Peter Corris - Man In The Shadows

I’m finished with boxing,’ I said. ‘I don’t go and I don’t watch it on TV.’

‘Why not?’ Jack Spargo drew a stick figure in the dust on my office window. He gave the figure boxing gloves.

‘I read about a British medical report on the brain damage boxers suffer. One fight can do it, an amateur fight even. A bloody spar can kill a few thousand brain cells.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I had a few amateur fights myself, Jack. D’you realise that I might be suffering brain damage?’ I looked around the office, at the walls that needed painting, the carpet that needed replacing. ‘I could be smarter than this maybe.’

Spargo spun around from the window and laughed. He still moved well although he was pushing sixty. ‘That’s for sure. Well, I’m sorry that you won’t help a mate.’

‘He’s your mate, not mine.’

‘Cliff.’

‘He’s a has-been. A never-was.’

‘He went ten rounds with Foreman.’

‘Foreman’s a preacher of some kind now, isn’t he? He must’ve got religion earlier than we thought to have let Roy Belfast last ten rounds.’

Spargo looked hurt. He opened his Gladstone bag and put a battered clippings book on my desk. I didn’t want to look at it. ‘I’m a private detective, Jack, not a nursemaid. Do you realise how silly it’d look? “Ex-champ hires minder”.’

‘The Yanks’ve done it for years.’

‘They elect senile presidents and cut up all their food like babies before they eat it too. Doesn’t mean we have to do the same.’

Spargo pushed the book towards me. ‘He’s a good bloke.’

I opened the book. Just the way it was put together made me sad. These days, sports stars and actors keep their cuttings in fancy books with plastic envelope leaves; Roy Belfast’s history was in a thick school exercise book-the clippings were pasted in lumpily; some were folded. They were already yellow and dry like fallen leaves. It was a familiar story with a few variations. Roy Belfast was a country boy, big, with a straight eye and a fairly fast left jab. He won the Australian heavyweight championship at nineteen from nobody in particular. There was no one much around for him to fight and he was ready to go stale when he got a chance to meet a Jamaican for the Commonwealth title. Roy was outclassed for five rounds but then he got lucky and cut the Jamaican who had to retire. Then the Jamaican went to jail on a drugs charge and Roy defended the title against a Brit cast in the same mould as ‘Phainting’ Phil Scott.

Give him his due, Spargo handled Belfast well. He avoided the serious Americans and got him a few fights with people he could handle low on the card of big fights. Then the chance to fight Foreman came up. I turned over the pages slowly.

‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ Spargo said.

‘No, probably not.’

Foreman was regrouping after his loss to Ali. It had been a big paynight for Roy, bigger than he had any right to expect. Sheer courage kept him upright for ten rounds; I looked at the post-fight photo-Belfast’s head was swollen to twice its size and his boyish features were obliterated.

‘What happened to all the money?’ I said.

Spargo shrugged. ‘They’d shrunk it down pretty far before it got to us.’

‘And now Belfast wants to make a comeback. What does he want to do? Buy a pub and drink himself to a title?’

Spargo shook his head. ‘Roy don’t drink. Never did. He’s been to business college, Cliff. He’s studied up on things. Wants capital to open a video store specialising in sports films. He reckons he can make it pay and I want to help him.’

‘That’s original at least. But it’s been twelve years. Belfast must be… ‘

‘Eleven years. Roy’s thirty-one. That isn’t old. Look at Jimmy Connors.’

‘Nobody ever beat Jimmy Connors over the head with a tennis racquet. Roy’ll get hurt.’

‘I don’t think so. Three fights and that’s all. He’s very quick. He’ll stay out of trouble.’

‘The crowd’ll love that,’ I said. ‘They really appreciate the finer points since Fenech.’

‘Fenech’s a…‘ Spargo stopped and grinned. Scar tissue puckered around his eyes and he sniffed through his old fighter’s nose. ‘You always like a joke, Cliff. Maybe that’s why Roy wants you around.’

‘I can’t see it.’

‘You know the creeps that come outa the drains in this business. The proposition merchants, the blokes with a girl who’d like to meet the champ, the pushers?’

‘Yeah, I know them.’

‘So you can spot them and run interference. Also you know some press people. That’d be useful. Two weeks. Cliff. That’s all.’

‘Two weeks! That’s not long enough to train. Who’s he fighting-Boy George?’

‘He’s been in training three months. This was set up a good while ago. It’ll look like a quickie but it ain’t.’

‘Who, Jack?’

‘Boss Tikopia.’

It could have been worse. Tikopia was a Maori who’d beaten all the light heavyweights south of the equator which wasn’t saying much. ‘What’s in it for him? Fighting a has-been?’

‘He’s built up, like Spinks. Wants to move up and take on the big boys. He figures he can find out what it’s like with Roy.’

‘What it was like.’

‘Roy’s sharp, Cliff. Weighs 14.1. That’s lighter than he usta be.’

I considered it. I weighed 12.2 which was heavier than I usta be. I could do with a couple of weeks boxing training. It was April and a clear, crisp day outside. ‘Where’s he training?’

‘Pearl Beach. Gym up there, big flat an’ all. You can move in today.’

Pearl Beach sounded good and I had nothing serious on hand. ‘I’ll come up and take a look at him. If he looks as if he can stay on his feet for ten rounds I’m in.’

‘He’s the best heavyweight we’ve had since…’

I held up my hand. ‘Don’t, Jack. Please don’t. Nobody’s the best since anybody. That’s all bullshit.’

Jack said a name but he said it under his breath. He told me the fight was being promoted by Col Marriott who used to be a lot of things and still was a few besides a fight promoter, not all of them virgin white. But he had the Entertainment Centre booked and a TV deal and Jack said Belfast’s expenses were generous so they’d be able to cover my fees. I noticed that there were a few blank pages at the back of the clippings book as I handed it back to Spargo. We shook hands. The next day I packed a bag and drove to Pearl Beach.

I’d seen Belfast fight a few times and knew him slightly. I’d never heard anything against him other than the usual fight talk-pity he wasn’t five centimetres taller, or five kilos heavier, or had a bigger punch. Meeting him again, ten or more years later, I was impressed. He was one of those people who seem to improve with age. He hadn’t filled out around the middle like most retired fighters, perhaps he was a bit heavier in the shoulders. He’d kept his thick brown hair; his good-natured face carried a few more lines but no noticeable boxing scars.

‘Good to see you again, Cliff.’

We shook. ‘Hello, Roy. Nice spot you’ve got here.’

We were standing outside a big house set back a few streets from the beach. Belfast and Spargo had been sitting on deck chairs on the front verandah and had come down the path towards the gate. Spargo looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Yeah, well, we’ve got the back bit.’

Nothing could detract from the good weather and the pleasure of the beach, but Roy Belfast’s training camp didn’t inspire confidence. The ‘gym’ was an old hall temporarily fitted out with boxing equipment that had seen better days. The ‘flat’ was the back half of the big house, a series of lean-tos with small windows and an outside dunny. Against that, morale was high and there were lots of places for Belfast to run and train out of doors.