Finally, both shade and the main event arrived. Ring walks. Theme tunes. Lists of titles and accomplishments. A vague sense of anticipation crystallising into something solid, the moment before lightning strikes. Fifty-five thousand people feeling like they’re the ones about to fight.
Then the opening bell, the first few rounds and the slow realisation that Horn was winning. He came forward, a tangle of shoulders and elbows, and roughed up the Filipino star. He seemed unaware that this wasn’t in the script, and Pacquiao found that after twenty-two years and sixty-seven fights as a professional, he wasn’t able to do much about it.
The crowd, which knew, as hometown crowds always know, that the kid had it in him, roared its approval every time Horn charged forward. When he actually connected it felt as if the noise might knock the referee over.
Then came the ninth round, when Pacquiao surged back. Suddenly he was the Manny of old, darting in and out of range, battering Horn for a full two minutes with his trademark right-hook, left-hand combinations. It was a brutal barrage, the kind of beating that makes you wonder how human beings evolved such overspecification in the field of endurance.
Everyone in Lang Park was on their feet, willing Horn to stay upright as he reeled, and it seemed as if the referee was about to jump in to end things.
But somehow, when any normal person would have curled up into a ball and given up, Horn maintained his footing and made it to the bell. It was a sublime display of defiance and the power of human will. An entire stadium turned to the person next to them with a wide-eyed look that said, ‘I can’t quite believe what I just saw, did you see the same thing?’
And after a minute’s rest, Horn went right back to work, caked in blood and humbled but no less determined, pressing forward all the time. The crowd loved it. I’m telling you, you haven’t lived until you’ve been in an arena with fifty-five thousand people chanting ‘Horny! Horny!’
When the final bell went, both men raised their hands. They embraced. The crowd went quiet and the ring filled with hangers-on. The wait was sickening.
After what seemed like an age (it always seems like an age) ring announcer Michael Buffer took the mic and slowly began to speak, wringing every possible drop of drama from the scene.
‘Judge Roldan scores it 117 to 111…Judge Flores scores it 115 to 113…Same score from Ramon Cerdan, 115-113. All these scores go to the winner by unanimous decision…and the new…’
There was a slight pause as the significance of that word sunk in. Then Jeff Horn flung both his gauze-covered hands into the air and everything went crazy. The noise was so deafening that, even on the TV broadcast, which I have watched several times since, Buffer’s next words, ‘WBO welterweight champion of the world, Jeff Horn,’ were barely audible. Everywhere around me, men and women were screaming and jumping and hugging one another. My uncle with the forearm fixation reported a similar scene in Sydney, where the pubs were filled to capacity. It must have been the same all around the country.
There was controversy, of course. Would it be boxing without it? The judges’ scorecards were too wide for a close fight, and Manny certainly had an argument for winning. Many watching on US television thought he had been robbed. ESPN commentator Teddy Atlas went bananas. The WBO ordered a review of the scoring, mostly to placate Pacquiao’s camp. Unsurprisingly, it found that the WBO-approved judges had made the right call in the first place.
But I doubt anyone who was there in Brisbane that day cares about any of that. When I’m boring people from my barstool in forty years’ time, I’m not going to mention ESPN or the WBO.
I’m going to tell them that, despite what everyone said about boxing, fifty-five thousand turned out to see a PE teacher they’d never heard of before the fight was signed. I’m going to tell them I was there, that I saw Jeff Horn survive round nine and win an upset for the ages. I’m going to tell them that it was everything I love about prize fighting: a human struggle so authentic it reveals all other sports, and almost all other entertainments, to be images of drama rather than the real thing. I’m going to tell them that it was a little bit sleazy and wildly contentious, but that was part of the fun.
And then, if anyone is still listening when I’m finished, I’ll tell them about the two years I spent learning from gentle, violent men, testing myself and trying to be a fighter. I wasn’t much of one. I never could have been. But in the end that was hardly the point.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Do I need to thank Paul Miller again? I think I do. Thanks, mate.
David Frishling and Tim Starks, too: my life and career would have been completely different without David as a friend and Tim as a mentor.
This project took me a while, and I’m indebted to everyone who read my work and gave me advice along the way. George McClintock, besides being my twin brother, is also my best friend, chief joke suggester and main bullshit detector. Rose McClintock is going to be annoyed I listed George first, but was equally helpful and even more encouraging. Alex ‘Big A’ Forbes helped shape the book in a major way (and was right about Jeff Horn). Jess Bineth’s perceptiveness was key during the final polish. Julian Mark was enthusiastic from beginning to end, as was Sophie McNaught-Lee. My Toronto pal Corey Erdman was indispensable and helped me endure meteorological conditions I didn’t know existed, while boxing historian Patrick Connor was incredibly generous with his time and wisdom.
Hakan Saglam deserves a special shout-out for enduring my pestering and providing the photos of me in action. He also happens to be a great boxing coach.
Also deserving of thanks, in no particular order: Marlo McClintock, for always keeping my ego in check. My Toronto gang, especially Cat Devitt. Tiger Webb for his great chat and encouragement. Patrick Carey for the same, but with more hugs and facial hair. Stan Correy for being the only other boxing fan at Radio National. The Dwyers—Maddy, Dom, Justin and Jacqui—for their backing throughout the period of my life covered in this book. Sam Elliott for similar, earlier. Steve Smith (no, not that Steve Smith) for the archival material. Alexis Maturana for keeping me alert, but never alarmed. Rosie, Mia and Kahla for the birthday gift. Jeremy, Tegan, Fiona, Rosie, Roi (who somehow neglected to mention he was at the Rumble in the Jungle) and the rest of my ABC team for not quitting because of me. Hannah Temby for some helpful advice early on. The TQBR community for doing so much to spur my interest. And for punching me in the face: Matt, Tom F., Axel and Mo at HK, as well as Alex, Nathan and Tom McC. at CFC.
I never understood why authors praise their editors so lavishly. Then I wrote a book. Now there’s not enough space for the nice things I want to say about Mandy Brett. Her editorial insight is superhuman, and I still can’t believe she maintained her patience and sense of humour the entire time. With Mandy on point, the entire team at Text has been phenomenal.
Thanks also to my brilliant agent, Fiona Inglis of Curtis Brown, who admitted right away that she doesn’t ‘get’ boxing but believed in this project anyway.
I owe so much to my parents: Ian McClintock, from whom I inherited the obsession gene and who gave me space to write; and Emma Forbes, whose constant affection and support made me the person I am. I know you’re still weirded out by the whole boxing thing, but I love you both.
Finally, thanks to Sarah Brown, who puts up with me.
FURTHER READING
Kasia Boddy, Boxing: A Cultural History.
Alan Bodner, When Boxing was a Jewish Sport.
Peter Corris, Lords of the Ring: A History of Prize-fighting in Australia.
Angelo Dundee and Bert Sugar, My View from the Corner.
Pierce Egan, Boxiana.
Ronald K. Fried, Corner Men: Great Boxing Trainers.
Thomas Hauser, The Black Lights: Inside the World of Professional Boxing.
Paul Kent, Johnny Lewis: The Biography.
George Kimball, Four Kings.
Mark Kram, Ghosts of Manila.
A. J. Liebling, A Neutral Corner: Boxing Essays.
A. J. Liebling
, The Sweet Science.
Donald McCrae, Dark Trade: Lost in Boxing.
Donald McCrae, A Man’s World: The Double Life of Emile Griffith.
Hugh McIlvanney, The Hardest Game: McIlvanney on Boxing.
Bob Mee, Bare Fists: The History of Bare Knuckle Prize-fighting.
Joyce Carol Oates, On Boxing.
George Plimpton, Shadow Box: An Amateur in the Ring.
David Remnick, King of the World.
Budd Schulberg, Ringside: A Treasury of Boxing Reportage.
John Schulian and George Kimball (eds), At the Fights: American Writers on Boxing.
Mike Silver, The Arc of Boxing.
Bert Sugar, The 100 Greatest Boxers of All Time.
Mark Turley, Journeymen: The Other Side of the Boxing Business.
I’ve read and learnt from way too many print and online articles to list here, but I’m especially grateful for Mike Casey and Mike Silver’s writing for boxing.com. Tris Dixon’s Boxing Life Stories podcast was another major source of inspiration and information. Brian Campbell and Rafe Bartholomew’s State of Combat is my go-to podcast for weekly boxing news: it really is performance-enhancing audio.
Alex McClintock grew up in Sydney, Australia, and now lives in Toronto, Canada. His writing has appeared in the Guardian, Globe and Mail, Sydney Morning Herald and Monthly. On the Chin: A Boxing Education is his first book.
alexmcclintock.net
@axmcc
PRAISE FOR ON THE CHIN
‘I thought I wasn’t interested in boxing, and then I read this book. Completely engrossing, thoughtful and at times touching; you will learn about boxing but you will also learn a little more about the world we live in, and why we can be brought together by people hitting each other. Alex’s writing is something to behold.’
BRIDIE JABOUR
‘On the Chin is a rare work, in that it made me enthusiastic about hitting other people. Yes, this is a book about the dance and technical beauty of boxers in the ring, but McClintock’s insight into the human drive—the ambition to punch and be punched—makes this sing. In reading this, we hear the echoes of race, poverty and the funeral song of great fighters who razed all before them but never ended up truly winning. Alex had me laughing and wincing reflexively. Then, most powerfully, I began wondering if maybe this fighting business was something I should try. He’s that good.’
RICK MORTON
‘A beautifully written portal into a sometimes misunderstood sport. Alex McClintock’s On the Chin illuminates a world that has a rich cast of heroes and villains, and his own journey into that tribe. A treat for boxing fans and non-fans alike.’
BRIGID DELANEY
‘Alex McClintock has written an evocative and engaging boxing memoir rich in the history and pathos of the fight game, filled with riveting and illuminating detail about his own attempts to become a boxer.’
DONALD MCRAE
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Copyright © Alex McClintock, 2019
The moral right of Alex McClintock to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Published by The Text Publishing Company, 2019
Cover design by Design by Committee
Page design by Jessica Horrocks
Typeset in Bembo 12.25/17 by J&M Typesetting
ISBN: 9781925773927 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781925774672 (ebook)
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia
On the Chin Page 27