by Jack Tunney
Three figures got out of the back. Two were men, dressed to the nines. The other was a boy around eleven years old. The first man was Freddy Cumberland, number one man for the Society. Beside him, chauffeured all the way from Sydney, was Jumpin' Jack Douglas. Finally, the young fella was Cumberland's son, Alan. Alan had come out to the tent boxing fights with his father on several occasions. Cumberland senior, believed it taught the boy what it meant to be a man. Alan like coming because he got to box with a kangaroo.
Sanderson came out to greet them, holding out his hand to Cumblerland.
“Good evening, Freddy. This is an unexpected surprise,” Sanderson gushed. He had expected Douglas to be on his own.
Cumberland was tall and lean, with a salt and pepper goatee adorning his chin. His eyes were small and dark brown, but under his thickly hooded eyelids, they looked almost black. But his smile, no matter how insincere it may be, was electric. Coupled with his easy going style, it was simple to see why he had risen to a position of power.
“Good evening, Arnold. When I learned that you'd called Jumpin' Jack in for a special event, how could I stay away? You know I love a good fight. We haven't had a good contest in the city for months now.”
Sanderson nodded, grinning like an idiot. But in reality, he was panicking.
“And you know Alan,” Cumberland continued. “He just loves fighting that kangaroo. He tells all of his school friends about it. Don't you, son?”
“Yes, Dad.” The boy's eyes lighted up at the prospect.
Cumberland laughed. Sanderson forced himself to laugh too, but secretly he felt sick inside. He knew that at any moment, Alan would insist to see the kangaroo. And he couldn't tell Cumberland she had been stolen. That would make him look weak.
Then the words came.
“Can I fight the kangaroo, Mr. Sanderson?” Alan asked.
Sanderson smiled. “Of course you can Alan, but we are running a bit late right now. The fight is scheduled to start shortly. We have to get Mr. Douglas inside and ready. Maybe we can do it straight after the fight?” He hoped that would appease the boy for the moment. And his father.
Cumberland nodded his approval and the trio marched around to the tent entrance and went inside. Sanderson must have been hoping that when Douglas dropped Tommy King, Wheeler would hand over the kangaroo pretty darn smartly.
* * * * *
The average person staring out at the Simpson Desert would not have seen a thing. But they were there, hundreds of them, moving towards Birdsville. The men of the Wirrarri tribe padded on bare-feet in the darkness. Their feet were guided by a precognitive instinct derived from a millennia of living with, and living on the land.
The Wirrarri wore little more than cloths around their waists, and each member was ceremonially painted for the occasion. Decorated in white and light ochre colored pigments, which contrasted with their dark skin, each of the men looked skeletal as they made their way towards Sanderson's tent. With them they carried didgeridoos, bones and rhythm-sticks.
The Wirrarri were Ginny's people, and they lived near the crossing on the Dimitina River, about three miles from Birdsville. I had guessed that Ginny and Tommy had gone out to the Wirrarri settlement that day, but when they had returned, nothing had been said. I didn't push it, because it was none of my business. I had no idea of the scenario would play out over the next couple of hours.
* * * * *
It was nearly time. I put on Tommy's gloves and laced them up proper. We was about to go when Old Man Wheeler stopped us.
“Hold it a second, Tommy,” he said. “I got something for you. I had this made up special.”
He went to a brown paper bundle on the table, and ripped it open. Inside was a boxing robe. We never had much use for robes before. When the boxers stood out in front of the tent to gee up the crowd, they were already stripped down in their boxing garb, not covered up. So we never had a need for robes in the past.
The one Wheeler had made up was a beaut. It was black with red letters on the back. In small letters at the top it said 'Walter Wheelers Boxing Side Show'. Then in bloomin' big letters underneath it said, KING OF THE OUTBACK.
“I thought I was King of the Ring, Mr. Wheeler?” Tommy queried.
“Not after tonight, son. If you do what I think you can do, then after the fight they're gonna know your name across the country, from Marble Bar to Rockhampton. You will be a true King of the Outback.”
Tommy slipped the robe on and nodded in appreciation.
Wheeler slapped him on the back and said, “Now, go out there and do us proud.”
Wheeler and I were going to be Tommy's cornermen, so we exited the van with Tommy and made our way to the tent. Ginny and Jaffa remained behind, watching Jemima. If Sanderson got his hands on the kangaroo before the end of the fight, all bets were off.
A crowd was still milling around the entrance trying to get inside before the start of the fight. We bustled our way past them. Some smart mouth yelled a cheap shot at Tommy, and I told him to neck up. I lifted the tent flap and we walked inside.
I had to hand it to Sanderson, his tent was something else. In the center was a proper boxing ring, raised about three feet. And he had tiered seating erected on three sides. Everyone was gonna get a good view. The fourth side was curtained off, so the boxers could prepare before their bouts. That was where Jumpin' Jack Douglas would be waiting.
Sanderson had good lighting, too. A huge lamp hung over the ring making it the center of attention. It was a full house, and the atmosphere was electric. Word must have got around the area, ’cos every seat in the tent was taken. Even more people were crowed in, herded like cattle shoulder to shoulder, into the standing room only areas.
* * * * *
The Wirrarri tribesmen converged on Birdsville from several directions. Nobody saw them as they moved through the streets, blending in with the shadows. A faint breeze had stirred and whistled through the buildings as they moved by. Ahead they could see the boxing tent lit up with strings of blinking lights outlining the shape against the night sky. To the Warrarri, the tent looked like a living, breathing thing, with glowing spines along its back. From its belly, a low rumbling sound emanated – the noise of the crowd. This was the beast that had swallowed Tommy King, the man from the north.
The Wirrarri had promised to help. They didn't understand boxing, and they didn't understand the strange ways of the white-fella. But they understood the spirit of the land, and the breeze that urged them to come to town that night.
It had been the girl, the one that they called Ginny, that summoned the breeze. Earlier that day, when she had arrived at the camp with the man from the north, the Wirrarri recognized the girl as one of their own. She was one of the many who had been taken years ago. But unlike the others, she had returned. And she was free. She was truly a great warrior, and a credit to the Wirrarri.
When she had asked for help, the tribal elders had initially been wary, but as she spoke, the wind whistled through the trees. For the Wirrarri, there were six winds, three male, and three female. The female winds were wild an destructive, and the wind that was blowing from the west, known as Gheeger Gheeger, could be the most unpredictable of all. So when Gheeger Gheeger spoke, the tribe listened. The Wirrarri would help Ginny and the man from the north.
* * * * *
Tommy cut his way through the crowd, and as we got to the ring, I moved forward and held up the rope for him. He climbed into the ring, as Wheeler and I took up our position in the corner. As Tommy began to shadow box, the crowd let loose with a chorus of boos and hisses. It was nice to be made feel welcome, eh? But we'd been in situations like this so many times before. Always the bad guys. It was like water off a duck's back.
Tommy was never a home town favorite – ever! We were always the villains. We were always heckled, and jeered. I didn't think there had been an insult hurled that we hadn't heard. As for crap thrown at us, we had been through that storm too. Rotting fruit and veg, sticks and stones, drink bott
les – hell, it had all been thrown our way.
The curtain behind us was held back, and the crowd separated as if Moses had parted the Red Sea. Sanderson's boy, Jumpin' Jack Douglas, made his way through the crowd to the ring. He bounded up the apron and through the ropes, all without assistance from his cornermen, and approached Tommy. He moved in close. Too close. He started shadow boxing, but his eyes locked onto Tommy's. He stared hard. He stared cold. This guy was no shrinking violet. Everything else about him was loose and relaxed. Only his eyes hinted at any shred of emotion.
At this stage, I wouldn't have traded places with Tommy for quids. But, of course, I didn't tell him that.
Douglas was about six-three, I reckon, and had about twenty pounds on Tommy. Weight divisions didn't count in tent boxing. The boxers would fight all comers, big or small. Douglas was big.
And he had the crowd on his side, too. He was the crowd's favorite “golden boy.” He had blond hair, which was perfectly in place. He must have had a hairdresser behind the curtain with him. His eyes were blue, and he had a typical fighter's nose. It had been on the receiving end of a fair bit of punishment over the years, and was out of shape. But that was about the only mark on him. He had a typical city-slicker’s complexion. In the Outback, we called it a “moon tan.” This fella was as white as chalk.
It was hard to explain boxing as a sport to someone who had not grown up with it. Strength undoubtedly had something to do with deciding the winner – but the strongest fighter didn't always win. And there was speed, which again could determine the outcome of a fight. But landing a swag of blows with no meat behind them was pretty useless. So a combination of speed and power was the key.
But then there were other factors, like movement. You could be as fast and strong as you liked, but if your opponent was quick and wily, you weren't going to be able to hit him. And then there was good old fashioned resilience. Being able to take whatever punishment was dealt.
No matter how fast or how clever you were, in a boxing ring, you were going to be hit and it was going to hurt. Some people had a low threshold for pain, and then some ate pain up like candy. Some people actually enjoyed being hit in the face. And that was what we were facing in Jumping Jack Douglas – a man who enjoyed the pain.
Douglas finished his little psychological ploy, and returned to his corner. I took Tommy's robe and sat him down on the stool.
“You ready for this?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Good. Now, remember what we worked on. Don't let this fella trap you in a corner or on the ropes. You got the brain and the power to fight your way out. This guy ain't no backwater bum.”
Tommy nodded again. He wasn't one to waste words. He just kept his eyes straight ahead, watching his opponent.
Sanderson led Cumberland and his son to some special seats in the stands – almost like they were royalty, and then excused himself and made his way to the ring. He climbed through the ropes and was handed a microphone. His voice was strong and clear.
“Ladies and gentlemen I would like to welcome you to Arnold Sanderson's Boxing Show for this special pugilistic event.” There was a cheer from the crowd and Sanderson paused for effect. “Introducing, in the blue corner, representing Walter Wheeler's Boxing Sideshow, the King of the Ring – Tommy King!”
From the crowd there were more boos and hisses than cheers.
“Don't listen to them, Tommy,” Wheeler said, leaning over the top rope.
Sanderson continued. “In the red corner, representing Arnold Sanderson's Boxing Show, the Power Puncher, Mr. Jumping Jack Douglas!”
The roar from the crowd was deafening. As far as they were concerned it was 'black' versus 'white'. And white was the favored color.
Sanderson went on. “This bout is a last man standing fight. The fight will not be scored. Rounds will go three minutes, but the fight will go on until only one man still stands.”
This brought more cheers from the crowd, harking back to the days when Jack Johnson became the first black heavyweight champion of the world in Sydney in 1908. The fight lasted fourteen rounds before the police ended it in front of over twenty thousand spectators. The title was awarded to Johnson on a referee's decision as a knockout. The difference here, though, was that police were not going to stop the fight.
* * * * *
Sanderson climbed out of the ring, and returned to his special guests, Cumberland and his son. He sat down next to them, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow from being under the lights.
“And what is this little brouhaha you've got cooked up about?” Cumberland asked.
“About?” Sanderson queried.
“Yes. It must be a special deal if you've called Douglas in.”
“Ah, yes. It is special. As you know I am trying to run Wheeler out of the business, and this is a contest between his best fighter and Douglas. When we win, he is out of business for good.”
“And what does he get if his fighter wins?”
“Get?” Sanderson stammered.
“Yes. He has to have an incentive to fight. What is it? What does Wheeler get if his boy comes through?”
Sanderson was almost choking. “He gets... gets this tent.”
The look on Cumberland's face told the story. His eyes flashed with anger.
“Your job is to run these bums out of the business. Not offer them hope.”
Sanderson nodded in agreement, like a whipped pup.
“Douglas had better earn his pay today, and put their guy down,” Cumberland added icily.
* * * * *
The brief warm-up preliminaries were over, and the ref called the boxers into the center of the ring to cover the rules. I’d always thought that was strange and misleading. Essentially, you had two men standing toe to toe, trying to beat seven shades of the tar out of each other, and yet there were still rules. It seemed almost pointless.
Tommy and Douglas touched gloves and returned to their respective corners. I put Tommy's mouth-guard in and wished him good luck. The bell rang, and it was on. On like you wouldn't believe!
Douglas came out of his corner like he was on wheels. Tommy came out too, but immediately Douglas started dancing side to side, attempting to cut off the ring. Tommy threw a few defensive jabs, trying to push Douglas back. But Douglas didn’t back off.
Instead he circled around and started pummeling away at Tommy's midriff, a few blows snaking into his hip. If they snaked around a little more, you could believe he was aiming at the kidneys. However, at this early stage, the ref didn't seem to have any problem with the way the fight was developing.
Tommy ducked under a ferocious roundhouse, and then jabbed at Douglas's midsection. The big guy backed off, but Tommy went after him. Douglas hit the ropes and raised his defenses, and Tommy went to work, throwing a battery of punches. It looked like Tommy was trying to chop down a tree. Most of his punches struck leather, but a big right busted through and tagged the Golden Boy right on the button. Douglas's head snapped back, and he was flailing on the ropes.
Tommy threw another right into Douglas's breadbasket. Even from my position on the other side of the ring, I could hear his breath whistling from his body. He slumped forward. Tommy looked determined to end this fight quick.
Tommy didn't give Douglas a moment to catch his breath. He advanced on him again, throwing a quick succession of jabs. They deflected off Douglas's gloves. I didn’t know how he managed to keep them up.
After the spirited start, Douglas was now in trouble. His best bet was to slow the fight down. Moving inside, he latched on to Tommy, with his arms around his neck, locking him up in a bear hug. The ref moved quickly to try and separate them.
They broke apart, and Tommy threw a couple of jabs, but Douglas came in for the clinch again. Tommy tried to pull free, but Douglas held tight. The ref was letting it go this time. It made me really mad to watch. It wasn't boxing. It looked like a bloomin' waltz competition.
Tommy tried to spin free, but Douglas hung on like a terrie
r. Finally, Tommy pushed him off with both hands, but in doing so, opened himself up for retaliation. Douglas obliged with a thunderous right that caught Tommy on the chin. It was a fair shot, but Tommy just shrugged it off. Good lad. The bell rang to end the round.
Tommy came to the corner and sat, his arms resting on the top ropes. He was already bathed in sweat. Wheeler wiped him down, while I poured water into his mouth. He spat it out into the bucket I had placed at his feet.
“You're looking good,” I said. “But don't get overconfident. Just don't let him tie you up, and you'll be fine. Keep movin'.”
Tommy nodded. He didn't even look at me as I spoke. I didn’t even think he heard what I said. His eyes remained locked on Douglas. I didn't know what was goin' on in his head, but it looked like he had a mind to win the fight hard and fast. He wasn't here to box, but destroy. Destroy Douglas, and in doing so, destroy Sanderson.
And I understood. Hell, it was what I wanted as well. But something was nagging at the back of my mind. Sanderson was no fool, and with so much riding on the fight, he wasn't just gonna throw a palooka with no boxing skills in the ring. He’d have a plan, or even two.
“Be careful,” I said as the second round started.
And it started much like the first with Douglas rushing out of his corner like a man on fire. He threw a wild haymaker, which at best could be described as agricultural. Tommy ducked under the blow and punched up. Body blows. Douglas reeled, but started jabbing again with his left. Tommy kept his guard up and warded off the blows.
Both men kept circling each other, and dancing around the ring. Both men still had a spring in their step. They weren't hurting and were moving freely. They were testing each other out. Tommy went on the attack. He jabbed away at Douglas's head. Douglas blocked all the blows, wobbling like jelly to keep out of harm’s way. It may not have been pretty, but he was not being hit, and that was one of the keys to boxing.
