Брайс Куртенэ - The Power of One

We came out for the third and again he came at me with the leading hand and crossed over with a right hook that caught me on the side of the jaw. Quite suddenly I was on the canvas, sprawling on my back. I could see two of Mandoma as he retired to the neutral corner and then the ref began to count. I knew I’d been hit hard but felt nothing, my head was ringing and I was using all my concentration to hear the count. At six my eyes suddenly cleared and at eight I was back on my feet. It had been a beautiful punch and I knew I couldn’t take too many others like it and survive. Patel wiped my gloves and made me count the three fingers he held up to me, and then six. It was all valuable time and my head had stopped ringing. Finally, he told us to box on.

Mandoma was after blood and came in too fast and carelessly. This alone saved me. If he’d waited to get set for another big punch he would have taken me. He wanted the knockout and his eyes were telegraphing his punches. Halfway through the round I was feeling strong again and I began to work to the old plan. Ignoring his head I went for the body, under the heart, in the soft area under the rib cage and into the solar plexus. He’d throw a wild left hook or a right uppercut and I’d follow in with two or three hard blows to the spot. Nothing fancy, but I could feel my knuckles digging deep. If I could stay away from the big punch and if he kept sending me a letter every time he prepared to throw a punch, I’d eventually get him. I’d been in against fighters most of my life, Mandoma had a bigger punch than any I’d been in the ring with before, and he was bloody fast. But I thought he was becoming predictable as most fighters do.

Had it been the usual three round fight the decision may well have gone to Mandoma. By the fourth round he had started to slow down. He’d been chasing me for three rounds and throwing a lot of leather, the heat had to get to him. But he hadn’t taken water, just rinsing and spitting. So I kept going low and hard and toward the end of the fourth round I heard him grunt as I got three solid punches home. It was beginning to go like clockwork. Mandoma pulled me into a clinch and on the break hit me with a beautiful left lead. I thought I’d run into a train. I went down, my arse actually bouncing on the canvas. I couldn’t believe it, I shook my head but it wouldn’t clear. At the count of eight I was only just able to stand. Mandoma had me, one half decent punch and I was history.

The ref asked me if I was all right and when I nodded he wiped my gloves and told me to box on, this time not asking for a concussion count. I knew I had to hang on until the end of the round. Patel wouldn’t stand for more than two knockdowns. That is, if I could have gotten up a third time. ‘Dance, klein baas, your feet, you must dance, only your feet can keep you out of trouble,’ I could hear Geel Piet clear as anything. To my enormous relief the bell went for the end of the fourth.

‘He’s got a huge punch in both hands, lad, but he’s slowing. I want you to box him close so he can’t put a big one in, keep working at his body, he has to be feeling it.’

‘You could have fooled me,’ I panted. But my strength was coming back. I rinsed and spat, the water cool and delicious in my mouth.

‘Christ, he’s taking water!’ Hymie said. ‘The bastard’s taking water!’

The first twenty seconds of the fifth round were the hardest yet. Mandoma threw everything at me, but I wove and ducked, back-pedalled and kept out of the way. He threw a left lead and I crossed over with a right, catching him under the eye and opening it up. His nose was still bleeding and while I hadn’t hit him much in the head, I’d kept the nose bleeding with a regular jab right on the button. Nothing influences a referee more than a liberal splash of blood. Mandoma threw another left hook, telegraphing it from a yard away and I moved in and had him on the ropes with an orthodox straight left followed by a straight right to the head. Two copybook punches which, when timed correctly, carry a lot of zap.

The black fighter’s hands came up to defend his head and I moved in close as his gut area opened up and in went a Geel Piet eight, right where the water he had swallowed would be. I knew the pain and the nausea would be terrible and he gave a loud gasp as the flurry of punches went home, and tried to chop my gloves away with his own. I was ready with a right hook which caught him flush on the jaw, coming up with all my strength behind it. While his punches had bounced me off my feet, mine bounced him hard against the ropes and then he sunk to his knees, both his gloves resting on the canvas. Blood from his nose dripped onto the grey canvas as I retired to a neutral corner.

At eight he rose, but I could see he felt bad and I moved in and began to pick him off. I could have come in swinging and tried to finish him, but a fighter like Mandoma digs deep for his courage and can always find that one last big punch. I was almost certain that he was a spent force and wouldn’t recover between rounds fast enough. I’d get him in the final round. The bell went and I got to my corner to be met by Hymie and Solly, both shouting at me.

‘Ferchrissake, why didn’t you finish him off,’ Hymie screamed. ‘His gut, his gut is gone, you could have taken him, now he’s got bleedin’ time to recover,’ Solly said.

‘He only needs one more big punch and he can take me out,’ I protested. I was following a Geel Piet plan and not a Solly Goldman plan. Geel Piet would have wanted me to box him off his feet, not punch him. ‘You must always go safety first, klein baas, box, box, box, never fight.’

Solly regained his composure. ‘You’re right, son. I’m glad one of us is still thinking.’ Whether he believed it or not, he knew he had to restore my concentration and was aware that in his excitement he’d acted foolishly.

The bell went for the final round. Mandoma, desperate for strength, had taken water again. For the first minute of the last round he came hard, but his timing was out and he wasn’t putting his punches together properly. I stayed away from him. Flicking lightly at his cut eye. Keeping the blood coming, waiting for the chance to move in. He hit me with a right cross which, had it come earlier in the fight, would have put me down. Now it lacked authority. It was time to move in. I worked him into his own corner and went to work under his heart. Three solid punches before he managed to pull me into a clinch. He was too spent to stay out of trouble. After each break I’d move him back into a corner and set to work on his body. I couldn’t believe he could still be standing. I’d never hit anyone as often or as hard. But the bastard wouldn’t go down. I had to put him on the canvas again. I started to hit the black fighter hard on the nose and his gloves went up and opened him up down below. The Geel Piet eight became the Solly Goldman thirteen, the first time I had ever got a thirteen combination together perfectly. Mandoma gave a sort of a gurgle and then a sigh and fell. He was totally exhausted, his eyes were open looking at me but his body could no longer respond and he was unable to get his head off the canvas. He’d been boxed off his feet. His heart hadn’t died it just couldn’t hold him up on its own. Mandoma was the greatest natural fighter I had ever seen.

I had never been as exhausted in my life. Not only had I never boxed six rounds before, I’d never taken as much punishment. I tried to walk with dignity to the neutral corner as Natkin Patel started to count Mandoma out.

For the first time in the fight I heard the crowd, who were going absolutely wild.

‘Onoshobishobi… shobi… shobi… Ingelosi!’ the chorus rolled like thunder across the football field. On and on it went until the microphone was pushed back into the ring and Gideon Mandoma’s seconds had helped him to his corner. I walked over to see if he was all right and to shake his hand.