by Jack Tunney
Both men bustled through the crowd. Straw reached out and grabbed Ginny's shoulder, pulling tight. She turned and screamed when she saw Straw, dropping Jemima’s lead. Seeing the kangaroo free, Sanderson leaped forward and grabbed at the lead as it dragged on the ground but missed. Bouldering through the crowd, much to the chagrin of the punters, Sanderson bent and scooped at the lead again, this time collecting it. He yanked Jemima to a halt.
Straw was pleased with his catch too.
“We meet again, sweetheart,” he said, as he pulled Ginny to him. “And this time you haven't got your boyfriend to protect you!” He grabbed at the back of her hair, pulling it tight. She squealed in pain. “Let's go have some fun.” He steered her towards the exit. He didn't get far.
Jaffa had been right behind Ginny and unloaded with a hard right. And furthermore, what Straw hadn't noticed, was one of the men he had shunted out of the way in his quest to get to Ginny was Iron Bar, who now stood on the opposite side. So, as Jaffa had thrown his hard right, Iron Bar had thrown a hard left from the other side. Straw didn't stand a chance. It was like his head was caught in a giant nut cracker. As both blows landed, Straw went out like a light, collapsing in a crumpled heap.
Pleased to have the kangaroo once again in his possession, Sanderson stood tall and started dragging Jemima away. But then, something rather unexpected happened. Jemima stood her ground and let go with a fierce punch. Sanderson didn't see the paw coming. The blow caught him in the side of the face. There was no real force in the effort, but it had taken Sanderson off guard. He now stood stock still, confused. Then Jemima bounded up, her powerful hind legs catching Sanderson square in the chest. He flew back violently into the arms of Jaffa, who held the frantic showman upright. Iron Bar stepped forward and threw a crunching roundhouse. Sanderson slumped to the ground, his eyes rolling inward as he lay on the ground in his own tent.
“That's what you get for setting fire to Wheeler's boxing tent!” Iron Bar roared, although Sanderson wasn’t hearing much by then, other than the sound of birds tweetin’ in his noggin.
* * * * *
It was the end of the ninth round, and the smell of stale smoke and sweat was thick within the tent. I wasn't even doing the hard yakka, and I was soaked to skin, my shirt clinging to me like a waterlogged paper wrapper. Wheeler didn't look much better with a ring of sweat around the rim of his fedora. The look on his face was pretty ragged too, a mixture of concern and downright horror.
I had that feelin’ in the pit of my stomach too. Boxing was never meant to be anything like this. This was what Sanderson and people like Cumberland had perverted it to. Father Tim always referred to boxing as the “Sweet Science.” There was nothing scientific about this.
Tommy was perched on the stool and breathing heavily. If I hadn't been there and seen it all, I wouldn't have recognized him. He had absorbed an indecent amount of punishment, and in some ways I felt guilty. I should have stopped the fight. What was happening was not right.
I poured cool water over his body and tried to clear away some of the blood congealing around his belly. Wheeler was working away on his face, trying to close up some of the cuts and stop the bleeding with a styptic pencil.
Ginny climbed up on the apron next to me. I looked around, surprised.
“What are you doing here? I told you to stay...”
She ignored me and looked into Tommy's eyes.
“End it, Tommy,” she pleaded. “This has gone on long enough.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
Then she climbed down again.
At the sound of the bell both fighters came out, and came out swingin’. Both men were too tired to worry about defense, so the fight came down to a good old fashioned slug fest. Douglas threw the first couple of big blows, winding up at the shoulders and putting everything he had left into his punches. Tommy fired up and popped out a few jabs. Then Douglas came back with another quick combination. Like I said, no defense, so all these punches were finding a target. Tommy’s arms were flailing around as Douglas forced him against the ropes again and began to work his body.
* * * * *
Outside, in the moonlight, the men of the Wirrarri tribe had formed a ring around Sanderson's tent. The elder of the tribe, who was stick thin and had a flowing white beard, was the first to move. He stomped his feet and kicked up red sand. The sand, caught on the night breeze, floated in the air. As he stomped with both feet, his knees jerked in a syncopated rhythm. It became a dance.
The other men of the Wirrarri joined the dance, all stomping their feet, and then they began to chant. Their voices started off low and guttural, but as their voices melded together, a primal harmonic enveloped the tent. Then two men started playing didgeridoos, a low rumbling sound that gave a deep resonant bottom end to the soundscape. Finally bones were added to the musical ensemble. The bones were the thigh bones from kangaroos and other native animals, and when banged together they produced a sharp metallic sound.
The Wirrarri kept dancing, chanting and playing, all the while, with each pounded foot, red sand, the very life-blood of the Australian outback, was billowing into the air. In swirling waves, carried by the west wind, Gheeger Gheeger, it washed over the tent and the surrounding area.
* * * * *
I reckoned we was done. Tommy couldn't have had anything left in the tank. The kid had taken more punishment than any man should. I thought about the towel again. Was it time now? I’d promised Tommy not to throw in the towel, but I'd be blowed if I was gonna let him get killed.
Then something strange happened. Maybe I just imagined it, but I swear I heard chanting. Aboriginal chanting. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The sound was eerie, but it was more than just the sound. It was the atmosphere. It was like the air surrounding us was alive with the spirit of the land, and Tommy fed off it. The sound grew louder and louder. It was spine tingling, and the funny thing was that suddenly Tommy seemed to be standing a foot taller. Then his legs started movin’.
Tommy raised his gloves and started dancin’ and jabbin’. It was like it was round one all over again. He stepped into Douglas and threw a big uppercut that caught the Golden Boy right on the chin. Douglas was stunned and fell back against the ropes. Tommy moved in aggressively. Douglas tried to swat him away with some unruly backhands, but they didn't work. Tommy unleashed a few more jabs. They found their mark.
Douglas was lookin’ groggy now, but he still had one dirty trick left up his sleeve. He charged at Tommy and grabbed him in some kind of rugby tackle, both men coming a gutser, splashing forward on their bellies in the center of the ring. Tommy was pinned down, and Douglas started throwing some low blows below the belt. The cheap shots brought water to my eyes. Tommy rolled out of the clinch and got to the rope, hauling himself up.
Of course, the flamin' referee didn't know what to do. He stood there like a stunned mullet, just gawping at the two fighters. Douglas crawled to his corner, and was hauled to his feet by his corner men. They quickly turned him around and pushed him back out into the center of the ring. Tommy was waiting and unloaded a ferocious left jab that rattled Douglas's teeth.
He followed it up with a roundhouse into the Golden Boy's jaw. A shower of sweat and blood exploded from his face as his head spun with the punch. He stood there for a second stunned. Then he started to shake. His legs were giving out. He buckled at the knees and dropped to the canvas like he was holding a ten ton weight.
Slowly, Tommy came to the corner. The ref still didn't know what to do. He had to count. He was slow to move, but as the crowd cheered and jeered, he moved over to Douglas's inert form and began his count. It was a slow count. If it had been any slower, I would have been travelin’ backwards in time. But I expected nothing less from the ref after the show he'd put on today. But the speed of the count didn't matter none. Douglas wasn't goin’ nowhere. He was down and out.
After the ten, the ref reluctantly came over and raised Tommy's arm and announced him the winner. I climbed into t
he ring and slapped Tommy on the back.
“Well done, son,” I said. Then I walked straight past him, right over to the ref. Now my fighting days were long behind me, but some of the tools still worked. The referee didn't see the punch that got him in the belly. Nor the one that smacked him on the jaw as he bent over, winded. The crowd gave a final cheer as the ref sailed back into the ropes and slumped to the ground.
“You’re a disgrace to the sport, mate!” I said, hardly controlling my rage. “If I ever see you officiating in the ring again, I am gonna climb right out of the crowd and sock you in the noggin so hard, that I am gonna put you into orbit!”
The referee nodded groggily. I hoped he learned his lesson, ’cos I meant every word of it.
After a few deep breaths, and regaining my composure, I returned to Tommy, who was being helped out of the ring by Ginny and Jaffa, who'd come up from ringside. Needless to say, Tommy was a bloody mess and in desperate need of a bit of medical attention.
* * * * *
Sanderson didn't know where the hell he was. A hard slap across the cheek brought him to his senses, or at least what little he had left. He stared up from his position on the ground into the eyes of Walter Wheeler.
“You've lost, Sanderson. Your boy was knocked out and now this tent belongs to me. I'll give you and your men fifteen minutes to gather your things and get out.”
A circle had formed around Sanderson and Wheeler. Somehow Tommy was standing, with his arm around Ginny. I didn’t know if it was a sign of affection, or she was holding him up. In some ways it was a shame it took such a bloody encounter to cement those crazy kids together. But it was inevitable. Jemima was on Ginny's other side, still on the lead, but standing calm. To me, there was no doubt to who was the kangaroo's mistress.
“Sanderson, you lost,” Wheeler repeated.
“No. There's no way that Douglas could have lost. I'm not going,” Sanderson muttered, throwing his head side to side.
“Now a deal's a deal,” Wheeler remonstrated. “My fighter won.”
A man forced his way through the circle with a boy by his side. Cumberland and son. He stood above Sanderson, his eyes flashing with anger.
“Did you make a deal with this man?” Cumberland demanded.
Sanderson tried to sit up. He didn't want this. Now his employer was involved. The number one man for Australia's most powerful criminal organization, the Society, Eddy Cumberland. His word was final.
“Yes, but...,” Sanderson said, valiantly trying to regain his composure.
“But nothing. I got to where I am today by being a man of my word. When I make a deal I stick to it.”
Cumberland turned to Wheeler and spoke.
“Mr. Wheeler, it would seem you are now the owner of this tent. Take it with my compliments. Your man put up quite a fight tonight. He must be fighting for some good people.”
Wheeler didn't know what to say. “Er... thank you,” he stammered.
“But you leave me with one small problem. You see, as I have explained, I am a man of my word. And three years ago, I made an arrangement with the previous owner of this tent that whoever ran it would also look after and care for this kangaroo.” Cumberland paused and turned to Ginny. He looked her in the eye. “Little lady, do you think you can do that for me?”
Ginny nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sir,” she said.
“Good.” Cumberland nodded, satisfied. “Then I don't have any problem.” He turned back to Wheeler. “You can do as you see fit with Mr. Sanderson. He is no longer in my employ.”
With that, Cumberland turned, put his hand on his son's shoulder and steered him through the crowd.
“Don't I get to fight the kangaroo today?” Alan asked as they made their way to the car.
“No, son. I think that kangaroo's fighting days are over,” his father responded.
EPILOGUE
Wheeler didn't do anything for the next few days. I didn’t know if it was ‘cos he wanted to give Tommy time to heal, or he wasn't sure what to do with the new tent. Didn't matter to me none. I was glad of the time to clear my head. I sat in my canvas chair watching the sun go down, throwing its long shadows across the sports field. The sky was amber, almost the same color as the fluid I was pouring into myself – the amber nectar. It had been a while since I’d had a drink. We pretty much keep the tent booze free. But I’d splurged and had bought me a couple of longneck lagers and was washing the dust from my throat. I figured, I'd earned it.
I musta looked a sight sittin’ there. The blow I copped from Douglas nicked off a bit of my ear, which now had a small sticking plaster over it. The rest was just a scratch, all the way from my ear to my mouth. But Killer Ken had fixed me with some iodine antiseptic to stop infection, so half my face was yellow. I looked like the monster from one of those Frankenstein movies. But it didn't hurt none.
Tommy, of course, was a different story. His face and stomach were bandaged up good. If I was Frankenstein's monster, then he was the Mummy. But he'd heal, and he was in good spirits. From between the bandages, all I could see was a big smile.
Anyway, I was sittin’ there watching the sun go down, when Tommy and Ginny walked up to me hand in hand. And Jemima was boundin’ along beside them too. They stopped in front of me.
“You know what you told me about putting a few bob on the fight?” Ginny said.
“Yeah. I remember,” I said. Actually, I'd forgotten all about it. I’d intended to have a whip around with all the boys in the troupe and try get some scratch together to place a bet. But things happened so fast, I never got around to it.
“Well, I did. I had hidden away about forty quid and I bet it on Tommy. The fella gave me eight-to-one. I made three-hundred and-twenty quid,” she said.
“Well done, girl!” I chirped. I was bloody happy for her.
Tommy reached over and put his arm around Ginny's shoulders and pulled her close.
“You know what they call that, Yack?” Tommy asked.
“Na. What?”
“They call it a nest egg,” he said, with a smile. Then I remembered the conversation I had with Ginny that day. The nest egg. She’d asked me if Tommy would marry her one day. Well it looked as if that day might be getting closer. Tommy might not be big on words, but he had a big heart – inside and outside the ring.
I laughed.
“You know, you kids are gonna be okay. Quite okay.”
* * * * *
No-one claimed to have seen the Wirrarri tribesmen on the night of the fight. They disappeared into the night as silently as they had come. But I knew they had been there. I had heard them and I had felt them during the bout. Later, when I recounted the story, claiming to have heard chanting, everybody believed I was mad. But I wasn't. Some people had said it was a just a sandstorm, but I knew different. That night, the spirit of the land had been awoken by the Wirrarri tribesmen, and that spirit, carried on the west wind, Gheeger Gheeger, passed into the fists of Tommy King – no longer, King of the Ring, but King of the Outback!
BONUS PREVIEW
FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION
JACK TUNNEY
ROUND ONE
KANSAS CITY, KANSAS
1954
I knew I had Barker when he started to fight dirty. Most fighters start out on the up and up, only turning to the cheap shots when things weren’t going their way. Round three though, the son of a gun tried to lace me.
Barker pivoted around so his back was to the referee, then came at me high with a left jab. He made like he was aiming for my right eye, then he let his glove drift wide. The idea was to get the laces on the inside wrist of your glove to rub alongside your opponent’s face like a cheese grater. As soon as he threw the punch, we both knew the stunt.
So, fine. Barker wanted to play it that way, okay.
It felt good to be winning. I’d dropped my last three, putting me below .500. Not a good record for a kid supposedly on the rise. A rise to the middle. To the punch drunk league with all the stumble bums ou
t there taking licks for nothing more than cab fare home.
My form was on, I wasn’t out of breath yet. Hard work had paid off and no way this joker was going to take this match out from under me with some cheap shots.
I laid three in Barker’s gut and had him on the retreat again when the bell rang, signaling the end of the third round. All I wanted to do was keep on punching until he hit face down on the canvas, but that would have to wait another ninety seconds.
In the corner my manager, Sal, put down the stool and tipped a bottle of water into my mouth. I swished and spit into the bucket.
“Did you see that? He tried to lace me,” I said.
“What’s that?” Sal turned his good ear to me.
“He tried to lace me,” I repeated.
“Aw, he’s scared, that’s all.” Sal had been there and back and seen it all along the way. A salty old veteran of every fight hall from here to Buffalo, Sal punched himself silly years ago, then kept it up for another ten years after that. His nose had been broke so many times he’d lost count. Matching cauliflower ears hung like lamps from each side of his head and he moved with a hitching limp that finally brought his days in the ring to an end. Why he picked up a go-nowhere prospect like me, I’ll never know. I was his only middleweight, and I felt the tag was plenty appropriate. My talent was in the middle. The highest I could ever get in the fight game was somewhere between the title fight and the gutter. He knew it and I knew it, like the palooka across the ring and I both knew he threw those laces at me.
Still, Sal treated me like a contender. He may have been punched dumb, but he was no fool. Treat your boys right and they’ll treat you right. Guess he always reminded me of Father Tim in that way. That was enough for me to hitch my wagon to Sal for keeps.
