Читать книгу Hard Road to Glory - How I Became Champion of the World - Johnny Nelson - Страница 11
ОглавлениеI soon realised I had to find some new friends or become a real saddo, hanging around on my own. The people I’d known at school had either gone on to college or were from the other side of town and in jobs, while I was back in Upperthorpe and out of work. At least I wasn’t alone in that – while the ‘loadsamoney’ whizz-kids in the south were knocking back the champagne, unemployment in Sheffield had gone through the roof. It was a bleak time to be leaving school with no qualifications and no mates.
I knew a few of the local lads to nod to, but that was about it. I needed to take action and, as I often did, turned to my brother Allan for inspiration. He seemed to have plenty of friends he’d met at a boxing gym called St Thomas’s in Wincobank on the other side of Sheffield, run by a guy named Brendan Ingle. I didn’t fancy fighting but I’d got energy to spare and I knew that some of the people Allan hung around with didn’t box but went along just to train. That sounded good to me. There was one snag. Allan was adamant that no kid brother was going to his gym. It would be too embarrassing.
‘But I want to box,’ I lied.
He was still not impressed. However, when I kept on pleading, he relented and offered me a compromise. There was a small gym nearer our house called Croft House Boxing Club and Allan said, ‘If you go there and stick it out for a year, then you can come with me.’
I had no choice, but it wasn’t the same and I think I only went to Croft House half a dozen times. On the other nights, I’d leave the house with Allan but, as soon as we went our separate ways, I’d slip back home. Later, I’d go out again, timing my ‘return’ to make sure I bumped into him in the street again. He never cottoned on or, if he did, he didn’t let me know, and, before the year was out, he said I could go to his gym. There was still a condition – I mustn’t let anyone know we were brothers.
I continued to have doubts about boxing, especially after an experience I had at an exhibition Brendan ran where members of the public could get up and spar with some of his lads, including his number-one fighter, Herol ‘Bomber’ Graham. It was a bit like the old fairground boxing booths except it was held in working men’s clubs and better controlled.
I knew Herol by reputation but, when I watched him spar, he didn’t look especially impressive. He was ducking and weaving and getting out of the way of the punches, and to me he looked like a girl playing tiggy. The next time Brendan called for someone to go in the ring, I stepped forward. I got gloved up and went after Herol, throwing punches for all I was worth. He just grinned and slipped inside them, whispering, ‘Come on, Blackie, you can do better than that.’ Now I was even more determined. I threw both hands at him but still didn’t land.
Most kids soon punched themselves out and got tired but I didn’t and Herol started to get bored with ducking out of the way of this human windmill. He decided to bring it to an end, slipped inside another of my swinging shots and put a short stiff punch into my midriff. He knew he wasn’t meant to hit the punters but did it on the blind side of Brendan, who probably thought I was just tired. All the wind went out of me like a punctured balloon and I just doubled up on the floor, gasping for air. For a moment, it felt as if I might never be able to catch my breath again. I thought, I’m going to get even one day.
When Allan told me I could finally go to St Thomas’s, we started a ritual that lasted for a couple of years. We sat together on the bus going into the centre of Sheffield and he reminded me that no one was to know we were brothers. ‘When we get there, don’t talk to me, don’t sit next to me, don’t even look at me,’ he said.
When we got the bus for the 20-minute trip from the city centre out to the gym, he went upstairs while I sat downstairs. When we got off, I would wait at the bottom of Newman Road, even in rain, sleet or snow, while he went up to the gym in the church hall opposite St Thomas’s Church. After a while, I would follow him up. No one could guess we had come from the same house.
Allan didn’t even introduce me to Brendan that first time. I just stood in the doorway, staring at the buzz of activity inside. This was very different from Croft House. The room was long and low. It looked as though it was being dragged down by the four huge metal girders that ran from side to side just below the ceiling. At the far end was a ring, raised up so you suspected anyone over 6ft tall might hit their head. A group of guys were in there sparring, while down below men and young boys were going through their paces, hitting the bags that hung from the girders, shadow boxing, skipping, lifting weights or performing some strange ritual along blue lines painted on the floor. There was a strong smell of sweat and leather, and the room vibrated to loud music from a ghetto blaster. I noticed a sign on the wall that read, ‘Boxing can damage your health.’
As I tried to take all this in, I heard a soft Irish voice call out to me, ‘Come here, lad. What do you want?’ It was Brendan. He was small, a little hunched, but there was something about him that clearly marked him out as the centre of this apparent chaos. Maybe it was because he was quiet and calm. I told him I wanted to learn to box. Brendan nodded and said, ‘OK. Tonight you just stand there and watch and see what the others do.’
I spotted Herol among the people sparring in the ring. He was king of the gym at the time and undoubtedly one of the finest boxers this country ever produced. Nearby was Brian Anderson, who was also to become British middleweight champion. But the guy who caught my eye was Vinny Vahey, a little Irishman who was really quick on his feet and had lightning-fast hands. Vinny’s boxing career never amounted to much but that night he mesmerised me and straight away I decided I wanted to be like him.
Allan had told me Brendan would test me out to see how keen I was and warned me that, if I didn’t buckle down and do the boring stuff, I would soon find myself booted out. It wasn’t a problem for me. I wasn’t keen to get in and box anyway, so the fitness side of things was great. I was soon introduced to those three blue lines painted down the length of the gym about two feet apart.
‘Doing the lines’ was one of Brendan’s inventions. You had to shadow box your way down in a series of moves, making sure your feet always landed smack on the line. Over the years I must have been up and down those lines several thousand times and they not only helped me develop a great inner rhythm and quick feet, but also improved my concentration beyond belief. It’s so simple but so effective. I’ve seen kids with no co-ordination start off hardly able to hit the lines with two steps in succession but after a while they were cruising and throwing in some moves of their own. Brendan has used the lines to help cure stutters and facial ticks. Even now I’ve retired, I still go back and work my way up and down from time to time. It still calms me and helps me concentrate.
Along with the benefits of doing the lines, Brendan used that simple routine to test our willingness to work. Several kids quickly got bored with just going up and down and drifted off to punch at the bags, but Brendan always noticed, called them back and reminded them that the only place success comes before work is in the dictionary.
I enjoyed the atmosphere of the gym and being around a group of people who didn’t give a damn where you came from. I must have done my lines to Brendan’s satisfaction because, pretty soon, he decided I could spar. I was tall and looked quite strong so, after some sessions with beginners, he threw me in with his good fighters, including Herol and Brian. It was hell. There would be four people in the ring at once and every minute Brendan shouted ‘change’ and you moved round, so you sparred with each one of the other three every round.
Brendan had been a boxer and knew how it felt to leave training with a cut lip or black eye and with his head aching, so he only allowed sparring to the body. It could still hurt like hell. Herol would beat me up, whipping in vicious shots while laughing all the time and taunting me with things like, ‘You tosser, you’re hopeless. C’mon, hit me.’ Then Brendan would call ‘Change!’ and Brian Anderson would start on me. I was being knocked all over the place and could hardly land a glove on them in return. I was hurt and frustrated. I didn’t let them know but, by the time I got on the bus to go home, I would be quietly sobbing. It never occurred to me to quit. I’d sit there planning for the day when I would get better and stronger and be able to gain my revenge.
Allan realised what was going on but told me he couldn’t do anything about it. He said, ‘If they know you’re my kid brother, they’ll just hit on you more.’ His words proved prophetic.
Allan and I kept our relationship secret for two years. We didn’t look alike so no one even suspected and it might have gone on longer if I’d not been such an airhead. He was due to fight and the local paper had agreed to come round to our house to take a photo of him with Brendan and a new sponsor. He warned me to be out of the house but I forgot all about it and was sitting in my underpants watching TV when I heard Mum open the door and say, ‘Hello, Brendan, come in.’ I knew I was in the shit.
‘What are you doing here?’ Brendan asked, clearly surprised to see me.
‘I live here,’ I said lamely.
Just then, Allan came in. It was a good job the others were there because he clearly wanted to beat the crap out of me. Brendan just smiled, shook his head and said, ‘I don’t believe it.’
The next night at the gym, he called me into the ring and shouted everyone else to gather round. ‘This is a very clever lad,’ he said. ‘He’s been coming here for two years and none of you ever knew that he is Allan Douglas’s brother. I didn’t even know until last night. You have to be crafty to get one past me and this kid is crafty. That’s what you need if you are going to be a decent boxer.’
I felt ten feet tall. No one had ever picked me out for such praise before and, while I knew Allan was still mad at me, I was proud Brendan had singled me out as someone special. The good feeling didn’t last long because, just as Allan had predicted, Herol and Brian decided to beat me up even more. It was hard to tell which of them was worse. Brian was powerful and when he hit you it was like being clubbed but at least you had some chance of hitting him back, even if he did shrug off the punches as though they were mere gnat bites. Herol was slippery and would dance around you, tormenting you with stinging jabs and sharp words, and, after he’d wound you up to his satisfaction, he would slip inside and catch you with a really great shot. Looking back, I can see how those sessions helped me develop but it was hard to appreciate this was for my own good at the time, especially as I was only progressing from garbage to plain bad. I might be crafty but being a decent boxer seemed a long way off.
