Sweet Agony

by Paul Sykes

  'You're me dad!' He challenged me to deny it.

  How do I go on now? I thought. I had enough on my plate for the time being without becoming involved with this little feller just yet, but I couldn't leave him.

  'Come on then, I'll take you home.' I'd discover where he lived and I'd be able to see him later.

  Following his directions I parked in the street behind where Elaine used to live and followed him up a flight of bare wooden stairs.

  'There.' He pointed at a door and then rattled back down to play in the field across the road.

  The door was open 6 inches so I tapped and opened it further.

  'Oh, it's you,' Pauline said. 'Come in.'

  The first thing I saw was a blue and white striped football supporters cap. It was on the head of somebody asleep on a settee under the window. He was a feller about 50, needed a shave and a full set of teeth. He had all but his shoes on and his clothing was filthy.

  She had to be desperate to live with a tramp.

  'Leave him alone,' she snapped, as I looked down at him. The room was chocolate brown and had a greasy square of carpet remnant in the middle. Everything, the settee, the two single beds, the table, a set of cupboards, were all greasy-brown. Manny should live here I thought, a converted chip-shop would suit him.

  Pauline looked well, in fact I could plainly see why I'd married her. She was easily the best looking scrubber I knew. My insides curdled to think my lad was living here, but what could I do? Nothing yet, nothing until after I'd won the title and then things would be different. Without saying goodbye I left and drove home, wondering what either of my girls would say if they could see how low my ex-wife had sunk. Maybe they would blame me.

  With ten days remaining Tommy told me over the phone I would have to go to London with him in the morning to give the ticket sales a boost.

  'I'm not going Tom. The tickets have nothing to do with me. Anyway Burky tells me he's sold more then ever. I've done my bit.'

  'It's not me Paul. I know you have done all you've been asked. It's the promoters. They want you to show your face. Nobody has heard of you.'

  'Look Tom I'm not going and that's all there is to it.'

  Show my face? The only people who wanted to see me were the ones wanting to weigh up form and make a bet. They could come to Manchester to do that. I wasn't disrupting my training for them.

  'Will you have a word with Mickey Duff? He's asked for your number but I wouldn't give it to him unless you said so. Look Paul, these are the fellers we'll have to deal with if you win and it'll pay to keep the right side of 'em. Tickets aren't selling down there like up here. They need to see you.'

  Harry Levene was the promoter, not Micky Duff. They all shit in the same pot though, with cartels and contracts just like the mob up here. Tommy had blown Manny out and he couldn't afford to argue with this mob. Alex had told me all this years ago and now it was proving true.

  'Go on then Tom. Tell him to ring me.' Let's hear what the great Micky Duff had to say.

  'Hello, is that Paul Sykes?'

  'Speaking. '

  He promised to pay all my expenses and even send a WHITE ROLLS-ROYCE, but I had to come.

  Another dummy who thought we all lived in caves: Del had been driving a Rolls for months and a local car dealer had offered to loan me one.

  'OK, give Tommy the details.'

  If I didn't go I'd be continually pestered and it would upset Tommy. He was all right now Manny wasn't manipulating him. He was doing his level best to make the best deals for all his lads and he did worry about them, genuinely worried, but he had a living to make like his boxers. He was dependent on promoters. Tommy wasn't a bad feller at all and unlike most had been one himself, a lightweight doing 20 rounds fifty years ago.

  I wanted him to have the British champion and I'd earn us both buckets of money like I'd promised in my first letter from Durham. I liked old Tommy and this was his last chance. We were both on our last chance. Anyway the trip would give me the chance to sample the lead in the London air. Without fail, every time I'd been in London my stomach had been upset and I'd had headaches caused by the foul heaviness of petrol fumes in the air.

  What a complete waste of time it turned out to be. I sparred in the ‘Thomas á Becket’ with a young heavyweight called Austin Okoy, a kid with a KO win over Malpass, for a couple of rounds with nobody present but Tommy and Danny Holland, the resident trainer, Alex, and a couple of his pals.

  I was listless, weak, unable to concentrate and he'd hardly missed with a punch. Tommy begged me to steam in but I hadn't the energy or the inclination. He was only a young lad, big and lively, but not in my league. He was blowing like an old carthorse when we finished. I was in good condition and satisfied.

  Jimmy, one of Alex's pals, and a feller who had been into Hull twice with Alex, gave me some advice about Gardener in the changing room afterwards. He said I hadn't to be thinking I would knock him out. Gardener could take a real belt.

  'Fuck off Jim. I've seen him on the deck a couple of times.'

  'I'm telling you straight. Saw it with me own eyes. Neville Meade hit him smack on the chin a couple of times and didn't move him.'

  If Neville Meade hadn't moved him, his chin had to be made of concrete. But yet I'd seen him sparko, out to the world for ages when a feller called Ibar Arrington had hit him. Sprawled on his back with his neck resting across the bottom rope. Then Billy Aird had knocked him down in the first round. A short right on the button and Billy wasn't noted for punching power. I'd sparred a few times with Billy

  and his punching ability hadn't been anything special. It was something to think about on the journey home.

  Gardener was much younger than me and he'd been about a bit.

  He'd reached the final of the London ABAs back in '73 when I'd reached the national semis. A tall, skinny kid had beaten him on points. He'd turned pro immediately. He'd had plenty of fights, twenty or thirty, and he had only lost one.

  I'd seen him on the telly and knew just how to beat him. He came bustling forward throwing punches all the time. Stand in the middle of the ring and meet him. My superior strength, speed, reach, and punching power would be too much. He'd back up and I'd do him in no time. If I'd trained like I had for Wilson, and was in the same frame of mind, I'd kill him. IfI was ten pounds heavier I'd hit him so hard and so often he would walk silly for the rest of his life. He had to have a defect in his make-up now. Nobody could possibly be the same again after being unconscious like he'd been.

  No, I was glad I hadn't trained like I had for Wilson. I'd carry on in the same vein, running and doing all Tommy asked and on the night I'd box his head off. Dazzle them all with my skill. I'd show them all about cave-men from Wakefield.

  The following day there was a story in every paper about me breezing into London from the frozen tundra of West Yorkshire emitting blood-curdling yells and wearing a bearskin.

  Two days later Tommy wanted me in London again, this time at a press conference in a little West End hotel. The idea was to boost the ticket sales, but I wanted a look at Gardener, see what I was up against so I didn't argue or complain. My training and fitness could stand a day off.

  If Larry Holmes’ and Don King's press conference had been for the World champion this was in direct ratio. Their's had been the theatre club and this was Alverthorpe WMC.

  The small room was crammed with journalists and I was sitting on the top table with Gardener, separated by Alan Minter, who was boxing some Australian aborigine as main supporting bout, listening to the usual clichés. It was like watching the grass grow.

  Minter said he'd win and go another step up the ladder to the World title. He sat down to silence.

  'It's only right,' Gardener intoned sarcastically, 'an old feller like him should be given a chance. It won't mean I'll take it easy with him. I'll show him no mercy because he's old.'

  He too sat down to silence. They had the gist and would write it later. Some reporter asked half-heartedly if winnin
g the title would make a difference to me, especially at my age.

  'For a start I won't accept the Lonsdale belt.' They were sitting up now.

  'You won't accept the Lonsdale belt?' half a dozen chorused.

  'No, definitely not.'

  Pencils and pens, notebooks and bits of paper were appearing from jacket pockets like forks at a barbecue.

  'But why?' They were ready now.

  'If you knew the history of the Lonsdale belt you wouldn't ask. I do not believe in feudalism and I'm nobody's serf. I'm fighting for me and wearing a silly belt will not make the slightest bit of difference to my standing. I'll be the champion and I'll call the tune.' There, I couldn't possibly be any more controversial. They were scribbling like mad. I was pleased with myself. The first round to me.

  The three of us posed for photographs outside on the pavement then, Minter holding Gardener and me apart.

  Gardener wasn't as big as me in any department apart from his head. It was the size and shape of an association football. A head made to be hit often and hard. He was a pure endomorph. The minute he stopped training the weight would pile on. He was fit, skin tight, sparkling eyes. He'd trained hard and was confident. He was the sort with ligaments and tendons made to carry plenty of weight. He lost the excess and he was strong and fit. Like taking off a 40lb rucksack.

  Yes John lad, I thought, looking into his eyes, you're in for a shock. I'll box your fucking head off.

  Now all the build-up and rigmarole was over I began to feel better every session. In the mornings I would run at least six 200-yards sprints and still fly up Dewsbury Road. It didn't matter what Tommy asked for in the gym I would do it wholeheartedly. My sparring with the lads was hard and fast and my timing perfection. Gardener didn't have a look-in. With 9 days to the night Manny appeared in the gym one afternoon. He was standing in a corner and I didn't notice him for a while for all the other spectators. Obviously he had come to some

  agreement with Tom, and then I saw Mcgill. Oh yes, something had definitely happened between them for Manny and Mcgill to be here weighing up form.

  When I'd finished, Manny said he wanted Mcgill to keep his eye on me until after the fight. He couldn't take any chances now because when I won this it would be one more fight and then Holmes for the World title.

  'It's done Paul,' Manny assured me. 'Later this year it will be you and Spinks at Blackpool football ground. You'll beat him, and then it's Holmes for the World title about March.'

  'Supposing I don't win Manny, what happens then?'

  'We'll start again.'

  Start again at 33 years of age. You must be joking. No more theatre clubs and Blackpool Towers for me and a grand a fight. No starting again Manny, I thought. No more Blackpool side-shows for me. When I win this it will be you versus the firm in London. Take out the contract and threaten law suits because I'm going with who offers me the most, and fuck you Manny starting again. This is shit or bust, and I've told Tommy already. If I lost I'd pack the job in. I'd have a few quid to get into something but I wouldn't lose. And now Mcgill was here to ensure I didn't. He had his usual bag of supplements but only one bottle of 'drip.' It had glucose added, like sweet 30-year-old piss. It had to be gone by Friday.

  Against Wilson I'd sprinted up the grass-covered slagheap 5 times and increased one every morning until I'd reached ten. The first morning under Mcgill's supervision I started at 15 and by Friday I was on 19 repeat sprints.

  That night in the gym Tommy said worryingly I'd to stop, I was too skinny.

  'You must rest now.' He thought I had cancer from his face.

  'Put your feet up this weekend and put some weight on.'

  The following morning I told Mcgill what he'd said but he laughed. 'Don't you be worrying about old Tom. I'll give you something to put weight on when the times comes.'

  Trusting in Mcgill I flew up the hill twenty times and did a 100-yard sprint at the top. I finished with 5 minutes shadow boxing and 200 sit-ups. That was it, I'd finished. I couldn't do another thing to make me better or more prepared.

  Manny wanted me to stay with him in a hotel near Wembley but Del had insisted I stay in the Holiday Inn in Chelsea.

  'But Del,' I'd explained. 'Manny will be collecting half my purse. It's in the contract he will pay my expenses. It's my duty to let him pay.' Now he and Tommy were together again I would be stupid not to let him pay.

  'Don't worry about him. Stay at the Holiday Inn and I'll settle the bill. It won’t cost you a carrot.'

  'But Del, there's Mcgill and Tommy, not just me.'

  'I've told you I'll pay. You're booked in now so stop arguing.' It was Del's contribution to the fight. He had to feel involved somewhere along the line. Sort of insurance so I wouldn't forget him when I was the champion. Anyway I fancied the hotel Manny wanted me to stay would have been a Church mission or a Sally Army hostel.

  Tommy knew when he came for me on the Sunday afternoon where we were staying. He was still insisting Manny didn't have anything to do with this fight and I could stay where I wanted. I'd not asked for Mcgill or the fancy dressing gown Manny had brought, with a hood and my name embroidered on the back with matching shorts. The old white terry towelling dressing robe had been good enough up to now, I liked it, and the black shorts with the white stripe which had caused so much trouble. Manny might smell a rat though if I didn't wear his new gear and start causing ructions beforehand. It would involve me and I didn't want that. Not now, it was too near for rows. I'd use the new gear in fawn and black and let Manny argue later.

  Wendy gave me a lingering kiss at the front door and wished me luck. It was like the kiss of death. It was too late to change now though, I thought, wriggling into Tom's car and setting off for the station. Last week I'd been in the gym sparring with John Celabanski when I'd caught him with a text-book left hook. He'd gone between the top and middle rope to fall awkwardly and unconscious on the gym floor 18ins below the ring. I'd run hot and cold with all the terrible memories of Wilson and the African staring me in the face and ready to pack the job in there and then. He was all right after a minute and ready to carry on but he hadn't been allowed.

  When I arrived home Wendy greeted me with, 'Did you have a nice training session?' as though I'd been sitting behind a desk all

  day allocating council houses. The holdall containing my wet kit had crashed into the wall an inch from her head and frightened her to death. I was so wound up I hadn't bothered to explain. Maybe the kiss was wishful thinking and she did really hope I'd get bashed like she had hoped every fight I'd had. Trinity had been beaten and Spinks had been flattened in the first round. These things always run in threes. All the way to London I was thinking about luck and coincidence, right until Mcgill and me were seated for dinner and some 3-piece Bavarian Oompah band started to play. They rattled and wheezed with knockers, clackers, and bells until I was seriously considering throwing them into the tiny swimming pool and drowning them, but then I realised I'd been having terrible destructive thoughts for weeks now. Instead I went to bed and had an early night.

  Monday I went across the road to sit in the sun on a bench watching the big scruffy pelicans in Hyde Park and thinking. There was too much to think about in chronological order. Paul living in a hovel with a tramp for a mother. Cath and Adam, Wendy, and Manny's contract. Leon getting knocked out. Trinity being beaten. What Alex had said about a film, 'The real-life Rocky '; and he had the connections to make it. Next week at this time my life wouldn't be my own if this was an example. A colourful character like me would be in big demand all over the show, Alex had said, as if I'd enjoy it. I lived my own life for better or worse and I'd managed to get this far under my own steam despite them. I didn't want a lot. I'd be perfectly happy if I was given a civic reception from the Town Hall balcony like they had for Trinity when they'd last won the cup. Standing there while all of Wakefield cheered from Wood Street. The best boxer the White Rose boxing club had ever produced. They hadn't given Alan Richardson one and there wasn't a c
hance I'd get one either. The police would object. They would say the town would be inundated with gangsters and forecast all kinds of trouble. Maybe a little club where I could train the kids off the estate. There had to be' a heap of talent undiscovered where I lived because nobody cared. Dog eats dog same as anywhere else. I thought all kinds of things about all kinds of subjects until the weigh-in the next day, in a cinema in Leicester Square.

  The scales were in the area before the screen and open to the public. Less than half way down the aisle my name was being

  chanted. It was the lads from the Manor and the ones who had sold the necklaces for Burky in Blackpool, scores and scores of them. Lads who had watched Trinity beaten and were praying I'd win.

  Placing my clothes on a seat in the front row, stripping to be weighed, a young lad I'd never seen before came and stood by my side.

  'Tha dun't know me, do yer?' He was amused about something.

  'I'm sorry mate, I can't say I do.'

  He pulled the sleeve of his jacket up to expose a lead-coloured ID bracelet and stuck it under my nose.

  Of all the places to come for his money back, I thought, why did it have to be now.

  'Tha sold this to me dad last year. Tha telled 'im it wore med arten eighteen-carat gold. Can yer remember nar?'

  He had to be the son of the collier in Ossett who had said, 'Once ah pay yer it' s mine.'

  'Yes, mate. But I didn't tell him anything. Just let him think it was eighteen-carat gold. Are you wanting your money back?'

  He laughed loudly, full of humour. 'It put me dad reight in 'is place. 'E thinks 'ee's a expert at everthin' does me dad. Me mam still teks piss arten 'im even nar. No, I dunt want me money back. Besides it wor t' old fellers money. I want yer to know Ah'm thi biggest fan. Ah want yer to give it to Gardener toneet like yer give it that Yank at t' theatre club. Ah want thi to put 'im in 'ospital.' He patted my shoulder and melted into the crowd. He wasn't satisfied with a win, he wanted somebody killing. I was glad the silly bastard wore a lead ID bracelet. It suited him.