Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me

by Margaret Wentworth

  My training techniques were based on Sergeant Towie’s, a specialist in boxing and fitness-survival, an ideal combination, my model. I rebelled against him, but his ferocious dedication had come to make perfect sense, including denying oneself life’s pleasures for an end.

  On the management side I had the upfront nerve and bargaining skills, but lacked money for venues, boxer’s fees and ISD calls. I worked hard to get sponsors and media coverage, and started small, arranging fights at the Wyong Leagues or Newcastle Cardiff. Workers Clubs on the Central Coast. The owners paid the boxers. When my sons won I’d take a cut of their winnings and use it to arrange more fights. For myself, not a cracker. I’d design the hype for each fight. Each son had his own rousing music for the walk to the ring. A single spotlight lit their bright satin gowns, their names on the back, an Australian flag somewhere near. I selected Ian Batty as No. 1 corner-man, the only person allowed in the ring between rounds. Kind, strong and gentle Ian and I had worked well together in the amateur scene. He massaged the boys before the fight and took out their mouthguards, washed faces, vaselined their eyelids and attended to injuries—he was the country’s best at stopping cut eyes bleeding.

  Troy turned pro first, on an Ian Batty (Batmar) promotion in Woy Woy in late 1984, against Johnny Piggot, NSW’s tenth ranked boxer. Before the fight I took Ian to Cessnock where I hired a light plane and took him for a joy ride. At 5000 feet I pulled the power to zero so the engine just ticked over, the nose dipped and the ground rushed up. Ian went green. ‘Regarding Troy’s purse, $2,000 OK?’ ‘Yeah, that’s OK …’ The engine roared again and the plane levelled out.

  `Hit Me with Your Best Shot’ blared out of the speakers and Troy pranced in hot pink and black, jabbing provocatively. Lack of experience was his Achilles’ heel. We both knew Johnny’d knocked out his last opponent in the opening 30 seconds of Round 1 and he looked cool and confident. I said: ‘That man in the corner: he’s out to destroy your future. He stands between you and success. You can’t have any distractions.’ Troy moved out, weaving and dancing magnificently. Whenever Johnny dropped his guard, Troy came at him like lightning with left and right jabs. In Rounds 5 and 6 he unleashed his million-dollar uppercut, flooring Johnny, injuring him the second time. His handlers threw in the towel, a TKO. Troy had a 10-day holiday after that, then straight back to the grind. Four months later he KOed the experienced and heavier Shaun Grey in Round 3.

  But, as manager, I’d learned how hard it was to promote without money. Promoter Bill Break Even Mordey could open more doors faster. Mordey was a character, an ex-journalist, who drank and bet heavily—it was said he’d place bets on lamposts a dog coming to the pub would choose to lift a leg against—but powerful and influential in boxing and the media. We needed the Mordey camp.

  Guy’s debut was on a Mordey promotion. He fought the heavier Geoff The Paratrooper Peate. Guy came out in blue and white satin. He looked supremely fit but I sensed panic building inside. Guy was nervous, stayed on the ropes too long, blocking Geoff’s blows. The referee, unused to Guy’s style, stopped the fight in Round 2. He could’ve beaten Geoff, all he needed was confidence, and I found him hunched and crying, Sharon trying to comfort him. His confidence wasn’t helped by Mordey dropping him like a hot brick. ‘He’s not a crowd pleaser. I’ll see what I can do. But no promises.’ Johnny Lewis, the trainer, said Guy was not cut out to be a pro but would be a good sparring partner for his brothers. Journo Rex Mossop wrote Guy should pack it up. I countered all this negativity by reminding him he’d lost his first amateur fight and became the NSW champion. If he did what I said, I promised him he’d be pro champion of Australia within 12 fights.

  With Mordey not interested in Guy I arranged a fight with exactly what he needed, a come-forward-style boxer who couldn’t hit hard and Johnny Bogolin fitted. Guy had beaten him when Johnny was top amateur contender. A course of vitamin B steadied Guy’s nerves. The fight unfolded as I predicted. Johnny threw punches, Guy sidestepped and backed off, his rangy jab struck its mark over a tough 10 rounds, and Guy got the points.

  Mordey organised a fight for Troy at the Sydney Entertainment Centre at the back of the schedule, too late for TV coverage. Anthony Naidu was Victorian champion and in the top 10 rankings nationally, had 35 wins in 43 pro fights. Anthony was a southpaw and this phased Troy. Early in the fight, anxious to land a punch, Troy tripped and fell, but leapt up and boxed Anthony’s ears off.

  Dean’s debut two months later at Wyong Leagues Club was against Sugar Ray Wheatley, experienced and No. 4 in national ranking. Dean entered in red and white with AC/DC, his favourite group, blasting out. He stood like a bull. Within the first minute Dean’s left-right combination, and a left hook, so dazed Ray the fight was stopped. The vacant NSW heavyweight championship belt was Dean’s. He told the press: ‘I just wanted an early night.’ Ray was gracious in defeat and became my No. 2 cornerman. Ray’s a special man, an ex-alcoholic who nearly destroyed his marriage and himself—he was given the last rites in a semi-coma once—and gave up drink, became a security guard at the Marrickville RSL, surrounded by booze, never touching a drop.

  Mordey fights followed for Troy, who beat Queensland champion Graham Looker at Hordern Pavilion, Sydney, and Dean’s title defence against Fijian Maile Haumona, ex-Australian champion, which Dean won in an all-action crowd-pleasing match.

  Haumona’s manager wanted Dean to defend his title again, and I was in a position of strength, so organised a triple bill in November 1985 at the Central Coast Leagues Club before a capacity crowd. Troy and Guy would fight Tony Campbell, an experienced southpaw, and Johnny Bogolin for state titles.

  Dean won on points. Troy knocked Tony down in Round 3 after some fierce toe-to-toe encounters, and Tony’s injuries saw the referee give a TKO to Troy. Johnny fought particularly well, and it became a gruelling test of courage and stamina. Guy’s , vicious jab split Johnny’s eyelid open, but the doctor ruled it was superficial, Johnny continued his attack and the fight went 10 rounds. When the last bell sounded the crowd showered the ring with coins, $200 of them. The judges declared Guy the winner in a touch-and-go decision. The boys’ NSW titles were solid. But the coins were all the money they got. The club charged for the lighting man, sound recording and rent, things usually provided free. The wins were a thrill but the 23 rounds of stress, concern and pretence—I couldn’t let the boys see my fear—were exhausting.

  Christine was not keen on the boys turning professional; she felt it was a little bit beyond our reach. She was also concerned it would involve a lot of time away from home which would interfere with the domestic routine and horse racing. When the boys began to do well, Christine realised there was little use protesting, so got on with her own life which revolved around horses, the nursery job and other men. I knew we were slowly growing apart but didn’t know what to do about it. Christine didn’t respond to pampering and romantic attention, being far too independent and self-sufficient. She became so suspicious when I bought her a box of chocolates that I decided never to do anything out of the ordinary again.

  The Wyong track got bad when the owners renovated it, I didn’t want to train my horses there. I made a deal with Larry Pickering, a celebrated press cartoonist, who owned his own racing track at Kulnura. Larry agreed that if Christine trackworked a couple of his horses she could train our horses there too.

  Christine did an excellent job and was well ahead in the rides she had owing to her. Then she was off work for a few weeks; internal damage required a hysterectomy, perhaps relating back to the abortion. After Christine recovered and returned to do some trackwork, Larry Pickering said he didn’t need her any more and didn’t want us to train our horses on the track. Dean and I drove round to Larry’s place and I confronted him. In no uncertain terms, he told me to p___ o__. A dishonest man who swears. And in front of Dean. I cracked him with a Liverpool Kiss. Larry landed heavily on the ground. When he’d risen and dusted himself down, he threatened to get the police but never did. Pickering nev
er forgave me; he had to appear on a television panel game show sporting a well-camouflaged black eye.

  A car bumped its way down the dirt driveway and the dogs barked excitedly as they crowded around. Dids, Diana and their children, Lee and Johnny had arrived. They brought gifts and were brimming with warmth and friendliness. Dids hadn’t changed much, perhaps more of a beer belly. The same pleasant manner that had charmed many a poor victim. Diana was well groomed and had the air of a lady who had made it in society. Pity she was still living in a caravan. No amount of makeup could disguise the sour expression. She had once been so pretty.

  Dids gathered my family together and took a photograph. He seemed very interested in my boys’ success in the ring. I sniffed the rat cunning about him, but couldn’t understand what he hoped to gain from his niceness. Dids gave the impression he’d turned from villainy and was behaving himself. He’d settled into a caravan park called the Oasis on the Central Coast. They were no longer illegal immigrants; they’d received an amnesty. Dids told me that he earned his living repairing roofs and laying bitumen on driveways and private roads. I played down my scepticism and gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  I learned my sister Barbie had died in her mid-fifties, probably from her weak heart. The last time I’d seen or spoken directly with her was on her surprise visit to Strangeways Prison 35 years before. We had little in common so we’d never bothered to stay in touch.

  Barbie lived a protected sheltered life in Manchester, with only a couple of boyfriends and a short unhappy marriage. The loneliness of her existence in small rented rooms in the slums of Mosside was comforted by the social warmth of her local pub and alcohol. It had been a life without ambition, excitement and achievement, a life half-lived. Barbie’s closest and dearest companion had been our mum, so Barbie was buried in the same grave.

  Dean was the No. 1 contender for the Australian heavyweight title after only three pro fights. Champ Dave Russell had an awesome record—he’d KOed 13 men in 13 fights. Bill Mordey thought Dean too inexperienced. Besides, he wasn’t a crowd pleaser. But I thought Dean was ready and issued the challenge.

  Troy was the No. 2 light middleweight in Australia. He had the opportunity to fight Filipino Sakaoai Ve, an ex-Orient pacific champion, an exceedingly classical boxer who could well outpoint Troy in Troy’s sixth pro fight. I chose Korean In Chul Baek, the current champion. Although In Chul rated higher and was virtually a god in Seoul, Troy had a better chance against him. If Troy won, the Orient title would be his, putting him in the top 10 in the world in both the International Boxing Federation and the World Boxing Association’s eyes. IBF and WBA considerations aside, I knew the Koreans were sly and decided to play their game. On ISD to a Korean agent, I described Troy as smaller than he was, said he didn’t have a big punch—why he had no KOs, and was a southpaw. If I could con the Korean tacticians into expecting Troy to lead with his right and punch with his left when the opposite was true, it would catch them off guard, wreck their preparations, and rattle In Chul.

  Dean and Troy’s fights were on the same night in March 1986. Troy, younger and in a foreign country, needed my support most.

  A customs strike at Mascot airport meant we had to catch a later flight and we arrived in Seoul after 18 hours in the air, exhausted on the evening before the encounter. We endured a four-hour drive through mountains to the border town of Knangdiong. Knangdiong was bathed in eerie moonlight. Scrawny cats were tethered to posts awaiting slaughter. We got to our hotel room at 1 am. Cockroaches were everywhere. It was 4° C. We couldn’t shower until a man with pliers replaced missing tap knobs. There was no interpreter, so they couldn’t cook vegetarian food for us and we couldn’t eat. We shared a bed with no sheets, only blankets, and a cold sand mattress. A party started up in a room down the corridor with banging drums and singing, and it went for hours.

  The fight was in the afternoon but weigh-in was at 6 am. The room was cold and so dark we couldn’t read the scales. A Thai judge couldn’t make it—he’d only been notified the day before. Denzil Creed was the Australian judge and a nice fair man. The other two were Korean. I was getting more uncomfortable by the minute; I’d underestimated the deviousness of the organisers. Troy, jet-lagged, unrested and hungry, was to go 12 rounds at 5.30 pm with a man who’d KOed 35 opponents in 35 fights. About 2 pm Troy did get a plate of spaghetti and cheese. But there was no dressing room, just a freezing sideroom where we hunched over a single-bar radiant heater.

  Local predictions were for a Round 1 KO. When Troy stepped into the ring a sea of Asian faces boo-ed but Troy stood like a gladiator. Every time In Chul threw a punch that connected the audience banged drums. One sounded a bugle. My second was slow and couldn’t speak English, so I told him to go away and did everything myself. In Chul had five helpers in his corner—two more than allowed. His trainer gave him some powder to sniff, and one can only imagine what that would be.

  But let sportswriter Jeff Wells describe the fight:

  In reality, Troy boxed the ears off In Chul Baek for 12 rounds. Troy bamboozled him with the jab all night. At one stage In Chul Baek responded with a numbing punch to Troy’s chin. In the ninth round Troy came back and belted him across the ring with a series of mesmerising right crosses, and in the twelfth Troy knocked his mouthguard out.

  In reality, the Korean also continually aimed for Troy’s testicles, hitting there so often the inner portion of the guard between his legs fell out. The referee kicked it away. Other illegitimate punches hit Troy’s kidneys. He urinated blood for hours after the fight, and had so much kidney pain he had to be lifted on and off chairs for days. I kept screaming ‘Foul!’ but was ignored. The referee never issued a caution. The judges gave the fight to Baek 116 to 114. This was pro boxing at its dirtiest.

  The shabbiness continued. Even getting Troy a shower required hard bargaining. The promoters insisted the purse would be paid in Seoul. They put us on a packed local bus for the journey. Troy, cold, tired and in pain—and with every right to feel cheated, for we both knew he’d won that fight—huddled over and didn’t complain as we bumped our way to the capital. There, the hotel was good and we received hospitality fit for royalty. They had seen the fight on TV and recognised and respected Troy’s talent. But the purse of US$1,700 said to be waiting in Seoul was then said to be waiting for us in Australia. I refused to leave without it. It arrived 30 minutes before take-off. In Sydney fight fans were lavish in their praise of Troy’s guts and skill.

  While we bumped across Korea, the spotlight in Swan Hill, 200 kilometres north-west of Melbourne, was on another warrior-son. Two weeks before his fight, Dean had injured his right hand and had cortisone injections. But the hand hadn’t properly healed when Dean, Ian Batty and Ray Wheatley flew south. To get Dean’s full fury up I reminded him Dave The Dark Destroyer Russell worked as a slaughterman, cutting animals’ throats. Dean wouldn’t let an animal killer beat him. The destroyer shed his black gown and hood and, disrobed, looked a modern-day pirate, tattoos decorating his muscular body and shaven head. I’d predicted Dave would use his image to gain psychological advantage, so one of Dean’s cornermen sported a mohawk, tattooed biceps and carried a small samurai sword. Dean looked ferocious enough with several days growth of black stubble on his chin. His dark eyes narrowed in hatred: time to slaughter the slaughterman.

  Midway through Round 1 Dean landed a punch which cut Dave’s eye but injured his good hand. Both fists hurting, Dean backpedalled for the next nine rounds, hoping Dave would tire. It was a hard fight. The capacity crowd barracked for the Victorian. Dean’s opportunity came in Round 10. Dave momentarily let his defences down. Without hesitation Dean let a powerful right cross fly that sent Dave to the canvas. KO. The home crowd was stunned, then hostile. Dean and his entourage needed a police escort to the dressing room. The fight showed Dean at his best, utilising his stubborn unyielding doggedness and patience. He was Australian and Orient Pacific heavyweight champion.

  Back home there was rebellion. The boys
insisted I was pushing them too hard and objected to training six days a week. I told them Mike Tyson did seven. But they all dug in, so I stretched the rules and gave them Wednesday off. It gave them more time with their girlfriends. I regretted it. Guy was showing more interest in Sharon than boxing. Seeing Kelly every Friday night was not sufficient to satisfy the needs of a 21 year old and Dean asked if Kelly could come and stay with us, as she was being given a hard time at home. I flatly refused. We had firm rules regarding women. Dean dug his heels in. We had a major complication and I didn’t know how to resolve it.

  27 Hey! Tyson! Yes, You!

  … we want three gold medals on this trip. Go in there and fight like you’ve never fought in your lives—and win!

  Ces Waters to his sons

  No-one has any idea what goes through my mind from when the bell opens Round 1. Have I done everything to prepare my boxers for this? Then the father would take over. Although I’d trained their defences to avoid injury or defeat I’d wince when fists thudded into my sons’ flesh and bone. Adrenalin surges made my heart beat wildly and my mouth go dry, exciting but hell. At the bell signalling the end of a round the trainer, tactician and cornerman took over. The last clang brought immense relief and release. Then it was all smiles for the chat with the media. But, win or lose, at home there was always a pricked balloon feeling, a let down that left me tired and weak for days. I hated boxing as much as I loved it. And I’d return to the one thing I could do to cut the odds of harm while boosting the odds making their dreams come true: 100 per cent focus. That meant surfing, motor-bike riding and risky manual labour were out and if that irked, so be it.