But my curiosity got the better of me. ‘Your brother goes to North Sydney PCYC?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. He does, like, kickboxing and shit sometimes,’ said Claire.
‘Has he said anything about this guy? Like, is he any good? How long’s he been training for?’ I said, trying to sound as casual as a future Olympic boxer.
Claire smiled. ‘He says he’s been training for ages and he’s, like, a total beast. Six foot two. Really muscly. Huge. But I’m sure he wouldn’t be a problem for you.’
I stared at her. She was taking the piss, but how much was true?
Before I could ask another question, the tutor lost patience.
‘Por favor chicos!’ she yelled, virtually in tears. ‘No hablen.’
•
At Norths, as at Souths (I was unintentionally working my way through being punched at all the cardinal points), the auditorium was upstairs from the entrance, past the pokies and the guest book. ‘You still have to sign in if you’re fighting, fellas,’ said the kindly old blonde behind the desk as David, Paul and I walked in.
On the floor above, the ring was set up in a semicircular function room, surrounded by long tables covered in crisp white linen. Further from the action, the cheap seats—grey vinyl-upholstered chairs—sat around uncovered trestle tables along the curved outside wall. The whole area was the size of an Olympic swimming pool, and could have swallowed the arena at Souths several times.
Waitstaff buzzed around straightening forks and adding wine glasses while a handful of fighters sat around behind the ring. I could tell they were fighters because they were younger, skinnier and more serious than the waiters. Also they weren’t wearing waistcoats.
I realised with surprise that Fritzy and Jake were there too. My Joe Frazier impression couldn’t have been very convincing if Jake was back in action three days after our bout. We locked eyes across the room and I offered a half-arsed wave. Jake responded in kind. Fritzy ignored me.
The weigh-in took place as usual in a small room just off the main hall. A tall Aboriginal kid with a six-pack was standing on the scale when I walked in. He had LAPA—short for La Perouse, the south Sydney suburb known for its public housing—tattooed in huge letters on the ashy skin of his chest. Jesus, I thought, I’m glad my guy is from North Sydney. I figured he might be a softer touch if he came from a nicer neighbourhood—never mind that I was hardly commuting from the wrong side of the tracks myself.
I made middleweight. David, twitchy and quiet, made welterweight. When we emerged, Matt was there with his trainer Dean. For the second time that night I was glad I already knew the identity of my opponent. I had sparred enough with Matt to know I didn’t want to meet him in a proper fight. If we had been the only two middleweights that night, I wouldn’t have been able to turn down the bout without looking like a coward.
David ended up facing an even tougher choice. The organisers informed Paul that no other novice welterweight could be found. Would David be interested in an exhibition bout with another unmatched boxer? It would be in padded sparring gloves and no decision would be rendered. The catch: his opponent would be a ninety-kilo heavyweight.
‘What do you think I should do?’ Dave asked Paul, in a more even tone than I would have managed. An ‘exhibition’ was all well and good, but who knew what could happen under the lights, in front of a screaming crowd? Not long before, I had watched a choppy black and white video of Jack Dempsey, forty-five and supposedly retired, rearranging the face of a wrestler named Cowboy Luttrell in a 1940 ‘exhibition’ in which the only thing on show was Dempsey’s savagery. They said Luttrell was unconscious for an hour after Dempsey punched him through the ropes and into a pile of camera gear. And then there was Paul’s own exhibition with the gremlin at fourteen.
‘I don’t want to tell you either way. It’s your decision,’ said Paul. ‘On the one hand, you’re all dressed up with nowhere to go, so why not? But then again, who knows what happens when the bell goes, and the guy outweighs you by twenty kilos. It’s a tough one.’
Dave looked at me and shrugged. He wore an uncharacteristically sour expression.
‘Well, I’m here now. And our friends have paid for tickets.’
•
We had nearly five hours to kill before our fights. It felt like five years. There was nowhere else to go and nothing to do. Paul and Dean chatted at a table while Dave, Matt and I sat in a row on the stage, dangling our feet over the polished wooden dance-floor, wordlessly eyeing up the other fighters, hoping to ID our opponents.
‘He looks about the right size,’ I said to Dave, pointing out a curly-haired Tongan man the size of a compact car.
‘Alex, do me a favour and shut the fuck up,’ he replied good naturedly.
Matt laughed. He had just learnt he would face Jake. Looking at his grinding jaw muscles, I had a feeling Jake was in for another night of disappointment, and possibly something more painful.
‘You just have to pressure him,’ I explained to Matt from the high hill of my two-fight experience.
After what seemed like an age, the announcer entered the ring and the show began. Outside the bright white lights of the ring, the room went dark.
There were nearly twenty fights on the bout sheet, roughly organised by weight. The flyweights, bantamweights, featherweights and lightweights would be on before any of us: we were bored, wired and anxious, and we’d been that way since the afternoon. To make matters worse, there were presentations and speeches between the fights, with the MC constantly directing patrons towards the back of the room, where they could bid in a silent auction for a boxing glove signed by six heavyweight champions: a ‘tremendous, one-of-a-kind item’ I’ve only seen a few dozen versions of since.
David and I could have watched the fights before ours with our mates down the back, but we wanted to keep Matt company. Besides, pre-fight anxiety is no fun to be around.
Staying in the dressing room wasn’t an option either. We were all in the blue corner, with a warm-up area marked ‘artists’ (which tickled me) that opened onto nothing more luxurious than a wooden staircase. With nowhere to retreat to, we just stood around and fidgeted behind the dining tables, watching the red corner boys, who were milling about on the other side of the stage watching us.
After an eternity, Paul told Dave to start warming up and since the only place to do it was right there in the hall, he started shadow-boxing a few metres from a table of chunky blokes tucking into chicken Kiev in their shirtsleeves.
‘Don’t worry, you’re gonna kill it. It’ll be just like a sparring session. Sixteen-ounce gloves and everything,’ I said to Dave when the ring announcer called his name. He smiled weakly. I knew how he felt.
The opponent, when he came up the stairs into the ring lights, was huge. Half a head taller than Dave, with the hard physique of a brickie’s labourer, short brown hair and a tribal design on his right deltoid. The announcer double-checked his palm cards. He shrugged and asked for a second round of applause for the boys, emphasising that the bout was a ‘special, friendly exhibition’. Then he ducked between the ropes into the darkness.
The bell rang. Under the harsh downlights both men looked preposterously muscular, like characters from the anime shows I used to watch before school. And for a moment, the fight itself was equally cartoonish. David practically ran across the ring and slung a wild overhand right at his Goliath. Somehow, it connected. The giant, shocked, nearly lost his footing and the entire crowd went wild as he fell into the ropes. Dave, as surprised as anyone, apologised and touched gloves with the sheepish big man.
That was the high-water mark. Dave was mostly on the receiving end of punches for the rest of the three rounds, powerless against an opponent with such obvious advantages in size, length and strength. Still, he never stopped swinging, and whenever he landed a blow, no matter how light, he raised his right glove in apology. It must have driven the other guy crazy.
At the end, the referee raised both their fists and they got the
same trophy. They even posed for a photo together, Dave still wearing his mouthguard, the big guy’s arm slipped over his shoulder.
‘That took some big balls,’ said Paul, laughing in appreciation. ‘Dave, you’re a legend.’
Matt was up, but with my own fight on next I could hardly concentrate. Tingling all over, I watched him pursue Jake around the ring. I tried to cheer at the right moments, but it was all out of sync and disconnected, like watching the fight on TV with the sound down.
Still, I could see that Matt was better at chasing Jake than I had been, even if his aggression meant he got hit more. It was the fight of the night. Jake fought like he was desperate not to lose, but Matt was an unstoppable force. The ringside tables, having finished their chicken and no small amount of beer, were clapping and cheering him on. By the end Matt was purple around the eyes but rightly got the decision. Jake’s mouth fell open in disappointment. His family booed again. I felt sorry for him, but had more pressing concerns.
I saw my opponent for the first time as we walked to the ring from opposite sides. He was a couple of inches taller than me, sandy-haired and sinewy, with high socks above his mid-calf boxing boots and a band of black tape wrapped tight around his veiny right biceps. I thought he looked fit but not scary, like a banker who does weekend triathlons. He sized me up and probably thought the same thing. It’s hard to explain, but in that moment part of me believed we had made an unspoken agreement not to go too hard.
I realised I was mistaken as soon as the bell rang. I pushed out three jabs, which either fell short or missed, and he jumped on me firing three-four-five-six punch combinations. His hands were in my face so much I could hardly see. I couldn’t hear the crowd over the sound of his gloves crashing into me.
There was no pain but there was impact. I felt his strength in each blow. I reeled around the ring, trying to get away. He came forward all the time, pivoting and firing, pivoting and firing. I was overwhelmed more than hurt, my mind completely occupied with the twin sensations of being hit and careering backwards. I might have felt sorrier for myself if it hadn’t all happened so quickly.
Halfway through the round, trying to cower and flee at the same time, I tripped over his left leg and stumbled, twisting my body so my chest was to the ropes and my back to my opponent. He kept punching, avoiding a foul for hitting in the back of the head by deploying an unlikely but impressive technique that involved reaching all the way around me with his long arms and punching me from the front.
The referee called ‘Stop’, and pushed us into the neutral corners.
The rules of amateur boxing state that ‘completely passive defence by means of double cover and intentionally falling, running, or turning the back to avoid a blow’ constitutes a foul. My turning around hadn’t been intentional, but I had to admit my defence had been rather passive.
While I stood stunned in the corner, drawing ragged breaths, the referee remonstrated with me silently, raising his elbow and rotating his open hand like the Queen waving to a crowd, a signal I took to mean, ‘Don’t turn your back, you idiot.’ Embarrassed, but also grateful for a pause in the face-hitting, I raised my blue gloves in the universal ‘Who, me?’ gesture. He gave me a look and waved us back into action.
Things got better from there. I guess if they had got much worse, the bout would have been stopped. The pace slowed enough for me to gather my senses. For the first time I looked around. Nothing was visible in the darkness outside the hot, icy light of the ring. I was getting bashed in a black box.
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a sweeter sound than that bell. I trudged back to the blue corner, where Paul was already waiting for me.
‘Just breathe. You’re doing great. He came out strong but I can see he’s already tired. How do you feel?’
‘I’m…O…K.’ Three syllables were all I could manage.
‘Alex, look at me. I need you to throw sharper jabs. He’s closing the distance too easily. And when you’re in close, move your hands. Don’t let him win every exchange.’
The clapper sounded to signal the end of the break. How was it over already?
‘And remember, he’s just as tired as you,’ added Paul as he ducked between the ropes.
This was a comforting thought, because I was wrecked. Nobody tells you, but being hit is even more tiring than hitting. Body shots are well known for slowing people down—they make you feel like your lungs are being compressed—but even shots to the head disrupt your breathing and sap your energy.
Despite this, the second round was an improvement on the first, even if the pattern of the fight didn’t change. He didn’t let loose with quite as many punches and they didn’t feel quite as pulverising. In the corner, Paul said: ‘I like what you’re doing leaning on him and taking away his space. You’re changing the fight.’
I let him think it was deliberate.
The third stanza was almost relaxing. My ingenious strategy of letting the guy in red flog me until his arms were tired nearly bore fruit. The only thing that stopped me from seizing the momentum was the fact that I hardly threw a punch.
The decision, when it came, was a formality. The judges unanimously preferred my opponent’s effective aggression over my ineffective nonaggression. We shook hands and he was offered the pick of the trophies, leaving me with a small plastic laurel wreath painted a shade somewhere between gunmetal and baby-shit. That really stung.
Aside from the trophy situation, I didn’t know how to feel. It was obvious I’d lost, so I couldn’t be outraged by the decision. Weak-kneed as I climbed down the stairs from the ring into the ballroom, I felt the same relief I had in victory. It was over: that seemed like enough. But as I walked to the ‘artists’ door and felt the pitying glances of the crowd, it occurred to me that what had just happened was pretty embarrassing. I had talked a big game. I had acted tough. And I had been beaten up in front of my friends. The left side of my face hurt.
David saw me looking morose. ‘Hey, at least we got bashed together,’ he said, putting his arm around my shoulders.
I managed a feeble smile and slapped him on the back.
‘It happens, guys,’ said Paul, full of warmth and kindness. ‘You fought big, strong guys and held your own. Maybe I shouldn’t have got you fighting again so quickly, Alex—I think you were worn out after Tuesday.’
I nodded, happy to accept his comforting words, even though I knew deep down they were excuses.
‘Try to look at it as a blessing: you learn more when you lose than when you win. Trust me: you’ll be back stronger next time.’
THE ALPHABET GANG
AFTER BEING SMASHED by the hulk at Norths, David decided fighting wasn’t for him.
‘I don’t know if getting hit in the head is doing me harm, but it’s certainly not doing me any good,’ he told me when I tried to convince him to have another fight.
That was hard to argue with. Unlike me, he was not obsessed, and figured there wasn’t much point boxing competitively if it wasn’t going anywhere. Still, I’d always thought of us as a team.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll still train and stuff,’ he said by way of consolation. ‘Just no fights. I don’t need it.’
For my part, I took what could have been an opportunity to develop a little humility and ignored it completely. Somehow, I managed to simultaneously believe that I had won, and that I had lost for reasons outside my control. I had a cold. I was injured. To confirm the second point, I had got my brother to take me to the hospital after the fight. After we waited for two hours in the sterile light of the emergency room, a doctor felt my face for five seconds with his powdery gloved hands and told me it was nothing. Then he said boxing should be banned and came about as close as professional standards would allow to calling me an idiot.
For a while I avoided the gym and the friends that had been at the fight. But my ego, like my cheek, which turned the colour of scrambled eggs over the next few weeks, was only bruised. I managed to convince myself that getting battered was goo
d. It proved I wasn’t a quitter, that I could take a punch. And when I finally worked myself up to watch the video David had taken from ringside, I thought, my God, Paul was right. I leaned on him. I got inside. I changed the fight. What a tactical masterstroke.
Paul was full of encouraging words when I returned to the gym. I don’t think he realised how little assistance I now needed in the self-esteem department. Even better was Moffo, still shuffling around HK Ward in a singlet, shorts and work boots, tapping the heavy bag and offering the odd bit of advice. One day, when we were both mooching around the mostly empty gym, he offered to put me through pads. What could be the harm?
In the ring, Moffo barely came up to the top rope. To get the pads to my shoulder height, he had to hold his hands overhead, as if he was celebrating winning a world title.
‘That’s it, straight punches,’ he said, barely opening his mouth and whistling slightly on the s-es.
Frankly, it felt awkward, as doing pads with an unfamiliar trainer often is. I didn’t know what combinations he was going to call for or how hard he wanted me to hit the mitts. He didn’t know my rhythm and I didn’t know his. For the most part, my punches missed the bullseye, jarring my elbows. But every once in a while I’d manage something solid, including a one-two that connected with a pair of leathery slaps.
‘Lovely right hand,’ he said.
Then he stopped with the pads and pulled me in close. His breath smelled like my grandmother’s house.
‘I reckon you hit harder than any of the other blokes in this gym,’ he whispered. ‘Power like that, you could go pro. Could do well.’
Looking back, I’m sure he was just trying to make me feel good. Either that or he had no idea. Possibly both. But I took the idea and ran with it. Before long I’d started to harbour suspicions I was a future contender in training, maybe even a world champion.
What would my nickname be? Maybe Alex ‘The Mack’ McClintock. That way I could make ‘Return of the Mack’ my trademark walk-out song. Or maybe it would be better to show a sense of humour—walking out to ‘Why Can’t We Be Friends’ before knocking people out—a strategy pioneered by Homer Simpson. Certainly marketability was the key to success. What if I became a world champion while I was still at uni? What an angle! The papers would lap it up.
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