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of the recipients’ characters, their skills and quirks, the balance sheets of wins and losses, and film clips of their greatest fights.
    The inductees receive standing ovations. Their acceptance speeches acknowledge trainers and mentors, and are peppered with professions of love for the sport. Dead comrades are eulogised and honoured with a minute’s silence and a bowing of heads. It’s a night to embellish the myth. This is an extended family, bound by blood shed in pursuit of a living and in pursuit of respect.
    Between courses Leon and Henry move from table to table. They greet old friends with vigorous handshakes and fierce hugs. And they talk. One takes up a story where the other has left off. There are times when they seem to be of one voice, performing a rehearsed act. They are masters of boxers’ clichés, ardentbelievers in the redemptive power of their sport.
    ‘Boxing is self-belief,’ says Henry. ‘Winning is in the head,’ says Leon. ‘You learn life lessons,’ says Henry. ‘You do the time,’ says Leon. ‘You do the hard work.’ ‘I was no good at any other sport.’ ‘We were too small, too slow.’ ‘We were easy pickings.’
    ‘We were once in a park with a youth group we used to hang out with,’ says Henry. ‘Three hoodlums stepped up to the group leader and belted the crap out of him. We froze. We were shit scared. We just stood there and cried. Then ran off to get help.’
    ‘We felt ashamed.’ ‘Peter and Mick gave us a way out.’ ‘We won our first fights.’ ‘We couldn’t believe it.’ ‘We went from losers to winners.’ ‘Winning was great,’ says Henry. ‘Ah, winning was wonderful,’ says Leon. ‘It’s a thrill to duck and come up with a left hook.’
    Leon punches his left fist into the palm of the right: ‘Whack whack, that’s what I gave. That’s what I got back.’ ‘The crowd loved it,’ says Henry. ‘They’re chanting, Nissen. Nissen. Nissen.’ ‘It lifts you,’ says Leon. ‘You want to give more,’ Henry adds.
    ‘At Festival Hall one night I was fighting a tall fellow,’ says Leon. ‘I ducked, made him miss, then came up and hit him in the ribs. Each time I did it the crowd roared. I got into the rhythm: duck, come up, whack him in the ribs. The crowd spurred me on. I’ll remember that fight till the day I die.’
    ‘And if the crowd barracked for the other fellow, you went harder at it,’ says Henry. ‘We built up a following,’ says Leon. ‘But in the ring there’s just the two of you.’ ‘And the other is out to get you.’ ‘But there was always two of us.’
    ‘We learnt from each other’s mistakes. I saw Henry get beatenby Joey Donovan one night, an Aboriginal boy. Great fighter. He would saunter towards the ring, not a care in the world. But once the bell rang he had that sharp eye. Lots of Aboriginal boys had it. He was switched on in the ring.’
    ‘I was switched on too,’ protests Henry.
    ‘When it was my turn to fight him,’ Leon breaks back in. ‘I knew I had to outfox him. He was stronger, a cleaner puncher, and sharper on his feet. I was ready for him. I saw him coming at me, winding up with a killer punch. I ducked under it, but not far enough. It caught me on the jaw, but I hit him at the same time. Flush on the mouth, as I was coming up. Lucky me. I timed it right. It woke me up. I licked my wounds and started to use my nous, and I came out on top.
    ‘In the Australian title back in ’68, I fought a southpaw, another Aboriginal boy. I couldn’t figure him out. He was clever. I was out-boxed. It was a big loss. He was selected for the Olympics. He edged me out.
    ‘I was walking back to the dressing room, angry with myself. I should have been off to the Olympics. I’d ruined my chance. A guy comes up to me and says, “I bet on you and lost.” I felt humiliated. Ashamed.’
    Leon is on a roll; he is a raconteur, with a moral for each tale.
    ‘You can’t afford a moment of doubt. The fear gets into you,