by Geoff Wolak
Ding!
I was nervous, because I could not see what he saw. We danced around each other for a few seconds, then I slid right, gloves down, face exposed – he went for it as I moved left, left foot down hard, twist, big left hook around, side of the head, and he went down. And stayed down.
The audience were not happy, especially his home club. Slug got a punch to the head, a brawl ensuing, Trevors getting a cut lip.
Driving back, I said, ‘How about I take up stamp collecting.’
Trevors got a hand to his cut lip. ‘You look like a pro, that’s the fucking problem, and you’ve been training four hours a day for years, when that guy trains three times a week for an hour. Bit of a fucking mismatch.
‘Anyway, I’ve put you into the RAF eliminators, no punch-ups from the audience wed’ hope. And I’ll ask them to push you up the list, otherwise it will take two years to meet a decent opponent.’
A few days later I was back in Swindon, Slug with a black eye and cut lip, a few others hurt.
‘Ruddy disgrace,’ Slug began. ‘We’ve filed a complaint, and that lot will be banned a few bouts. We have a letter in asking if you can fight a semi-pro.’
‘You ... think I should?’
‘Yeah, or you’ll never learn anything against a fucking weekend fighter.’
‘I have some RAF bouts as well.’
A wounded Slug helped me train, and in the ring I was back up against the big black guy, who would be all defensive. I was told, firmly, not to whack him.
For ten minutes I hit his gloves as he defended himself, chasing him around the ring.
‘Tired?’ Slug asked.
‘Nope.’
I worked with Slug on the glove mitts till he was tired, onto the bag, some leg exercises, a form to sign – part of the complaints process against the other club, my RAF ID given. Letters would be sent to verify who I was.
My first RAF bout would be held at RAF Cosford, and we drove up a week later, Trevors telling me that this was a waste of time, but that I had to do it. At the weigh-in the shit started, my ID card checked, but Trevors explained the London Marathon and the Channel. Still, they were wary, my opponent none too happy.
Five seconds in, and my left hook put my opponent down, an ambulance needed. Trevors remonstrated with the officers, who would now credit me a dozen fights. More arguing, phone calls made, and I would have another bout in an hour, sixteen fights credited – the rules bent and broken.
Into the ring, and I was now facing a guy taller than me, broad-shouldered, a boxer’s broken nose, and he was well-built and fit. I was cautious, but not afraid.
Headgear checked, gloves checked, we touched gloves and nodded, back to our corners, and all too soon it started.
Ding!
I rolled my shoulders, jumped up and down, and then I surprised him – and the audience - by moving in quickly. I was expecting his right jab and I lowered my left hand enough, bait, now thinking tactically.
The jab came as I moved right, my left jab into his left glove, impacting his headgear with a jolt, a monster right hook hitting him in the ear as he ducked away, straight in for a left hook – hitting his glove but jolting him backwards, monster right hook with everything I had into his chin, just getting around his gloves, and he was down.
The ref counted him out, no ambulance needed, just a sore head, the audience not sure what to make of it, most booing me. Seemed that he was the home boy favourite.
Out the ring, Trevors was trying to get me another bout, the officers having none of it. I was sent off.
Gloves off in the changing room, Trevors explained, ‘You’re now twenty-five on the card, the ranking, so you don’t have to fight the beginners.’
‘How many do I fight?’
‘There are twelve above you. But you only need to impress them to get into the RAF team, and that team has about twenty men in it – they train together, six selected to represent the RAF in the inter-services, various contests.’
On the Monday the base commander sent for me. ‘You’ve taken up boxing?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘They have high hopes for you apparently, you jumped up the ranks after you beat some chap in six seconds.’
‘I jumped twenty-five places, sir. But I also box at a club in Swindon, but that didn’t go smoothly.’
‘No?’
‘I fight at a beginner’s level, but when the other team saw me they cried foul.’
‘Not blood surprising it, way you’re built.’
‘And then they started a riot...’
‘Ah, best avoided. But no riots in the RAF we’d hope. Are we likely to win something?’
‘I hope so, sir.’
‘Good. Any courses you want to do?’
‘Might be a further medical course, sir.’
‘From boxing, to nursing...’ He shook his head.
I trained hard morning and evening, but now Ft Lt Peters had me fill in a timesheet, a timesheet that no one else on the base filled in. Still, I got my own back after several stints in the guardroom, one back to back. I photocopied my timesheet, and “accidentally” gave it to personnel.
They gave Fl Lt Peters a lot of shit for the hours I was doing, making me smile.
Now that I was boxing the base was alive with gossip, and a coach would be laid on for my next bout. I trained down in Swindon three nights a week, no more Kung Fu. Hearing about the RAF fight, some of the lads from the boxing club wanted to attend. I checked with the RAF in Cosford, and civvies were allowed in.
I travelled up with Trevors and another PTI, Brize Norton laying on a coach, Air Traffic Control would drive up, the Air Commodore would be driven up in uniform. Slug and Co would have a mini-van, just an hour’s drive to Cosford.
I met many familiar faces after I had changed into my shorts, and greeted the Squadron Leader from ATC, a nod at the Air Commodore, words with Trevors and Slug at the same time – last minute advice, Trevors warning me that my opponent had been on the RAF team six years.
The crowds clapped and cheered as I entered the ring, many now seeing me for the first time with my top off. The head coach of the RAF team also saw me and queried me – loudly, outside the ring, the Air Commodore stepping down and telling him firmly to shut the fuck up, and there was no arguing with an Air Commodore.
My opponent was not a happy bunny either, and stared at me, the fear in his eyes evident. He was a big lad, well-defined, but he did not train four hours a day.
The ref warned us about the rules, gloves checked, headgear checked, a tap of each other’s gloves, and my look said that I would kill him. His look suggested he believed that.
Ding!
I moved in quickly, surprising him, since it was a reckless tactic. Duck right, gloves down, face temptingly exposed, he went for the jab. Shoot left, left foot down hard, bent sideways, monster left hook coming around, a hit to his headgear in front of his ear, and he flew sideways and down. And out.
‘Medics!’
I walked back, the audience stunned, a few clapping. I clambered out of the ring, my opponent on a stretcher, Trevors smiling, Slug shaking his head.
‘Box the fucker,’ Slug said. ‘Stop trying to kill the fucker. How many times do I ‘av to tell you!’
The Air Commodore wandered into the changing rooms with a few other officers. ‘We have high hopes for you, inter-services,’ he told me. ‘But a few of those that travelled up are complaining, a bit short on entertainment.’
‘Not my fault, sir, fella had a glass jaw.’
‘Well done anyhow. Onto the next bout.’
Dressed and outside, we bumped into the ATC officers. ‘Wilco, I hadn’t even got comfy. What the hell was that?’
I shrugged. ‘Aim is to win, sir – and stay looking pretty. I don’t want my opponent hitting me.’
‘Hitting you? He didn’t even see you move!’
Monday, and the base was alive with gossip, many of the MPs interested in boxing, and Tuesday night in Swindon
I was offered a bout on the Thursday night, someone at the lower end of semi-pro. They even showed me a picture of the guy.
I agreed to it, and notified Trevors. He would come down, along with some of the MPs, and now Transport wanted to see me box, so the armoury lads wanted in. I would have a following, so if there was another riot they could help me in the dust up.
To date I had not been hit, and I wanted to keep it that way. My opponent on Thursday had a boxer’s face, something I wished to avoid.
Slug worked me hard on tactics, ducking and weaving, and I sparred with a few of the club lads whilst pulling my punches.
Thursday came around, and I was nervous as we drove down, not nervous about losing, but of a disfigured nose or of brain damage. I did not want to end up looking like Slug, not for any prize, medal, or amount money.
Slug and the owner introduced me to a promoter after I changed.
‘What at those?’ the guy asked about my scars.
‘Gunshot wounds, from the London Marathon.’
‘That was you? Shit ... and you’re built like a pro already, in fact better. Well, let’s see what you can do, this guy is no pushover, he’s been around a bit.’
Out to the ring, benches for the crowd, most stood up, I recognised many faces. Into the ring, and my opponent clambered in, startled by my appearance but recovering, a quiet curse my way. He wanted to hurt me. My mind was made up for me – I now wanted to hurt him.
Slug said, ‘Show us what you can do, don’t try and end it quick.’
I considered that, but I wanted to kill this guy as he snarled my way.
Headgear checked, gloves checked, gloves touched with a snarl from my ugly opponent, and we moved back.
Ding.
I tapped my gloves together and move in, angered, my heart racing. Three fast left jabs at his gloves and he was forced back, a little surprised. I moved back and gave him room. He came back in, but three fast and powerful jabs at his gloves and he was again forced back. I moved back, and lowered my guard, taunting him.
Ready to box me, he moved in, his reach about the same as mine.
When he committed to a jab I ducked left, a big swinging hook to the side of his headgear jolting him. He recovered and came back at me, and I locked my legs leant forwards.
I hit his gloves with a fast left jab, then went all out, fast left jabs one after the other forcing him all the way back to the rope, hands swapped, and I kept him on the rope with right jabs, finally a dangerously exposed left hook to his headgear jolting him away, a stumble.
The ref moved me back, the audience loving it. A check of my opponent, and we were waved together.
Moving now like I was taught, I went for a left-right, and I kept going, forcing him back to the ropes again, but I never let up, his gloves impacting his face twenty times before the ref moved as apart.
I could now see that he was red in the face, and that he was worried. I moved in, and dropped my guard. He went for it, grazing my right cheek as I exposed myself for the monster left hook. A loud slap, and down he went, not getting back up, a cheer from my team supporters.
I walked back to my corner, mouth-piece out.
‘Better,’ slug approved. ‘You almost looked like a boxer.’
Dressed in a tracksuit now, the promoter was back with the owner. ‘Good fight,’ he commended. ‘You toyed with him, you could have taken him at any point.’
‘Slug wanted me to box him, not finish it too quickly.’
‘Early days yet, let’s see how you do against a pro.’
I met my team supporters outside, all jubilant, and we drove back to Brize Norton knowing that I had an RAF bout on Saturday up at Cosford.
The next day I was driving the base commander. After we pulled off he began, ‘I heard about the fight yesterday, you’re moving up the rankings in the RAF stages as well I hear.’
‘Yes, sir, bout this Saturday.’
‘We have high hopes for the inter-services, because the Army do well, even the Navy, but we’ve not had many medals from boxing. We’re not known for boxing.’
At the MOD building I reclaimed a seat, now on first name terms with the staff there, and I started on Mohammad Ali’s life story. We got back at 6pm, and I went straight to training after grabbing a sandwich and chocolate bar in the NAAFI shop.
The next day would be an overnight job with the Air Commodore. I picked up the Air Commodore at his home at 9am and we set off chatting about boxing, soon the MOD building, and an hour later and we were heading east in terrible traffic, soon heading north to Norfolk, to Marham and Mildenhall, one hour visits, then to Conningsby, Lincolnshire.
The Air Commodore would be in the Officers Mess, I would be in transit, a key issued. I found the canteen and had a meal whilst being ignored, grabbed some bits from the NAAFI shop and retired to my room, my big yellow quiz book to get a bashing.
An hour into my book, and music disturbed me. I sighed. Part of me wanted to kill them, part of me just wanted to ignore it. Doors slammed, men laughed, and I had had enough. Top off, pistol grabbed, I walked out from my single room to the barrack-style area, two dozen beds laid out, eight men in transit.
They stopped and stared.
I began, ‘You can turn the music down and make less noise, or we do this the hard way.’
A lad turned down the music.
I told them, ‘I’m only here tonight, up early, so tomorrow ... go crazy.’ I walked back in silence, and reclaimed my quiz book, t-shirt back on.
In the morning I drove the Air Commodore down to Grantham, a quick meeting, and we were soon heading home. Stopping for a bite to eat at a services, fortune once again turned against me.
Getting back to the car, the Air Commodore was hit by a football, a gang of men laughing. I picked up the ball, walked towards our car as the Air Commodore cursed being hit, and kicked the ball into the trees. That had a predictable result. Six men came straight over.
‘Go fetch our fucking ball, soldier boy.’
The Air Commodore halted around the car. I faced him. And waited, a question in my look.
‘By all means,’ he offered.
I moved towards the men, the first being a big fat lump. A short fast lunge, jab to the chin and jump back, and he crumbled before he could grab me, sidekick to the man on my right, his chest losing the air as he was knocked back.
A hop, skip and a shuttle kick, a man hit in the chest and sent back, back-fist to a nose as I leant away from the man’s grab, and the rest thought better of it.
I eased into the car, and pulled off. ‘Your wife’s sister staying, sir?’
‘How’d you know?’
‘Well ... I heard you mention it, and here you are finding excuses to be away.’
‘Not excuses at all, just that ... I needed to see a few people.’
‘Oh of course, sir,’ I mocked.
‘You know me too well. It’s her sister, I can’t complain, but ... by god she never shuts up.’
‘I think, sir, we need a pint somewhere so that you get back at what ... 11pm?’
‘That would be the optimum time, yes. You’re a life saver.’
‘Thursday, so quiz night, sir. We could go piss off Air Traffic Control again.’
He laughed. ‘That was a nice bottle of wine, yes.’
Just under three hours later we pulled into the pub car park, realising that we were in uniform. Inside, I beckoned the owner. ‘OK if we’re in uniform?’
‘RAF?’
‘Yes.’
‘So long as you’re not soldiers.’
We wandered in and found the ATC gang, Trish with them, everyone standing for the Air Commodore.
The ATC Squadron Leader began, ‘Sir, I must protest Wilco taking part.’
‘How about he joins you?’
‘That would be OK,’ he agreed, and I was accidentally next to Trish. And she smelt great.
The Air Commodore and the Squadron Leader began chatting about Conningsby as the questions started.
>
The White Nile starts from which lake. I wrote it down on a piece of paper.
‘Simple one,’ she noted.
Smallest country in Europe. I wrote it down. She wrote down Andorra. I tapped my answer. In Russian I said, ‘It is less than a mile across.’
‘It’s a country?’
‘Yes.’
Others had written down Luxembourg.
‘So now you’re boxing?’ she floated.
‘Yes, another chance to impress the lovely RAF with a medal.’
‘And yet you don’t sound at all cynical.’
‘Been thinking of other things.’
‘Such as...’
‘Medic in some remote jungle camp, following TV crews around.’
‘Sounds idyllic actually. I always fancied being a pilot, but ... you know, female.’
‘There are lady pilots in the States, transport aircraft.’
Next question, largest shark species. Whale Shark I wrote down as she wrote down Basking.
‘Same thing?’ she queried.
‘No, separate genus.’ And when she wrote on the sheet I had a partial view of a small boob, nipple and all. I had to concentrate on not looking.
We were almost to the end when trouble loomed close.
‘Come home now!’ I man shouted, a woman dragged.
‘Leave me alone!’
Heads turned, the owner coming out, the unhappy husband a bit drunk – and very unhappy with his wife. Seemed that she was not too taken with him either.
Words exchanged, the owner being shoved, the man produced a knife, gasps issued by the patrons.
I stood, a look at the Air Commodore, a question.
‘Quietly, Wilco, no fuss.’
‘Right, sir.’
I walked forwards and waved the owner back, pistol under my arm, but I was not about to use it. The drunk husband pointed the knife at my nose, and therein made a rooky mistake. Right hand to his wrist, twist and pull, forearm to the elbow – a yelp issued, kick to the knee, another yelp issued, wrist twisted and knife dropped.
I moved behind him, his arm twisted up, and marched him outside – as he limped along, banging his head into the doorframe as we went - twice.