The Fighter

by Arnold Zable

  Mick got on with it. ‘That’s what you do. Work. Seize your chances.’ He rented one of the upstairs rooms to a baccarat school. The room was big enough to accommodate a good few players around the card tables, and as a bonus there was enough space for a game of two-up.

  Gambling was good business. Mick set himself up as an SP bookie in the back lane, and had his son keep a look out. Young Peter stood on the steps by the lane entrance where he had a clear view of Canning and Amess Streets, and he perfected the art of appearing nonchalant.

  The gamblers congregated by the wall round the back of the house, behind the gym. They milled about, eyes fixed on newspaper racing guides. Exchanging tips, vouching for their insights, and bragging about inside information. They were in it as much for the company as for the dreams of quick riches.

  The odds were rung through by a contact who obtained them from a secret place in town—somewhere opposite the Queen Vic Hospital—then travelled a circuitous route to Mick’s back lane. Mick listed the prices, collected the bets, and marked them on a sheet of paper.

  He handed them up to Freddy ‘the Pencilman’, through the toilet window. Mick removed the louvres before each session, and the Pencilman sat on a chair that stood on a table straddling the toilet bowl. Freddy scribbled the names and bets in a notebook, and he kept an eye on the proceedings, his head framed by the window.

  At the slightest sign something might be up, Peter rang a bell attached to the door against which he was leaning. Within seconds the toilet window was shut, the cash hidden and the lane emptied. Peter received two and sixpence for his troubles.

  When the gamblers were sprung, the police went through the motions: token arrests, a fine, or half-hearted warnings. A cut of the take and that was it, the cops were happy. They let them be. The gambling restarted and the lists of names in the Pencilman’s notebook grew longer.

  Mick made enough money in one five-week streak to buy the two-storey terrace outright. He upgraded from a Crown station wagon to a brand-new cream-and-gold Ford ’56 Custom-line. Peter was delegated to wash it. He wiped down the seats and kept the duco polished.

  But the sharpening business remained the main game. Passed down from father to son, it was a dependable way to make a living.

  Never one for a backward step, Mick took to importing shears and scissors from the US, Mexico and Germany, and from the home of steel, Sheffield, and selling them to retailers and wholesalers. The rooms and passages at 166 Amess Street were stacked with cartons.

  No matter how busy things got, Mick looked after Peter. The boy did the cooking: rump steak and salads, the occasional topside. He did the cleaning and looked after his dad’s cars with the loving care of a strapper attending prize racehorses.

  At fifteen, Peter took up wrestling. He did eighteen months of one-armed combat at Weber and Rice’s gym in Bourke Street, before moving on to the Victorian Railways Institute’s gym in Flinders Street. He won a state junior title. Then he switched to boxing. He was a strong kid. Mick took on his training when Peter declared he intended to enter a golden gloves tournament.

  Mick trained him in the upstairs room, and then he converted the garage into a gym. He had done a bit of boxing but had never competed. So what? He went around to the gyms, observed the trainers, and put himself through a few punches.

  He was a quick learner and he understood what counted: relentless training, day after day, and fast punching—if you can’t punch fast, you can’t punch hard, can’t have one without the other. And above all a fierce desire to win. Willpower. Mick’s regime was good enough for his son to win the state amateur middleweight title in his third fight and, in the following year, at eighteen, good enough to earn him a place in the 1956 Melbourne Olympics.

  In his first Olympic bout, he drew the undefeated Puerto Rican, Jose Torres, a seasoned veteran. Peter would get mauled, predicted the experts. True to expectations, Torres floored him in the first minute, with a savage right to the back of the head, a curving haymaker. Peter didn’t see it coming. He crashed face first onto the deck. He hauled himself up and buried his head in Torres’ chest, and kept it glued there till the bell saved him.

  Between rounds he listened intently to his trainer’s instructions. He had one of the best: Ambrose Palmer. ‘Stay close to him,’ Ambrose said. ‘Nullify his reach. Go under his punches.’ Peter returned to the ring a different fighter. He stepped up close and ducked under Torres’ punches, then stepped back out of the range of the superior reach and firepower. He remained an elusive target.

  He lost the fight but, by the end, there wasn’t much in it. Peter was a champ in the making, said the pundits. He was quick on the uptake. The experience he gained from each fight was a springboard for the next one.

  He turned pro at twenty-one, and within two years he was the state middleweight pro champion. He won the bulk of his fights with a clear knockout. He loved nothing better than cleaning up an opponent with a haymaker. Ah, to take them out with that one crisp punch made life worth living.

  He won the Australian middleweight title on his second attempt. He had learnt his lesson. One lapse in concentration and you were gone. As a five-foot-six middleweight he usually faced taller opponents. But what he lacked in height and reach, he made up for in speed and stamina; and he loved the training, and loved tracking his progress.

  He weighed himself before each session and after it. He celebrated each pound shed. He took pleasure in being lean and light. He ran the Princes Park–cemetery circuit each morning, and relished his increasing fitness. And he went at it toe-to-toe with his father.

  The two of them in the gym, father and son slugging it out, boxing each other ragged. Full-blooded body punches. No holding back. Breath echoing breath: to a rhythm marked by the thud of glove and the thwack of leather. Two men in harness: a kind of loving, a fierce competing.

  No giving ground. No compromise. Pressure training. Five, six rounds at breakneck intensity, quality over quantity. Timing over blind punching. Old Mick was protected by body shields: a sheet of masonite between the chest and singlet, and a thick upper-body vest that took the edge off the punches. When that was over, Peter pounded a medicine ball held against Mick’s chest, and then a cowhide bag stuffed tight with clothes.

  There were some in the boxing fraternity who dismissed Peter as a backyard chancer, trained by an outsider. The Reads were proving them wrong. Father and son were united in their desire to triumph. Winning was what it was about, and intimate one-on-one training was the foundation.

  Peter loved it. The routine. The habit. Climbing those final three steps to the ring and slipping through the ropes, high on the anticipation. He longed for the clean knockout. That’s what the patrons were there for, that moment when it all breaks loose. This is what keeps the punters coming, he says, to this day, the chance of seeing a fighter out for the count—the knockout blow: a moment of raw beauty, a carnal elegance.

  Peter won his final fight in Auckland. He took the points in every round, and was poised for a rapid rise. His fortunes were on the up. His most recent fight was his best to date. He had taken it to a higher level. The Commonwealth belt was within reach and, with that, the possibility of even greater glories.

  He didn’t see it coming. That’s how it always is, he says. He shrugs, purses his lips. It still rankles. He was sharpening a guillotine. A sliver of steel flew up and lodged in his right eye, sharp as a scorpion sting. The pain was agony. Real pain, he says. You don’t know it until you have it.

  That was it. Peter retired. He put the accident behind him, and transitioned from boxer to trainer. He took on the Nissen twins eight months later. Peter and Mick didn’t charge a fee. They trained the boys for the love of it, and for the rekindled dream of victories. If a kid turned pro and won a fight, the Reads got twenty-five per cent of the take, to cover expenses.

  They took on just a handful of boys, the ones they figured had what it took. And they put to the test their tried method: pre-dawn runs, then back to the Reads
’ backyard gym and their personal one-on-one attention.

  Peter’s wife Merle was part of it. She greeted the boys with a hug and fed them, and bought them their boxing boots when they couldn’t afford them. She looked after them when they stayed over. Practical love, maternal affection. A mother’s touch returned to the terraced house after decades of absence.

  So it progressed, day after day, year after year, life lived by the Read ethos. Don’t look back. What good can come of it? Make light of it. Dismiss thoughts that can bring you down. Keep your wits about you, and hang on in the clinches. Don’t be afraid of getting hurt. Hit back. Fend for yourself, and you’ll never be short of a quid.

  It was the family credo. Practised by the father, passed to the son, and on to their charges. Take care of business. Hone the blades razor sharp. Open up new outlets. Return to the gym after work and give instructions. A punch is coming at you? Keep your balance. Duck and feint, bob and parry. Be alert. Keep moving. Gargle between rounds; spit out the water. One errant thought and you’re done for. Have faith in your hours of training. Keep them guessing. Be a dancer.

  *

  Old Mick was a dancer. He never remarried, but there was always a lady friend to escort to a ballroom. He knew them all: the Lonely Hearts Club, the Trocadero, the Ziegfeld Palais, and the Victoria Racing Institute Ballroom above Flinders Street Station.

  He loved making an entrance. The old man had style. He kept himself lean and his posture upright. In his sixties he retained his sharp angular features, a rugged, sculpted face, and an ample head of hair, combed back in a cresting wave as it had been since he was a teenager.

  And he dressed grand. He owned seven suits. He had sought out reputable tailors to make them up for him: smart modish jackets with three-and-a-half-inch lapels, no skimping. The continental look, custom made for ease of movement. He took time deciding which suit was right for each particular occasion.

  Tonight he goes for the white tuxedo with a black tie, a white shirt and silver cuff links. His shoes are perfectly polished. His hair is slicked back with Californian Poppy. He loves the fit of the trousers. He runs his hand over the fine wool. He appreciates what good tailoring can provide: the feel of the jacket slipping on effortlessly. Just one slight shrug of the shoulders and it sits perfectly.

  In dancing he is as methodical as he is in all things athletic. He took it up in earnest in his sixties. He had lessons. He was a natural, but he knew the value of technique, and of expert training. He did not dance the Pride of Erin or the circular waltz—they’re too effeminate for his liking. He loved slow fox trots, the quickstep, cha-chas, tangos and rumbas, and the modern waltz, his favourite.

  Like boxing, dancing demands deft footwork, and a sense of timing. The ballroom is an arena, the dancers the contenders, and Mick is a fierce competitor. He has retained the hunger. Dancing is a test of physical prowess. It’s both pastime and contest.

  Old Mick is in training, attending lessons from the best teachers, refining his skills. Collecting records. Dancing to them as he practises in the upstairs room. Studying his moves in front of full-length mirrors. Taking home sashes and trophies. Getting on with it.

  22

  Half a lifetime later, Henry too is getting on with it. He has the keys to the city. Doors open for him. Doormen wave him through after a quick catch-up. He is at the MCG attending a sportsmen’s dinner and signing photos to be auctioned for charity. He is mingling with elite footballers. They are pleased to see him. They clap him on the back, the little goer.

  He is back on the move, north to an ex-boxers’ gathering. The fraternity is raising funds for a bronze statue of former world champ Johnny Famechon. They are looking out for one of their favourite sons, according him due recognition. Sticking by him after an accident that has severely impeded his movement.

  Henry signs his picture, one of several among the framed photos lined up for a silent auction. Montages of boxers caught in their finest moments: the knockout punch, the moment of triumph. Victors carried on waves of adulation, on the shoulders of supporters, holding up trophies, waists garlanded with title belts. Full-length portraits of old legends in tights and runners so light they resemble ballet shoes. Posters of ‘moderns’ in black lace-up boots with whiter-than-white laces, posed in classic stances, neat, sweatless, with hair slicked back, fists up and best foot forward: a choreography of grace and determination. Among them is a poster of Henry Nissen in his prime: Empire title belt round his waist, a Star of David on his white silk shorts. His eyebrows arched, and his gaze direct. Focused.

  The next day he is off again. The yellow Hyundai flies along Nepean Highway. He’s on the road early to attend court. This morning it’s Broadmeadows, an hour’s drive from his home in Bentleigh.

  He arrives before the procedures open, and stands on the footpath, sipping coffee. He coaches the defendant on the art of composure. He puts an arm around her distraught mother. Then he sits through the interminable hearing in a windowless room. Unadorned. Functional. Stripped to the essentials.

  The magistrate peers down from the bench. She glances at the submissions, and listens intently to police reports and cross-examinations. Henry sits by the defendant, waiting for his moment. When it finally arrives he steps up to the box.

  He is here to provide a character reference. He explains the circumstances. He has known the young woman’s family since before she was born. He knew her father, first met him when he was a street boy. He witnessed his progression in and out of prison, his ebbs and flows, his addictions. He has kept in touch over the years. He has known his daughter since she was a baby. He has seen her grow up.

  He is pleading her case. Giving it all he’s got. He’s in there, fighting. He knows the stakes, knows that her future is in the balance. ‘She’s been a loyal daughter,’ he says. ‘She looks after her sick mother. She takes care of the younger children. She is a loving, caring person, Your Honour, the backbone of the family. She was desperate to make ends meet and got caught up in her elder brother’s activities.

  ‘She wants to make amends. She’s going to turn over a new leaf. She has prospects for employment. The family would fall apart without her presence. She deserves a break, Your Honour. It would be a tragedy to have her imprisoned, a lifelong cross for her to bear if she’s tainted by a conviction.’

  The court is in recess; the magistrate is deliberating. The scales of justice are precariously balanced. The family waits in the foyer. The defendant is nervous. She is waiting for the call back to the court. She holds her sister-in-law’s baby, taking comfort.

  They file back in, and fifteen minutes later Henry is making his way to the parking lot. Relieved. Exultant. It was the best possible verdict: a suspended fine, no criminal conviction recorded. Henry does not dwell on it. He is back on the move, driving back across the city to South Melbourne.

  He is doing the rounds on Dorcas Street, talking with the old folk seated on wooden benches in the sun, beneath the public housing towers. He goes up with them to their flats and makes a note of what they need.

  He dashes back to the car, and he’s off to a rooming house in St Kilda. He pulls up on a side street and gets out to a stiff sea breeze. He walks round the corner, hurries up the steps of the three-storey building and is buzzed into the foyer.

  R is waiting.

  He is tall and lanky, with a dark complexion. He wears tight-fitting black jeans, a khaki army jacket and a pair of black runners. His face is all but concealed by the brim of a baseball cap, tilted over his forehead at a sharp angle.

  ‘How long’ve you been back in town?’ says Henry.

  ‘Four or five months,’ R answers. He shifts nervously from foot to foot, rocking left to right, right to left. His eyes are pinned, and glazed over. He towers above Henry, and bends down over him.

  R’s need to get close is urgent. Now that Henry is here, he must seize his chance. Take full advantage. He is governed by instinct. Street logic. He has Henry cornered.

  Henry stands h
is ground. He has been in this situation many times. He too is governed by instinct. He knows the drill. He has decades of experience.

  ‘I’m on methadone,’ says R. ‘In rehab, kicking the habit.’

  ‘Good on ya,’ says Henry.

  ‘Got a court case coming up.’ He pauses. Moves his face closer.

  ‘You gotta be there, Henry. You gotta be there.’

  He speaks in a harsh whisper. Conspiratorially. He is oblivious to the comings and goings around him, the constant movement. The doorbell rings incessantly. Residents hang around the foyer. They sit against the walls and linger in the corridors. They pace the worn carpets, and stand on the lower parts of the stairway, elbows propped on the banisters. They hover outside the office, circling warmth, pursuing their craving for human contact, and a need to assuage their restlessness, the infernal boredom.

  Now that R has got Henry’s attention, he is not going to lose it. He will not let go until he is certain Henry will help him.

  ‘You gotta be there,’ he says. There is an edge of rage in his voice. Desperation.

  Henry remains steady.

  He takes out his pocket diary and the stub of a pencil. He enters details: the Magistrates’ Court, familiar territory.

  ‘It’s in the book,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry.’

  R stays in close, menacing. He views the world with suspicion; either threaten or be threatened. He is tightly wound. He can go off at any second. He is oblivious to the world around him. He sways on his feet, contemplating his options. He thinks for a long while, and moves further forward. Henry arches his back, but his feet remain planted. R puts a hand to his chin. Grits his teeth. Calculates.

  Then, abruptly, he backs off.

  Henry straightens up, released from the tension.

  ‘I’ve got the willpower,’ R says.

  He is lighter, calmer now that the business is concluded. He too is released from the tension. He shows Henry his rooms. They are on the ground floor, just off the foyer. The door opens directly onto a tiny bedroom, separated from the living room by a partition of wood panelling. A double bed and a wardrobe take up almost all the space. The living room is furnished with worn sofas and four chairs, pulled up against a coffee table. The room smells of the stale wine and tobacco of many decades of troubled residents.