Fight Card Presents: Battling Mahoney & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  “Why’s that, Jack – mate?” I asked with tongue in cheek.

  “It’s because tea originally came from China, way back thousands of years ago. They have two main languages there. In one they call it tay and in the other they call it cha. When traders spread it around the world, the British and all the English speaking countries called it tea, from the word tay. But the traders who spread it around Asia used the other word, so they all know it as cha, or char.”

  “So why do you and your mates call it a cup of char?”

  “Because of the British Empire, old son. When old Clive took over India the soldiers in the British Army used to get their tea from the locals and they called it chay or char. Funny the way words change when they go round the world.”

  It was his turn and he snapped his checker over two of mine and crowned his piece.

  “My old grannie she used to be a charwoman before she met my granddad and started working with him in the booth. I bet you don’t know what a charwoman is, do you, Oscar.”

  “I’m guessing it means she was a tea lady. She made tea or she sold tea?”

  “Nah! She was a woman what helped out in somebody else’s house. She wasn’t a servant, she just hired her services out and did chores for folk. See, funny thing words.”

  I had been watching his movements and noticed that he handled the checkers with either hand. That probably meant that he was good with both fists.

  He had a twinkle of amusement in his eyes and I laughed. “How did you pick up these little gems of knowledge, Jack? Have you been to China yourself?”

  “No. Fat chance of going there for a while, what with the Chinese army pitching in with the North Koreans.” He sucked air in between his lips. “No, my granddad served in India and Afghanistan. He just about lived on tea, I reckon. Anyway, he was the regimental middleweight boxing champion. When he came home and left the army he set up a boxing booth.”

  He pulled out a battered wallet and took out a photograph, slightly curled at the edges. “That’s my granddad, grannie and my dad,” he said, pointing to an elderly couple standing beside four younger men all clad in boxing attire, two of them in dressing gowns. They were standing on steps before three huge facades with paintings of boxers fronting a large marquee tent. A large sign proclaimed it to be Battling Brodie’s Boxing Booth.

  “And see that,” he said, indicating the large belt worn by his father. “That’s my dad’s Lonsdale Belt. He was the British Middleweight Champion.”

  “Wow! Boxing elite,” I gasped. I read everything about boxing and I well knew how prestigious that was.

  He pointed to a young woman standing at the end of the line. “That’s my mum. She was pretty, wasn’t she?” He laughed then went merrily on. “My granddad and my old dad were both middleweights. I’m the biggest of the family and one day, when this is all over I’d like to have a Lonsdale Belt when I become British Heavyweight Champion. I started working in the booth when I was twelve and the pair of them started teaching me when I was nine.”

  With that pedigree I could understand why he would be confident. That meant he was confident he could take me easily. Again, Father Tim’s words resounded in my ears. “Some folk will try to browbeat you, lads. If you let them think that they have made you even think that they can beat you, then you might as well not bother getting in the ring.”

  “I started boxing when I was seven,” I said with a grin. I’m twenty-seven now, so I guess I have a couple of years more experience.” And I told him quite candidly about my background. Some folks hated telling others that they had been orphaned, but not me. I regarded it as a badge of office. I saw no reason for shame. I was going to use it as a reason to show the world I was as good as the next man. And the next man happened to be Bombardier Jack Brodie.

  “Well Oscar, mate. I tell you what. Win or lose tomorrow, I reckon you’re a good bloke. After this is all over, what say you come over to Blighty old son, and you can join my family in the boxing booth? My granddad, grannie and dad have all passed away, so it’s up to my mum, me and my kid brother to run it. We could always do with another pair of gloves.”

  You couldn’t help but like the guy. We had another game of checkers the next morning, in between our respective duties. We had respect for each other and in a bizarre way were looking forward to knocking the stuffing out of each other in the ring later that day.

  ***

  The bell sounded for round six and we both sprang to the center where we began circling, jabbing to begin with, slipping and ducking and landing hooks and crosses as opportunity allowed.

  The crowd, a mix of doctors, surgeons, nurses, orderlies, GIs and British infantrymen had been enjoying the spectacle so far. Although there was a natural desire to see one of the two big guys floor his opponent, preferably the one they had money on, yet they were happy enough to watch us box away. We were both highly skilled in both offence and defense and could both counterpunch well enough to prevent the other gaining any appreciable advantage.

  I reckoned we were pretty equal on points and neither of us was taking any real risks. That was until I saw my opportunity to get in close and aim a right uppercut at his chin. I was already seeing the combo I was going to follow up with when he blocked with his left, then fired a straight right that caught me on the jaw. Before I could guard he came in with a devilish left hook to my temple.

  I was seeing stars and felt my legs wobble for a moment, but I knew that I had to focus quickly before he moved in to hammer home his advantage.

  The noise of the crowd had risen to a crescendo as Jack’s supporters urged him on and mine tried to rally me round.

  Then suddenly, from beyond came other unexpected noises.

  Boom – whoosh – crash! Three of them in rapid succession and the cries of the crowd turned into screams and shouts of alarm. In the corners of my eyes I saw bodies flying through the air, felt a shower of sticky liquid and a peppering of soil hit my back.

  “Mortar fire!” someone yelled.

  I shook my head and saw Jack lower his gloves and stare beyond me, his eyes wide in alarm.

  There were two more explosions and I felt a searing pain across my back, as if I was being flayed with a dozen hot whips. There was a terrific thump at the back of my head and I was thrown towards Jack.

  And then I could hear nothing. All I was aware of was strong arms holding me, carrying me through the air.

  I had an image of Father Tim, giving us one of his impromptu lessons about mythology. Norse mythology this time, about Valkyries, the mighty female maids who assisted Odin and carried warriors from the battlefield to Valhalla, the great hall of the slain.

  Blackness closed around me.

  ***

  VALLEY FORGE GENERAL HOSPITAL, PHOENIXVILLE, PENNSYLVANIA, USA, FEBRUARY, 1954

  I can’t recall exactly when I caught up with life again, but when I did I was amazed to learn that I was back home in the USA.

  They told me I had been in a coma for two months and that it was touch and go whether I would live. Then once I became conscious it was another month before I could actually gain any clarity of thought. I couldn’t take in anything and they thought that I had suffered irreversible brain damage.

  Then when I did come round enough to absorb what the doctors and nurses were telling me, I realized how lucky I had been. Dozens of others had not been.

  A mortar shell had exploded behind the ring and my exposed back had taken a pasting with shrapnel. More significantly, a metal shard had penetrated the back of my skull and lodged in my cerebellum. They had managed to get all of the bits out of my back and my legs, but the one in my head was too deep and retrieval had been considered too dangerous.

  “According to the records they sent us, you are one lucky soldier,” my doctor, a young, fresh-faced guy who looked to be no more than twenty-two, told me. “If it hadn’t been for the guy you were boxing with, you would have been blown to bits by the next mortar shell. He picked you up and dived out of the ring wit
h you in his arms.”

  “Jack! Is… is he okay?”

  “He was unhurt” He opened the case notes and took out a picture. “It says here that he visited you regularly in the hospital in Wonju until he had to go back to his regiment. He left this for you.”

  It was the picture of his family’s boxing booth. I flipped it over and read a short note that Jack had written.

  Hi mate,

  If you are able to read this then my prayers have been answered and you are alive and getting better. That was a heck of a scrap we were having. If and when you feel up to it, come over to Blighty and look us up. Maybe we can finish our bout!

  Cheers,

  Jack

  I was determined that I would. Yet once they started to get me out of bed and begin rehabilitation I realized that there was going to be little chance of me boxing competitively again. I could barely balance at all. My cerebellum, a small ball-shaped bit at the back and the bottom of the brain was where the sense of balance came from. And it had a jagged piece of metal buried deep inside it.

  I could hardly walk. But at least I was alive. I determined to get as well as I could, then I could go find Jack Brodie and thank him for saving my life.

  ***

  ENGLAND, JUNE, 1955

  It was another twelve months before my medical discharge from the army had been sorted out and I was walking well enough to embark on my quest.

  The first thing I realized on arriving in England was that it was a great place to get around. Every little town seemed to have a rail station, or failing that a decent bus service.

  The big problem I had was in finding Battling Brodie’s Boxing Booth. It had no telephone number and no office address that I could trace. But hell, I was in no hurry. It was summer, the weather was good and I had a whole country to sightsee. It was only when I was having a half pint of bitter at a country pub in Norfolk called The Twenty Churchwardens that I made the first breakthrough. The landlord of the tavern told me the reason that I couldn’t find where the boxing booth was, was simply because it travelled around, like all boxing booths. I needed to try the country fairs. Of which there were loads.

  At Nottingham, which rang vague bells in my mind about the outlaw Robin Hood, I visited my first fair. It was a fun place with helter-skelter, dodgem cars, merry-go-rounds and all sorts of stalls and competitions. The smell of onions, sausages and candy floss filled the air and I ambled around until I found a boxing booth. Only it wasn’t the right one.

  Nevertheless, it gave me an insight into what exactly went on in one. The fighters were average, but they raked in a lot of money. The spieler, the guy who trumped up the custom and packed challengers and gamblers into the marquee tent to box or watch told me all about the 4B, as the Brodie booth was known among the fairground folk. It tended to follow the fairs that did the Lancashire and Yorkshire circuit and that I could expect to find them at a place called Blackburn in the county of Lancashire.

  The next day I caught a bus and followed a crowd of revelers heading to Blackburn Fair. It was a sprawling affair with all of the same type of small stalls and businesses. And right at the far end I found Battling Brodie’s Boxing Booth. I felt my pulse quicken a bit at the thought of seeing Jack again.

  The frontage of the booth was just as it was in the photo that I kept in my wallet. It consisted of three huge boards, arranged like a religious triptych, all painted with images of champions of the past and with a painted roll of honor listing champions who had fought in their ring. Beneath that was a large poster with pictures of the boxers, their weights and their titles. And on a band pasted across the bottom was the missive: Our Boxers Take on All Comers. Last three rounds with one and win £5.

  As I approached it I was surprised to see and hear that the spieler was actually a woman. She was somewhere in her mid-fifties, I guessed, although she was dressed in man’s clothing, with a trilby hat tipped at a jaunty angle. She was still a handsome woman and I recognized her as Jack’s mother.

  Standing on a small platform to the side were four boxers. One was an older heavyweight with a cauliflower left ear. One was a strapping young middleweight. One was a welterweight and the last was a lightweight.

  She was good! She had the gift of the gab and could inveigle customers to enter. She did it by challenging their masculinity, by feminine charm and a certain Barnum and Bailey cunning.

  “They’re all going to be fighting this afternoon. First on will see Sandy Carmichael, the pint size champion of Northumberland. Then we’ve got Rodney Sullivan, former amateur champion of Donegal. If you’re a middleweight then try out Hammering Hudson, the Northern Fairground Booth champion. And lastly, our ever-young, undefeated heavyweight, Slugging Sam Samson.”

  She had a pair of boxing gloves dangling from one hand. “They’ll each take all-comers, so if you fancy your chances, who’s going to be first and take on Sandy Carmichael?”

  There were murmurings from the crowd then a group of young men, mill-workers by the look of them, bustled one of their rank to the front where he held up his hand.

  “I’ll give the little fellow a go!”

  He received the gloves with a certain air of confidence that was clearly fuelled by beer.

  “And so we have our first contender. Will he go three rounds and take home a fiver? We shall see.

  “Sandy will take on three contenders. Any of those three contenders will have a chance to win five pounds if they can stay in the ring with him for three rounds. It is as simple as that.

  “After those three boxing bouts Sandy will have a rest and it will be time for Rodney Sullivan the former amateur champion of Donegal to accept three more challengers.

  “So come on lads, step up. I need two more challengers against Sandy Carmichael. Have you got what it takes to trade blows against these fine boxing champs?”

  Several likely lads, all similarly jubilant and confident to the point of cockiness made their presence noted and they were all admitted.

  Then the crowd was admitted, each paying an entrance fee, which the spieler deposited into a large leather bag that hung from her waist. I waited until she had ushered the last paying customer into the marquee then I tapped her arm.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but could you tell me, is Jack Brodie fighting here?” I had taken off my hat to speak to her and I pointed at the poster. “I don’t see his picture and I have come a long way to see him. You see, he…”

  I glanced back at her and saw her startled expression. “You’re him, aren’t you? You’re the yank Jack fought in Korea. He wouldn’t stop talking about you. He…”

  Her voice quavered and I saw the tears well up in her eyes.

  “That’s me, Oscar Morris, at your service. Is something wrong, ma’am?” I asked, lamely.

  “He was my boy. I’m Jenny Brodie, his mum. Didn’t anyone tell you?” she replied, croakily. “Jack is dead. He died last year at Scarborough Fair. He… he fell off the cliffs.”

  ***

  To say that I was shocked would be an understatement. I was almost floored by it and I felt myself go dizzy. I reached out for something to steady myself and she caught my arm.

  “Henry, come out here and give me a hand, will you?” she called through the marquee entrance. “I’ve got a bloke that’s fainting on me.”

  “I’ll be fine, ma’am,” I replied. “I’m not fainting. I’m just dizzy. I’ve got a piece of shrapnel in the balance part of my brain.”

  The boxer that she had introduced to the crowd as Hammering Hudson the Northern Fairground Booth Champion came dashing out. He was a younger, smaller version of Jack Brodie.

  “This is Henry, my youngest son,” she explained.

  Then to Henry:

  “This is that American bloke that Jack told us about, from Korea. He didn’t know that Jack was dead.”

  “Do you want me to get you a stool, mister?” Henry asked, concern on his face.

  I had recovered my balance. “No, I’m OK now. Could you tell me what happene
d to Jack?”

  Jack’s mother bit her lip, as if attempting to hold back tears. “Of course, after we’ve gotten this session over, we can sit and have a pot of tea. How are you for time?”

  “I have as much time as this piece of metal in my head will allow me,” I replied. Then I immediately felt churlish and apologized for my brusqueness. “I mean, I am in no rush. I had no plans beyond coming here and thanking Jack for saving my life during the war.”

  And so, I let them get on with what they had to do. For Jack’s mother that meant acting as referee during the bouts and for Henry it meant acting as a second to the contender, while the heavyweight boxer, Slugging Sam Samson acted for Sandy Carmichael.

  I couldn’t fail to notice that the timekeeper was a pretty redhead with freckles and a retroussé nose. Nor did many of the predominantly male audience.

  I was intrigued to see how it all worked. The contender was woefully out of his league, and although he had a flattened nose, probably from some fight in a pub or at a football match, he obviously had no idea about how to box. He held his hands all wrong for one thing, a sure-fire way to injure himself. He flailed wildly and fully expected that one of his punches would send the lightweight onto his back on the canvas.

  Sandy Carmichael had skills all right, but I could see that he was no champion. That was just fairground banter. Even so, he had enough skill to keep his opponent at a distance and tire him out. He let him go two rounds, then quickly went in with a barrage of jabs and hooks in the third round that resulted in a knockout halfway through. In essence, he did his job, he gave the crowd a bit of sport then closed his man down.

  And so it went on, the boxers changing places and taking on other roles, while Jenny Brodie kept refereeing and in between bouts told them some anecdotes and a little history of the boxing booth. The redhead noticed me and smiled demurely, then went back to her time-keeping and bell-ringing.

  Rodney Sullivan was of a similar standard. Good, but not a real champion. Henry, on the other hand, who for some reason was billed as Hammering Hudson, was a different matter. He had class and style. He was effortless and although he too carried his opponents at least into the second rounds, he could have annihilated them very easily had he chosen.