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and stops you in your tracks. At the Commonwealth Games in Edinburgh my opponent’s trainer was a former world champ. In the first round I had his man covered. I didn’t let him get in close. I was well ahead on points.
    ‘In the second, it caught up with me: Shit, his trainer’s a former world champ! That’s all it took—a moment of doubt—and I was stuffed.
    ‘All of a sudden a straight right lands square on my chin. I was floating. I dreamt that someone was on the canvas being counted out. I woke up and realised it was me. I got to my feet. I don’t know how. I threw a few punches, but soon I’m having the same dream. Oh, no!’
    The stories are flowing: of missed opportunities, bad decisions that still hurt, injustices, dented pride. It’s a common tale of biased hometown decisions—the night I was robbed.
    ‘I could have been champion of the world,’ says Henry. ‘I should not have given up; I was beaten by just one man—Big Jim West. He took the Commonwealth Title off me.
    ‘I dropped him in the fourth. He was being counted out as the bell rang. I was ahead on points, but he kept head butting me. He opened a cut over the left eyebrow, my vulnerable spot. My seconds couldn’t stop the bleeding. Peter wanted to end it, but I wanted to go on.
    ‘I begged him for one more round, just one more round.
    ‘“I don’t care about the title,” he said, “I care about you.”
    ‘“One more round,” I argued. “I’m getting on top.”
    ‘I had him. I had him. I’d knocked him down in the fourth, but Peter threw in the towel. “There’ll be other fights,” he said.
    ‘I’ll never forget that moment, the towel flying towards me, the flag of defeat. I was angry. I wanted to hide. I wanted to make it right. I wanted a rematch. Quick.
    ‘Big Jim’s trainer refused. He offered me a non-titlebantamweight fight instead. He wasn’t going to take any chances. Big Jim didn’t have to sweat it out to get down to correct weight. I would have beaten him as a flyweight.
    ‘We were both hard fighters. In the return bout we went at it. He was a wild boy from the backstreets of Sydney. He didn’t have much nous, but he was taller, bigger. Heavier.
    ‘We gave the crowd ten action-packed rounds. We went at each other like maniacs. We gave them their money’s worth. They were hungry for blood and we didn’t let them down. I should’ve boxed him, not just slogged him,’ says Henry over the main course. ‘I should’ve insisted on the lighter weight.’
    Henry eats heartily. He relishes all that life has to offer. He cleans the plate. Licks his lips. But he cannot wipe away his regrets.
    ‘I thought I’d won. I was sure of it. But they gave it to the hometown boy. Still, I knew I could beat him as a flyweight. I was certain I’d outlast him over fifteen rounds.’
    ‘I challenged him as soon as the fight ended. I announced it in front of his home crowd. I said he’d beaten me fair and square. And I said I wanted him. I said I’d fight him in the very same ring in a title bout. Any time. They loved it. I won them over, but Big Jim’s trainer knew I’d beat him at that weight. I never fought him again.’
    Henry pauses, and shakes his head. For a moment his gaze turns inwards. He draws in a deep breath.
    ‘I missed my chance. I should have accepted a shot at the World Title when I was offered a fight with Salavarria, the reigning champ, after I beat the Scot.
    ‘It would have been the shortest route to a World Title on record—just nine fights. Grab the chance when you get it, Jack Rennie the promoter said. But I hesitated. I thought I wasn’t quite ready, and Peter thought I needed a break. Jack was right. I’ll never know.’
    He crosses his arms, leans back, and wraps his hands round the back of his head.
    ‘When I returned to the ring months later I’d slipped down the ranks. But I kept winning. I rose to number three in the world, but by then I was considered too dangerous to take on. I