Of wee sweetie mice and men

by Colin Bateman

  I was disappointed. I wanted Snatchit Matchitt to be scared. I wanted him to freeze. I wanted his clothes to stick to him with cold sweat. I wanted him to be sick over himself. I wanted him to scream. I wanted him to stick his knuckles in his eyes. I wanted him to cling to me. I wanted to pat him on the head and say, 'There, there, son, you'll be okay.'

  Ten minutes into the flight Stanley sat there with a big smile on his face, his earphones on, drinking a double, eyeing up the air hostesses.

  'Beautiful,' he said, loud enough to compensate for the maelstrom in his ear and for the hostesses to hear. They looked daggers at him, and he grinned back. 'Beautiful' he said again. 'You know,' he bellowed in my ear, 'they're just like waitresses, save that waitresses don't run much risk of crashing into a mountain from forty thousand feet.' He cackled in my ear.

  'Very good, Stanley,' I said, but he didn't hear me.

  McClean, McMaster and Mary were cosseted in first class. I thought if they'd decided in their wisdom to put a nationally renowned journalist like myself in economy class, at the very least they might have continued with the pecking order by putting a seasoned killer like Stanley on a deck chair in the hold instead of sticking him next to me.

  'This is class,' bellowed Stanley again as he drained his glass. He lifted his earphones off and tipped the empty glass towards me. 'Do you want another?'

  I shook my head. It was time for a dry-out. 'You might as well, they're free.'

  'I know they're free, Stanley.'

  He shook his own head, then snagged one of the hostesses' sleeves as she passed. 'Fill that for us, wouldja?' he said. 'Whiskey and Coke. And he'll have a double vodka and orange.'

  The hostess nodded glumly and moved on. She reached the drinks trolley and said something to a colleague. They both looked back up at Stanley.

  'I said I didn't want one.'

  'But you didn't say you didn't want two.'

  'I suppose there's a flawed kind of logic in there somewhere.'

  'Waste not, want not, Starkey.'

  'Shouldn't you be up front with McMaster being muscular rather than getting pished back here?'

  'Sure he's fine up there. Nothing's going to happen to him up there in upper class. Nothing ever happens to the upper class.' Suddenly he giggled. 'Except for Lord Mountbatten. Did you know he had dandruff ?'

  I nodded, but it didn't deter him.

  'They found his head and shoulders on the beach.' He cackled again, like a hyena having a caesarean. 'Very droll.'

  'Do you get it - head and shoulders? Head and. ..'

  'I get it, Stanley. Most of the passengers get it.'

  Stanley shook his head disdainfully. 'Take it easy, Starkey. Are you scared of flying or something? You're very edgy.'

  'Sitting beside you makes me edgy.'

  'Ach, sure I'm just a big cuddly bear.'

  'I know what you are, Stanley. I'm just worried that someone might try to kill you during the flight and I'm sitting next to you.'

  Stanley sniggered and accepted the drinks from the hostess. 'Thanks, honey,' he said. He kept both glasses and the mixers on his table. 'Cheers,' he said as he mixed the whiskey; the mix was more fascist than liberal.

  'Cheers,' I said, and closed my eyes.

  The restorative powers of sleep somehow passed me by. I woke up tired. I woke up sweaty. I woke up with a sore head. I woke up and that bastard was still beside me. Drinking. Smiling. Annoying people.

  We were four hours into the flight. He had a couple of fresh drinks in front of him. I looked at my watch, did a quick calculation, then switched it to New York time. Stanley watched me with an expression of benign bemusement on his face.

  'Aren't you going to change your watch?' I asked.

  'It's a Rolex. I'm perfectly happy with it.'

  'No. I mean, change the time.'

  'It's the correct time.'

  'I mean, for New York.' I was regretting bothering already. 'To New York time,' I added, to clarify things.

  Stanley shook his head.

  'It'll still be the correct time in New York. Rolexes don't lose time.'

  I nodded. He was silent for a couple of minutes. I watched the clouds below.

  'How much would I need to change it by?' he asked.

  I turned, surprised - I hadn't heard any cogs moving - and showed him my time. He nodded and started to footer with his Rolex. 'My uncle used to fly all over the world,' he said, 'all over, east, west, north, south, all over the place.'

  I nodded.

  'He said he used to fly through so many time zones in the course of a single trip that he could start off clean shaven, and by the time he finally got off the plane he'd have a full beard.'

  I nodded some more.

  'He said on one trip a woman at the back of the plane conceived, gave birth to a boy and had him all dressed and ready for prep school by the time they landed.'

  'Really’ I said, dryly.

  He nodded and took a sip of his whiskey. 'What was your uncle?'

  'A nut.'

  After a moment of due reflection I said, 'I asked for that.'

  'You did,' said Stanley, and took another drink.

  10

  We were all a little stunned.

  First there were the forty wailing men in the green skirts. Then out into the speckling snow and the steaming chariot.

  The 43rd Hibernian lads, forty-three sons of the oul' sod, fortythree me-me men pressing their elbows on sheep bladders and puffing like their lives depended on it, made Kennedy Airport sound like a giant beehive, one crying out to be smoked. None of us knew where to look; the flashing cameras only served to confuse us further. A chauffeur, giant, black, dressed incongruously in a bright-green uniform, holding a sign which carried McMaster's name and four crudely painted shamrocks, collected us from arrivals and cut a path through the photographers to the longest, sleekest car any of us had ever seen.

  'Welcome to America, folks,' our driver said, ramming a huge cigar in his mouth. If I'd been filing it, it would have gone in under American cliche number one.

  Even McClean, who liked to control things, looked a bit stunned. 'Clay sure knows how to put on a show,' was all he could say.

  Marvin 'Poodle' Clay, as bald as an egg and with a head not that different in shape, rapped on the microphone on the top table of the New York Mirage conference centre, and slowly silence fell over the assembled press corps. Clay smiled. It made his face look like there was a gash in it.

  Clay was a Harlem fraudster from way back. He'd moved into boxing in prison and emerged into freedom with a ready-made stable of fighters and enough money stashed away to ensure they won a lot of fights. He'd built his powerbase in Manhattan and Atlantic City, distrusting the flash and distance of Las Vegas, and signed fighters by the dozen until he was almost a rival to Don King, the electric-haired promoter who'd dominated the fight scene for decades. Almost a rival, but not quite. The difference between them was the heavyweights. Where the real money was. King had Tyson in his camp and just about every contender you cared to name. King had done time for manslaughter. Clay thought King was too nice.

  King had the division sewn up nicely. As promoter, like every promoter in every sport, he took the lion's share of the cash - box office, cable, promotional. As manager of the champ - albeit through his son - he was able to negotiate with himself for the fee Tyson was paid, and then take a cut of it. Invariably he was manager of the challenger, so he was able to negotiate with himself for a reduced fee, and then take a bigger cut of that for giving his challenger the opportunity to fight his champion. It was the most perfect cartel in the business. And he thought he had enough money to stop anyone breaking it up. Sign for me or you don't get anywhere in the business was the bottom line. He seemed to have every black man in America over fourteen stone on his books, just to cover all contingencies. Who could conceive of there being a good white boxer? King could. King signed them. There were a couple. But who would ever think of making a fat Irishman sign on the dotte
d line? Marvin Clay would. And Marvin Clay had Bobby McMaster, through McClean, sign on the dotted line even before he picked up the European title. Some cynics might say that he even arranged for McMaster to win the title, but who could foresee a clash of heads and cuts stopping a fight? Mmmm. Whatever, Clay had enough clout, just, to get the WBC to insist on a mandatory defence of the heavyweight title despite the unforeseen (mmmmmmm) injury to Tyson's scheduled opponent, and the WBC and the IBF had little choice but to fall into line. For once King had been outmanoeuvred. But it would be back to normal after the fight.

  'Ladies and gentlemen,' Clay proclaimed out of courtesy, for there were no women present - Mary was sleeping off the flight upstairs -'welcome to the fight of the century I'

  I sat at the back of the hall. An elderly gent, notebook in hand, duly noted Clay's opening remark, then whispered, 'Bullshit,' out of the side of his mouth.

  Clay smiled down at Don King beside him, and Tyson one place up, then turned and nodded at Geordie McClean and Bobby McMaster on the other side. Then he launched into a spiel about the fight. My neighbour was right, it was bullshit. It was all duly noted by the press, recorded by the cameras and microphones, but there was a tangible lack of excitement.

  Clay threw the floor open to questions.

  After a few moments of motionless embarrassment, a couple of hands slowly snaked into the air. Clay pointed.

  'Matt Bronski, The Ring. Mr Clay - who the hell is Bobby McMaster?'

  'Bobby McMaster is the European champion and the nearest ranked contender available for Mike Tyson to make a mandatory defence. You know that, Matt.'

  'But who the hell has he fought?'

  'He's fought plenty. He'll give Mike the fight of his life.'

  'What do you base that on?'

  'Take my word for it, Matt.'

  Matt sat down, muttering under his breath, 'That'll be the day.'

  Clay pointed. 'Bernie Gold, Boxing World - Mr Clay, allegations are being made in some quarters that this is a cynical attempt to exploit St Patrick's Day.'

  Clay banged his fist on the table. 'Show me those alligators!' Anger glared briefly in his eyes and the wide set of his mouth, but then he swallowed and pushed the smile back onto his face. "'Cynical" and "exploit" are two words which don't even figure in my vocabulary, Bernie. Two good fighters are being matched at just the right time, one champion who's proved himself time and again, and a hungry contender on the way up. It's the story of boxing, Bernie. Who gave Ali a chance against Liston? Leonard against Hagler? Of course there's a marketing angle to it, I'd be a fool to deny that, but we have a genuine fighting Irishman here and what better way to celebrate St Patrick's Day than have him fight for the world title?'

  'Alec Cowan, NBC - Mr Clay, is this an attempt to wrest control of the heavyweight division from Mr King?' ‘

  Yes.'

  Clay turned to King. They both laughed.

  'How do you feel about that, Mr King?'

  'Marvin Clay has two hopes of winning the title. Bob Hope and

  No Hope.'

  They both laughed again.

  'So you don't rate Bobby McMaster's chances?'

  King laughed again and shook his head, the mad brush of hair waving like wheat in the wind. 'We're not worried about him.'

  'Mike - do you expect any trouble from Bobby McMaster?'

  'I've met Bobby, and he seems like a sweet guy, but no, I don't expect any trouble from him.'

  'What will your tactics be?'

  'I intend to go out in round one, sound him out, then drive his nose up into his brain.'

  An ominous silence settled on the room. A dozen heads nodded, almost imperceptibly. I looked at Tyson, and I could see death written all over him. Bloody, painful death. McClean looked across at Tyson. His head nodded too. McMaster, eyes down, studied his fists. His paleness was way beyond simple lack of pigmentation.

  The old guy beside me stood up. 'Patrick O'Brien, New York Irish News. I'd like to ask Bobby McMaster what his tactics will be.'

  A couple of nervous snorts.

  McMaster looked up, scanned the room until he saw the diminutive figure on my right. He looked down at his fists again, then up. 'I plan to run away,' he said quietly.

  The silence was almost complete. A couple of clicks, camera flashes. All eyes now on McMaster.

  'Is that it?' O'Brien asked.

  'Naw,' said McMaster, a cherubic smile slipping across his face, 'at the end of round six my trainer, Jackie Campbell, plans to slip a horseshoe into my glove. Then Mike'll know all about punching power.'

  It started with a giggle at the back. It spread along the row, then down towards the top table. Suddenly everyone was laughing.

  Even Tyson had a smile on his face.

  'Evan Ward, Boston Globe. Bobby - where do you stand on the Irish question?'

  'What Irish question?'

  'About the British in Ireland?'

  'I'm British and I'm Irish. It's a conundrum, Evan, but I don't much mind who supports me, British or Irish. It's only a fight.' Evan Ward took his seat again. He turned to his neighbour.

  'What's a conundrum?' he asked.

  'David Alexander, CNN - what star sign are you, Bobby?'

  'Taurus, David. The Bull.'

  'Mario Fidelli, New York Times - where in Ireland are you from, Bobby?'

  'I'm from a small town in Northern Ireland called Crossmaheart. You may not have heard of it, but it's twinned with Beirut.'

  More laughter. Bobby was starting to enjoy himself. 'You still live there, Bobby?'

  'No. I live in the Holy Land.'

  'Really? Israel?'

  'No, Holy Land, Belfast. It's a district of the city, but it's God's own city. So popular, people keep fighting over it.'

  Don King stood up. 'Mike's taking this fight as seriously as any, he's been in solid training for six weeks. No socializing.'

  'That's very good, Mike. Mike Lebowitz, New York Newsday.

  I'd like to ask Bobby McMaster about his first impressions of America.'

  'Well,' said McMaster, scratching at his chin, 'I'm only just here really. But I suppose my first impression is the number of black people there are.'

  A black reporter, halfway down the hall, jumped to his feet. 'Martin King, Amsterdam Review. Do you have a problem with black people?’

  'Only with one.'stated Bobby.

  'We know Mike Tyson as Iron Mike. Any nicknames then?'

  'Nothing springs to mind, Stuart. How about you lot coming up with something?' He glanced at Clay. 'Something better than the Fighting Irishman.'

  'How about the Quiet Man?' suggested Don King.

  'How about the Big Potato?' came a shout from the floor.

  'The what?'

  'Y'know, New York's the Big Apple. You being from Ireland, eating potatoes and all, you could be the Big Potato.'

  'How about the Racist Irishman?' shouted Martin King.

  More laughter. King persisted. 'Can you explain your comment

  'It wasn't a comment, it was an observation. I come from Ireland, Martin; there aren't any black people in Ireland. Maybe five or six.'

  'Is that because Ireland operates a form of apartheid?'

  'I don't know why that is, Mr King. Perhaps St Patrick threw them out.'

  'I'm aware of the St Patrick myth, Mr McMaster. Are you comparing black people with snakes and vipers?'

  'Vipers are snakes, Martin.'

  'That's not my point.' McMaster.

  Geordie McClean was on his feet, pulling the microphone away from McMaster. 'I think this gentleman is missing the point. There are genuinely very few black people in Ireland, it's a question of simple demographics. Bobby made an innocent comment about his first observations of America. I think this gentleman is taking Bobby's comment out of context.'

  'Do you even know any black people?' shouted King.

  'I can't say I do, but I have all of Al Jolson's records.'

  Half the floor erupted in laughter, the other half shift
ed uneasily.

  'Racial stereotyping is no laughing matter!' King shouted.

  'Who's laughing?'

  Most of the reporters were.

  ‘Another voice from the front. 'Stuart Adamson, Sports Illustrator’

  'I think Martin King there should interview you about racial stereotyping. How about it, Martin?'

  McMaster waved his hand, shook his head. 'Nah, I'm only taking the piss. No, I don't know any black people, but that's only because I've only been out of Ireland once, and that was to fight for the title in France. So Mike here is just about the first black guy I've ever met. He's been a great champion, he's had his problems but he seems to be getting over those, and he seems like a genuinely nice guy. I'm sure he's looking forward to retiring.'

  'Rankin, Ulster Television - Bobby, hi!'

  'Hello, Mark. Good to see you.'

  'Bobby - what flag will you be coming into the ring under - British or Irish?'

  'That's a good question, Mark. I have no idea. I've made no decision on that yet. I may come in under a flag of convenience, you know, like one of those dodgy ships that get registered in Panama.'

  'Barry McGuigan used to come in under the United Nations flag.'

  'What about the national anthem then? British or Irish?

  McGuigan used to get his dad to sing "Danny Boy" and have done with it.''I may sing that, seeing as how it's St Patrick's Day and I can pick out the notes on my guitar.'

  'Do you have a theme song? Remember McGuigan came in to the Rocky theme. I believe Mr Tyson comes in to the latest rap.'

  'Uh, Mark, the nearest thing I've ever had to a theme song is a hundred and fifty drunks singing "Up Your Hole with a Big Jam Roll" every time I appear in the Ulster Hall. Will that do?'

  I left them to it. I slipped out of the hall and took the lift up to my room. Bobby McMaster had won the press conference, but it was about as important as winning the toss at a football match. I took a beer out of the mini-bar and lay back on the bed and thought about Patricia and her baby.

  11

  I thought about Patricia for three hours, during which I emptied the contents of the mini-bar. It didn't seem like three hours, and it didn't seem like that much alcohol, being in tiny cans and handy measures, but I did a lot of thinking and a lot of drinking, and at the end of it I couldn't remember a single bloody thing and the room was starting to spin. It seemed the right time to give Patricia a call.