Faded Glory

by David Essex

  “I thought it was never going to happen.”

  “I think I did too.”

  “So are you gonna shape up?” Patsy said, his eyes hard. “Pull yourself together, train hard?”

  “I’m gonna try,” said Danny, nodding. “I’m gonna try.”

  “Tomorrow at ten?”

  “Tomorrow at ten.”

  Patsy shut himself in his office as Danny went down the stairs again. Lenny was at the bar.

  “Now where have you been?” Lenny shouted, coming over to Danny to shake his hand. “Such a long time! Good to see you, Danny, you lost a little weight. Hey man, you got cold hands. Cold hands, warm heart.”

  “Warm heart?” Danny said wearily. “Not at the moment. See you around, Lenny.” And he nodded a goodbye to Albert and left.

  *

  The Livermore weigh-in was a week before the fight. Danny caught the train to Manchester along with his entourage: Patsy, Costa and Cohen. Instead of his customary tracksuit, Patsy had a grey tweed suit on and, with a nod to Ireland, a green tie. Danny had got ready with Wendy’s words in his head: to be a champ, you have to look like a champ. So he was wearing a Prince of Wales check suit and an open-neck sky-blue shirt. Costa and Cohen were immaculate as usual, in mohair.

  As the train rumbled north, the excitement and nerves began making themselves felt. Danny took a few vitamins to steady himself. Costa, full of the white powder, never stopped talking.

  “You take a break, a holiday, when you win this fight, Danny. Go to my house in Cyprus. You don’t have to worry about the Turkish trouble, you and the family will be happy and safe.”

  Danny just nodded.

  He looked out the window as the train passed towns he had never heard of. He looked at the back gardens and houses alongside the track and wondered what the people inside did, what their lives were like, what secrets lay behind their back doors.

  Costa kept on talking. “We’re getting a lot of famous people at the club these days. One night we thought Frank Sinatra was coming but he didn’t.”

  Danny tried to look like he was listening to Costa’s endless chat. His mood swings had been getting worse lately, along with the hot and cold sweats that accompanied them. He could be happy and then, in a second, depressed and short-tempered. Wendy had suffered the changes like a saint to begin with, making excuses for Danny that he was anxious and nervous about the big fight on the horizon. Not any more.

  Danny didn’t want to think about Wendy.

  The train finally pulled into Piccadilly station.

  “Why is it called Piccadilly?” asked Danny, rousing himself. “Piccadilly is in London.”

  “They’re copy cats,” was Patsy’s view.

  “So where we off to, Jack?” asked Danny as Cohen hailed a taxi.

  “Same place as the fight,” said Cohen. “Free Trade Hall.”

  Patsy launched into a local history of boxing as they drove through the strange, wet streets of Manchester.

  “Boxing in the late fifties was in the doldrums here in Manchester. But thanks to fighters like Billy Livermore, nowadays it’s become quite a force. Loads of boxing cubs up here are actively engaging the kids.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, anything north of Manchester is whippets, strange accents and flat caps,” said Costa.

  Since leaving the amateur circuit and joining the professionals, Danny had noticed the changes in the venues, with personal dressing rooms and facilities laid on. Free Trade Hall was no different. Security men were at hand, and everyone seemed so full of respect that it bordered on servility.

  Danny sat on a bench in the changing room, staring at the coat hooks on the cream-painted wall. Patsy was checking up on the gym equipment for Danny’s pre-warm-up for the fight, now just a few days away.

  “It’s strange without Albert, ain’t it Pat?” Danny said to the medicine ball in Patsy’s hands.

  “Yeah, a bit,” said Patsy. “But we’ll cope.”

  “A lot of things have changed ain’t they?”

  Patsy didn’t answer.

  Outside the door, Danny heard the rumble and mumble of the folk filling the auditorium.

  “There are hundreds of people out there to watch the weigh-in and we’re stuck in this room, hidden like we’re prisoners,” he said. “Do you reckon that’s a part of fame and fortune? You lose your freedom?”

  Costa put his head round the door before Patsy could answer.

  “Ready champ?”

  Danny’s reflexes felt as sharp as a razor, his mind was racing, and he felt anger pulsing through him. The vitamins he’d taken on the train were clearly taking effect.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, Tommy,” he said.

  Costa patted him on the shoulder. “The place is packed, Danny. Wait till you see it.”

  The update was meant as a positive, but was not what Danny wanted to hear. The reality of the situation – hundreds of people, press, photographers and the like – released a case of serious nerves and paranoia. Danny’s hands were suddenly ice cold with terror.

  The Master of Ceremonies’ voice rattled through the tannoy.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! From London, a rising star in the boxing world, Danny Watson!”

  With a shove from Patsy, Danny stumbled into the spotlights. Unlike at the Dragon weigh-in, he heard cheers. This time, Danny had support and a following. As he passed through the crowd accompanied by security men, there were handshakes, pats on the back and goodwill wishes. Danny had been out of the ring for a long time, and folks were pleased to see him back.

  Danny reached the podium as a fanfare heralded the entrance of Livermore. The reaction of the crowd was close to boiling point now. The welcome Danny had received was dwarfed by the cheers and applause that greeted Livermore. Manchester born and bred, he could do no wrong in his home town.

  Danny watched as Livermore and his entourage made their way to the podium. Livermore was a powerful-looking man, the son of a West Indian father and a Lancashire girl. Climbing on to the podium, he raised his arms in the air as if he had already won the fight.

  Livermore was a different proposition to the Dragon. Walking over, he shook Danny’s hand and raised Danny’s arm with his. There was even some warmth in his eyes.

  Danny was a little taken aback. It was usual that there was respect between fighters, even before a fight, but it was rarely shown. Livermore’s friendly reaction felt a little weird.

  The men weighed in. Both were inside the weight limit. They took their seats to answer questions from the press. Danny hated this bit, but knew it was all part of the game.

  “Danny, your rise has been almost meteoric. There has been some talk that your last fight against Reece ‘the Dragon’ Davies was too easy. What do you think your prospects against Billy Livermore will be?”

  This felt a little tricky, given that Danny was sitting next to Livermore. He decided to be modest.

  “Billy’s a good fighter, I know that,” he answered. “But I intend to give it my best shot.”

  “Billy, you have a good record and are probably just one fight away from a title fight. Will winning the fight open the door to a title shot?”

  “It’s gonna be a tough fight,” answered Livermore. “But I’ve got experience on my side. I respect Danny Watson, but there will be only one winner on the night and that’s gonna be me. And yes, the title in time will be mine too.”

  Livermore’s followers rose to Billy’s battle cry with cheers. They started chanting, “Billy! Billy!” in true football fashion.

  The press conference went on.

  “Danny, I hear that one of your team, Albert Kemp, has left the camp. Do you think that will have any bearing on tactics and the outcome?”

  Cohen jumped in. “Mr Kemp’s departure was a mutual decision,” he said smoothly. “Danny is well prepared, believe me. It’s going to be a great contest. I’d like to thank you all for coming. That concludes the press conference.”

  Danny was pleased the trial was ov
er, and even more pleased that the Albert question had been fended off by Cohen. He shook hands with Livermore and the two boxers posed for photographs.

  Danny couldn’t stop looking at Livermore. This was a boxer that had been well and truly round the block, battle-scarred from many fights in many smoke-filled venues. And yet somehow, instead of hostility, there was a look of “We’re in this together” in his eyes. Billy Livermore was a sportsman, courteous and gracious.

  “That Livermore seems a decent bloke,” said Danny back in the changing room.

  “Yeah,” agreed Patsy. “He’s a proper professional, but don’t let that Mr Nice Guy act fool you. He needs to win this fight and he means to do you damage.”

  Danny nodded. “I suppose I’m standing in the way of his title shot.”

  “You are. If he loses to you, his chances will be limited.”

  “No pressure then,” said Danny. He was only half joking.

  With the weigh-in and press stuff over and done with, Danny and Patsy made their way back to Piccadilly station, leaving Costa and Cohen in Manchester to sort out the box office and logistics for the fight the following week.

  The journey home felt longer. Danny and Patsy passed the time watching the sights and countryside as they headed south. Patsy talked about a new heavyweight called Cassius Clay and his recent win over the seasoned and scary fighter Sonny Liston.

  “He has a lot to say for himself. They call him the ‘Louisville Lip’, but he looks good. He talks the talk and it looks like he can walk the walk. Very fast for a heavyweight, but a bit too cocky for my liking.”

  Danny listened, but found it hard to concentrate. After a day like today, some time by himself was what he needed. In recent weeks he’d had a very low boredom threshold, and Patsy and his talking could have easily lit the fuse to his short temper.

  When they reached London, Danny offered Patsy a lift.

  “No thanks, Danny, I’ll take the underground. See you in the gym in the morning.”

  Danny felt relieved. He couldn’t have taken much more of Patsy’s company. Getting in his car, he took a couple of vitamins from the glove box and put on the radio. After a bit of fiddling, he managed to get a crackly signal from one of the new pirate radio stations, Radio Caroline. Radio Luxembourg was decent enough, but that only seemed to come alive in the evenings, and that was if you were able to actually tune in and get it. Meanwhile, the Beatles were heading an onslaught of what was termed “The Liverpool Sound” and Radio Caroline was full of it.

  As he drove, a record from a band called Freddie and the Dreamers came on. “Not the Liverpool Sound this time,” said the disc jockey, “but the pride of Manchester.”

  It seemed appropriate given Danny’s lightning trip up North. People had seemed really friendly in Manchester. It was colder, but the people had been warmer. Danny thought about Billy Livermore and his dignified confidence.

  He reminded himself that, although Livermore seemed a decent bloke, he was standing in his way. Danny resolved to replace respect with the will to beat him.

  *

  In an attempt to prepare for the fight without too many distractions, Danny had moved out of Costa’s and in with Rosie. He still paid the odd visit to Costa’s for a gram or two, but at least he was trying.

  “How was your day then?” Rosie asked when Danny got in. “What’s it like up North?”

  “The people seem friendly, but it’s a bit cold and wet. The bloke I’m fighting seems like a gentleman, you know?”

  “That makes a change,” said Rosie. “There’s not many of them around.” She frowned. “Wait a minute, ain’t you supposed to hate him?”

  Danny rubbed his forehead. “Don’t worry Mum, I don’t have to hate him. I just have to hate losing.”

  “You don’t seem to mind losing your wife and daughter.”

  Danny put his head in his hands. Rosie had brought this up several times lately.

  “You know what you need to do?” Rosie pointed to a photograph of Ruby sitting on her mantelpiece. “See that little girl. Why don’t you phone Wendy and try to make peace? Make arrangements to see her?”

  “I don’t need this today, Mum,” Danny said.

  Rosie dumped Danny’s beans on toast in front of him.

  “Well, I’m off down the pub to meet Ricky. Phone her, Danny. That little girl needs a dad. I’ll probably be late, don’t wait up.”

  Danny felt tired and very alone. After being the centre of attention at the weigh-in, he was back with his mum in the house he’d grown up in. What did that make him?

  After a few minutes, he went into the hall and looked at the telephone.

  He knew the number off by heart. Picking up the receiver, he listened to the dialling tone for a while. When the dialling tone stopped and was replaced by crackling, Danny put down the receiver and went upstairs to take some more vitamins.

  Feeling brighter, he returned to the phone and dialled the number.

  “Hello?”

  Danny clutched the receiver and closed his eyes. Just hearing Wendy’s voice was wonderful.

  “Hello?” Wendy repeated. “Anyone there?”

  “It’s me,” said Danny.

  Wendy went silent. Danny could hear Ruby singing in the background.

  “It’s Danny,” he said.

  “I know.”

  Danny clutched the receiver more tightly. “How’s Ruby?”

  “What do you want?” Wendy asked coldly.

  Danny felt lost. “I don’t really know, Wend,” he said.

  Wendy sounded a little softer. “You’re still alive then?”

  “Just about,” said Danny.

  “You all right?”

  Danny sobbed, “I miss you both,” and put down the receiver.

  He went back into his mum’s sitting room, wiping his eyes. He decided to look over Patsy’s notes for the fight to take his mind off his broken heart.

  He knew them inside out.

  Attack. Be offensive. He is weaker going back.

  Look for his guard to drop. Jab and move. Keep pushing forward.

  Watch for his right upper cut in close, it’s a big one.

  For the first time in months, Danny went to his bedroom to get out the red and silver tin box. Opening it, he picked up his father’s medal, feeling the cold metal in his hands. His mind went back to the beginning of his career, when Albert would bring the medal for bravery to the ringside. A sudden feeling of panic washed over Danny as he looked at the photograph of his dad in his army uniform.

  “What’s happening, Dad?” he whispered. “What’s happening?”

  *

  The night before the big fight, Rosie packed Danny’s overnight bag and turned into a caring mother.

  “Have you got your tickets?” she said, fussing around him. “What time is the train? Do you know where you’re going when you get up there?”

  Danny appreciated his mother’s attention, but his mind was elsewhere. He checked his watch. Lenny was going to pick him and Patsy up, and all three would take the train from Euston.

  Dead on two o’clock the doorbell rang. Lenny was looking smart and, on this rare occasion, out of his customary blue overalls.

  “Hey Danny, how you doing?” he said. “Come on now, we better get going. There’s no knowing what the traffic will be like in Central London.”

  Danny couldn’t find much conversation in the car on the way to the station. Struggling with nerves and in a monosyllabic mood, he wasn’t much better on the train. Lenny attempted to distract him with various topics, but Danny wasn’t biting.

  Patsy headed to the buffet car to buy them cups of tea.

  “Albert wishes you the best, by the way, Danny,” Lenny said.

  Danny focused. “Does he? How is he?”

  “He seems OK, a bit quiet,” said Lenny. “You know Albert.”

  “I thought I did,” Danny answered.

  *

  Back in London, Albert was walking to work as usual. It was a lovely e
vening, with kids still playing in the street and neighbours chatting about this and that on the front step. He couldn’t help smiling at the familiarity of it all.

  Around the corner, he saw some small boys playing cricket against a wall. The batsman took his guard armed with a plank of wood, doing his best to protect the stumps chalked on the wall. Albert watched one of them bowl and waited to see the result.

  The bowler delivered a full toss. The batsman, with a mighty swing of his bit of wood, hit the well-worn tennis ball sky high. The bowler ran to catch it – straight into the path of an oncoming car.

  Without thinking, Albert rushed into the road and pushed the boy clear of danger. Someone was screaming. Dimly Albert heard the screech of brakes, before he found himself tossed like a rag doll into the air. For a moment, everything went black.

  The next thing Albert knew, he was lying in the road and staring at the sky. There was blood all around him. One of the cricket players was crying. “I never saw him!” someone – the driver, Albert guessed – was protesting. “He just come out of nowhere!”

  “Here you are, love, a cup of strong, sweet tea’ll set you right. Don’t you worry about the old fella, the ambulance will be here in a minute.”

  Through the wails and shouts, Albert heard the distant sound of an ambulance bell. He lay quietly, unable to move, as people clustered around, peering down at him, some with concern and others with blatant curiosity.

  “You all right, fella?”

  “What happened, then?”

  Albert stared up at them. He wanted to apologise for wasting their time, but he couldn’t find his voice. His head was throbbing like he’d taken a knock-out punch.

  The crowd parted as the ambulance arrived.

  “Out the way, there you go. All right, sir? We’ll have you in the hospital in a jiffy.”

  Strong hands lifted him off the road and on to a stretcher. A vicious stab of pain shot up Albert’s leg.

  As the ambulance sped through the streets, a medic did some tests on Albert, shining light into his eyes, testing his temperature and blood pressure.

  “Stay with me, sir.”

  His head wound was cleaned and dressed, his legs gently strapped together. Normally as strong as an oak, Albert was not too happy with the fuss, but not really capable of arguing the point.