Читать книгу Hard Road to Glory - How I Became Champion of the World - Johnny Nelson - Страница 16

My first professional fight was on 18 March 1986 against Peter Brown, a light-heavyweight from Bradford. It was a couple of months after my 19th birthday and I was paid £190. It was Peter’s second pro fight and he beat me on points over six rounds in Hull. I bumped into him years later when I was world champion and he was a bouncer outside a nightclub. As Debbie and I went in, he gestured towards his fellow bouncer and said, ‘Tell him, Johnny. He doesn’t believe I beat you.’

I replied, ‘Yeah, he did. He completely outboxed me.’

He was chuffed but I saw the irony and I often wonder if he and some of the others who beat me thought about it later and wondered why they hadn’t ended up with the champion’s belt. Most of them had more natural talent than me. Maybe if they’d had a greater work ethic and put in a few more hours in the gym it might have worked out differently, or maybe I was just lucky to have that stubborn streak and to have a hatred of bullies that drove me to keep training, no matter how unlikely it seemed I would ever be able to get my own back on those who took advantage of my early fears.

I was definitely lucky to have Brendan in my corner, both literally in the ring and, even more importantly, in my life. He was always talking to me, guiding me and pointing me in the right direction. His advice was not always easy to take as I found out when I had my second fight against Tommy Taylor in Dudley. Unlike me, Tommy had good amateur credentials. He already had 12 pro fights under his belt and, though he won on points, I felt I’d done enough to edge it. I felt robbed. In the dressing room afterwards, Brendan was telling me how well I’d done and giving me a few pointers when Benjie came in.

‘Johnny, you’re worthless,’ he said. ‘You were terrible. I’m ashamed of you. Your little nephew Marcus is better than you. You should pack it in, you’re rubbish.’

Brendan tried to interrupt but Benjie rounded on him, saying, ‘Shut up, Ingle, you don’t know what you are talking about.’ With that, he slammed out.

I was devastated. Brendan had often warned me not to take any notice of Benjie’s boxing advice and now he said, ‘Johnny, you mustn’t listen to him. He knows nothing about the game and, if you listen to him, you will get nowhere. Please don’t bring him any more. You will never succeed with people like that dragging you down all the time.’

I knew he was right but how could I tell Benjie I didn’t want him at my fights? I bottled it. I didn’t let him know when I was boxing. I would sneak out of the house and hope he hadn’t seen the couple of lines in the local paper, announcing I was bottom of the bill somewhere. It usually worked but occasionally someone would tell him they had seen me fighting and I would have to make up excuses, saying I’d been a late replacement and hadn’t had the chance to tell him. Eventually, the penny dropped and he didn’t mention going to fights again until I invited him. I know Brendan was right and I’m sure my career would have been even harder if Benjie had continued to come to all my early fights, but I regret the fact that I hurt him badly.

A lot has been written and said about Brendan, not all of it complimentary but I have never had reason to doubt him. When I first turned pro, several people warned me he was just setting me up as a journeyman he could send out as a regular earner.

He must have heard the stories too because early on he said, ‘People have told you that I’ll rip you off and you shouldn’t come near me, haven’t they?’

When I admitted they had, he asked, ‘And what do you think?’

‘I figure, if I put my faith in you and you let me down, I’ll find out for myself,’ I replied.

He smiled. ‘Good answer.’

From that moment on, I’ve never questioned any of his decisions, even when they didn’t always seem to be to my advantage.

Brendan has produced several champions but St Thomas’s isn’t just about creating fighters. Brendan’s mission is to change lives in a positive way and he has an uncanny ability to inspire people of all ages. I’ve seen him sitting with successful businessmen, some of them highflyers you would think already had life sussed out, yet they hang on his every word, eager to hear his tales and little nuggets of wisdom.

With young people, especially those who are finding life confusing and hard, he is even more effective. But he’s not a soft touch. There were many summer mornings when he would have us arrive outside the gym, bleary-eyed, just as it was getting light and make us clear up the street. He’d say, ‘Just imagine what a great country this would be if everyone treated their own front door like this.’ Other days he would walk us up Newman Road to the top of the hill, overlooking Tinsley viaduct. As the rush-hour traffic built up on the M1 until it was bumper to bumper, he would pick out a car at one end and tell us to watch how long it took to get across.

‘If you lads don’t do something constructive with your lives, you’ll be in that traffic jam every morning and every night,’ he said, like an old-time preacher quietly pointing to an image of hell and damnation. ‘Can you imagine doing that every day? Isn’t it worth putting in a bit of extra effort to make sure it doesn’t happen?’

One of my favourite stories about Brendan stems from the time a kid started at the gym and began to nick stuff out of other lads’ bags. He proved to be a cunning little so-and-so because, when he realised suspicion was starting to fall on him, he went to Brendan and complained that his bag had been robbed. Clearly, Brendan couldn’t confront him any more, so he called all of us into a group and laid it on the line how serious the problem was and how the club could only be successful if we could trust each other. He then put the thief in charge of watching the bags to make sure it didn’t happen any more. The thieving stopped immediately.

It’s still a bit of a mystery to me how Brendan kept his faith in me throughout my early career – at times he seemed to have more belief in my future than I did. Even though I’d performed better against Tommy Taylor, I was still not enjoying it and, when I went to Copenhagen and lost on points to Magne Havnaa, I made up my mind boxing wasn’t for me. Something stopped me quitting there and then but I decided, if I lost five bouts in a row, I would jack it in. I was getting hurt and I wasn’t earning much money. Unlike lads with good amateur records, who can command quite good purses straight away, I was in the ‘losers’ corner, the opponent who was supposed to get beaten by a promoter’s up-and-coming prospect. For that, I was getting about £300 a fight, less Brendan’s 25 per cent as manager and trainer.

My fourth fight was in Bredbury just outside Manchester, against Chris Little, a heavyweight. He’d had four fights, winning two and losing two, so I imagine we were only hired to fill a gap on the bill because they couldn’t find anyone else. I won on points over six rounds. I was delighted and disappointed at the same time. Winning was a real buzz but it meant I couldn’t walk away as I’d planned. Chris didn’t fight again for two years, when he had two more fights and hung up his gloves. That could have been me.

Instead, I went on a bit of a winning streak. My first live TV fight was on ITV’s Fight Night when I outpointed ‘Gipsy’ George Carman, who was too slow and couldn’t fathom me out. Best of all, the punters enjoyed it, especially as I cut him and there was plenty of blood. George also retired soon after that. It seemed the humiliation of losing to someone as ordinary as me was too much to bear. That was in January 1987 and, in an eight-day period in March, I won a points verdict over Doug Young and produced my first stoppage, finishing off Sean Daly in the first round. Sean also disappeared from the record books soon afterwards.

When you are earning small purses, you need to box regularly and the following month I was booked to fight Brian Schumacher in Halifax. A Scouser of German parents, Brian was being groomed for stardom by Frank Warren. He had a terrific amateur record and fought in the Olympics and, since moving up to light heavyweight as a pro, he had a 100 per cent record. He was clearly one to watch out for. I messed him about and he couldn’t put me away as had been expected. Even though I lost, I thought I’d come close to winning and felt pretty good. Brian clearly didn’t. When he was interviewed on TV, he claimed he should never have been put in with an opponent like me. It was the first time I saw Frank make his telltale gesture of putting his finger down inside his shirt collar and pulling it out as though to let in some air. I’ve seen it a few times since and you always know he’s really pissed off when he does that.

It was about this time that Brendan sent me on my first sparring trip abroad. I was hired by Alex Blanchard, who was preparing for a European title fight against Tom Collins. We were staying on the outskirts of Amsterdam and I was so innocent in those days I didn’t realise I was so close to one of the hottest cities in Europe. Blanchard was a bit of a bastard and very dismissive of me. I was just the hired help. He made arrangements for me to use the service lift in the hotel and to eat in the kitchen with the staff. It was horrible, no one spoke English and for the first time in my life I felt really alone. When we sparred I would dance around and he started to get frustrated. He told me I should stand still and learn to slip shots, which was good advice but given for completely the wrong reason because, as soon as I tried it, he hit me and knocked me down. It gave me great satisfaction when I heard Tom Collins had knocked him out.

I was beginning to realise people were avoiding fighting me which boosted my confidence. In fact I probably thought I was a bit better than I really was, though I learned early on not to take any notice of what I read about myself. There was a case in point in my next fight against Byron Pullan. I couldn’t get near him and just wanted it to be over. In the third round, I let go a shot and caught him perfectly. He was out of it and the referee jumped in and stopped the fight. I knew it had been a lucky punch but in Boxing News they reported that Nelson had boxed with ‘cunning and craft’. If they’d only known – it was more like fear and funk.

I finished the year with another win and, even though 1988 started with a points defeat by Dennis Bailey, it turned out to be just a blip in a good year – one that underlined how right I was to put all my faith in Brendan, even if it wasn’t always easy. One of the most embarrassing times was when he told me I was to carry the nickname ‘The Entertainer’. I hated it from the start, realising it would produce expectations I couldn’t live up to. I felt a real prat when, in a publicity stunt, a Sheffield Star photographer insisted I struck several showbiz poses in the middle of the city. As my career progressed, the last thing people called me was ‘The Entertainer’ so maybe for once Brendan was wrong, or perhaps he chose a most unlikely tag in order to try to get me to live up to it. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, but that name has haunted me and I still get a cold shiver when I think about it. Even recently I was involved in a website with someone and, when I first called it up, he had put the soundtrack of Scott Joplin’s piano rag ‘The Entertainer’ on the site. I made sure it wasn’t there the next time.

After a couple more first-round wins, I came up against Crawford Ashley, a tall Rastafarian, who only had one blemish on his record and was becoming well thought of. He’d already developed more attitude than me and gained a small psychological advantage when we passed each other on the way to the dressing room. I nodded at him with what I thought was a look mean enough to stop Clint Eastwood in his tracks but Crawford just blanked me and walked on.

My confidence didn’t rise much in the dressing room as I was getting changed because Steve Holdsworth, one of the Eurosport commentators, came in and said, ‘You know you are only here as the opponent, don’t you? Crawford is outstanding. You have no chance.’

Fortunately, Brendan didn’t agree and he had a plan.

He called me into a quiet corner of the dressing room. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ he said. ‘When you go into the ring, I want you to do a flip over the top rope. Then, when they announce your name, go to the middle of the ring, do a somersault and land right in front of Crawford with your arms out wide as though you’d already won. I want you to be over the top and cocky in everything you do.’

I was horrified. I wasn’t flash. I just wanted to get in the ring, do the job and get out again, hopefully without taking too much punishment.

No matter how much I protested, Brendan was adamant: ‘Trust me, this will win you the fight,’ and as we walked towards the ring, he slapped my backside and snapped, ‘Get it done.’

And I did. I vaulted over the rope and strutted round the ring like a champion. Crawford looked perplexed while his trainer, Peter Coleman, was turning bright red. He shouted at me and yelled across at Brendan. He was clearly pissed off with my antics and, when I produced a majestic flip and landed smack in Crawford’s face when the MC introduced me, I thought Coleman would have a heart attack. He started to yell at Crawford to get in there and ‘Wipe the smile off that bastard’s face!’

As the fight started, I could see Crawford was bemused. Instead of his usual measured fight, he was trying to finish me off in the first round. When I got back to the corner, Brendan was chortling. ‘Start talking to him,’ he said, so I did. I whispered in his ear that his shots weren’t hurting me and I’d expected better.

Then I said, ‘Sorry.’

‘What for?’ he asked.

I hit him and said, ‘That.’

By the final round, his corner were beside themselves and Crawford was desperate to put me away and get this nightmare over. Instead, I caught him with a terrific shot and he went down. The final bell sounded soon after he staggered to his feet and the referee came over and raised my arm. It was a massive upset and felt wonderful. As we drove home, I asked Brendan how he’d come up with his plan.

‘I’ve known Peter Coleman for years,’ he explained. ‘He’s from Cork, country Irish. He hates any fancy-dan stuff and I knew, if you went over the top, it would do his head in and all their plans would go out the window.’

I sat there and absorbed what had happened. I’d boxed OK, I’d won a bout no one thought I could win, and I’d got a frigging genius in my corner. Maybe this was the game for me after all. Things were certainly looking up – and not just in the ring.