by Peter Corris
‘Good to see you again, Cliff.’
We shook. ‘Hello, Roy. Nice spot you’ve got here.’
We were standing outside a big house set back a few streets from the beach. Belfast and Spargo had been sitting on deck chairs on the front verandah and had come down the path towards the gate. Spargo looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Yeah, well, we’ve got the back bit.’
Nothing could detract from the good weather and the pleasure of the beach, but Roy Belfast’s training camp didn’t inspire confidence. The ‘gym’ was an old hall temporarily fitted out with boxing equipment that had seen better days. The ‘flat’ was the back half of the big house, a series of lean-tos with small windows and an outside dunny. Against that, morale was high and there were lots of places for Belfast to run and train out of doors.
Roy and Jack Spargo shared a bedroom, I had another room and Rhys Dixon, the sparring partner, slept on a couch in the sitting room. The place was cramped but friendly. We did the usual things—watched TV, played cards and talked boxing. I spent a bit of time on the phone talking to journalists and arranging interviews and photograph sessions. I intercepted some phone calls and pamphlets from an anti-boxing and blood sports group. It wasn’t anything a fifty-kilo eighteen-year-old from the Receptionist Centre couldn’t have done.
Belfast was sharp in training. He was a tiger for roadwork and delighted in making Jack puff as he tried to keep up on his old hub-geared bike. Sometimes Belfast ran ten or twelve kilometres; I’d run the first three and wait for him and run back. Spargo showed a few videos of Tikopia’s fights; if I’d had to fight him I would probably have run the whole twelve kilometres.
Belfast was calm and good-natured most of the time. He put a lot into his sparring sessions with Dixon though, and I thought about that British medical report when I saw Rhys go down after a heavy right, headgear and all. Belfast apologised and helped him up.
‘Sorry, Rhys.’
‘For what? I slipped.’
One of Spargo’s training innovations was beach sparring. He made Belfast wear heavy boots while Rhys jumped around him barefoot. The sand got cut up and Roy had to labour to move his feet and keep his balance. I took a turn at it; Belfast went easy with me but I could sense the strength in his legs and the weight he could have put into his punches with those heavy shoulders. After ten minutes I collapsed, winded.
Belfast grinned. ‘You lose if you go down without being hit, Cliff.’
‘I’m buggered.’
‘Too much wine and sitting about.’
‘Wait till you’re forty plus, sport.’
‘When I’m forty I’ll have a string of video shops and be sitting pretty.’
‘I hope so, Roy,’ I said.
Spargo and Dixon were walking back along the beach towards the car. Belfast pulled off his T-shirt and boots. ‘Come for a swim,’ he said. ‘Give me a chance to have a word with you without Jack around.’
We hit the water together and swam out a hundred metres. Belfast had a hard, chopping stroke, not stylish, but effective. We floated in calm water out beyond the gentle breakers.
‘Reckon you’re earning your money, Cliff?’
‘No.’
‘You will.’
‘How’s that, Roy?’
‘Some Enzedders’ll be showing up soon. They’ve got some funny ideas.’ He turned his head, took a mouthful of water and expelled it upwards like a whale, except that his body wasn’t rounded; it showed flat and hard on the top of the water. I didn’t say anything.
‘They’re coming to check on their investment. When they see the training I’m doing they might want to make certain points.’
‘Come on, Roy. I know you’ve been to college but this is too subtle to make sense.’
He turned over and trod water. He paddled close to me and put his head a few centimetres from mine. ‘That’s all I want to say. You’re working for me and your money comes out of my purse. Right?’
I nodded, as well as you can nod when treading water.
‘Everything’ll be okay if you just do as I say. When I give the word certain people will be unwelcome. Clear?’
‘We’ll see,’ I said. Belfast swam off, caught a wave and rode it in. It took me three tries to get one—thinking and surfing don’t go well together. I wasn’t surprised that there was some funny business about the fight. Fights are like horse races—some of them are honest and the trick is to know which ones. But I was still finding Roy Belfast impressive and there was one big point in his favour: no one who intended to throw a fight would train the way he was.
The visitors came the next day, one week before the fight. One was a small, nuggetty guy about jockey-sized, the other was tall, pale and lantern-jawed. Roy and Rhys were working out on the heavy bag when they walked into the gym. Spargo was forcing the stuffing back into a battered medicine ball; I was riding an exercise bike set on EASY. I got off the bike and moved across to block their path towards Spargo.
‘Morning, gents.’
‘Morning,’ the small one said. ‘I’m Tim Johnson, here to see Mr Spargo.’ He pronounced his name ‘Tuhm’—his NZ accent was as thick as pea soup.
‘It’s all right, Cliff, it’s in the contract,’ Spargo said. ‘Both camps can send a representative to a training session.’
‘Right,’ Johnson said.
‘I’m Cliff Hardy. Would have been polite to phone,’ I grumbled.
Johnson ignored that. ‘This is Lofty Sargent.’ He nodded at his big mate. Lofty nodded too which brought his chin down about level with my head. ‘Well, how’s the boy?’ Johnson glanced across at Roy and Rhys. ‘’Cept he’s no boy, is he? Thirty-three?’
‘Thirty-one,’ Spargo said, ‘younger’n Ali when he beat Foreman. He’s in top shape. See for y’self.’
Johnson lit a cigarette and sauntered across towards the heavy bag. He watched Roy throw a few punches and puffed on his smoke. Belfast put a short right into the bag, spun on his heel and plucked the cigarette from Johnson’s mouth.
‘Not here, mate, if you don’t mind.’ He stepped on the butt and threw another punch. Johnson didn’t like it but he didn’t say anything. He and Lofty watched Roy and Rhys spar for three rounds; his hands moved towards his cigarettes a few times but he checked the movement. Roy gave it everything he had and Rhys just managed to stay on his feet. Spargo was surprised; I was surprised and Rhys was surprised, but that was nothing to Johnson’s reaction. He winced as Roy’s punches landed and muttered under his breath. I worked the corner and after the second round Roy spoke around his mouthguard as I sponged him off. ‘Johnson’ll want to talk to you. All you have to do is act dumb.’
‘I feel dumb,’ I said. ‘What is this? You practically put Rhys through the ropes.’
Spargo was in Rhys’ corner. ‘How’re the hands, Roy?’ he barked.
Belfast’s voice was louder than it needed to be. ‘Like rocks.’ He boxed his way ‘Gentleman Jim’ style through the third and went off to shower.
Spargo winked at Johnson. ‘I’ll be over to see your bloke tomorrow.’
Johnson didn’t reply and Lofty maintained his policy of strict silence. They left. Roy fell into an intense talk on tactics with Spargo and Rhys which left me nothing to do but wander out of the hall into the sunshine. I hadn’t gone twenty metres down the quiet street before a car pulled up and Lofty bounded out to stand in front of me. He cast a big shadow. Johnson got out of the car and stood behind me.
‘Why don’t we go for a little ride, Hardy?’ Johnson said. ‘Bit of a talk.’
It wasn’t a time for heroics; I whipped around and jumped at Johnson. I grabbed his arms, spun him clockwise and pushed them up his back towards his thin, wrinkled neck. He resisted and he was strong for a small man, but I had the weight and the leverage on him. I pressed him back against the car, hard. ‘Back off, Lofty,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll break his arms.’ I rammed the right arm a few centimetres higher. ‘I noticed you were a southpaw, Timmo, so I’ll bust this one first, Okay?�
�
‘Easy, Lofty,’ Johnson said. ‘No need for this, Hardy.’
‘Tell Lofty to go for a drive then. He can drive, can’t he?’
‘It’s one of the things he does good. Another one’d be to push your bloody face in.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ I said. ‘Send him for cigarettes and we’ll talk.’
Johnson jerked his head at Lofty. The giant had been edging closer and I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d decided that Johnson’s arms didn’t matter. He opened the car door; I pulled Johnson away. Lofty’s face was expressionless.
‘Be on the other side of the street in twenty minutes,’ I said.
‘I don’t like you. You’re a smart Aussie shuht.’ Lofty had an accent like Johnson’s; he got into the driver’s seat and spoke through the open window.
‘That’s a puhty,’ I said. ‘I was looking forward to us being great mates. Like fuhsh an’ chuhps.’
Lofty started the motor and drove off with a squeal of tyres. I eased the pressure on Johnson’s arms slowly, watching his feet for any sneaky moves. He rubbed his elbows and massaged his wrists. ‘Now I see what your job is,’ he said. ‘Sorta like mine.’
‘I doubt it. You wanted to talk?’
‘Is Belfast showing off or what?’
‘You’re talking, I’m listening.’
‘He hasn’t got any crazy idea about beating Tikopia, has he?’ Johnson flexed his fingers and reached into his coat pocket for his cigarettes. He lit up and blew smoke away from me.
‘He’s in it to win it as far as I know.’
‘That’s crazy. He hasn’t got a chance.’
‘So, what’s your problem?’
‘I should’ve said not much of a chance.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t say anything. Maybe you should just piss off.’
‘Yeah. But you might give Belfast a bit of advice, a message like.’ He took a drag on his cigarette and picked his words carefully. ‘We want a good fight. Just tell ’um that. We want a good fight.’ He turned and walked across the street.
Later, back at the flat, I got a chance to talk to Belfast alone. He was doing something you rarely see a fighter do—reading a book. ‘Tim Johnson left you a message,’ I said.
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘Said to tell you they want a good fight.’
‘Don’t we all.’
‘Come on, Roy.’ He kept his big, plain face impassive and looked at me. It was a strange moment; a lot of my time is spent in getting people to talk. Sometimes they want to, sometimes they don’t. When they don’t you have to charm them or intimidate them. I didn’t think either technique would work with Roy Belfast. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Roy. I’m not the White Knight, I’m not going to ask for a Royal Commission. Is it a fix?’
‘Keep y’voice down, d’you want Jack to hear? He won’t even use the word fix to talk about mending something. D’you really think I’d train like this just to go into the tank?’
I shook my head. Roy punched me on the shoulder; maybe just to be friendly, maybe not. The shape of the bruise might tell me. ‘Trust your instincts, Cliff,’ he said. ‘Ever study accountancy?’
‘Christ, no.’
He picked up his texbook and turned a page. ‘It’s interesting. More interesting than boxing.’
A few days later Spargo announced that he was going to town to watch Tikopia train. Neither Roy nor Rhys was interested but Roy insisted that I accompany Jack.
‘What should I watch out for?’ I said. ‘Propositions or pick handles?’
‘Hospitality,’ Roy said. ‘You noticed there was no grog up here?’
I had noticed, in fact I’d formed the habit of going to the pub for a couple of quiet glasses in the evening. ‘I thought that was standard.’
‘It’s not for my benefit, I never touch it. Keep an eye on Jack; if he starts drinking he’s likely to do something foolish. Keep Johnson away from him.’
‘How am I going to do that? It’s a free country.’
Roy’s face became super-serious. ‘Have you got a gun?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take it with you—Johnson might need reminding it’s a free country.’
Tikopia was training at Billy Groom’s in Chippendale. I drove down with Jack and parked the Falcon outside the gym. I glanced up and down the street in case Lofty was hiding behind a cement truck.
‘You look edgy, Cliff,’ Spargo said as we got out of the car. ‘What’s the matter? We’re bloody invited.’
I thought about questioning Spargo on a few points of detail about the fight but I decided against it. I realised that I had confidence in Roy Belfast which is an unusual thing to be able to say of a boxer except about the few specific things he can do in the ring. We went up two flights to the gym which was a first class set-up: the equipment was new; the ropes to the ring were white and taut, not the grey sagging things they become when men’s sweaty backs have rubbed along them for a while.
Tikopia was in the ring sparring with a light-coloured Aborigine who did nothing aggressive. Spargo stood off and watched for a minute before going over to join three men by the ring. One was Johnson; one was Col Marriott, the promoter; the other I didn’t know. Marriott made the introductions; the third man was Reg Warner, Tikopia’s trainer. He and Spargo shook hands.
‘Should be a good night,’ Warner said.
‘Good gate, considering we’ve got the TV.’ Marriott looked warily at me and Johnson. We stood by, strong and silent. I wondered where Lofty was.
Tikopia and his sparring partner circled the ring. The Aborigine jabbed, back-pedalled and weaved; Tikopia stalked him, trying to catch him in a corner or against the ropes. He succeeded enough for Warner to nod happily. When he had the range Tikopia got in some head and body punches. Smart stuff. Johnson sidled up beside me. ‘Feelin’ tough today, Hardy?’
I opened my denim jacket enough to let him see the Smith & Wesson in its holster. ‘No, bit fragile as a matter of fact.’
‘Give Belfast the message?’
‘Yeah. I’m wondering if I should mention it to Warner and Marriott.’
‘Mention what? They wouldn’t know what you was talkin’ about.’ He moved away. I sat down next to Spargo who was gazing at the spar intently.
‘He’s quick,’ he said. ‘Thirteen and a half stone, d’y’reckon?’
I shrugged. ‘Not more. The other bloke’s not trying.’ Just then Tikopia brushed aside a left lead, moved in close and thumped the Aborigine in the ribs. He grunted and tried to cover up; Tikopia hit him with a right. The Aborigine tried a flurry of punches which Tikopia walked through. He banged in a solid rip to the mid-section which brought his opponent’s glove down, then Tikopia let go a sharp left hook which he halted just a centimetre from the unprotected jaw. He gripped the Aborigine’s head between his gloves and laughed.
‘Had you then, brother,’ he said thickly through the mouthguard.
Warner grinned and threw the towel into the ring. Everyone laughed except Jack Spargo.
Spargo, who was never loquacious, was quieter than ever on the drive north. We were near Woy Woy when he snapped his fingers. ‘Knew I’d seen that bloke before,’ he said. ‘He was riding in Sydney in 1980 and got rubbed out for ten years. Don’t think his name was Johnson though.’
I grunted and moved out around a semi. ‘What’s the betting on the fight, Jack?’
‘Varies. I got threes.’
‘Who on?’
He almost dislocated his neck turning it to look at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I said.’
‘I never bet against one a me own fighters in me life. Well, only once.’
‘How was that?’
‘Clever bastard, thought he was. I knew he was gonna dive and he didn’t know I knew. I did it to teach him a lesson.’
‘Did he learn it?’
‘No, he didn’t. Roy’s straight, Cliff. You know that.’
‘Yeah. So where does this Johnso
n fit in?’
‘Search me. All I know is, Roy’ll be trying like he always has.’
‘I’ll worry about Johnson then,’ I said. ‘You can tell Roy what to do about those rips when he’s on the ropes.’
Spargo didn’t say anything but his face set into lines of concentration like a chess master’s.
Roy had three more days to train, then he’d ease up and just keep loose for twenty-four hours before the fight. In the closing days he took care to run on flat surfaces, avoiding the cambered beach or anything else that might injure his ankles; Spargo was specially careful with the hand bandages and the adjustment of the headgear. The caution irritated the risk-taker in Belfast, but the accountant in him saw the necessity.
Rhys Dixon had some acting talent, like a lot of Welshmen, and he could play Tikopia’s part in the ring well enough. Spargo worked out a manoeuvre whereby Roy, as soon as he felt the ropes at his back, side-stepped fast away from a left rip, claimed and threw a jolting left into Rhys’ unprotected ribs. After a few sessions Dixon’s side was sore and bruised. He wore the bruise like a medal. ‘That’s a sweet move,’ he said.
A few reporters showed up, more than I expected. It was a dull time in the sports calendar so interest in the fight was unnaturally high. Roy picked up a few bucks doing a photo ad for a light beer. Spargo fretted at the amount of time he had to spend standing still but Belfast took it with good humour. I intercepted a phone call from Johnson.
‘He’s in the middle of a couple of hundred pushups,’ I said. ‘It’s not convenient.’
‘You’re a smart-arse,’ Johnson said. ‘I hope he isn’t.’
I was being well paid to get a suntan, lose weight, put a double nelson on a jockey and be a smart arse.
Belfast was booked into a motel near Hyde Park. On the drive down I asked him if there was anything special he wanted me to do. He glanced at Spargo who was asleep in the back seat; Roy had slept like a child the night before, Spargo hardly at all.
‘You’ll be in the corner. Just do everything Jack says then and stick close to me after the finish.’ He blinked a few times and rubbed his hand over his gingery three-day growth. ‘You talk to Tikopia at all?’
