Читать книгу Hard Road to Glory - How I Became Champion of the World - Johnny Nelson - Страница 10
ОглавлениеNotre Dame had been exclusively for girls but a change of policy had seen it turned into a comprehensive by the left-wing Sheffield council and we were the second ‘guinea pig’ group of boys allowed in. It was across the other side of town, so I guess we were chosen to show there was no discrimination. As I got older, I realised how lucky I was to go there, not because of academic excellence but the ratio of girls to boys. Truth to tell, though, my early love life was nothing to write home about because most of the girls I fancied were friends of Theresa and saw me as just her little brother.
Looking back, I spent far too much time messing about and getting into minor scrapes and not nearly enough effort studying. I wasn’t thick and I really enjoyed being at school but I didn’t have much interest in the academic side of things. I don’t think the teachers disliked me or thought I was a bad lad. I think they saw me more as a loveable rogue and wondered what on earth I would do with my life. As it turned out, I became one of their more famous former pupils but I still think I was a fool not to work harder.
There were only four black kids in the school: Theresa and me, a lad called Ricky, who was mad about football, and a really posh kid named Phil from the best part of town. While being black was seldom a problem, it meant you stood out and that could be a distinct disadvantage as I found out to my cost. As we boys got a bit older and too much to handle even for the fearsome nun we called Sister Mary Bulldog, the school added Mr Grant and Mr Lawrence to the staff to help control us. It was Mr Lawrence who pointed out that being a tall skinny black kid made identification easy, even in a crowd.
It came about because a group of white lads and I were bored at being confined to the playground at dinnertime. We decided to go into the nuns’ carefully cultivated garden next to the playground and have a look round, maybe nick something to eat. Things started to go wrong when we happened to go into the shed and found the motor mower. At first it was all a bit tame but, as we egged each other on, it got wilder and that mower tore through the garden like an unguided missile. We were ripping up rhubarb, trampling over vegetables and having a high old time. We must have been making quite a racket because very soon we were aware that one of the nuns was coming, so we scarpered into a nearby wood.
I was confident no one would suspect I’d been part of the carnage because I was wearing a second-hand camouflage coat over my blazer. I dumped it in the wood and made my way back round to the other side of the schoolyard as nonchalantly as I could. But we’d been spotted by a couple of prefects and I was soon summoned to see Mr Lawrence. I protested my innocence and asked him how he could possibly imagine I would be involved in anything as dreadful as ruining the nuns’ garden. He smiled and pointed out there had definitely been a black boy in the gang. Gender eliminated Theresa, Ricky was always playing football in the playground at break and Phil went home for lunch. He smiled and said, ‘QED, there is only one person in the frame.’
I wasn’t sure what QED meant but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to talk my way out of this one.
The nuns wanted to call the police, which would have meant our parents being summoned to the school, so it was a no-brainer when Mr Lawrence gave us the option of owning up and getting the cane. I chose the beating straight away because I knew I’d get a much more painful punishment from my mum, especially when she found out the garden I’d helped to wreck belonged to nuns. My friend Desmond was first in for the cane and, though his face was a bit red when he came out, he refused to cry. Then it was my turn. It hurt like hell and, of course, at the first whack, I blubbed like a baby. As if a stinging bum wasn’t bad enough, I then found out we had been betrayed. When I came out of the office, Mum was sitting there. She just grabbed me and said, ‘You dare to disgrace me in front of the whole school – just wait until I get you home!’ and, sure enough, her punishment was worse.
I always felt Mr Lawrence had a bit of a soft spot for me, perhaps because I was so naive that I found it impossible to hide my misdemeanours. My short career as a cigarette entrepreneur was a case in point. When Benjie was working, we were given £1 a day to cover our bus fares and dinner. I quickly realised that, if I made sandwiches at home and smuggled them out in my bag, I would have money left over. I didn’t smoke but I would invest 52p in a ten-pack of Park Drive cigarettes to sell to other kids. I used to hang on to them until the final break because, by then, they had smoked their own supply and were willing to pay 10p each for mine. That way I would go home with more money than I’d set out with. Richard Branson would have been proud of me.
My downfall came about because, as a non-smoker, I wasn’t used to concealing cigarettes and didn’t have the usual elaborate hiding places. Sure enough, one day Mr Lawrence noticed the tell-tale oblong bump in my trouser pocket.
‘And what, may I ask, is that?’ he asked.
I realised I was in trouble and said, ‘But, sir, you don’t understand. I don’t smoke. Honest, sir, I don’t smoke.’
He was unimpressed and marched me off to his office, demanding I hand over the cigarettes and give him an explanation. I admitted I was selling the cigarettes and added, ‘I’m doing you a favour, sir, because if these kids climbed over the wall to buy cigarettes they might be involved in an accident.’
He considered that for a few seconds, smiled, picked up his cane and said, ‘Very clever. Three of the best, I think.’
I had my first real fight at Notre Dame. By now, Theresa had left, so I was no longer under her protection but I was tall so most of the kids seemed to think I could probably handle myself and left me alone. It’s a good job they didn’t realise I was just skinny rubber Johnny, as useless at fighting as I was at avoiding punishment.
There was a guy called Russell, who always seemed to have plenty of money and was considered cool by the girls. He was older than me, stronger and more mature but we were friendly for a while. Eventually, we fell out; I can’t even remember what about, but it became inevitable that we were going to have a fight. I was terrified, knowing I would be beaten up, and decided this needed a bit of careful thought. If I couldn’t be a hero, I had to be smart.
I was surprised how quickly camps formed around this argument. People I’d thought of as friends sided with Russell and started to goad me, calling me ‘monkey’ and a ‘black bastard’. I was shocked because until then I’d never been on the end of racial abuse. Only two guys, my friend Desmond and another mate Kenny, stuck by me, so a mass brawl was out of the question. I decided the only solution was psychological warfare, a tactic I often used to good effect in the ring later in life.
Russell was a bit of a poser in front of the girls so I realised he wouldn’t want to risk being shown up. I also banked on the fact that he didn’t know I was a crap fighter.
‘OK, we’ll fight in the woods with everyone watching. I want everyone to see what I do to you,’ I said.
It was bullshit but I sensed for the first time that he was a bit apprehensive. For the next few days, I told everyone the fight was on and sounded as upbeat as I could manage. My apparent confidence seemed to undermine him a bit more.
When it came to the day of the fight, I was crapping myself, especially when I saw how many people had fallen for my bluster and come to watch. This could become the most humiliating day of my life. Russell asked how we were going to do it and I replied, ‘Rounds.’ Clearly, I already knew I was going to need some gaps in the punishment. I said Kenny would time the rounds and on his signal we started. Russell was all over me, punching, pushing, whacking me against trees. I was taking a helluva beating. He got me on the floor and was punching me, grunting, ‘Do you give up?’ between blows. I was desperate for him to stop but my stubborn streak kicked in again and I shook my head.
Luckily, Kenny realised I was out of my depth and called, ‘End of round one!’ It must have been one of the shortest rounds in the history of fighting. Kenny came over to me and with a mastery of the obvious, said, ‘You know you’re getting hammered, don’t you?’
Russell was chatting to his mates and smiling, so I made my way over next to him just as Kenny was about to call the next round. I didn’t cheat by anticipating the ‘bell’ but, as soon as Kenny shouted, I put everything I could into a punch and caught Russell in the face. He was shaken and all his doubts returned to his eyes. He waved his hands in front of him and said, ‘Let’s call it a draw.’
I gracefully agreed, trying not to look as relieved as I felt.
Towards the end of my time at Notre Dame, the teachers began to despair of me. Nothing they tried would get me to study and, looking back, I realise I was probably a pain in the ass to them and a distraction to the other kids. Finally, a teacher marched me to the end of the school drive, gave me a piece of paper with the details of my exams on and told me only to come back in time to sit them. Of course, I didn’t pass any and was suddenly out of school, out of work and back on my own patch where I hardly knew anyone. You often hear stories of people taking up boxing as a way out of their neighbourhood: for me, it was to find my way back in.
