Брайс Кортни - The Power of One

The eighth round saw another change in the fight. Jackhammer Smit had chased Hoppie too hard and too long. The gorilla’s great strength had been sapped by the heat and he was down to barely a shuffle, both eyes nearly closed. Hoppie was hitting him almost at will and Jackhammer pulled the smaller man into a clinch whenever he could, causing the tiny referee to stand on the tips of his toes and pull at his massive arms, yelling ‘Break!’ at the top of his voice.

The ninth and the tenth rounds were much of the same but Hoppie didn’t seem to have the punch to put Jackhammer away. Early in the eleventh Smit managed to get Hoppie into yet another clinch, leaning heavily on the smaller man. As the referee moved in to break them up, Jackhammer Smit stepped backwards into him, sending the tiny referee arse over tip to the floor. Still holding Hoppie, Smit head-butted him viciously. On the railway side of the ring we saw the incident clearly, but all the miners, like the ref, saw was Hoppie’s legs buckle and the welterweight crash to the floor as Jackhammer Smit broke out of the clinch.

This time Smit moved quickly to the neutral corner and the referee, bouncing to his feet like a rubber ball, started to count Hoppie out.

Pandemonium broke loose. The railway men, shouting ‘Foul!’, began to come down from the stands shaking their fists. At the count of six the bell went for the end of the round and Bokkie and Nels rushed into the ring to help a dazed and wobbly Hoppie to his corner.

A score of railway men had reached the ring and were shouting abuse at Jackhammer. The miners were yelling and coming down from their stands and, I’m telling you, the whole scene was a proper kerfuffle.

Jackhammer sat in his corner vomiting into a bucket and Bokkie and Nels were frantically trying to bring Hoppie round, holding a small bottle under his nose. I had begun to cry and Big Hettie drew me into her bosom while hurling abuse at Jackhammer Smit. ‘You bastard, you dirty bastard, come into my kitchen tomorrow and I’ll de-knacker you, you sonofabitch!’ she screamed.

I could hear her heart going boom, boom, boom and the smell of brandy on her breath was overpowering. I can tell you, I stopped crying quick smart, her arm was pinning me to her heaving bosom so tightly that I was beginning to feel faint. Thank God she released me so she could stand up and shake her fist.

Several fights had started around the base of the ring and the judges’ table had been overturned. The referee stood in the centre of the ring, his hands raised, his head shining like a beacon. He didn’t move and this seemed to have a calming effect on the crowd. Others rushed in to stop the ringside brawling, pulling their mates away. Not until there was complete silence did the referee indicate that both fighters should come to the centre of the ring. Hoppie, meanwhile, seemed fully recovered while Jackhammer, huge chest still heaving and both eyes puffed-up slits, looked a mess. The referee took Hoppie’s arm and raised it as high as he was able. ‘Kid Louis on a foul in the eleventh,’ he shouted.

The railway men went wild with excitement while the miners started to come down from their stands again. ‘Shit, it’s going to be one-for-one-and-all,’ Big Hettie said.

Hoppie jerked his arm away and started an animated argument with the ref, pointing his glove at the near-blind Jackhammer. Finally the referee held his hands up for silence. ‘The fight goes on!’ he shouted and both boxers moved back to their corners. The bell began to clang repeatedly and in a short while the ringside fighting stopped and the men, walking backwards still shaking their fists at each other, returned to their seats.

‘That Hoppie Groenewald is mad as a meat axe,’ Big Hettie declared. ‘He had the blêrrie fight won and he wants to start all over again!’ She wiped away a tear with the dishcloth. ‘Jesus, Peekay, he has guts, that one is a real Irishman!’

Ten minutes passed before the bell went for round twelve, by which time Hoppie was good as gold and Jackhammer’s seconds, in between his bouts of vomiting, had managed to half open his left eye. The closed lids of his right eye extended beyond his brow so that he was forced to hunt Hoppie with only half a left eye.

It was no contest. Hoppie darted in and slammed two quick left jabs straight into the half-open eye and closed it again. The rest of the round was a shambles, with Jackhammer simply covering his face with his gloves and Hoppie boring into his body. The years behind a jackhammer were counting and Jackhammer Smit simply leaned on the ropes and took everything Hoppie could throw at him. He grunted as Hoppie ripped a blow under his heart and Jackhammer opened his gloves in a reflex action. Hoppie saw the opening and moved in with a perfect left uppercut that landed flush on Jackhammer’s jaw. The big man sank to the canvas just as the bell went for the end of the round.

Hoppie’s shoulders sagged as he walked back to his corner. It was clear to us all that he was exhausted, fighting more by instinct than by conscious will. Jackhammer’s seconds climbed into the ring and helped him to his feet, leading the almost blind fighter to his corner.

‘Sweet Jesus, they gotta throw in the towel!’ Big Hettie said in elation. ‘Hoppie’s got it on a TKO.’ My heart was pounding fiercely. It seemed certain now that small could beat big, all it took was brains and skill and heart and a plan. A perfect plan.

But we were wrong. The bell went for the thirteenth and Jackhammer Smit rose slowly to his feet, half-dragging himself into the centre of the ring. Hoppie, too exhausted to gain much from the rest between rounds, was also clearly spent. He hadn’t expected Jackhammer Smit to come out for the thirteenth and his extreme fatigue sapped his will to continue. It was as though both moved towards the other in a dream. Hoppie landed a straight left into Jackhammer’s face, starting his nose bleeding again. He followed this with several more blows to the head but his punches lacked strength and Jackhammer, unable to reply, his pride keeping him on his feet, absorbed the extra punishment. He managed to get Hoppie into a clinch, leaning hard on the smaller man in an attempt to sap what strength was left. When the referee shouted at the two men to break he pushed at Hoppie and at the same time hit him with a round arm blow to the head that carried absolutely no authority as a punch. To our consternation and the tremendous surprise of the miners, Hoppie went down. He rose instantly to one knee, his right hand on the deck to steady him. Jackhammer, sensing from the roar of the crowd that his opponent was down, dropped his gloves and moved forward. Through his bloodied fog he may not have seen the punch coming at him. The left from Hoppie came all the way from the deck with the full weight of his body to drive the blow straight to the point of Jackhammer Smit’s jaw. The giant wobbled for a split second then crashed unconscious to the canvas.

‘Timber!’ Big Hettie screamed as the crowd went berserk. I had just witnessed the final move in a perfectly wrought plan where small defeats big. First with the head and then with the heart. To the very end Hoppie had been thinking. I had learned the most important rule in winning… keep thinking.

For a moment Hoppie stood over the unconscious body of his opponent, then he brought his glove up in an unmistakable salute to Jackhammer Smit. He moved slowly to the neutral corner and the referee commenced to count.

At the count of ten Jackhammer Smit still hadn’t moved. Hoppie moved over to his corner and then, turning to us, he held his arms up in victory. His legs were wobbling as Nels pushed the stool into the corner for him to sit down.

In my excitement I was jumping up and down and yelling my head off. It was the greatest moment of my life. I had hope. I had witnessed small triumph over big. I was not powerless. Big Hettie grabbed me and held me high above her head. In the bright moonlight we must have stood out clearly. Hoppie stood up unsteadily and, grinning, he waved one glove in our direction.