The Fighter (6 page)

Leon and Henry hear him out.

They set up a group photo, arms draped over his shoulders, while he sways in the middle with a manic grin. The three lean in, cheeks touching. The Nissens pump the air with their free fists.

‘I love youse,' the fan slurs.

‘We love you too,' Leon says.

‘Nah. You're legends. I'm nothing.'

‘You're everything,' Henry replies.

Even as they age, it is difficult to tell them apart. Leon and Henry retain identical voices, beards in similar shades of grey and white. Matching moustaches, duplicate pug noses. Identical builds—stout, gnomish bodies radiating toughness and good will.

But there are differences. Leon's midriff is slightly more filled out. His face is paler. He sells risk insurance. Henry's face is tinged crimson, weathered from the streets, the wharves. Leon has a quizzical smile. He is more restrained, modest, and staunch
in his praise. ‘Henry had more staying power,' he says. ‘He stuck it out.'

Both brothers have a passion for recounting stories. They act out parallel moves: classic poses, arms raised, fists clenched. They talk, but they also listen. They take time to sit with old comrades who have fallen on hard times. They retreat with them to quieter spaces, and hear them out.

And they are resolute. They insist on high values; they see fighting as a discipline, a noble pursuit, a clean sport, and themselves as exemplars of the art.

Yet there are moments, as former fights are replayed on a giant screen, when the brutality overwhelms: a fighter staggering, falling, spread-eagled on the canvas. Out for the count, despite his herculean efforts to lift himself back up. Frenzied boxers delivering punches fuelled by rage, bobbing and weaving, stalking and feinting, then coming in for the kill. Attacking with all they have. And the bloodied victor lifted by exultant fans, distraught despite the triumph, face battered, body listing, about to throw up.

An uneasy silence falls on the audience, a silence interlaced with awe and a reverence for the skill, the resolve. The love of the sweet science is tempered by a disquiet, and an awkward stillness, a tightening of lips.

But the fraternity is united. Proud. The words are unspoken, but their wary defiance speaks loud. This is the way we made a crust, their demeanour says. We worked hard. We put in the hours. Took the wins and the losses. We did what we had to do. That's the nature of the sport.

The pendulum swings. The guest speaker, a boxer known as the Dark Destroyer, steps up to the mic. The film that preceded his talk had revealed him as a boxer of extraordinary verve—a dancer, a weaver, a black daredevil from London's East End, who fought each bout as if it was his last, and each round as if it was his first. The clips show him training to reggae and rap, earphones plugged in as he pummels, jogs and spars.

He fought with dreadlocks flying, a savage grace, exuberance and ambition propelling him on. He was lightning. He was howling wind. He was as mercurial as a mountain stream, earthed just long enough to deliver a knockout punch. Cunning. Wilful. Above and beyond the streets, released from his roots and set loose to legally inflict pain.

The dreadlocks are long gone. The body has filled out. The Dark Destroyer has been retired seventeen years. He's had time to reflect. He delivers his anecdotes at the podium with a showman's flair and an ex-fighter's lisp. His rapid-fire talk is hypnotic. He knows how to keep an audience entranced.

The dinner guests ride the rollercoaster of his glory days and dark times. They are with him on his wild ascent through the ranks, a succession of wins and setbacks culminating in multiple titles as world champ. He confesses he was young and crazy when he fought. He recalls a World Title bout back in 1995. That infamous fight…

The quiet intensifies. The Dark Destroyer leans into the mic. His voice lowers a tone. He takes on a defensive stance.

‘I was set up with a mauler, a knockout artist. He was heavily backed to take me out. I wasn't supposed to last more than a
couple of rounds.'

True to the script, the Dark Destroyer was knocked clean out of the ring in the first, catapulted between the ropes. He landed on his back, arms outstretched, the front-row audience within reach. On the last stroke of being counted out, he climbed back in, and boxed on. He would not go away, damn it. He would not conform to the script. He sprang back after each blow and gave as good as he got. Edged in front.

He was floored again in the eighth. Again, he sprang back. Found his rhythm. Stalked his opponent. Took control. Lost it. Fought back. He was on the lookout for the main chance: that opening through which he could finish his opponent.

In the tenth he found it. He held his balance, wound up, and delivered jolting blows to the jaw and head, followed by a flurry of jabs.

For a moment his rival swayed upright, a severed tree not quite felled. Then he slumped to one knee, mouthguard loose, lips frothing, fighting for breath. He could not get up. He was done. He staggered to his corner and was eased onto the stool, body sagging, head slumped.

Minutes later, he slid to the canvas, and lay stretched out on his back. Medicos worked frantically to revive him as the Dark Destroyer strapped on the title belt, unaware of the unfolding tragedy, basking in the glory of his triumph.

Slowly, the truth dawned: something was amiss. Even as the crowd continued chanting the victor's name, his defeated foe was being lifted onto a stretcher and borne, unconscious, up the aisle.

He was rushed to hospital and found to have a clot on his brain. He spent days hooked up to life support and was left paralysed, and brain-damaged, partially deaf and fully blind.

Again, that uneasy silence—and a shift in the audience's perception of the showman who had bounded onto the stage full of zest. The pain of the memory now exposed. An abiding guilt. The sport is violent. It can kill.

The audience is holding its collective breath, looking for a way out, a redeeming script. And he obliges. He was tortured by that bout. He was never again the same fighter. He slid into addiction and self-loathing. He tried to kill himself.

But he dragged himself back. He became a close friend of the man he crippled. He hosted benefit dinners and raised money for medical bills. He wheeled him about. He helped his family. He offered him respect. And he received his forgiveness. He had done the right thing.

The audience is with him; he is the preacher and they, the converted, are silently spurring him on.

‘It's what you do after you leave the ring that counts,' he says. He had turned his life around, and become a Christian. He works with troubled youth, guiding them off the streets, helping them kick their addictions. He is passing on his skills.

‘Better for a lad to be in the ring than out on the streets,' he says. ‘You got lots of talent here. Future world champs. You do the right thing. You help a man who has fallen on hard times. You use your fame to lift a lost soul into the light. Help him realise his dreams.'

The audience is on its feet. Henry's fists are raised. His face
is flushed. He applauds with his peers. This is what it's about—redemption—the archetypal tale. You too can be saved. It's never too late. There is always another chance. Henry is back on firm ground.

The balance is restored. Conversations resume, the clamour of voices is scaling new heights. The drinks are flowing. The dessert is being wheeled out. There are cheeses and chocolates for the taking. The fight is over. Relax. Lower your guard.

10

The following day Henry is out and about. There's work to be done. The yellow Hyundai is his office, and the mobile is plugged into his ears.

Mum, poor girl.

She knew what it is to feel worthless, to be stripped of purpose. Bereft of hope. The image of her terror flits through his mind. There are impressions that cannot be erased.

Mum, poor girl.

The mobile interrupts his thoughts.

‘Henry, it's Dave.'

‘How's it going?'

‘Getting discharged from detox.'

‘Oh, why mate, why?'

‘Got to get out.'

‘Can't you hang on?'

‘I can't, Henry. I can't.'

‘Just a few more days?'

‘I told you, Henry. I can't.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘Back to R's—for a drink.'

‘Why mate? Why drink your life away?'

‘It's my life, Henry. You can't tell me what to do.'

‘Your father just died from the drink. Why follow in his footsteps?'

‘It's just one drink, Henry.'

‘That's what you always say.'

‘Henry, you're startin' to shit me.'

‘You'll end up in jail.'

‘I'll just do the detox again.'

‘Well, it's up to you mate.'

‘I'm trying, Henry. I'm trying.'

‘I don't know if I'll always be round to help you.'

‘I need your help, Henry. I need help.'

‘Damn. Damn. Damn,' Henry curses after the call ends. He feels Dave's struggles as his own. He lifts his left hand off the wheel. ‘Damn. Damn. Damn,' he repeats, punctuating each word with a fist, the ex-boxer's reflexive response. His goal is simple—to persuade an addict to see the other side of life. To lift him up.

He has sat with them in gutters, their heads slumped in
their hands, and their bodies bent over double, retching. He has dragged them shivering into the back seat of his car. He has watched them in the rear-vision mirror, cowering, curling in on themselves, their voices quivering. Faces twitching. Has seen panic invading their entire being.

Has seen them pounding their foreheads with their fists, slurring: ‘Henry, I'm a useless piece of shit.' ‘Henry, I'm a fuck'n loser.' ‘I'm crap, Henry, I'm crap.'

He has heard them protesting: ‘I can't do it. Henry, I can't do it. I can't even stand up in the shower without falling over.'

He has seen them beating walls with their palms and fists, sliding to the floor, or the pavement, resting where they landed, arms wrapped round their shoulders, heads buried, knuckles bloodied, muttering: ‘I should never have been born, Henry. I should never have been fuck'n born.'

He has stood with them in high-rise stairwells, in vacant lots and parklands, and sat with them in health centres, doctors' waiting rooms and emergency wards. He has visited them in rooming houses, in squats and run-down apartments, prison visitors' rooms and holding cells. He has pleaded with them, willed them on: ‘Get up. Get moving. Salvation is there for the asking. Reach out and grab it.'

He has sat with them in ambulances, wiped saliva from their mouths, and sponged their faces. Riding the bumps, bracing himself for the unexpected.

He has accompanied them into psych wards and rehab clinics, their bodies strapped to gurneys and wheelchairs, their hands tearing at the straps, fists pounding at empty air.

He has driven for hours to visit them in regional detox centres, in country jails and prison farms, in halfway houses and in maximum security.

He has held them, cradled them, urging them on: ‘You have to do it, mate! Come on! You're going to have to struggle a bit longer.'

He has answered their calls in the dead of night: ‘I don't want to be on my own, Henry. I don't want to be on my own.'

Has left his home and his family, and stayed by their bedsides till dawn, and tiptoed out with the promise of return.

He has come upon them in street brawls, kids on smack and speed, kicking the shit out of each other. On the rampage, unleashed. Exultant. Oblivious to their own pain, and the pain they are inflicting. Has pulled them apart, sent hoodlums reeling with a single counter punch and, once they're subdued, hugged them. Then lifted them off the ground, held them high and told them he loved them.

He has watched them, children of the night, shadowed by pimps and minders: boys in short shorts, studded belts and singlets; skimpily clad girls heavy with makeup, clutching handbags in one hand, applying lipstick or eyeliner with the other, affecting the nonchalant poses of seasoned professionals.

Has seen them standing in dimly lit streets, where men cruise by, slowing to inspect the merchandise, then accelerating, rounding the block and returning for another look, a pick up. Seen them take their chances with strangers and argued with them. Urged them to get off the game and braved their refusals.

‘Fuck off Henry. It's good money. Got a better offer?'

He has found them late at night, kids as young as ten, warming themselves in city arcades and poolrooms; has come upon them asleep in warehouses and park pavilions, vacant lots, derelict buildings. Curled up in the back seats of dumped cars, and on railway station benches. He has found them beneath freeways and bridges down by the river, falling asleep to the tremor of traffic, preferring the streets to a parent's abuse.

He has spread blankets over them and delivered them to hostels and crisis centres, and implored pregnant teenagers to kick their habit. And has withstood the wariness and suspicion. ‘Henry, why are you dead set on helping us? What's in it for you, mate?'

He has kept track of them in their drifting, in flight from pimps and creditors, in search of fresh starts in greener pastures, and taken their calls from the other side of the continent: young men begging for the price of a return ticket to the familiar streets they had fled from.

‘I'm losin' it, Henry, I'm losin' it.'

He has been called to pacify enraged men attacking their wives and girlfriends, their children cowering in the shadows, wailing, and has stepped in to absorb the blows, summoning his ancient fighting skills to put an end to a brutal beating.

He has withstood the taunts, and the drunken threats. ‘Henry, if you don't fuck off, I'll kill ya.'

He has faced men, knives in their hands, coming at him, deranged with anger, men so vicious he's had no choice but to admit failure. Seen them squander their chances until the score sheet is empty and prison the only option.