no fun.
DREW. Come on. Let’s grip and grin.
ALL. Cheers!
They move. Music grows.
MICKEY. Hi.
JOEY. How you doing?
DREW. All right?
SID. I’m Sid.
JOEY. Enjoy the fight?
DREW. Oh isn’t he just?
SID. I wasn’t worried. You know from the first punch.
JOEY. Never doubted him.
DREW. Oh he’s a great boxer, great kid too.
SID. Bled all over me!
MICKEY. Onwards and upwards now.
JOEY. No, thank you for coming.
DREW. What did you say your name was?
MICKEY. I like your dress.
SID. Come on let’s get a drink.
JOEY. I love to dance.
MICKEY. So where are you from then?
DREW. Can I get your number?
SID. Sorry I’ve got a girlfriend.
ALL. Sid’s got a girlfriend?
SID. But how about that drink?
ALL. Go easy!
DREW. Fancy a dance?
JOEY. Try to keep up.
They dance into each other and reform as the four.
MICKEY. This is the best night of my life!
JOEY. My head’s spinning.
DREW. Not bad for a small investment, eh?! Have you ever been anywhere like this?!
MICKEY. I could kiss him.
SID. Please don’t!
DREW. Aw, he’s embarrassed.
JOEY. Pissed too, I reckon.
MICKEY. He’s right, Sid. We don’t want to be working tonight. This is about us. We deserve it. All those years of working with rubbish fighters.
JOEY. In terrible venues.
DREW. For no money.
MICKEY. Exactly. This is our night, so drink it in.
ALL. Cheers!
MICKEY. Let’s dance, boys!
They strut out to the other end of the dance floor and begin to move. The music builds and builds reaching a fever pitch before lights out. Short.
Scene Ten
Lights up on SID skipping with a hungover JOEY watching him. The skipping goes on for some time before:
JOEY. Question for you, Sid. When did you get a girlfriend?
No answer.
You been keeping little secrets from me?
SID. Go away, Joe.
JOEY. What? I’m just asking, trying to imagine what the life of a top-ten boxer is like.
Plays from Vault Page 15