by Paul Sykes
'Fourteen stone six pounds,' an official called to the reporters. It was the lightest I'd been since 1972, when I'd been in Hull; I'd gone so low to prove I could lose a stone and put it back in a week. I had won the bet and still I'd been double fit and strong.
'You're less now then you were on Friday,' Tommy said, his old face strained. 'What have you been doing?'
‘Mcgill had me up the hill on Saturday morning twenty times, but don't worry Tom, I'm all right. I'll box his head off.'
'Go to bed now. Straight away. Try and sleep for a while.'
To make sure I wasn't disturbed he told the switchboard to transfer
any calls for me through to him. All afternoon I lay awake going over
my calorie intake. I was very light, too light, but I didn't feel hungry. I felt OK and secure in the knowledge I was fit.
Mcgill had me wear an oxygen mask to clear the lead and petrol fumes from my blood and I couldn't sleep. Didn't even try.
It would be about 6 o'clock when Tom came to let me know it was time to go. Del and Alex were downstairs waiting to take me.
'Right Tom,' Mcgill ordered. 'Just leave us alone for minute.'
'Why Ken, what's the matter?'
'Don't you worry.' He winked. 'You just leave it to me.'
He had me lay on my belly while he gave me an injection in the arse and then a slap to help it spread.
'There, you'll be takin' the feller to bits now,' He chuckled in his best bedside manner.
Alex was sitting in the back of Del's new Roller, a green one, when everybody knows green cars are bad luck but Del, with Tom and Mcgill. Karen was sitting on my knee in the front. There was plenty of room and Karen was so slight I hardly noticed her. Del followed the directions Alex gave him through the West End driving exactly like he had the morning I'd been released from Durham. Zoom, sudden stop. Zoom, sudden stop. I thought any minute I would be sea-sick but I wasn't and in no time we were almost there.
Across the road from the arena was a crowd of fellers standing on the pavement outside a pub holding pint glasses. The instant I was recognised they began cheering and raising their glasses. It was the lads I'd seen in Great Yarmouth and Rhyl. Outside the entrance was a veritable flock of my supporters and the first to the car was Michael, Del's brother, to wish me luck. He was standing with the lads I'd seen in the front room the morning I'd seen Gerry Quality, a lifetime ago. They were all my supporters, the lot of them. Alex grabbed my kit and led the way to the dressing rooms. Two coppers on the door and then concrete floors, painted brick-walls, rickety wooden doors. Bare and austere, a typical dressing room area. I was in the middle of the left-hand side. Instead of being alone, or sharing with another boxer like I had with Dave Owens, I was swamped under people I'd never seen before. There was hardly space to undress. It was worse than a supermarket on Friday night. I didn't feel as if I was here but at home dreaming about it. The people coming and going didn't help either. They had a word with Alex, or Kenny, or somebody else, and
it was as if they were speaking through tubes, long tubes which distorted their voices.
It had to be nerves I thought, but I'd never heard of nerves causing hearing problems, and anyway I wasn't nervous. I didn't have a nerve in my body. I didn't feel anything.
Kenny rubbed vaseline into my face and shoulders talking to me all the time. For all the notice I was taking he might as well have been speaking to a side of beef in the slaughterhouse. Officials came to rubber stamp my bandages and the next thing I'm on. No warning at all. That's how I liked it. Standing in the doorway leading to the ring, waiting for the fanfare, I could see the audience sitting in rows on folding wooden chairs like cons at the weekly film. The Empire Pool, Wembley was the London version of the Blackpool side-show. Manny could have charged £50 a ticket at the theatre club no trouble if this was the alternative.
The fanfare started and the spotlight found me and the cheering began. Half-way to the ring I was drowned under the noise my sup-porters were making. They were chanting my name over and over again like Zulus preparing for battle.
When Gardener began the ceremonial walk to the ring the sound increased to swamp his supporters. My name being chanted filled the entire hall. The walls were bulging with it.
I carried the hopes of all these kids, nobody had affected them like I had. I could see them sitting in tiers high up on the far side, the lads from the Manor each with twenty of his mates, all chanting and waving, like football supporters on speed. All round the ring were friends and familiar faces.
There would be kids in prison cells all over the country tuned in now, some hoping I'd be flattened, most hoping I'd do the flattening, but all pleased they knew the feller in the news. Each and everyone would have his own tale to tell about me, some true but most bollocks. It didn't matter, I was here, and the Governor, the mad budgie Governor, who hadn't wanted to let me out, had been proved wrong. I was here at 33 years of age with twelve years in the nick behind me and I'd done a miracle.
James Brimmel was the referee, a feller who had reffed a few of my fights before. He called us into the middle of the ring to receive instructions. Gardener had calf-muscles like Mick Sellers, 23 stone
calf-muscles. It would be his normal weight if he hadn't trained, but he had because we were both exactly the same. The bell for the first round sounded and out I came ready to box his head off. No fucking about weighing him up but belt him a bit lively right in the head with my best weapon, the textbook straight left. For weeks my timing had been spot-on but now it wasn't there. I was out of range. I moved trying to adjust and get his measure thumping it out non-stop as he came bustling forward with short hooks, when suddenly I was spent. No I wasn't, how could I be? It was nerves I told myself and carried on, trying to get my distance and timing right. Once I warmed up I'd be all right, and when I had it wouldn't last two rounds.
At the end of the first, with the crowd cheering loud enough to flatten the building, I came back to my corner hardly sweating, breathing normally and absolutely knackered. All my energy had run down my legs into the street. I was drained.
'You're doing great,' Kenny chirped. 'Just keep doing what you're doing now.' It had me baffled. I'd trained with all I'd got for this kind of fight so why was I knackered? The second was a repeat of the first with me telling myself over and over again, 'When a man thinks he's spent he has 60% left,' and thinking. All the running I'd done had burnt the glycogen stored in my muscles and liver and it hadn't been replaced. My heart rate had been increased to maximum and it had never had the chance to slow down, burning energy all the time. But that couldn't possibly be right because I'd trained just as hard in the nick and I always had plenty of energy and the food was shit. No, it couldn't be that. At the end of the round the crowd raised the roof again and this time it was accompanied with stamping feet. The thing to do was stop dancing, moving, ducking and diving, and save all the energy I could. The thing to do was stay close until he'd punched himself out. Stay close bobbing and weaving until I knew what was wrong.
Half-way through the third Tommy started shouting in panic, 'Box him! Box him like you've been doing! Throw your left and box him!' In all the fights I'd had, Tommy had never opened his mouth before and now he wasn't only shouting but dressed in white and was one of my seconds. When the time was right I could dig up a half a dozen punches and win, but not yet. Gardener was too strong at the moment. He wasn't punching hard enough to hurt and he wasn't hitting me
very often for all the punches he was throwing. Tommy and Kenny were screaming for me to fight back, throw lefts, throw anything. I threw a right and missed. The pain shot up my arm into my head and I went back into a crouch. They pleaded with me at the end of the round to do something but I wasn't listening for thinking.
Manny was sitting to the side of my corner and he didn't look worried at all. Supposing now Leon had been beaten and Manny's only connection with big time boxing had been severed, he hadn't a hope of promoting me if I was the champion. It wou
ld be a waste of time waving contracts under Micky Duff's nose and Manny knew. He had his chance when this fight went out to tenders. But if I was beaten and we did start again then he would have his pension back and the side show would be back on the road.
Round five was identical to round four, with Tom and Kenny shouting hysterically. I was still feeling the same, no better, no worse, just waiting until Gardener slowed for a breather. From the rate he was working I fancied about round ten or eleven. By then I should be fully recovered. I knew now what was wrong with me. About round ten it would wear off. It had to wear off to destroy the evidence.
Round six I could feel his rhythm slowing and his punches a fraction lighter. It was the sign I'd been waiting for. Not yet though, not yet. I had to be patient and not suffer a daft cut. Tommy was still screaming like a baby in a house fire. I knew exactly what I was doing and he was spoiling my concentration. Stepping to one side with my hands protecting all the vulnerable parts I twisted from the waist until I could see him.
'Fucking shut up!' I shouted and twisted back to face Gardener. James Brimmel leapt in front, grabbed my elbow and waved his other arm to signal the fight was over.
'You've stopped me for swearing?' I couldn't believe it. He led me back to the corner and I thought it was for Tommy to give me a quick dressing down, but no, it was stopped. I'd lost on a technical knockout.
A black cloud rolled over in silence from the seats where my name had been chanted. All hope for the future had gone. No bragging they knew the champ now. It was over, the bubble had burst. I was hurried from the ring and back to the dressing room. Alex was sitting ashen-faced and silent in a corner. Kenny was fussing about trying to hide his disappointment, when Mcgill entered.
'It was the uppercut in the third,' he said quietly, full of concern
and wisdom. 'It knocked all the life from you.'
It was the injection in the arse I thought, on Manny's instructions.
'Yes Ken, maybe you're right.' I collected my holdall and left the dressing room alone. I wanted some clean air. I wasn't Peter at the stadium who had beaten himself. I wasn't afraid or ashamed, just sick. Gutted. One of these days I WOULD start the revolution and all the snides like these would be bars of soap. As usual the thought cheered me. Cath was standing opposite the entrance wearing a lovely cream outfit and matching stilletto shoes. She had tears running down her cheeks. She saw me and sobbed. She ran across the corridor to hug me fiercely, sobbing into my chest and squeezing for all she was worth. Behind her Kay was standing with her daft romantic smile and tears like Cath's. The door from the arena burst open and Del, Davy, and Ran came marching towards us looking very business like.
'It wasn't to be Brother.' Del patted my shoulder. 'But it's not the end of the world and it's time now you started some proper work. You will be needing your passport.' He looked hard at the back of Cath's head and then at me, heaved his massive shoulders, and said, 'Family!'
SYKES, Paul; b. 23 May 1946, only son of Walter Sykes and Betty Barlow, market and shop retailers, Wakefield, Yorks. Represented England and County at every amateur boxing level. Contested the British & Commonwealth Heavyweight title as a professional. Holder of Distinction and bar, Royal Life-Saving Society. Qualified football referee. Holder of the British Amateur Weightlifting Record, Deep Knee Bend 500½lb. Much travelled in the UK Prison System: 25 transfers in 20 years to three prison regions, eleven prisons and three special wings. Educ: Snapethorpe Secondary Modern, Wakefield Technical College. City & Guilds Bricklaying 1966 and 1975. BA (Physical Sciences) Open University (1982). HIS novel SWEET AGONY won an Arthur Koestler Literary Award in 1988.
