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 thecollision 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.
9
August 2013: a winter’s night. The car parks are full. Taxis pulling up at the grand entrance deposit suburban punters, couples, hordes of mates, loners seeking solace in the crowd. The southerly bites, but inside it’s warm. Crown Casino is a people’s palace—all are welcome, as long as you’re flush with cash.
The Nissen brothers are climbing the grand stairway to the Palladium ballroom. Henry wears a dinner suit, white shirt and black bow tie. Leon, a leather jacket, dark trousers, a silver tie and a black shirt. The boxing fraternity is assembling for the Hall of Fame dinner, their night of nights.
Boxers, trainers, managers, ex-fighters, back-room boys, sports writers, girlfriends and wives mill about. The foyer is thickwith perfume and talk. The guests drag themselves away from conversations to the white-clothed tables in the ballroom.
‘We are surrounded by greatness,’ the Master of Ceremonies proclaims. ‘We’re here on behalf of all who’ve carried the flag for the sweet science. Here to acknowledge those who’ve had the guts to climb those final three steps to the ropes.’
The night is for stories of legendary fighters passed down from era to era and from father to son—tales of boys who fought their way up from humble beginnings to perform extraordinary feats.
‘We fought to put food on the table,’ the MC is at pains to point out. ‘We turned pro ’cause you can’t eat trophies.’ It’s a declaration echoed many times during the night.
Inductions into the hall of fame are backed by accounts
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 thecollision 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.
9
August 2013: a winter’s night. The car parks are full. Taxis pulling up at the grand entrance deposit suburban punters, couples, hordes of mates, loners seeking solace in the crowd. The southerly bites, but inside it’s warm. Crown Casino is a people’s palace—all are welcome, as long as you’re flush with cash.
The Nissen brothers are climbing the grand stairway to the Palladium ballroom. Henry wears a dinner suit, white shirt and black bow tie. Leon, a leather jacket, dark trousers, a silver tie and a black shirt. The boxing fraternity is assembling for the Hall of Fame dinner, their night of nights.
Boxers, trainers, managers, ex-fighters, back-room boys, sports writers, girlfriends and wives mill about. The foyer is thickwith perfume and talk. The guests drag themselves away from conversations to the white-clothed tables in the ballroom.
‘We are surrounded by greatness,’ the Master of Ceremonies proclaims. ‘We’re here on behalf of all who’ve carried the flag for the sweet science. Here to acknowledge those who’ve had the guts to climb those final three steps to the ropes.’
The night is for stories of legendary fighters passed down from era to era and from father to son—tales of boys who fought their way up from humble beginnings to perform extraordinary feats.
‘We fought to put food on the table,’ the MC is at pains to point out. ‘We turned pro ’cause you can’t eat trophies.’ It’s a declaration echoed many times during the night.
Inductions into the hall of fame are backed by accounts
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