The Last Card

by Kolton Lee

  THE

  LAST

  CARD

  KOLTON LEE

  ‘WHAT BOXING DEMANDS, PRIMARILY, IS THE HUNGER TO MAKE THE GRADE AND THE COURAGE TO ENDURE SETBACKS AND DISAPPOINTMENTS.

  ‘SELF-BELIEF IS A PREREQUISITE: IF A MAN DOES NOT BELIEVE ABSOLUTELY IN HIS OWN ABILITY, HOW CAN HE PERSUADE OTHERS TO DO SO FOR HIM?’

  Harry Mullan

  Writer and journalist

  Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  Copyright

  15 JUNE 1998

  H was floating, moving in a different time. His control over his body was perfect. His years of training, dedication, conditioning had all led to these nine minutes; three, three minute rounds of flowing, balletic motion.

  It was the second round and the action was following the course of the first. H was fighting in the finals of the English Amateur Boxing Association. As the South of England champion he was fighting his northern counterpart, Henry ‘Bugle Boy’ Mancini. They called him Bugle Boy because he played the bugle when he wasn’t boxing. He didn’t play it well, in fact he could barely toot out ‘Three Blind Mice’, but he played it, and the press latched on to it, an angle for their human interest stories. H scowled every time he thought of it. Fuck Mancini and fuck his bugle. They say you need good lips to play brass. By the time H was through pounding Mancini’s face, the man would have to take up the guitar.

  The arena, a sports centre in Birmingham, was packed. Three thousand people; punters, minor celebrities, the country’s amateur boxing cognoscenti. And they were all cheering for H. Because H was putting on a show and making the artistry of boxing look like the easiest thing in the world.

  Despite media spin, Mancini was a tough, stocky, big-boned kid from Hulme, Manchester’s equivalent of the south Bronx. He was a bully. With a jaw carved from the concrete of the council flats he grew up in, Mancini could take a punch. He thought nothing of wading through two, three or four of his opponent’s punches to land one of his. And Mancini could punch. He was a banger. He’d bulldoze his opponents, not only taking their blows but flaunting the fact that he could take their blows and still keep coming. The public liked watching Mancini not because he was good but because he was exciting. A bit like Nigel Benn in the early years.

  But the public also liked watching H. H wasn’t a banger, he was a dancer. Slim, lean and whippet-fast. He didn’t just dance, he could punch as well, but he didn’t have Mancini’s weight of punch. On the way to this final bout, H’s knockouts were fewer; his journey was less spectacular in some ways, but no less decisive. Where Mancini would land the spectacular blow that could separate his opponent from his senses, H would land three that would put his man down, unable to beat the count. Stunned but not out. And so the hype leading up to this fight was all about how the Bugle Boy with the knock-out blow would handle the cold-eyed shuffler.

  H was called the Shuffler because his patented move was the Ali shuffle. Having seen the great man do it countless times on video, H had imitated and then practised the move to perfection. To the point where he had made it his own. It was now somewhere between the Ali shuffle and a Michael Jackson moonwalk. Whenever H had an opponent on the run, or if it was a closely fought bout and H wanted to momentarily bamboozle an opponent, he would begin shuffling his feet and gliding smoothly round the ring. There were those who thought he was showboating but most people loved the entertainment. Either way H’s smooth, fluid movements would invariably bring the watching crowd, hungry for violence and action, to its feet, roaring approval. For H, the shuffle wasn’t so much arrogance as an expression of fun, the almost childlike joy he took in his sport and his ability to do it well. He revelled in his ability to make what he did look easy and the crowd responded, loved him for it.

  And so it was that halfway through the second round of the finals of the English Amateur Boxing Association H began to shuffle. But only after peppering Mancini with any amount of stiff lefts that caused the Bugle Boy’s lips to bulge; only after a sweet one-two-three combination, the three being an uppercut that jolted Mancini’s head back, the sweat flying from his close cropped head; only after a body shot that literally doubled the bullying Bugle Boy from Hulme. Only after all these things did H finally allow Mancini to close in. And when Mancini did H promptly dropped his hands to his sides and shuffled his feet in a blur of motion that carried him out of harm’s way. The crowd began to rise, the front sections at first, and then further back throughout the arena, as a roar of applause, approval and love built to a crescendo, crashing around H with the force of a waterfall.

  For the first time in his life, H knew what it meant to feel drunk, intoxicated, inebriated on sheer ability.

  Mancini stood, floundering, in the centre of the ring. H could see that he was bemused, befuddled and embarrassed. Through swollen eyes he glared at H. And the crowd roared. Like a mammal reared in water and finding himself on land for the first time, Mancini was confused; life wasn’t supposed to be like this. Movement was supposed to be fluid, taking in oxygen was not supposed to be something you thought about, and bashing opponents was supposed to come easy. None of this was true. H watched as, with resolve, Mancini again went for him. Bravely, he stepped forward, glaring, murder in his eyes. Rat-a-tat-tat! H peppered him with light, fast punches. Mancini brushed them aside and swung. Air. He missed, H was gone. Kept moving forward. H stopped shuffling, he was dancing, up on his toes, bang! a right to the side of Mancini’s head, Mancini swung, H bobbed, under the blow – bang! another left to Mancini’s face, the Bugle Boy’s lips this time and Mancini’s mouth sagged. He was trying to breathe, his mouth hung open, gasping for air, H in again, combination, one-two-three, bang-bang-bang! Mancini lunged, grabbed on to the Shuffler, clinging, holding.

  Break! The referee stepped in and separated the combatants. His left eye closing now, Mancini again came in, like a bull, all upper body beef, looking for the blow that would put an end to this. And again H shuffled, just out of reach. He was playing to the crowd, returning the love that they sent towards him in waves.

  Ding, Ding! The bell rang to end the round. With all the noise in the arena only the referee heard it and had to step between the fighters, sending them back to their respective corners. On their way, they passed each other.

  ‘Are you gonna dance all night, bitch?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I thought blacks were supposed to be tough?’

  H let this lie as he floated to his corner. Nick and Matt, his corner men, slid through the ropes and into the ring. With the precision of Swiss watch manufacturers, they set to work. A stool was planted in the corner, H was pulled on to it. A bucket of cold water with a sponge in it was slapped to one side. Matt, the sixteen-year-old sponge boy, put his hand in H’s mouth, pulled out his gum-shield, drop
ped it into the bucket. He then dipped the sponge into the water and mopped H’s face, squeezing the cooling water over the crisp, clean cut of his features. Matt’s father Nick, a grizzled Irishman from the slums of Belfast, had already dropped to one knee. He looked piercingly into H’s eyes and spoke with calm but urgent authority.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Stand and fight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stand and fight. He wants me to stand and fight him.’

  ‘Forget him! He’s an animal! Dis is it son, all we’ve been working for. Look at me! It’s in de fuckin’ bag, just keep movin’, movin’, workin’ de jab, stickin’ it in ’is face, and shufflin’. Look at me!’

  H’s eyes wandered over to look at Mancini in the far corner. Nick yanked his face back.

  ‘Keep keepin’ outta trouble, stay loose, stay focused, remember everythin’ we’ve worked for, back in de gym. Dis is yours! Dis is your day! Fuck dis Mancunian arsehole, you’re goin’ta make him pay de proice for turning up in de same ring as you. What’s de proice? What’s de proice?!’

  But H was no longer listening. His breathing was easy, his head felt light. He deliberately slowed his breathing further. His gaze was clear. While Nick talked H stared, clear-eyed across the ring. In contrast to the calm efficiency of his own corner, Mancini’s was a mess: blood oozed from the cut above Mancini’s eye, his mouth was swollen and cut, two cotton buds were jammed up his nostrils. One of his corner men feverishly slapped grease over his red-raw eyebrows and forehead, another slopped water down his chest, into his trunks.

  ‘Look at me, H! What’s de proice?’

  ‘Defeat.’

  ‘Not defeat! Not defeat! Annoihilation! Crush dis guy! Like a bug! Leave no doubt in de judges’ moinds! Dere is no doubt already, but I want even less! Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’, no change of game plan, DMS – dancin’, movin’, shufflin’. Dis is de last round you’ll ever foight as an amateur. Make it one to remember. You’re next fight is as a professional and we go and make some real fuckin’ money with de big dogs. Now go out and jab his fuckin’ head off, H. What are you?’

  Matt took H’s gum-shield and slipped it back into H’s mouth.

  ‘I’m a champ.’

  ‘I can’t hear you!’

  ‘I’m a champ!’

  ‘I can’t fuckin’ hear you!’

  ‘I’m a champ!’

  ‘You’re a fuckin’ god! Now go out dere and prove it!’

  Ding! Last round. Nick struggled up from arthritic knees back to his feet. He and Matt both kissed H before climbing out of the ring. H rose. He looked across at Mancini. The adrenaline spurted, still coursing through his veins. He shook his arms out, rocked his head from side to side, working out the kinks, he eased his gum-shield into a more comfortable place in his mouth.

  The referee now waved him and Mancini to the centre of the ring, looked them both in the eye, paying special attention to the bloody Mancini. He was happy. As far as he was concerned, they were both able to box. He waved them together, stepped back. H looked at Mancini, Mancini glared back. H banged his boxing gloves together, ready to get it on …

  ***

  Years later, when H looked back on his performance against the short, stocky fighter from Manchester, he would always find goose-pimples rising on his arms. Pure adrenaline, not blood flowed through your veins. Moving so fucking fast you think you’re about to defy gravity and lift off the face of the planet. But now, with the benefit of those added years, H realised what he had been experiencing was the celebration of unbridled, unfettered, pure and unadulterated, one-hundred-per-cent-concentrated youth.

  1.

  SEVEN YEARS LATER

  The room was cold and dark, the cloakroom of an old, Victorian dance hall. The fact that it had once possessed a quiet grandeur did nothing to improve H’s mood. He sat on a low bench, a grille with hooks for coats over his head, staring at nothing. Steam rose from his overheated body as he allowed the cool of the room to evaporate his sweat. His hands, still encased in bulbous boxing gloves, hung by his sides and his back sagged as he slouched against the grille. H was tired.

  The door was suddenly thrust open and Matt strode in. Now a sturdy young man of twenty-three, he wore a chunky gold chain around his neck and an equally chunky ID bracelet on his wrist. He flicked on the light. He was surprised to see H sitting in the dark.

  ‘What’s up with you? You’ve got a face like a well-slapped arse!’

  H looked at him out of a partially closed eye. He said nothing.

  Setting down his trusty bucket and sponge, Matt pulled up a wooden stool and dropped it in front of H. Without a word H rose and sat on the stool, his back to Matt. Matt removed the towel from round his neck and slowly began to rub H’s head, shoulders and back.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, H, you were fucking robbed. You know it, I know it and the punters know it. The only one who doesn’t know it is the one-eyed, bald-headed, cunt who calls himself a referee. That cunt is a fucking disgrace. He should be struck off.’

  H continued to stare at nothing, the throbbing from the black eye becoming more pronounced.

  Matt’s practised fingers kneaded the baby dreads that sprouted from H’s scalp. The relationship between them went back almost fifteen years. H felt his head bob rhythmically back and forth as his friend worked his fingers in the towel, going from the base of the skull, down the neck to the shoulders and then the back. H raised his arms, one of them more gingerly than the other, so that Matt could gain a greater purchase on his back.

  ‘What’s the matter, H? Why so quiet?’

  H turned to look back at him but still said nothing. Matt finished rubbing down his spine. He then pulled up another stool and sat himself in front of H. He pulled a pocket-knife from his tracksuit and opened it up. H extended his gloved hands out in front of him and Matt moved on to the second part of the ritual. He unlaced H’s boxing gloves, first one then the other. H’s fists were tightly packed in thick, white masking-tape. Matt took his knife and carefully cut through the taping of H’s right hand. Every so often he looked up. H was staring at him out of his one good eye.

  ‘Come on, mate, snap out of it.’ It seemed Matt couldn’t take the silence any longer. ‘It wasn’t that fucking bad, I’ve seen worse. You didn’t see Taps’ fight last week. Taps had this black geezer from Brixton – big fucker he was! – Taps had him down twice in the second round, it was a six-round fight, knocked him spark off his feet in the fifth, and the ref gave it to your man from Brixton! Couldn’t fucking believe it! It was a joke!’

  ‘How come they gave it to the guy from Brixton?’

  ‘Fucked if I know. Could’ve had something to do with the cut Taps had on his bonce. It was pretty deep, but Christ Almighty, Taps had this bloke looking like a fucking amateur. He is a fucking amateur! He works down at the Fridge as a fucking bouncer, d’you know what I mean?! There should have been a fucking riot. Taps is a class above.’

  ‘What class is that, then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said Taps was a class above: what class is that, then?’

  H wasn’t really trying to be difficult. It was just that today, he’d had one low-rent fight too many, in front of a clearly unqualified adjudicator, before a small but ignorant audience who had no real idea of what they were watching. H was not the fighter he once was. While he used to be ridged with hard, distinct muscle, those very same muscles were now soft; while his waist always used to be 11-and-a-half inches smaller than his chest, it was now only six inches smaller; and while his feet used to dance and shuffle with the precision of a Gene Kelly … H’s feet now slipped and shuffled with the dexterity of an old man tottering carefully on an icy pathway.

  This last point had been rammed home with callous cruelty when, earlier that evening, H had again tried to evoke the memory of the fighter he had once been. In the third round the forty-one-year-old brickie that H was fighting had caught him with one too many body shots. H co
uld see them coming. The problem was that when his brain, crisp and clear as ever, told his stubborn and perverse body to move, it refused to obey him. Consequently his ribs took a pounding that they should not have taken. H had tried to shuffle out of harm’s way. The move that used to bring crowds of two, three, four thousand people to their feet in admiration now brought twenty-five drunken louts to a state of heightened derision. They were laughing at him! For as H had tried to shuffle, his thirty-two-year-old feet had somehow become entangled with each other and H had crashed, without grace or style, on to his elbow.

  ‘Taps is a boxer!’ Matt snapped. ‘He’s not a fucking brawler! He understands what the game is all about.’ This answer afforded H no satisfaction whatsoever.

  ‘I woke up this morning and pulled a pubic hair from my groin.’

  Matt gave H a cheeky grin. ‘Ey, ey! You dirty bastard! One of Bev’s I hope.’

  ‘No, Matt, it wasn’t one of Bev’s, it was one of mine. And it was grey.’

  This was not the male patter that Matt was expecting and he remained silent while he finished cutting through the tape on H’s right hand. Moments later, flexing his freed fingers, H dunked the hand into the bucket in front of him. It was two-thirds full of iced water. Matt began to cut his way through the tape of the left hand.

  ‘It gets us all in the end, mate. When the grey ones outnumber the black ones,’ Matt continued ‘that’s when you have to worry. You’ve got a few years yet, sunshine.’

  H cast him a withering look. ‘I need a holiday.’ He said the words as though the idea had just occurred to him. It had. ‘I need a holiday,’ he said again, more conviction this time.

  Matt looked at him with surprise. ‘I’m not trying to be funny, H, but … you don’t even have a job!’

  H rose abruptly, wincing from the pounding his ribs had taken, and walked over to his nearby kit-bag. The battered old leather holdall was chained to the coat rack with a huge bicycle lock. H pulled out his mobile. He had a text message from Beverley. Later for that. Ignoring the text H found the number and dialled.