Boxing

I’ve been asked to work at a boxing night. Not as a boxer, I’d last about ten seconds less then a Danny Green opponent. The promoter wants me to MC and gee up the crowds between bouts.

Yep, it’s one of those ‘in two minds’ things. Not really a dilemma because I’m doing the gig. It’s just that I know there’ll be people there acting tough, acting like they’re king of the crowd: robbers, wife-bashers, road-ragers, bigots. They’ll be yelling stuff that’s nasty and hurtful.

Umm, it’s a boxing match Don. What do you expect, Mary-friggin-McKillop?

I have to admit that I like boxing. And it’s not because I like Ernest Hemingway and Norman Mailer, because I’m not that enamoured with those writers who loved to parade their macho side amongst their softer bohemian mates. No, it’s simply because I like to see skill, tactics, strength and strategy all working together, and boxing is one of those sports where that happens absolutely. There’s no contest. For watching, the martial arts beat all other leisure activities.

Australian football is spectacular and beautiful, but there’s no strategy. Lots of skill and strength but you can’t put 36 blokes on a field with an egg shaped ball that can be passed and kicked forwards and backwards and tell me tactics and strategy will come to the fore. Same for rugby but at least they’re generally moving in one direction. Basket ball is way too fast, tennis is ok but full of posers, and don’t get me started on golf! Cricket comes closest in regard to skill and strategy, particularly when you play it, but when you watch, it’s sometimes hard to know where to look (hence the reliance on replays).

With boxing there’s no mistaking the rules, no missing a moment because you were looking at someone in the outfield, no one in the road of your vision. It’s just so simple and pure in form but exceptionally complex. It’s chess with muscle and blood. It’s as close as you can get to live tragedy without the death (hopefully). Someone has to lose and lose hard; and there's no turning to fellow players to share the burden of loss; just one guy standing (or lying) and taking it while the other guy jumps and yelps like a puppy on a beach.

So, would I go to a pro boxing match? No, not my scene and too expensive. But I love to watch Olympic boxing: 3 rounds with head protection. I’ve argued with mates who reckon, generally in a drunken stupor, that the head padding makes no difference. I don’t believe that for a second.

I have boxed though. In 1976 I worked, like so many young blokes, on the wheat bins of West Australia. It was a tiny siding not far from Lake Grace, a town best forgotten in the middle of wheat fields and salt plains. Can’t help thinking that the guy who wrote Wake In Fright spent a bit of time on a wheat bin.

There was a young bloke called Roo, tall and gangly, not many teeth, a local who fancied himself as a boxer. I’d heard from a few locals that Roo had lost a few fights at the pub but that he never gave up. He’d take on anyone.

At the time I was very fit. I was 19, and I’d just returned from England where I’d spent four months throwing bales on to trucks. I was only five foot five but, like a lot of short guys, I talked a lot. I call it the Jack Russell complex: they might all be bigger than you but if you make a bit of noise and look into their eyes they’ll back off.

Not Roo though.

He liked me and I him, even though we came from opposing sides of the class divide. It was fun to play practical jokes on each other, take the piss out each other’s accents, and joke with the farmers, many of whom looked down on Roo like he had rabies. He’d clearly made a name for himself.

And every day Roo would say, “C’mon Smitty, box me. Box me mate”. I’d find ways of discouraging him: comparing the length of our arms, our differing heights, my complete lack of experience, the likelihood of us being sacked, or our lack of boxing gloves (given my desire to continue playing guitar).  

But one afternoon the boss was away and a farmer dropped off a case of beer. Roo and I got drunk, he badgered me for a fist fight and I said “Why not?” So we simply walked over to a patch of gravel and went at each other. The tension was fabulous. And the focus! Two guys, one tall and the other short, ducking and weaving, jabbing, dancing in the heat. The other workers, both city guys like me, were watching and yelling, “Hey, you guys are crazy. Stop it!” But secretly they were mesmerised.

And it wasn’t that difficult. Roo had huge hands that I could see coming from way back, so it was simple to deflect every punch. Then it all got serious when I landed a punch on Roos gut. He paused, took in a breath, then came at me with a series of fast jabs. One of them hit my chin and that was it. It was like someone had thrown a lump of wood at me. Thump. I wasn’t dazed but I was very shocked. Roo could see I’d had enough and that was it. We laughed and went back to the shed.

The thing I remember most about that moment was how incredibly exhausted we were. It’s really hard work! But it was strangely satisfying. It was like Roo had given me a little taste of his life, his bliss.