Брайс Кортни - The Power of One

‘In the ring,’ Hoppie said quickly.

‘What’s blêrrie wrong with right here, man?’ Jackhammer shot back.

‘It’s all part of the show, brother,’ Hoppie said with a grin, ‘some of the folk have come a long way.’

‘Ja, man, to see a short fight. Putting on the blêrrie gloves is going to take longer than the fucking fight.’

‘Now, boys, take it easy.’ The referee pointed to a fairly large cardboard box. ‘Them’s the gloves, ten-ounce Everlasts from Solly Goldman’s gym in Jo’burg, specially sent, man,’ he said with obvious pride.

Bokkie walked over to the box and took the two pairs of gloves out, and moving over to Smit’s seconds he offered both sets to them. They each took a pair, examined and kneaded them between their knees before making a choice. The gloves were shiny black; they caught the light from the hurricane lamp and, even empty, they looked full of action.

Bokkie held the gloves out for Hoppie to inspect. ‘Nice gloves, not too light,’ he said softly.

‘No worries.’ Hoppie put a towel around his neck and then slipped into his dressing gown. Bokkie slung the gloves around Hoppie’s neck. ‘Let’s kick the dust,’ Hoppie said, moving towards the open tent flap.

Suddenly Jackhammer barked, ‘What you say, Groenewald, okay by you, winner takes all?’

Hoppie turned slowly to look at the big man. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you, Smit, what would you do for hospital expenses?’ He took my hand.

‘That kid of yours is gunna be a fucking orphan by the time I’m through with you t’night, you nigger lover,’ Jackhammer yelled at Hoppie’s departing back.

Hoppie squeezed my hand and laughed softly. ‘I reckon that was worth at least another two rounds, Peekay.’ Pausing in the dark outside the tent, he took me by the shoulders. ‘Never forget, Peekay, sometimes, very occasionally, you do your best boxing with your mouth.’

A small corridor intersected the stands on either side of the brilliantly lit ring by which the patrons and the fighters entered. It at once became obvious that one semicircle contained only miners while the other only railway men, while smiling, excited African faces under the stands peered through gaps between the legs of the whites. I had never been at a large gathering of people before and the tension in the crowd was quite frightening. I held onto Nels’ hand tightly as he took me to the top tier of a stand and handed me over into the care of Big Hettie.

Big Hettie seemed to be the only lady at the fight. She was the cook at the railway mess and Hoppie had introduced us earlier at dinner. Big Hettie had given me a second helping of peaches with custard and Hoppie had said that I had better eat it even if I was full because Big Hettie was a genuine heavyweight who could take on two drunken railway men with one arm behind her back.

Big Hettie patted the place beside her. ‘Come sit here, Peekay. You and me is in this together. If that big baboon hurts Kid Louis we’ll go in and finish off the big bugger ourselves,’ she said, rocking with laughter.

Hoppie was seated on a small stool in the corner of the ring with Bokkie standing over him bandaging his hands. When Jackhammer Smit entered, he didn’t look up. Jackhammer paused in the middle of the ring and cocked two fingers in Hoppie’s direction, much to the delight of the miners who were cheering him like mad.

‘Ho, ho, ho, have we got a fight on our hands!’ Big Hettie said gleefully. Then she rose from her seat and in a voice that carried right over the ring she yelled, ‘I’ll give you two fingers, you big baboon, right up the arse!’

It was almost totally dark. The sound of a woman’s voice was unexpected and for a split second the stands were hushed and then both sides convulsed with laughter.

Big Hettie sat down again. Reaching into a large basket at her side she brought out a half-jack of brandy. She popped the cork from the slim, flat bottle and took a long swig, grimacing as she withdrew it from her lips as though it was really nasty muti . ‘That will fix the big ape,’ she said, thumping the cork back into the half-jack with the flat of her hand.

The fighters had both been gloved up and while Hoppie remained seated on the tiny stool. Jackhammer Smit continued to stand, looking big and hard as a mountain. While my faith and my love was invested in my beloved friend, I’d been around long enough to know the realities of big versus small. Big, it seemed to me, always finished on top and my heart was filled with fear for my new-found friend.

‘My God! Look at the sparrow fart!’ Big Hettie exclaimed, pointing to the tiny referee. ‘How the devil is he going to keep them men apart?’

‘Hoppie says he knows his onions, Mevrou Hettie,’ I ventured.

Jackhammer Smit began to shuffle around the ring throwing imaginary punches. He seemed to be increasing in size by the minute, while Hoppie, seated on his stool, looked like a small frog crouched in the corner of the ring. Nels was putting Vaseline over Hoppie’s eyebrows while Bokkie seemed to be giving him some last-minute instructions.

The tiny referee said something and the seconds left the ring and the fighters moved to the centre. The crowd grew suddenly still. Standing between the two men with his head thrown right back, the referee looked up at them and said something. They both nodded and touched gloves lightly and then turned and walked back to their corners. The crowd began to cheer like mad. The referee held his hands up, turning slowly in a circle to hush the crowd, his head only just showing above the top rope of the ring. Soon a three-quarter moon, on the wane, would rise over the Murchison range, though as yet the night was matt black with only a sharp square of brilliant light etching out the ring with the three men in it. It was as though the two fighters and the dwarf stood alone, watched by an audience of a million stars.

The referee addressed the stilled crowd, his surprisingly deep voice carrying easily to where we sat. ‘ Dames en Here , tonight we are witnessing the great biblical drama of David and Goliath.’ He paused for his words to take effect.

‘Weeping Jesus! Sparrow Fart’s going to give us a Bible lesson,’ Big Hettie hissed at no one in particular. She took a quick swig from the half-jack as the referee continued.

‘Will history repeat itself? Will David once again defeat Goliath?’ The railway men went wild and the miners hissed and booed. The referee held his hands up for silence. ‘Or will Goliath have his revenge?’ The miners cheered like mad and this time it was the railway men who booed and hissed.

The little man held up his hands again and the audience calmed down.

‘Introducing in the blue corner, weighing two hundred and five pounds and hailing from Murchison Consolidated Mines, the ex-light-heavyweight champion of the Northern Transvaal, Jackhammer Smit. Twenty-two fights, eleven knockouts, eleven losses on points, a fighter with an even stevens record in the ring. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Jackhammer Smit!’ The miners cheered and whistled.

‘What’s eleven losses on points mean, Mevrou Hettie?’ I asked urgently.

‘It means he’s a pug, a one-punch Johnny, a slugger,’ she said, taking another swig and wiping the top of the bottle with the palm of her hand. ‘It means he’s no boxer.’

The referee turned to indicate Hoppie who raised his hands to acknowledge the crowd. ‘In the red corner, weighing one hundred and forty-five pounds, from Gravelotte, Kid Louis of the South African Railways, Northern Transvaal welterweight champion and the recent losing contender for the Transvaal title; fifteen fights, fourteen wins, eight knockouts, one loss.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Let me remind you that the fighter he narrowly lost to on points in Pretoria went on to win the South African title in Cape Town.’ He raised his voice slightly. ‘Let’s hear it for the one and only Kid Louis!’ It was our turn to cheer until the referee orchestrated us back to silence. Hoppie had once again calmly seated himself on the tiny stool, while Jackhammer Smit was snorting and throwing punches at an imaginary opponent soon to become Hoppie.