by Jack Tunney
After the war, I knew I would never box professionally again. How could I, with a bung leg? And my first reaction was to steer clear of the fight game altogether. That's why I didn't go back to Chicago. I figured in Chicago, the sights, the smells, and the people around me would remind me of what had been taken away.
After I was released from hospital in Rockhampton in Queensland, I bummed around for a little while, taking in Sydney and the later Melbourne. But somehow city life and working in a factory wasn't for me. I hit the road, and found myself working out west for a mining company. It was hard work, or 'hard yakka' as they say Down Under. But in a strange way I liked it. I liked being outdoors, and working under the sun, and the “work hard, play hard” ethos that came with it. It was that “work hard, play hard” ethos that got me back into boxing, and ultimately working for Wheeler.
Working for the mining companies was not for everyone. The hours were long, and the work was grueling. But the pay was outstanding. However, out in the remote areas there was nothing to spend your money on. I would work during the day, and then come home at night to a prefab hut with ten fellow workers. We would have a meal, maybe a few beers, play a game of cards and then go to sleep. Then we would do it again the next day. It was not surprising those who were not cut out for the life would go stir crazy. That was when the violence would erupt.
When the company that I was working for, found out that I was an ex-boxer, I was quickly promoted to site foreman to keep an eye on the workers. They wanted someone to keep the guys in order. Unofficially, I was called a “knuckleman.” In the Outback, if someone kicked up a stink, a few consoling words wouldn't cut it. But “knuckles” would.
The problem with being a knuckleman was sooner or later somebody would knock me down. Even in the remote Outback, hard men were always out to make a name for themselves. The quickest way to build up a reputation was to knock down a knuckleman. A few tried and failed. But I knew I had to get out. With my bung leg, it was only a matter of time.
Every month the mining crew was given leave, and we would all go into Kalgoorlie. It was there that I saw my first tent boxing show. It was run by Wheeler. I was stunned. In the United States there was nothing like this. Of course, there were underground fights, often called “smokers,” but nothing like a boxing carnival that traveled from town to town. Certainly not one where the townsfolk had the opportunity to participate in the fights.
I watched each of the bouts from the back of the tent. In the first three fights, Wheeler's men were knocked down by their challengers. Admittedly, around Kalgoorlie there were some strong men who knew how to take care of themselves, but Wheeler's men did lose because they were out-muscled or outmatched. They lost because they were not trained properly. It gave me an idea, and I saw a chance to get out of the mining game and remove the target from my back. After the fights were over, I decided to have a chat with Mr. Walter Wheeler.
Wheeler was understandably suspicious at first. He probably assumed I was another loud mouth blow-in who thought he knew it all. But as luck would have it, he was a boxer down, and said he would take me on as a trainer if I was willing to get in the ring until he could find another fighter. I agreed, and I only had to punch my way through three fights. That was ten years ago, and over that time I have seen a lot of fighters come and go. Some good ones too.
But there was something about tent boxing that got into my blood. It was more than a traveling show to me, and it was more than two men standing toe to toe. There were two sides to the equation. Firstly, for most people, to be a professional fighter would never happen. It was not even conceivable. But Wheeler's tent gave people that opportunity – maybe not to become champion, but to become a winner. At least for the day. We sold dreams. Small dreams to some – but dreams nonetheless.
The other part that kept hooked was the camaraderie we had built up at Wheeler's. All the troupe were like a family to me now. No-one had anyone left in three years, and that was almost unheard of among the tent boxing fraternity. The simple fact was, I loved being part of it.
ROUND FOUR
TWO WEEKS LATER...
A lot of people failed to understand just how big this country was. Out on these country roads, you could drive for days and practically not see anyone. I was pleased the truck I was driving was at the end of the convoy. Although, I was at the back eating dust, at least I could see all the others ahead of me. The poor fella out front, all he could see was a flat and featureless desert, with only the dead straight red dirt road in front of him. It didn't change. It seemed endless. It was like being alone on the planet.
In the cab with me was Tommy and Ginny. Tommy seemed to be catching forty winks and Ginny was just starin' out at the countryside. Maybe it meant something to her. They said aboriginals were in tune with the land. Maybe they were. To me all it was a great expanse of nothing. Not even a tree.
The troupe was headin' into Birdsville to meet up with Shannon Brothers Circus. We'd tagged along with Shannon and his team for a few months earlier in the year, during the summer. He was a good operator, and his circus provided a solid family atmosphere, which brought a lot of punters in. We had set up our tent out the back and put on some good shows. The wives and children would do the circus and carnival, while their husbands would sneak off to the boxing tent to watch the fighting.
We were to meet the Shannons at the sports field in the center of town, and were set to stay for the week. It was a good time to be in the Birdsville as it coincided with the legendary horse races held there. Even taking in all the great horse races, the Kentucky Derby, and the Grand National at Ascot, no race on the planet was nothin' like the Birdsville races. The place was just a dust bowl. Sometimes you couldn't even see the horses as they ran through all the red dust thrown into the air. But it was magical too. The race day had a real carnival atmosphere. Everyone from miles around made their way into town for this festival and a good time was had by all. That was why it was such a good time for us to have our tent operating.
After what seemed like the best part of a four hour drive, we were coming into Birdsville. Surprisingly, our convoy ground to a halt at the town limits. I thought one of the trucks had broken down. It wouldn't be the first time. I got out of the cab and walked up to see if I could help. But there was nothing wrong with the trucks. Old Man Wheeler had worked himself up into some kind of mood. He was tearing away at a series of day bill posters plastered along a fence at the edge of town.
It wasn't until I got closer that I could see what all the fuss was about. They were for Arnold Sanderson's Boxing Show. Of course, we were not the only boxing troupe in the country. In fact there was about twenty, but most of us tried to work in a way where we weren't treading on each other's toes.
This land was plenty big enough for all of us to make a decent living. However Sanderson did what he liked. He would set up his tent right opposite another boxing tent, and steal all their customers.
When Wheeler saw me approaching, he yelled, “Yack, get everybody out of the trucks. I have something I want to say!”
I nodded and walked back towards the end of the convoy, banging on truck and car doors.
“Everybody out,” I yelled. “Up to the front. Wheeler wants a word with us all.”
I rapped on the window of my truck. Tommy was still dozing. Ginny shook him and woke him up.
“Up to the front. Wheeler wants a word,” I repeated. Tommy and Ginny climbed out of the cab, and marched to the front of the column with the rest of the troupe.
I was the last the make it back to the front. Wheeler shushed those who were muttering and began his speech. It was fair to say his fire was up.
“It looks like that we are in for a fight. That low-down mongrel, Arnold Sanderson is in town with his boxing tent. I am sure you've all heard the rumors that he tried to put Ansel's Boxing Show out of business in Broome. He set up his tent opposite Ansel's and when the punters came he offered them better odds to steal them. What was the punter gonna do, b
ut go where the money was? You can't blame them, but it ain't right!”
“We're not going to let that happen,” Tommy interjected angrily. Over the years, our little troupe had become a home to Tommy, and the troupe members were like family. Seeing Wheeler agitated by a competitor, stirred something in Tommy's blood too, and he viewed a slight against Walter Wheeler's Boxing Sideshow as a slight against himself.
“Damn right, we're not going to let that happen,” Wheeler proclaimed.
Over the last year, many rumors had circulated about Sanderson's unethical work practices. One of them told how his men set the tent fire that nearly put Charlie Owen out of business. No one could prove it, but Sanderson's show happened to roll through town that night. Coincidence? Could be, but I didn't think so. Sanderson seemed set on taking the whole tent boxing circuit for himself, but nobody could understand why. Now he was set up in Birdsville. Were we his next target?
“Sanderson knew we would be here for the races,” Wheeler continued. “Everybody in the fight game does. It is our turn. Charlie Owen had it last year, and we rotate it so we can all get a piece of the pie. But not Sanderson. He has just marched in like he owns the place. Well, he isn't takin' any of our pie! Walter Wheeler's Boxing Sideshow is not going down without a fight.”
* * * * *
We continued onto the sports field and were greeted by Matty Shannon. Matty was the oldest of the Shannon Brothers, and did most of the managing of the circus. He was in his late fifties and had flowing silver hair and a bushy beard, and he had a few extra pounds around the middle. Children had often described him as looking like Old Saint Nick himself, especially when he was in his bright red ringmaster's jacket.
Matty had saved us a good spot at the rear of the big top, next to the merry-go-round. Once we were parked and unloading, he called me and Wheeler aside. I could see something was on his mind, 'cos he run his fingers threw his beard as he spoke. He always did that when he was edgy.
“Just lettin' you fellas know Sanderson was snoopin' around here today and askin' about you and your setup,” Matty drawled.
Wheeler went red in the face, and snorted like a bull. “Stone the bloody crows!”
“What'd'ya tell him?” I asked.
“Nothin'. None of his business. Just thought you should know.”
“Thanks, Matty,” I said.
Matty turned and walked off leaving me with Old Man Wheeler. When things like this were goin' on, Wheeler was not fun to be around.
“Could you send over Tommy and Ginny,” he said. “I've got a little job for them.”
“Sure,” I responded, turning to walk away.
As I walked off I could hear Wheeler muttering to himself, “If he wants a fight, well he's gonna get one.”
Tommy and Ginny were engaged in setting up the tent with the rest of the troupe. I called them over.
“Old Man Wheeler wants to see you.”
“What about?” Tommy asked, as we made our way to Wheeler's caravan.
“Dunno. I reckon it's got something to do with Sanderson.”
Tommy nodded. We reached Wheeler's caravan and rapped on the wall. He came out, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Under his arm he had a swag of rolled up posters, and in his hand he had a steaming can of paste he had just brewed up out of flour and water. He handed the bundle to Ginny as he stepped down from the step.
“Right, I need you two to go around and rip down every poster you see promoting Sanderson's show. I don't care where they are. I don't need him stealing our customers,” Wheeler said sharply.
* * * * *
Even though I wasn’t there for some of this story, there were people who told it afterwards. And it all got really started during Tommy and Ginny’s trip through Birdsville. Sanderson was determined to ensure everybody knew his boxing tent was in town. Every fence or pole had a poster on it, and the shop windows all had posters mounted inside. On each of them was a picture of a flamin' boxing kangaroo. That was his mascot, and the cruel bastard kept one too. They caged it up and took it around, kitting it out with mini-gloves and allowing people to box with it for a few pence before the show. So the ‘roo didn't hurt anybody, they had pulled out all its claws. It was barbaric. Just another reason why I didn't like Sanderson.
“I'll tear down Sanderson's posters, and you can paste up the new ones,” Tommy had suggested when they were alone. Ginny agreed, and as they walked down the street, Tommy started to pull away from her. He was faster at tearing down the posters than Ginny was at pasting up the new ones. Tommy was about a block away, turnin' the corner at the local pub as Ginny finished sticking down a poster on the paling fence beside the butcher.
“Bloody hell,” a voice called from behind her.
Ginny turned and two men were standin' there with hands on hips, and scowls on their faces.
“What do you think you're doing?” The voice belonged to the fella on the left, who was a narrow pinch faced man with pock-marked cheeks. His name was Martin McKeown, but those who knew him called him Straw because of a gravity defying tussock of straw colored hair shooting from his head. Before Ginny could respond, his hand flashed out and snatched the posters out from under her arm.
“What have we got here?” Straw snarled as he unrolled one of the posters. When it was fully unfurled, he spat on it, and let it fall to the ground.
“You're not thinking of setting up a show in Birdsville,” he said as he began to tear up the remaining posters. “This town is not big enough for two boxing shows and, as you can clearly see, we were here first. You should tell Wheeler to pack up his show and move on.”
“I can't do that,” Ginny said timidly.
“Can't do what?” Straw teased, moving closer, his face only inches from hers. She choked on his fetid breath as he spoke.
“I can't tell Wheeler to move on,” she replied defiantly.
“I think you can,” Straw added, resting his hand on her shoulder and toying with her hair. Ginny tried to step back, but the second man had moved around behind her, and she stepped into him. Straw closed the space between them again.
“If you don't tell that old duffer, I'd hate to think what might happen...especially to a pretty girl such as you.”
“Leave her alone.” Tommy had returned. And he looked dead-set angry.
Straw turned to face him.
“What have we got here? One of Wheeler's 'licorice' sticks,” Straw taunted.
“Leave her alone,” Tommy repeated.
“What if I don't want to? Maybe I wanted to have some fun with her first.”
“Ginny, maybe you want to come here,” Tommy said. She began to move, but the second man grabbed her shoulder. Tommy stepped forward to retrieve her, but Straw pushed Tommy back and raised his fists.
“If you want her, you're gonna have to take her!”
Tommy didn't want trouble, but he wasn't one to walk away from it either, and no way was he leaving her in the hands of these men. He moved toward Ginny once again. Straw threw a wild haymaker. Tommy saw it coming, and ducked under it, and then thundered a right into Straw's left side. The pock-marked punk curled in pain, and Tommy finished him off with a clean right to his jaw. Straw slumped to the ground unconscious.
Tommy looked up with fire in his eyes at the man standing behind Ginny.
“Do you want some too, mister?” he asked. The man backed off, raising his hands as a gesture of peace. Ginny rushed forward to Tommy, throwing both arms around his neck.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I am now. Let's get back to the tent.”
ROUND FIVE
By the time the sun had set, the boys were already out on stage doing their shadow boxing routines. It was a real carnival atmosphere with the whirring cacophony of the merry-go-round right beside us. I walked out on stage, and began my routine. But strangely, despite the atmosphere, there weren't many punters standing out front.
I heard one guy say, “That other tent is offering five to one. You can make
better money there.”
Sanderson was up to his old tricks. Whatever the crook was up to, I wasn't gonna let him get the better of me. I started running through the boxers and ferreting out some punters in the crowd with whom they could fight. I turned to Wheeler and held up five fingers, mouthing the words, five to one. He nodded.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are offering five to one odds tonight, and we guarantee to take on all comers. Who fancies themselves against the pride of the Pitenjarra, 'Killer' Ken Koballa?”
Meanwhile, what I didn't know at the time but found out later, was that Sanderson was watching from the shadows. With him was two men. One was Straw, the pock-marked punk Tommy had whacked out.
Arnold Sanderson was a toad of a man. He was short and squat, and overweight. His cheeks were full and rounded, and he had at least three chins, which hid his neck. His gray eyes seemed unusually small for his face, and were shadowed by a heavy brow. His black hair was cut short and slicked back with a greasy pomade over his skull. He was dressed in a brown three-piece suit, but the waistcoat was fighting a losing battle to contain his girth.
“Is that the one?” Sanderson asked, pointing out Tommy on stage.
“Yeah, that's him,” Straw said.
Standing silently beside Sanderson and Straw was another guy. He was big and muscular, and moved like a boxer, rolling his neck as he warmed up.
“Okay, Iron Bar, you know what to do. Teach him a lesson he won't forget quickly,” Sanderson said to the boxer.
The man called Iron Bar moved from the shadows and into the crowd before the boxing tent. He was tall, toned and well muscled, with dark hair that was trimmed high and tight, which suggested some military training. He was wearing a gray trousers and blue singlet top, which displayed bulging rounded shoulder muscles. He sliced his way through the punters, and made his way to the stage, taking up a position in front of Tommy.
