Peter Corris - Man In The Shadows

Roy and Jack Spargo shared a bedroom, I had another room and Rhys Dixon, the sparring partner, slept on a couch in the sitting room. The place was cramped but friendly. We did the usual things-watched TV, played cards and talked boxing. I spent a bit of time on the phone talking to journalists and arranging interviews and photograph sessions. I intercepted some phone calls and pamphlets from an anti-boxing and blood sports group. It wasn’t anything a fifty-kilo eighteen-year-old from the Receptionist Centre couldn’t have done.

Belfast was sharp in training. He was a tiger for roadwork and delighted in making Jack puff as he tried to keep up on his old hub-geared bike. Sometimes Belfast ran ten or twelve kilometres; I’d run the first three and wait for him and run back. Spargo showed a few videos of Tikopia’s fights; if I’d had to fight him I would probably have run the whole twelve kilometres.

Belfast was calm and good-natured most of the time. He put a lot into his sparring sessions with Dixon though, and I thought about that British medical report when I saw Rhys go down after a heavy right, headgear and all. Belfast apologised and helped him up.

‘Sorry, Rhys.’

‘For what? I slipped.’

One of Spargo’s training innovations was beach sparring. He made Belfast wear heavy boots while Rhys jumped around him barefoot. The sand got cut up and Roy had to labour to move his feet and keep his balance. I took a turn at it; Belfast went easy with me but I could sense the strength in his legs and the weight he could have put into his punches with those heavy shoulders. After ten minutes I collapsed, winded.

Belfast grinned. ‘You lose if you go down without being hit, Cliff.’

‘I’m buggered.’

‘Too much wine and sitting about.’

‘Wait till you’re forty plus, sport.’

‘When I’m forty I’ll have a string of video shops and be sitting pretty.’

‘I hope so, Roy,’ I said.

Spargo and Dixon were walking back along the beach towards the car. Belfast pulled off his T-shirt and boots. ‘Come for a swim,’ he said. ‘Give me a chance to have a word with you without Jack around.’

We hit the water together and swam out a hundred metres. Belfast had a hard, chopping stroke, not stylish, but effective. We floated in calm water out beyond the gentle breakers.

‘Reckon you’re earning your money, Cliff?’

‘No.’

‘You will.’

‘How’s that, Roy?’

‘Some Enzedders’ll be showing up soon. They’ve got some funny ideas.’ He turned his head, took a mouthful of water and expelled it upwards like a whale, except that his body wasn’t rounded; it showed flat and hard on the top of the water. I didn’t say anything.

‘They’re coming to check on their investment. When they see the training I’m doing they might want to make certain points.’

‘Come on, Roy. I know you’ve been to college but this is too subtle to make sense.’

He turned over and trod water. He paddled close to me and put his head a few centimetres from mine. ‘That’s all I want to say. You’re working for me and your money comes out of my purse. Right?’

I nodded, as well as you can nod when treading water.

‘Everything’ll be okay if you just do as I say. When I give the word certain people will be unwelcome. Clear?’

‘We’ll see,’ I said. Belfast swam off, caught a wave and rode it in. It took me three tries to get one-thinking and surfing don’t go well together. I wasn’t surprised that there was some funny business about the fight. Fights are like horse races — some of them are honest and the trick is to know which ones. But I was still finding Roy Belfast impressive and there was one big point in his favour: no one who intended to throw a fight would train the way he was.

The visitors came the next day, one week before the fight. One was a small, nuggetty guy about jockey-sized, the other was tall, pale and lantern-jawed. Roy and Rhys were working out on the heavy bag when they walked into the gym. Spargo was forcing the stuffing back into a battered medicine ball; I was riding an exercise bike set on EASY. I got off the bike and moved across to block their path towards Spargo.

‘Morning, gents.’

‘Morning,’ the small one said. ‘I’m Tim Johnson, here to see Mr Spargo.’ He pronounced his name Tuhm’-his NZ accent was as thick as pea soup.

‘It’s all right, Cliff, it’s in the contract,’ Spargo said. ‘Both camps can send a representative to a training session.’

‘Right,’ Johnson said.

‘I’m Cliff Hardy. Would have been polite to phone,’ I grumbled.

Johnson ignored that. ‘This is Lofty Sargent.’ He nodded at his big mate. Lofty nodded too which brought his chin down about level with my head. ‘Well, how’s the boy?’ Johnson glanced across at Roy and Rhys. “Cept he’s no boy, is he? Thirty-three?’

‘Thirty-one,’ Spargo said, ‘younger’n Ali when he beat Foreman. He’s in top shape. See for y’self.’

Johnson lit a cigarette and sauntered across towards the heavy bag. He watched Roy throw a few punches and puffed on his smoke. Belfast put a short right into the bag, spun on his heel and plucked the cigarette from Johnson’s mouth.

‘Not here, mate, if you don’t mind.’ He stepped on the butt and threw another punch. Johnson didn’t like it but he didn’t say anything. He and Lofty watched Roy and Rhys spar for three rounds; his hands moved towards his cigarettes a few times but he checked the movement. Roy gave it everything he had and Rhys just managed to stay on his feet. Spargo was surprised; I was surprised and Rhys was surprised, but that was nothing to Johnson’s reaction. He winced as Roy’s punches landed and muttered under his breath. I worked the corner and after the second round Roy spoke around his mouth-guard as I sponged him off. ‘Johnson’ll want to talk to you. All you have to do is act dumb.’

‘I feel dumb,’ I said. ‘What is this? You practically put Rhys through the ropes.’

Spargo was in Rhys’ corner. ‘How’re the hands, Roy?’ he barked.

Belfast’s voice was louder than it needed to be. ‘Like rocks.’ He boxed his way ‘Gentleman Jim’ style through the third and went off to shower.

Spargo winked at Johnson. ‘I’ll be over to see your bloke tomorrow.’

Johnson didn’t reply and Lofty maintained his policy of strict silence. They left. Roy fell into an intense talk on tactics with Spargo and Rhys which left me nothing to do but wander out of the hall into the sunshine. I hadn’t gone twenty metres down the quiet street before a car pulled up and Lofty bounded out to stand in front of me. He cast a big shadow. Johnson got out of the car and stood behind me.

‘Why don’t we go for a little ride, Hardy?’ Johnson said. ‘Bit of a talk.’

It wasn’t a time for heroics; I whipped around and jumped at Johnson. I grabbed his arms, spun him clockwise and pushed them up his back towards his thin, wrinkled neck. He resisted and he was strong for a small man, but I had the weight and the leverage on him. I pressed him back against the car, hard. ‘Back off, Lofty,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll break his arms.’ I rammed the right arm a few centimetres higher. ‘ I noticed you were a southpaw, Timmo, so I’ll bust this one first, Okay?’

‘Easy, Lofty,’ Johnson said. ‘No need for this, Hardy.’

‘Tell Lofty to go for a drive then. He can drive, can’t he?’

‘It’s one of the things he does good. Another one’d be to push your bloody face in.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ I said. ‘Send him for cigarettes and we’ll talk.’

Johnson jerked his head at Lofty. The giant had been edging closer and I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d decided that Johnson’s arms didn’t matter. He opened the car door; I pulled Johnson away. Lofty’s face was expressionless.