by Paul Sykes
His assessment of the situation confirmed what I'd been thinking but I had a nagging doubt he was on Manny's side and not mine.
The more money people had the more he seemed to respect them and he wasn't bothered how they'd got it. He'd thought Charlie's perfume factory was a money machine. 'Why do you think I've five kids.' He'd grinned evilly and then told me there was a fortune in perfume. That's when I'd first begun to have doubts about him. He was mercenary when it came to a pound note.
When I'd promised to chase up the luminous necklaces on
Christmas Eve I'd gone to a place in Dewsbury to have the formula
analysed and when they'd distilled the fluid it had exploded. From there I'd taken the last two to the analytical department in Leeds University only to find out they were under patent and the feller who'd invented them had been a professor there. They gave me his telephone number in Amsterdam which I'd given to Burky and he in turn had finished up tracing the feller to New York. The necklace was coming on general release later in the year the feller said but in the meantime he told Burky where he could buy them wholesale in some industrial estate in Hendon. He'd been making them up ever since and stockpiling them to sell during the illuminations in Blackpool. Apparently the chemical reaction stopped in extreme cold and Burky already had freezers full arid was still making them. He'd got a firm in Ossett to make the plastic tubing at half the bore of what the others had been so he could get twice as many from one lightstick and double the profit. He didn't miss a trick didn't Burky. If the worst came to the worst I'd get myself a living selling them but I didn't want to. I wanted to get my leg better and start training before I lost the fitness I'd grafted so hard to achieve and earn enough from boxing to go into something I liked.
Wendy, looking like a dream, came with me to meet Manny on the Sunday morning with my passport. I didn't tell her where we were going otherwise she might begin to worry about missing her dinner and I didn't tell her who Manny was. I wanted to discover what she thought about him without any bias from me. There was a dry, cold wind blowing from the sea and he was standing in a penny arcade on the sea front wrapped in an old brown, herringbone overcoat and blowing his fingers. It was early season yet and holiday-makers and day-trippers were as scarce in Blackpool as in the steppes of Russia. Penny slot machines cost nothing to run and he had nothing better to do, he said, in a blowsy cafe round the corner as he examined my passport to see if it was genuine. He couldn't understand how I had one with being in the nick. He ordered tea and explained I had to have a visa before I could get into the States. He was thinking very seriously of selling the arcade and moving hook, line and sinker to Miami and if things went according to how he hoped I'd be going with him. My style of fighting would please the American television networks no end, and that's where the big money was. He was selling me a line like any sea front grafter. He couldn't help it and not for a second did he reckon I had the brains to know.
Coming home in plenty of time for dinner Wendy said she thought he was the feller employed to give out the change and looked a real scruff.
The feller to see was Alex, I was thinking, to see what he had to say about these latest developments. On cue he telephoned to invite me to come and stay with him for a few days and we would go to the Sobell centre to watch John H. Stracey fight. He didn't mind in the least if I brought Cath along and when I told him she was only 16 he said that's all Anna had been when he'd first met her; Anna was his lovely wife who called a spade a spade and always made me think of Ascot races. In her I could see the mixture of Cath and Wendy in 20 years.
She took Cath to see a film in the West End called 'Saturday Night Fever', a film all the country knew about and not yet on general release, while I went to the boxing on a crutch Terry Downes lent me. Alex discussed what Manny had said with him and if anybody knew about the boxing scene in America Terry Downes did; brought up in the States, ex-US marine and ex-World middleweight champion. He said if! did go, all I'd fight were gorillas and other animals who were too dangerous for their own fighters. All I'd get in the States would be the bums rush and used. I was thinking about this watching the big young lad I'd trained with in Middlesborough last summer fighting chief support to please his dad. He hadn't improved, still boxing without any heart. I had to get Manny to the theatre club. It was the only way to get anywhere.
It was a peaceful few days out in the country. Back in '73 when I'd stayed while I'd been sparring with Joe Frazier I'd seen a blue jay in the bushes at the bottom of the garden and his home was only 10 miles from the West End. It still remained the only one I'd seen. I couldn't help but think his home was out in the country. It was worth the trip to watch Cath's mouth drop when she saw two television stars sitting in Alex offices in the Haymarket, passing the time of day, and asked in wonder if they were real. It thrilled her far more than seeing 'Saturday Night Fever'.
The minute I reached home I began to pester Manny about coming to the theatre club until he agreed. It all went smoothly, the meeting between him and Steve Bartlett, a myopic, balding scouse feller who was the gaffer, the following week. Manny took full advantage of the
free tickets by bringing half his family and Tommy and his wife. Manny wandered all over the place viewing the stage as if it might disappear any second and not really believing his luck. He was trying his damndest to find a fault so he could crow in my ear about the headaches of promoting but there wasn't a fault to be found. It was purposely designed so it didn't matter where anybody was seated they had a perfect view and all the tickets were the same price, about £5 on average.
'I do wish Manny would sit down,' Tommy's wife said to Cath.
'Yes, I do too,' agreed Cath. 'He's whizzing about like a blue-arsed fly.' She clapped a hand over her mouth as though she'd like to cut her tongue out and blushed.
'You've picked a nice one here Paul,' Tommy's wife said patting Cath's knee.
Manny acted the town surveyor for another hour and then came back.
'Right Paul, we're going in here.' He swept the entire place once more checking he wasn't making a mistake. 'Oh yes, we're going in here all right. You'd better start training because you'll be up against a rated American this time. '
The rest had done me a power of good and after half a dozen visits to the physiotherapy class in Pinderfields Hospital I was ready to start full-time training again and I had to start because I was top of the bill against a feller called Dave Wilson from New Jersey, next month.
The weather had been glorious for a week and the treatment had given me the flavour for swimming; it was part of the therapy, swimming in the hospital pool. So one morning I decided to either kill or cure it by swimming the length of Horbury sand quarry. After I'd swum to the motorway and back, taking it nice and easy and concentrating on the leg movement, about an hour and a half altogether, I saw a tall, fair-haired feller standing on the bank with a camera hanging from his neck. He was a photographer for the 'Wakefield Express' doing a follow-up story to an accident that had happened a week or two earlier.
'Never mind all that,' I said. 'Get your camera primed and take a
picture of me. '
'Take your picture.' He laughed. 'Why?'
'Cos I'm the number one contender for the British heavyweight title and next month I'm fighting a Yank top of the bill at the theatre club.'
All the city knew on Saturday dinner-time, the place was alive with the news. My photo was on the front page, a big photo of me standing up to my knees in the sand quarry.
The rest and the swim had cured me. I'd repaired and regenerated and was raring to go. All 1 needed was the badminton court and a clock, nothing else. Jerry had to work at the time I preferred to train but Burky, sometimes Bob, came to the chapel and helped me warm up with a couple of games of badminton or football and then manned the clock while I did the rest. Training early gave me more time to recover before the evening session in the gym in Manchester, and to say it was out of season it was full every session. Tommy had made u
p the rest of the bill and all the lads on the under-card were training together. There was a team flavour in the gym now and not all individuals doing their own thing and the comradeship was marvellous.
Just to put me in my place and let me know 1 wasn't running the show 1 was summoned to appear before the Northern Area Council again; same charge, 'not having a spare of shorts.' Sunday afternoon, Piccadilly hotel, Manchester, 2.30. Why me? Both boxers were supposed to carry a spare pair in case they clashed with the opponents. Meade is black and I am white. And nobody could possibly make a mistake between us.
They were all there pretending I'd made a grave and serious breach of the rules. They were only doing their duty by upholding the law. They were so sanctimonious, so pompous, so horrible and so fucking stupid I could easily have battered them all, everyone. Why didn't they have non-tIiers up? The people like Tommy who regularly over-matched his lads to make up the bill? The likes of them who backed the opponent? The likes of Manny who reduced something noble to a sham? Why me? For the same reason I'd been on rule 43 in Durham, that's why. They wanted me to know 1 wasn't the gaffer and besides I'd been in the nick hadn't I? They had to keep to a strict code of discipline to keep me on the straight and narrow and show the public they wouldn't stand for any messing. They fined me £2 and warned me not to let it happen again. I came close to leaning across the table and asking Manny if he would pay it now seeing as
how he was paying all the expenses. It was his show. One day I'll start the revolution I thought, driving home, and all the cunts like them will be melted down into soap. It was a regular thought that gave me comfort and eased the knot in my belly. Being angry burnt energy and I needed it all to train.
Manny arranged with Burky to organise the posters and handbills. What he'd said I didn't know but it must have been a promise of some kind because Burky had them all over the town and hadn't earned a shilling. He told me he'd heard that Malpass had been in town telling everybody I wasn't fighting a Yank, I was fighting him. Malpass was top of the bill not me. I didn't believe a word of it but the rumour persisted until a couple of days before the fight when I asked Manny about it. 'Yes that's right Paul,' he said in a chocolate voice, 'I thought you knew. Dave Wilson is contracted to fight a day or two before he should have fought you so I just daren't take the chance. He might get a cut or be knocked out and have to pull out. Malpass was the only other boxer I could find at such short notice. I'm sorry Paul, but I thought you knew.' He hung up.
A new venue in a town that was aching for a celebrity of its own, not a team but a star and Manny was scared he might lose money. The chief support was a young lad from Leicester, a middleweight called Tony Sibson. He was on the bill because every time he fought he brought 300 supporters and Malpass was on because he was a local lad. Two local lads had more chance of selling tickets then one and Dave Wilson had been fiction. Dave Wilson probably didn't exist and the name had been used as a draw. No, he'd exist alright but who in Wakefield had ever heard of him? ' Manny was cashing in on the controversy and publicity the first fight had generated and in his heart he didn't give a fuck about me just as I'd reckoned all along. How could he when Malpass was 15th in the ratings. How was I furthering my career by fighting him? It's a no-win situation for me and all I am is a meal ticket for all the snides who keep fining me for not having a spare pair of shorts. The biggest event in my life has been reduced to a Blackpool side-show. Malpass won't care, he'll be scared of getting hurt but he won't care. He's everything to gain and nothing to lose and he's sharing top spot with me, a prick like him. If he wasn't a prick how comes HE didn't get the theatre club. If I'd had his chance this would be my 20th fight there not the first. No, I didn't blame
Malpass, it wasn't his fault, but I despised Manny and I'd make him pay one way or another and soon.
He said in the gym on my last training night, 'This fight will put you well in with the police Paul. They '11 love you after this.'
Nothing but my crucifixion in the Bull Ring would put me well in with the coppers and what's more I didn't want to be. I was free of coppers. They went their way and I went mine and that's how it would stay.
'How's that Manny?'
'I'm employing them to keep order.'
'To keep order, ' I exploded. 'To keep fucking order. What is it, a football match?'
'You know what your friends are like.'
It was impossible to speak I was so livid. He was referring to my
first fight at the 'Norfolk Garden' when Norm and Breezy, the little feller with the gold tooth who'd been the library red-band in Armley, had gotten into a fight of their own when some ex-pudding heavyweight had said in the bar afterwards he could beat me himself and shaped up to show them how. Norm had sparked him with one hit and the feller's mates, all paid up Yorkshire executives, had shaped up to join in.
Breezy had whipped out a flick-knife and told them to try. They were picking on the wrong fellers but the slags had crept away and sent for the coppers. Norm and Breezy had spent the night in the Bradford police cells but Breezy had dumped the knife before they arrived and nothing came of it, until now. It had been Manny's members who'd caused the trouble and not my friends. What made it worse was the fact tickets were a tenner each on average and the coppers were getting in free and the money was coming out of my purse. I was paying the coppers to keep their eyes on my pals. They probably wouldn't come now.
Fuck him and Tommy. I wouldn't fight. Fuck the boxing, fuck everybody. I'd buy a bit of gear and start fly-pitching. But what about little Cath? What about the old feller? What about all the training I'd done? What about the thoughts I'd had in Durham nick? No, I had to fight and go along with them for Cath's sake and our baby's when he came; there was no doubt it would be a boy. I'd have to fight for them but I didn’t want to, no way.
The old feller said he was very pleased I would be fighting Malpass when I told him, looking for a bit of sympathy.
'He's not like you, been pushed and trained since he was a little lad. He's had no father behind him like you. The poor lad's an orphan. Been brought up in them council houses behind South Elmsall market and done it all off his own bat. He deserves another chance.' That's all I'd wanted was to be fighting a poor little orphan.
Mother didn't care if I was fighting King Kong. She told me in no uncertain manner she didn't want me living under the same roof. I had to leave and the sooner the better. She had found two vibrators under the mattress of my new bed and she refused point blank to live in the same house with me.
* * * *
There wasn't anywhere to park. The three-acre car-park of the theatre club was crammed and all the roads in every direction had cars at the kerbs on both sides. A world title fight couldn't attract more people. Every seat was sold and there were 400 standing. They were all here, and their wives and girlfriends. There were six coppers on the doors and four more guarding the entrance to the dressing rooms. The concentration needed wouldn't come and it was vital I had the right frame of mind but I wasn't bothered in the least. I didn't want to lose though and I didn't want to win either. The dressing room was a small, luxurious flat complete with a shower and TV. All the officials coming and going gave it a holiday air.
Nobody came to see me, not the old feller or Del, Ron, Norm or anybody that always came. When I asked the coppers guarding the entrance to the dressing rooms if anybody had been, they said they had orders not to let anybody in. Once again I was so livid I couldn’t speak. The time swept past in a red haze and then I was told we were on.
The ring had been erected on the stage which had been lowered to leave a narrow ledge directly behind. Sitting a yard from my corner were fat Mick and Janet. They were both looking at me with the same expressions they had the night I'd gone into the 'Clothiers ' with Elaine. I smiled and Mick nodded. Janet pretended to straighten her dress. Bollocks I thought and glanced across to the Malpass corner and thought I'd been hit in the mouth with a wet fish. John Spencely
and his brother Tony were h
is seconds and then I remembered George Biddies had died a month back and the rumour was John was his new manager. It was for the Central Area title, Nat Basso announced majestically. We rabbited to each other all the way. The ref told us almost every round to shut up and get on with it. Malpass was twice the man he had been the first time, fitter, tougher and he moved and threw plenty of leather but I let him, I couldn't be bothered. At the end of each round I winked at Mick to let him know the fight was a joke but he only stared with bags under his eyes like car tyres.
The crowd lifted the roof when it was declared a draw which gave me a terrible feeling of guilt for cheating, especially when Malpass sank to his knees to offer a prayer. I wanted to grab the microphone and explain but it would take too long and nobody would understand and besides they were all happy. They all thought they'd had value for money. Next time I fought, and it didn't matter who, I'd make absolutely sure they really did get value for money.
Everybody was pleased but me. Steve Bartlett, because he'd taken £10,000 behind the bar, John Spencely because he had the Central Area champion and Manny because it was a sell out. He gave me a grand and an extra £100 to cover the disappointment of fighting Malpass again and told me to have a week off.
'Have a week's rest,' he ordered, 'and then start training. We're going on again next month and this time it will definitely be Wilson. He's fast and tricky and George Kantor says he's the nearest boxer in the States to Mohammed AIi. If you're fit you'll beat him but it won't be easy.'
