8

August 5, 1971: Peter drives Henry to St Kilda Town Hall. They arrive at sunset and make their way to the dressing room. Henry changes into boxing shorts, and laces his boots. Peter takes him through his paces, tapes his fists.

Henry is jumpy, on tenterhooks. He shadowboxes his mirror image to the roar of the sell-out crowd watching the preliminaries in the adjacent hall. He is the main act, the hometown boy, and the crowd is here in support.

He conjures his opponent as he does before each bout, and thinks through his moves. He is working up his intensity. The atmosphere is building. He is terrified, and elated. Switched on. As the time draws close, Peter gloves him up and gives him his final instructions.

Henry had weighed in at seven stone thirteen and a half, and sweated down to within a whisker of the cut-off point. It has taken him just eight professional fights to earn an Empire Title bout. No Australian currently holds an Empire Title in any weight. Win this and the possibilities are endless.

McCluskey, the titleholder, is the bookies’ choice. The Scot has never been knocked out, but Peter and Mick are hopeful. They figure both fighters are tough hustlers cut from the same cloth. Henry is in with a chance.

He enters the hall draped in a purple robe, with gold stripes on the sleeves and gold trimmings on the cuffs, tied loosely with a gold belt. Gold shorts and gold lace-up boots complete his regal attire. Henry glistens under the lights: gold upon purple, purple upon gold.

The patrons in the balconies are a blur of faces receding into the dark. Those ringside have paid good money for the smell of the action, a close up view of the sweat flying off the fighters’ flesh.

Henry is exhilarated. And afraid—not of the inevitable pain about to be inflicted, or the potential re-opening of wounds on his brows but, as in his very first fight ten years back, afraid of losing, of slipping back to the lower rungs. He is afraid of the shame, the humiliation. The thought torments him.

He climbs the three steps to the ring and slips in between the ropes. He moves around the entire space, jabbing and sparring, loosening his joints. He shifts sharply on his feet, moves sideways, forwards and back. Each ring surface has its unique movement, its specific feel. He is attuned to the nuances; his senses are acute.

It is a decade since he first stepped into the Reads’ garage, and thirteen months since he turned pro—Henry is primed for the bout of his life. He is fixated on the task. This is his night. The crowd is a distant howl. Boxing is his passport to esteem, brutal though it is.

It is a human contest at its most naked, man unadorned, stripped to his trunks, left to fend for himself with his fists and his wits. It has been called the sweet science—action and thought, brute strength and instinct, working in tandem. It is the sport of the lone adversary with nowhere to run, playing out his fate in a tightly defined realm.

All is precise, impeccably timed. Three minutes to each round, and a minute between in which to adjust the mouthguard, suck in air and grab a gulp of water, as the seconds towel their man down; a minute to spit out the accumulated saliva, time for liniment and a quick massage.

The bell rings. Nissen rushes out. He leads with his left. Defends his ground. The men are finding their rhythm, testing each other out. Calming their nerves. The Scot is the first to settle; he takes possession of the ring and he’s well ahead by the end of the round.

Henry’s parents are at home. They cannot bear to watch the fight live. They have never attended a bout. Since the day they discovered the twins had taken up boxing they’d been at them to give up. They cannot bear the thought of them getting hurt, but on fight nights Henry’s mother is hardened, made of sterner stuff. She watches his contests when they are televised, and listens to the radio when they are not.

Tonight she sits by the bakelite wireless. She rides her son’s punches, and winces at each blow. She clenches her fists and mouths words of support. Henry’s father paces about in the passage. He prowls in and out of rooms. He moves between front door and kitchen, steps into the backyard and stands by the fence. He lights yet another cigarette. He returns to the living room after each round for a progress report.

In the second round Nissen pummels the Scot in the midriff. He hustles and dances, then jolts McCluskey’s jaw with a sharp right cross. The Scot is hurled against the ropes. He buckles at the knees, and slides down for the count.

Nissen is in the neutral corner, jogging, body upright, gloves poised, surprised by the ease with which the Scot went down. He wants to get back into the action. He is anxious to maintain the momentum.

The Scot struggles to his feet. He is not done. He hangs on in the clinches and makes it to the bell. He slumps back into his stool, but he charges out for the third with renewed resolve.

Nissen withstands the onslaught and charges back. He is all over McCluskey, with alternating blows to his stomach and head. Henry is crowding, chopping and charging, boring in. Ringside spectators see the terror in the Scot’s eyes, his moment of doubt. He glances frantically towards his corner. He appears frail against his smaller foe.

McCluskey endures the fourth, but in the fifth Nissen hits him with a savage right to the jaw. McCluskey’s arms are flung open. His chest is fully exposed. An instant later he is hurtling backwards. For a millisecond his entire body appears to freeze mid-air. His heels are above the canvas. His left arm is high, as if suspended in the very instant he had tried to fend off the blow. Nissen is on his feet. His left foot is firmly planted, and his right leg bent at the knee, heel lifted, toes tensed, braced to propel himself back at the Scot.

The image will be published the following day, embodying the brute poetry of the sport. Fans will cut out the photo and stick it on their walls. They will marvel at the image of the Scot hurtling backwards, in free fall, his body spread-eagled mid-flight. It will be framed and hung in all the houses Peter Read will own long after he has retired. It will be displayed at boxers’ gatherings with Nissen’s signature scrawled below, and auctioned for charity; and it will be laminated by Henry, a reminder of his finest hour.

The Scot hits the canvas. The referee bends down to begin the count. His arms are raised. His right hand is open while the left is bearing down. He is a showman in his short-sleeved white shirt, black bowtie, black trousers and polished black shoes. This is his moment centre stage. He bends further forward. He spreads his arms. Exaggerates the drama, and whips his hand lower with each stroke.

But McCluskey is not done yet.

He is moving, rolling to the right, gasping for breath. He hauls himself onto his right elbow and onto his knees. Swaying, steadying. He presses a hand on the canvas, and with one final exertion he is back on his feet. He wavers. Then straightens himself out. Holds his fists close to his eyes, gloves touching, elbows locked in: a shield.

McCluskey hangs on and is saved by the bell. In his one minute on the stool he musters the strength to tame his stagger to a stride that takes him back for the sixth. He pulls out his final card—a battery of punches to Henry’s scarred brows, his weak point, and opens up a nasty gash.

Nissen is bloodied, his momentum derailed. He is tiring. Peter is anxious, baying instructions. He is pacing below the ring, back and forth. Willing his man on. He knows how abruptly things can turn.

The Scot is back in with a sniff, but in the seventh Nissen explodes with three hard rights to McCluskey’s left eye. Tonight there will be no leniency, no holding back. Henry’s mind is clear. This is his time, and he is not about to let up. This is what he has been building up to since he first knocked on the Reads’ side-lane door.

This is his night, damn it, and the crowd is on his side. On their feet, chanting his name.

Nis-sen. Nis-sen. Nis-sen.

Urging him on.

The Scot’s brow is split open in a crescent shaped gash. Blood streams down his face. Blood drips from his chin. There is blood on the canvas, blood on the ropes. McCluskey’s legs are gone. One arm is reaching back in search of support. The other dangles at his side.

Nissen is leaning back. Winding up. Stalking his quarry. A moment later he is standing over the Scot, beating him against the ropes.

Nis-sen. Nis-sen. Nis-sen.

The spectators are bellowing. The Scot is cowering. The sweet science is a beast of a sport.

McCluskey slumps to the canvas. Again, the referee is counting him out. Again, the Scot wills himself back up, but he is not allowed to fight on. The referee hoists Henry’s arm aloft.

‘The British Empire,’ proclaims the radio commentator, ‘has surrendered.’ The title belt is strapped around Henry’s waist. He is presented with a silver cup, and he raises it in triumph.

He leans over the ropes. His head is groggy from the pounding. As he cools off the pain sets in. The wound on his left brow stings from the sweat. His arms and legs ache. His nose is broken, twisted out of shape. His upper body is bruised and scraped. Despite his triumph, his eyes hold the stare of one who doubts.

He has pushed himself beyond his limits. But success snaps him back—it is balm to his wounds. He raises the cup higher, and parades it round the ring. He basks in the attention. He wants it to go on and on.

Nis-sen. Nis-sen. Nis-sen.

He is high on victory, riding waves of support.

Those who have attended for the first time are surprised at how easily they have been won over. They are confused by their roused emotions, their unexpected blood lust, their elation at the collision of bodies and the thud of fist upon flesh. Surprised they cannot wait to see another fight.

Barely an hour later Henry is showered and scented, and back in the dressing room. He wears a dark suit, a black tie, and a pristine white shirt. His shoes are polished. His curly black hair is oiled and slicked back. His nose has been eased back into shape. It is an unwritten code—wipe away the blood and the odour, disregard the bruises, conceal the welts. Patch up the eyes, tidy up. Assuage the doubters, those who rail against the sport.

Henry is not ready to leave. He wants to rest with his thoughts. His gear is packed, his bag lies by his side. He sits up, rolls his shoulders. Straightens his back. He massages his knuckles against the palms of his hands.

He is pleased with his efforts. Euphoric. His work is done. The countless hours of training have paid off. The Marauding Hebrew has reached a pinnacle. The morning papers crown him King Henry. He is catapulted into the top ten rankings and offered a World Title bout.