by Paul Sykes
He'd also said Wilson was contracted to fight a few days before I fought Malpass but when I'd asked Wilson he'd said he'd known for
over two months the date we were fighting and trained specifically to peak on the date. If he hadn't been injured, something Manny hadn't been able foresee, I wouldn't have known for sure I was being kidded and conned and used, although nobody could say I didn't suspect it.
Manny came back and demanded to know why I hadn't come across with Burky for the holiday, deliberately omitting what he'd instructed me to do but I couldn't be bothered pointing it out.
'Anyway Paul, I've some got some marvellous news for you.'
He paused, building up the tension. 'You are going to fight Jody Ballard, and you've to come with me to London to sign the contract tomorrow.'
'You go Manny. It'll mess up my training. You sign it on my behalf.'
He gave a short, breathless laugh and then his voice changed to chocolate. 'Yes I know all that, but I want you to meet Don King and Larry Holmes. Jody Ballard is Holmes's main sparring partner, you didn't know that, and Don King is his manager.'
Another load of old bollocks I thought as he carried on explaining what a lovely feller Don King was and how the fight would be broadcast live coast to coast, and how I would be made afterwards.
'It's in the Sportsmen's Club Paul. A press conference now Holmes is the World champion. You'll meet them all and sign the contract. Get yourself across and we ' ll go in my new car. A dream of a car Paul, like riding on a cloud, not like the ones they make over here.'
'What is it Manny?'
'A Cadillac Paul,' he bragged.
'All the way to London in a Caddy. It'll cost a few quid that Manny.' He laughed, playing for time while he thought of an excuse.
'No, no, not all the way to London. There's nowhere to park in
London. We'll go in the car to Preston and then catch the train.'
Before I hung the phone he added ominously, 'Oh by the way, don't tell anyone!' He meant Alex but daren't say so outright.
* * * *
Alex had taken me twice before to the Sportsmen's Club on Tottenham Court Road but Manny didn't know that, wouldn't guess in a
million years. There were fellers employed to jump in your car at the door so parking was never a problem and he didn't know I knew that either. He didn't know his stately old Cadillac had the tappets knocking, or the date of manufacture was moulded into the rear brake-lights and unless he found a right mug he wouldn't draw a penny more than scrap for it. He didn't know I'd rung Alex either until he saw him waiting on the station for us.
Manny pulled the belt tighter on his grey mac and braced his shoulders, preparing himself for the worst.
'How did he know we were coming?' He asked from the side of his mouth.
'Because I told him Manny. Me and Alex have been pals for a long time and I want to tell him about Wilson. Alex loves happy endings, you know.'
'Oh yes. I was forgetting.'
We all shook hands like old friends and then Alex zipped up two or three side streets and back alleys in his new white Rover. Five minutes later we were sitting round a table at the back in one of the spacious banquet rooms, listening to Don King telling about a hundred of the press what a great honour and privilege it was to be managing the World champion.
Larry Holmes went on about the honour and glory for a while and if he hadn't had a lisp I'd have gone to sleep. It was so predictable, all clichés, and all boring. It sickened me. The press could have had a field day but they were more concerned with being fed at the running buffet then asking questions, and the way Holmes had won the title was more than a little controversial in my book.
Ali had been battered for 15 rounds by Leon Spinks, having his 7th pro fight, in much the same way he'd battered Peter in his first. On paper he hadn't a chance and every reporter had predicted it was another easy $3 million for Ali. A short while later Leon was captured with a bit of dope, a cannabis spliff, and was immediately stripped of his title. Ken Norton, one of Ali's ex-opponents had the vacant title given to him without having to fight but was matched in record time with Larry Holmes, who was Ali's main sparring partner.
King was the manager, promoter, minder and both parents to Holmes, the undisputed champion. He'd been paying him a regular wage
since Holmes had been a teenager and now he was reaping the rewards. On paper it all looked like a fairy tale but it went far deeper.
King had been the local numbers man, and according to what I'd read he'd punched a non-payer to death. He served 4 years of a 7-year sentence for manslaughter. He came out of gaol quoting Shakespeare, took the heavyweight title by the scruff of the neck and monopolised it ever since.
If I'd been a reporter I'd have checked up the laws on slander, libel and defamation of character and then wanted to know the connection between the Caesar's Palace Hotel in Las Vegas, the heavyweight title and the numbers racket. How did King become involved after he'd come out of the nick?' The running buffet would have to wait until I was satisfied with the answers.
Manny was into King like a used-car salesman the second he finished and by the time the last reporter was putting sausage rolls on his plate he had him standing at the table. 'This is the boy I've been telling you about,' he crowed. King was a ringer for the late Yancey Durham, 6ft 4ins with a huge belly and skinny legs. He weighed me up with a calculating twinkle as we shook hands and I could smell the mint of dollars coming from him like aftershave. He introduced me to Holmes, and from the way he did it I thought it was for a second opinion.
Holmes wasn't half the size he looked on the telly but he had some fair shoulders accentuated by his head. It was the size and shape of a speed ball. The smallest I'd seen on a man.
'You can't let this guy fight Jody,' he lisped as we shook hands.
'This guy's a giant Don. Just look at the size of the guy's hands.'
His were half the size.
We had our photos taken five or six times and then the meeting was over. Alex had a rabbit to King for a minute and then he disappeared into the casino leaving us all high and dry. There hadn't been a sign of a contract.
We hung about in the foyer for the car to be brought and five minutes later King came through and informed Manny casually that he'd lost seven grand sterling playing roulette while he'd been waiting for his car. I would have liked to punch his head in. Manny said I'd get $5,000 for Ballard.
On the train back to Preston I couldn't get over it.
Manny had been bragging coming down about how King had made Ali and Frazier $10 million dollars each for their fight, 'Thriller in Manilla,' and for me they'd earned every penny but not King, and he'd had $10 million too. That's what Manny wanted. He wanted to promote the World champion and go halves. That's what the contract was all about. He didn't give a toss about the boxers, didn't even know the rudimentary moves, a press-up would probably bring on a heart attack, but he understood the money involved promoting it.
How he'd dismissed Wilson's purse money, how he'd been standing in his arcade like a vulture on the Sunday morning I'd taken Wendy, how he'd wanted me to come to the office straight after the Meade fight, those and a dozen other indications to his character caused me to dislike him; but by far the worse was the way he genuinely thought I was daft. He thought everybody was daft but no particular group of people were dafter then fighters, and with me having been in the nick he thought I was the ultimate in stupidity. The way he patiently explained his plans step by step but left out the middle ones, the important ones and thought there wasn't a chance I had the brains to work things out for myself.
The biggest and best promotions he'd had apart from the Conteh fight, and from what he'd said about that he'd cocked John up because now he didn't want to know him, had been at the theatre club.
Manny was sitting opposite telling me about how King had met his wife while they'd been in Miami, and what a clever feller King was when I had the answer.
'Is it right King had
been paying Holmes a wage until he won the title Manny?'
'Oh yes.' His nose slipped into 3rd gear at the mention of money. 'Yes that's right, why do you ask?'
By the time I reached my car parked outside his bungalow I'd convinced him I would have total peace of mind if he sent me a cheque for £80 every week to pay the bills and leave me free to concentrate on training. He agreed but would subtract the money from my next purse. It was a feat to get a penny up front because he had only just paid for the house, a measly £3,093 including the solicitor's fee.
* * * *
The American Consul had sent my passport back with the visa stamped underneath the eagle saying my reasons for entry were multiple and my length of stay indefinite but I wouldn't be using it. I knew when Holmes had drawn King's attention to the size of my hands and I'd not seen a contract I wouldn't be fighting Jody Ballard and a week later Manny confirmed my suspicions. He would try his best to fix me up with a fight as soon as the new season started, less than six weeks away. I was glad, really pleased. I'd never been more contented in my life and six weeks was a lifetime.
The song which seemed to be playing almost everywhere began 'Love is in the air' and I thought it had been specially written for me. I was in love with the world.
Every morning I went to the chapel for a game of badminton with Burky or Bob, and after I'd whiz round the circuit a few times to keep ticking over and then I'd meet Wendy for dinner to make sure she had her statutory hour's exercise.
She was a big, fine girl whose complexion suited the sun but she wasn't too bothered about fresh air.
Hoffmans, the butchers, would supply me with half a pound of roast beef in sandwiches and two bottles of milk. She needed something substantial although she would much prefer a cream cake or a bag of chips, and then it would be Newmillerdam, a lovely stroll through the bluebell woods: or Coxley Valley, with it's quiet lake and bubbling stream that slipped through leafy glades and under willow trees: or Sandal Castle, where two kings had been imprisoned during the Civil War and the Grand Old Duke of York had marched his men to the top: or Cannonball Hill where Cromwell's army had fired upon them, but my favourite place for dinner was the rose gardens in Thornes Park.
It was utterly magical sitting in the sun listening to the bumble bees busy collecting nectar from roses a mile high and smelling like a rainbow. Ancient red brick pillars holding the veranda aloft, vines of wallflowers between stone crazy paving, smooth with age and silent like me. The high walls surrounding the gardens were covered in ivy so thick it absorbed all sounds and could easily have been Nature's padded cell. Some Rose beds were always lying fallow under a thick slice of manure, proper manure with straw and cobbles of horse shit. If it had been Nature's padded cell the smell would represent the pisspot in the corner.
A few weeks after I'd come back from London, Wendy came through the mill gates at 12.32, walking separately from the others in the typing pool. She hardly bothered with them at all. She saw me waiting in the car and immediately her walk became jaunty and her face broke into a smile. It was the smile she had when feeling sexy. Just the opposite to me. First thing this morning I'd had a session with Cath and then I'd just had a hard session in the chapel. Five minutes later we were sitting in the rose gardens and soaking up the sun.
She talked of this and that, what her work mates had to say, who she liked and didn't like. When we were alone she was full of energy, youthful exuberance which built inside her in the office and at home and was released with me. She would shriek, pout, sulk, argue, flounce, but she laughed the most. It warmed me to hear her laugh. It was deep and throaty and started where her babies would form. Every time I heard that wonderful sound I couldn't help but think of the pit ponies when I'd been a lad and they'd been released from the depths of Old Roundwood pit for their annual two weeks holiday. They would gallop all over the field punching their back legs in the air, stop and roll over a few times and then up and away again until they were knackered. Her laugh brought back the memory because it was the sound of rapturous freedom.
Wendy didn't like me because I was too quiet. She wanted to hear me ask if I could put my tongue up her bum, lick her arm-pits, tell her how gorgeous she was like I usually did, but today I was content just to listen.
She changed the subject and for the next ten minutes she fired non-stop questions I ignored. She was on about Cath. I didn't listen. I refused point blank to discuss the subject. If she didn't like it she could stop seeing me. She put her arms round my neck and kissed my cheek.
'Well how do you expect me to feel?' she asked quietly, looking for sympathy.
'Feel the heat in the sun Wendy. It'll burn the blackheads out of your nose.'
She tweaked my 'tash again, hard and backed off.
'If you do that again,' I warned, 'I'll slap your arse and I'm not joking.'
She wheedled alongside and put her arms round my neck and kissed my cheek. 'I'm sorry love, but it does upset me when I think of you sleeping with her every night. I get jealous and cry myself to sleep. '
She gave my 'tash a real yank but I caught her wrist before she could move. I knew her well enough to expect it.
'Don't, don't Paul, please,' she begged, between shrieks and giggles. 'Don't. I promise. I promise.'
As easily as lifting a rag doll I laid her on the narrow grass border of the nearest rose bed. She wriggled, giggled and kicked, glad at last she'd captured my attention. I lifted her skirt to expose bare thighs and a pan tie-covered bum.
'Don't, don't,' she implored, laying perfectly still to make it easier to pull her panties down.
Until that moment I'd every intention of slapping it two or three times, not hard, but enough to let her know that sometimes I was serious and she had to behave.
It was the very first time I'd seen her bum in the full light of day and it's glory took my breath away. I rocked back on my heels unable to come to terms with such a beautiful sight and noticed for the first time the border on which I'd laid her surrounded a bed of white roses. Petals were inches from my nose. Her bum had more of their colour, more of the delicate funny warmth, and had more exquisite shape. To slap it would be sacrilege.
It would be the equivalent to straightening the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Cutting the ropes that held the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Bombing the Taj Mahal in the moonlight.
Leaning forward I kissed both cheeks reverently and caught her fragrance. It was enough to give a eunuch balls.
'There's somebody coming,' she hissed, and started to kick and then realised I wasn't there. I'd slipped back to the bench to view her at a distance and savour her scent.
She was sitting by my side a minute later, flushed and silent as two elderly women strolled by. When they were out of earshot she said angrily, 'You slack pig. I told you somebody was coming.'
'Don't you lose your temper with me young lady,' I said like a headmaster, 'because two old ladies come and not you.'
She flashed her eyes and pouted. Her smile appeared a moment later when she realised she'd been found out.
She was getting out of the car at the mill gates not much later when I saw her old feller's car pull up right behind. It wasn't a car I could mistake, a royal purple mark 2 Cortina, and sitting inside was her old feller and her mother.
It wasn't the first time he'd caught us bang to rights. At Easter Wendy had been given permission to spend the weekend at her mate's on Flanshaw, which proved to me they didn't really know their daughter at all. If they did they would know she hadn't any friends at all apart from Pauline and Janice, and they both lived across the road. We'd gone to Blackpool and spent the weekend at Ronnie's. Wendy said it was the happiest time of her life coming back. She asked me to drop her 50 yards from the house and as I pulled up her old feller had pulled up behind. She sailed from my car to his and said I'd given her a lift from town. Naturally he asked why I hadn't dropped her at the door. She said she'd asked me to drop her where I had to avoid being questioned. She was sick of always being questione
d. If we were captured again the story would be the same. I'd given her a lift.
Wendy slammed the car door, cocked her head and set off for the mill gates. Her mother scrambled from the car and yelled. I couldn't make out what she said but from the tone she obviously wanted to scrag her. She called again and this time Wendy turned and yelled something back. She carried on then, her back rigid with dignity and suppressed rage. Her mother continued to shout and hurriedly moved to the pavement outside the 'Smith's Arms' to keep Wendy in sight.
The old feller locked the car and then strolled across and joined her. Before he guided her through the door into the saloon bar she yelled at me sitting in the car, shaking her fist and looking distinctly ugly.
Wendy's parting words had been, 'You gave me a lift from the top of Westgate,' and no doubt she would stick to them through thick and thin during the inevitable cross-examination when she reached home tonight.
There wasn't anything to do but sit and think and hope I'd make the correct decision. I could drive home and wait until I saw her again to find out what had happened. I switched the engine off. I wasn't going anywhere and besides I wanted to meet her parents. I was confident I could diffuse her mother's temper but I'd have to tell lies,
lead her and the old feller up the garden path and I didn't want to do that. But what alternative had I if I wanted to give Wendy a hand? They wouldn't understand the truth, not a feller who spliced ropes for a living and a woman who worked on the mill floor. They would be conditioned from birth to think along the usual narrow channels. Set patterns of peckhead thinking. They wouldn't have the faintest idea of what T. Dan Smith was on about when he'd said on television after he'd been released from the sentence he'd received in the John Poulson bribery case, 'Put a lad in prison aged 18 for 7 years and when he's released he will still be 18.' It was true and my fitness proved it. Look how I'd carried on when I'd gone with Cath and Kay for the walk into Ossett when I'd been jumping the stream and doing short arm hand springs over 5-barred gates. Not the normal behaviour for a feller my age. Spiritually I was a lad but they wouldn't understand.
