The Fighter (5 page)

The Scot is back in with a sniff, but in the seventh Nissen explodes with three hard rights to McCluskey's left eye. Tonight there will be no leniency, no holding back. Henry's mind is clear. This is his time, and he is not about to let up. This is what he has been building up to since he first knocked on the Reads' side-lane door.

This is his night, damn it, and the crowd is on his side. On their feet, chanting his name.

Nis-sen. Nis-sen. Nis-sen.

Urging him on.

The Scot's brow is split open in a crescent shaped gash. Blood streams down his face. Blood drips from his chin. There is blood on the canvas, blood on the ropes. McCluskey's legs are gone. One arm is reaching back in search of support.
The other dangles at his side.

Nissen is leaning back. Winding up. Stalking his quarry. A moment later he is standing over the Scot, beating him against the ropes.

Nis-sen. Nis-sen. Nis-sen.

The spectators are bellowing. The Scot is cowering. The sweet science is a beast of a sport.

McCluskey slumps to the canvas. Again, the referee is counting him out. Again, the Scot wills himself back up, but he is not allowed to fight on. The referee hoists Henry's arm aloft.

‘The British Empire,' proclaims the radio commentator, ‘has surrendered.' The title belt is strapped around Henry's waist. He is presented with a silver cup, and he raises it in triumph.

He leans over the ropes. His head is groggy from the pounding. As he cools off the pain sets in. The wound on his left brow stings from the sweat. His arms and legs ache. His nose is broken, twisted out of shape. His upper body is bruised and scraped. Despite his triumph, his eyes hold the stare of one who doubts.

He has pushed himself beyond his limits. But success snaps him back—it is balm to his wounds. He raises the cup higher, and parades it round the ring. He basks in the attention. He wants it to go on and on.

Nis-sen. Nis-sen. Nis-sen.

He is high on victory, riding waves of support.

Those who have attended for the first time are surprised at how easily they have been won over. They are confused by their roused emotions, their unexpected blood lust, their elation at the
collision of bodies and the thud of fist upon flesh. Surprised they cannot wait to see another fight.

Barely an hour later Henry is showered and scented, and back in the dressing room. He wears a dark suit, a black tie, and a pristine white shirt. His shoes are polished. His curly black hair is oiled and slicked back. His nose has been eased back into shape. It is an unwritten code—wipe away the blood and the odour, disregard the bruises, conceal the welts. Patch up the eyes, tidy up. Assuage the doubters, those who rail against the sport.

Henry is not ready to leave. He wants to rest with his thoughts. His gear is packed, his bag lies by his side. He sits up, rolls his shoulders. Straightens his back. He massages his knuckles against the palms of his hands.

He is pleased with his efforts. Euphoric. His work is done. The countless hours of training have paid off. The Marauding Hebrew has reached a pinnacle. The morning papers crown him King Henry. He is catapulted into the top ten rankings and offered a World Title bout.

9

August 2013: a winter's night. The car parks are full. Taxis pulling up at the grand entrance deposit suburban punters, couples, hordes of mates, loners seeking solace in the crowd. The southerly bites, but inside it's warm. Crown Casino is a people's palace—all are welcome, as long as you're flush with cash.

The Nissen brothers are climbing the grand stairway to the Palladium ballroom. Henry wears a dinner suit, white shirt and black bow tie. Leon, a leather jacket, dark trousers, a silver tie and a black shirt. The boxing fraternity is assembling for the Hall of Fame dinner, their night of nights.

Boxers, trainers, managers, ex-fighters, back-room boys, sports writers, girlfriends and wives mill about. The foyer is thick
with perfume and talk. The guests drag themselves away from conversations to the white-clothed tables in the ballroom.

‘We are surrounded by greatness,' the Master of Ceremonies proclaims. ‘We're here on behalf of all who've carried the flag for the sweet science. Here to acknowledge those who've had the guts to climb those final three steps to the ropes.'

The night is for stories of legendary fighters passed down from era to era and from father to son—tales of boys who fought their way up from humble beginnings to perform extraordinary feats.

‘We fought to put food on the table,' the MC is at pains to point out. ‘We turned pro 'cause you can't eat trophies.' It's a declaration echoed many times during the night.

Inductions into the hall of fame are backed by accounts of the recipients' characters, their skills and quirks, the balance sheets of wins and losses, and film clips of their greatest fights.

The inductees receive standing ovations. Their acceptance speeches acknowledge trainers and mentors, and are peppered with professions of love for the sport. Dead comrades are eulogised and honoured with a minute's silence and a bowing of heads. It's a night to embellish the myth. This is an extended family, bound by blood shed in pursuit of a living and in pursuit of respect.

Between courses Leon and Henry move from table to table. They greet old friends with vigorous handshakes and fierce hugs. And they talk. One takes up a story where the other has left off. There are times when they seem to be of one voice, performing a rehearsed act. They are masters of boxers' clichés, ardent
believers in the redemptive power of their sport.

‘Boxing is self-belief,' says Henry. ‘Winning is in the head,' says Leon. ‘You learn life lessons,' says Henry. ‘You do the time,' says Leon. ‘You do the hard work.' ‘I was no good at any other sport.' ‘We were too small, too slow.' ‘We were easy pickings.'

‘We were once in a park with a youth group we used to hang out with,' says Henry. ‘Three hoodlums stepped up to the group leader and belted the crap out of him. We froze. We were shit scared. We just stood there and cried. Then ran off to get help.'

‘We felt ashamed.' ‘Peter and Mick gave us a way out.' ‘We won our first fights.' ‘We couldn't believe it.' ‘We went from losers to winners.' ‘Winning was great,' says Henry. ‘Ah, winning was wonderful,' says Leon. ‘It's a thrill to duck and come up with a left hook.'

Leon punches his left fist into the palm of the right: ‘Whack whack, that's what I gave. That's what I got back.' ‘The crowd loved it,' says Henry. ‘They're chanting, Nissen. Nissen. Nissen.' ‘It lifts you,' says Leon. ‘You want to give more,' Henry adds.

‘At Festival Hall one night I was fighting a tall fellow,' says Leon. ‘I ducked, made him miss, then came up and hit him in the ribs. Each time I did it the crowd roared. I got into the rhythm: duck, come up, whack him in the ribs. The crowd spurred me on. I'll remember that fight till the day I die.'

‘And if the crowd barracked for the other fellow, you went harder at it,' says Henry. ‘We built up a following,' says Leon. ‘But in the ring there's just the two of you.' ‘And the other is out to get you.' ‘But there was always two of us.'

‘We learnt from each other's mistakes. I saw Henry get beaten
by Joey Donovan one night, an Aboriginal boy. Great fighter. He would saunter towards the ring, not a care in the world. But once the bell rang he had that sharp eye. Lots of Aboriginal boys had it. He was switched on in the ring.'

‘I was switched on too,' protests Henry.

‘When it was my turn to fight him,' Leon breaks back in. ‘I knew I had to outfox him. He was stronger, a cleaner puncher, and sharper on his feet. I was ready for him. I saw him coming at me, winding up with a killer punch. I ducked under it, but not far enough. It caught me on the jaw, but I hit him at the same time. Flush on the mouth, as I was coming up. Lucky me. I timed it right. It woke me up. I licked my wounds and started to use my nous, and I came out on top.

‘In the Australian title back in '68, I fought a southpaw, another Aboriginal boy. I couldn't figure him out. He was clever. I was out-boxed. It was a big loss. He was selected for the Olympics. He edged me out.

‘I was walking back to the dressing room, angry with myself. I should have been off to the Olympics. I'd ruined my chance. A guy comes up to me and says, “I bet on you and lost.” I felt humiliated. Ashamed.'

Leon is on a roll; he is a raconteur, with a moral for each tale.

‘You can't afford a moment of doubt. The fear gets into you, and stops you in your tracks. At the Commonwealth Games in Edinburgh my opponent's trainer was a former world champ. In the first round I had his man covered. I didn't let him get in close. I was well ahead on points.

‘In the second, it caught up with me: Shit, his trainer's a former world champ! That's all it took—a moment of doubt—and I was stuffed.

‘All of a sudden a straight right lands square on my chin. I was floating. I dreamt that someone was on the canvas being counted out. I woke up and realised it was me. I got to my feet. I don't know how. I threw a few punches, but soon I'm having the same dream. Oh, no!'

The stories are flowing: of missed opportunities, bad decisions that still hurt, injustices, dented pride. It's a common tale of biased hometown decisions—the night I was robbed.

‘I could have been champion of the world,' says Henry. ‘I should not have given up; I was beaten by just one man—Big Jim West. He took the Commonwealth Title off me.

‘I dropped him in the fourth. He was being counted out as the bell rang. I was ahead on points, but he kept head butting me. He opened a cut over the left eyebrow, my vulnerable spot. My seconds couldn't stop the bleeding. Peter wanted to end it, but I wanted to go on.

‘I begged him for one more round, just one more round.

‘“I don't care about the title,” he said, “I care about you.”

‘“One more round,” I argued. “I'm getting on top.”

‘I had him. I had him. I'd knocked him down in the fourth, but Peter threw in the towel. “There'll be other fights,” he said.

‘I'll never forget that moment, the towel flying towards me, the flag of defeat. I was angry. I wanted to hide. I wanted to make it right. I wanted a rematch. Quick.

‘Big Jim's trainer refused. He offered me a non-title
bantamweight fight instead. He wasn't going to take any chances. Big Jim didn't have to sweat it out to get down to correct weight. I would have beaten him as a flyweight.

‘We were both hard fighters. In the return bout we went at it. He was a wild boy from the backstreets of Sydney. He didn't have much nous, but he was taller, bigger. Heavier.

‘We gave the crowd ten action-packed rounds. We went at each other like maniacs. We gave them their money's worth. They were hungry for blood and we didn't let them down. I should've boxed him, not just slogged him,' says Henry over the main course. ‘I should've insisted on the lighter weight.'

Henry eats heartily. He relishes all that life has to offer. He cleans the plate. Licks his lips. But he cannot wipe away his regrets.

‘I thought I'd won. I was sure of it. But they gave it to the hometown boy. Still, I knew I could beat him as a flyweight. I was certain I'd outlast him over fifteen rounds.'

‘I challenged him as soon as the fight ended. I announced it in front of his home crowd. I said he'd beaten me fair and square. And I said I wanted him. I said I'd fight him in the very same ring in a title bout. Any time. They loved it. I won them over, but Big Jim's trainer knew I'd beat him at that weight. I never fought him again.'

Henry pauses, and shakes his head. For a moment his gaze turns inwards. He draws in a deep breath.

‘I missed my chance. I should have accepted a shot at the World Title when I was offered a fight with Salavarria, the reigning champ, after I beat the Scot.

‘It would have been the shortest route to a World Title on record—just nine fights. Grab the chance when you get it, Jack Rennie the promoter said. But I hesitated. I thought I wasn't quite ready, and Peter thought I needed a break. Jack was right. I'll never know.'

He crosses his arms, leans back, and wraps his hands round the back of his head.

‘When I returned to the ring months later I'd slipped down the ranks. But I kept winning. I rose to number three in the world, but by then I was considered too dangerous to take on. I should have seized the chance when I was number ten.'

‘That's the way it works,' says Leon.

‘Yes,' says Henry. ‘That's how it works. No local promoter would risk it. I had to take on Jim West. He had taken the Empire Title off me. And, after he beat me in that return bout, I slipped out of the top ten rankings. I was very angry. I still wanted to give it one last crack, one last go at world champ.

‘I kept training. I worked hard. I went to London to look for new connections. They said they don't take on the lower weights. I looked up McCluskey's trainer, Danny Vary—nothing doing, not even for old times' sake.

‘I flew to Italy. I met the managers of the Italian imports I had fought back home. I promised I wouldn't let them down. I had a fight lined up in Milan, but it was cancelled the day before. I would have brought Peter over if I'd won.

‘My chance had come and gone. No one would take me on. I finally decided I'd had enough. I got so close to the top, so close, but not close enough. It was time to hang up my gloves.'

‘Least you've still got your brains,' says Leon.

A middle-aged man approaches, unsteady on his feet. Tie askew, white shirt tails hanging out. Eyes bloodshot, mouth agape. The boys treat him with respect. They let him wrap his arms around their necks and hold onto them in an unstable embrace.

He tells them he had followed their exploits all over town. He'd been present at some of their most famous bouts. He begins to describe them. He confuses one brother with the other, mixes up the venues, and the fights.