Читать книгу Tripping Over - John Hickman - Страница 18

I knew nothing about boxing and cared even less but the custodians of my future attempted to teach me.

‘It’ll do you good, Son, make a man of you,’ Dad smirked.

Mum was concerned. ‘Bill, he could get hurt.’

Dad was thoughtful, lit up his trusty pipe, and sucked hard. ‘That’s unlikely, Alice, young men dancing around like the Marquis of Queensberry. They’ve no idea how to fight, no idea at all. At worse he’ll get a bloody nose.’

The school’s efforts were as numerous as raindrops from a summer shower, but I proved a difficult student. I wanted to make Dad proud of me, but I was also a coward.

I worried too much about getting hurt.

Our boxing instructor was seriously puffed up. A self assured cocky little man from the east end of London, he had a cockney accent and dressed as if he was about to clean the school rather than teach within it. He was the opposite of goatee master in every way. He moved heavily on his feet and was not in the least artistic in his movements, but according to the school blurb he had great skills.

Reputably he’d taught many well-known icons as children how to defend themselves in a boxing ring. Among the names he dropped was no less than Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales, our future King of England who at that time would have been by Dad’s calculations about eight years old.

Mum was impressed but not Dad. ‘I don’t see any need for Prince Charles to defend himself at any age either in a ring or outside it, protected from harm as he is and always will be by countless minders, Alice.’

Dad also agreed padded gloves and above-the-belt rules had no place in the real world. ‘The sport’s obvious artificiality turns me off, Alice.’ And yet Dad remained adamant that I, his son and heir should take part.

I put the gloves on. Things started badly and grew worse. I clearly had no idea what I was doing.

Genteel to a fault and proud of it, my newfound pugilist friends and I took turns to prance like morons around the ring. We grunted as men are supposed to while we tried not to trip over our own feet.

Under pressure to appear focused, we each attempted to jab our opponent hard on the chin to gain points. Dad came to watch. He was unimpressed. ‘You in particular resemble a fair impersonation of a three foot slide on a dog turd.’

‘If combatants fall down for any reason they stay down and wait until the count of my ten to resume,’ our coach explained in his rough cockney accent. ‘Do you all understand?’

We nodded.

I first realised my nose to be vulnerable when a light jab jerked my head backwards. It felt like a crippling blow. Pain engulfed me, soon replaced by a tingling sensation when I leaked blood all over the floor.

There was no count of ten.

I panicked.

Seated on a stool with my head tilted right back for about ten minutes, I waited for swelling to clog my nasal passages. Drawing of breath felt like inhaling red-hot coals. After my blood had congealed coach said, ‘ Enough! Get up and go out there and go do it again. But do it properly this time.’

Boxing soon lost its appeal.

Whether it was the sight of my own blood pooling at my feet, or I had trouble coping with involuntary losses of my own bodily fluids, I wasn’t sure. I decided bloodletting, especially my own, was not for me. The bully in me, when I could find him, had no such compunction about dealing out similar discomfort or hardship to my opponent. But at the first indication of any personal pain or suffering, I became undone.

I tried to get out of it. Mum was on my side, but I had no chance. Dad made it clear. ‘You’ll complete the boxing term.’

The finals drew near. And with every day I felt a step closer to my final resting place. I was to fight a young but highly motivated Japanese student nick-named Kamikaze. His name became one of my recurring bedtime issues. I couldn’t help but feel I would be visited by a brigade of officials in full uniform. They would inform me of my immediate win by default, as the ballot had been rigged. Yes, rigged! Kamikaze was considerably larger, broader, meaner, and with longer reach than enjoyed by most of his fellow compatriots. He also repeated unpleasant things to me. ‘When I get you in that ring, English, I’m going to smash your face into pieces like only a Samurai warrior can.’

‘Right! Great!’ I’m sure my voice sounded sharper than intended.

I was more than a little bit frightened of him and my stomach performed back-flips. Never would I be more relieved than to hear the sweetest sound of all. That bloody end gong!

The night before the big event at some stage I fell into a light sleep. Dreams became nightmares as Kamikaze beat me to within an inch of my life. Rivers of blood ran through the house like giant waterfalls.

Next morning came the big day. Dad was so proud I’d completed the term he decided to come and watch. ‘You can only either win or lose. Trivialities won’t count for much. It’s either one way or the other.’

I suspected in reality he was there to stop the fight with supportive words like, ‘ No! Stop the fight! You’re killing my son!’

An entire entourage of Japanese folk sat in the front row. My support team was definitely in the development stage. I was in trouble. I felt like a lamb to the slaughter.

My veins iced up. I knew my nose couldn’t withstand more than one unlucky blow. When the first round commenced, I charged out of my corner.

The smile stayed on coach’s face at first but visibly lost its grip at the edges as our bout continued. My arms fired faster than a speeding bullet. They were like pistons mostly in a forward direction but with no regard for neat footwork, and without etiquette or any of the finer arts coach had tried to teach me.

My opponent tried to cover, then he tried to duck, but his reflexes were too slow. My gloves landed with repeated thuds against his face. Kamikaze stumbled backwards. The crowd erupted like Vesuvius in its last days.

My opponent reached for his nose, and then coach made us wait.

When we resumed I turned back into my foe. Then I spun around with enough speed to start up a wind tunnel. Kamikaze’s face twitched, hardly a smile, more a grimace. I didn’t move with grace but I was as fast as lunacy. Kamikaze collapsed to the floor like a leaking balloon. My head swam with relief. He was down!

The next few minutes of my tender years can be retold only by on-lookers, as my brain would block out the harsh reality for my own benefit. But Kamikaze the Samurai warrior went down again after the count.

If I could have I’d have held him down there with my foot on his throat.

Each time he got up, not long after the gong sounded, I delivered a range of big ugly punches and put him straight down again. I was demonic.

My performance wasn’t pretty. No style. No finesse. But I was so bloody terrified of Kamikaze hurting me I never gave him the opportunity to get in a single punch.

Coach stopped the fight after the next count. I had beaten him without receiving a single blow to my nose.

All the Japanese entourage stood up en-masse and walked out in total disgust.

Coach was furious with me over my unpolished performance.

Without being allowed to take a break or even catch my breath, I had to box the next in line. My best friend David was shorter than me with less reach, but a fine boxer.

He beat me, easily.

They stopped the fight when my nose bled. But I didn’t care. I had survived against the fearful one and that had been my dread. Getting a bloody nose from my best friend didn’t have the same fear factor for me.

I was awarded a runner up medal.

Coach had a voice like steel wool being dragged over corrugated iron. He leaked his hostility through pursed lips. ‘You don’t deserve it and I’ll be telling your father you’re no longer permitted to box in this school.’

He didn’t have to go far because Dad was standing behind him puffing on his pipe.

‘Okay, sir,’ I said, drawing out the words.

I looked at Dad. His face as expressionless as the Sphinx he shrugged back at me. ‘At least you can leave with dignity.’

I moved on to sports but began to think ball control meant the state of my underpants. It was a bonding moment for me when Dad said, ‘The only balls you might ever play with successfully will probably be your own. Whenever you run or jump, you have two left feet.’

Any appeal of sport was lost to me at an early age. I was really, really bad at sports and everybody else knew how atrocious I was. Those in charge of selection didn’t so much avoid choosing me, as hope if they ignored me completely, I might disappear.