David Essex - Faded Glory

Albert could see that Danny was overwhelmed by the proceedings. The boy needed now to focus and focus quickly if he was to have any chance against the seasoned Bermondsey boy.

“Do it for your dad, Danny,” Albert whispered urgently. “Come on son, make him proud!”

Danny struggled to focus as the fighters were summoned to the centre of the ring by the referee, a portly man with an enormous moustache and a bow tie to match.

“Touch gloves now,” the referee instructed them. “Remember – we want a clean fight.”

Danny took another look at his opponent. Doherty smiled mockingly.

“Seconds out!” shouted the referee with a chain-smoking voice.

The bell rang, indicating the start of the match. With one last supportive look to Danny, Patsy left the ring.

“Round one!”

The level of noise from the crowd lifted considerably as the two fighters squared up to each other. Used to the training bubble of the gym, Danny found the shouts and noise distracting. His own breathing inside his protective head guard sounded even louder than the crowd. His legs felt weak, his arms heavy.

He heard Albert’s voice shout from his corner.

“Get your guard up Dan, use the ring!”

Danny was lost and finding it difficult to focus. Blow after blow landed from the Bermondsey southpaw. Danny felt bemused, lost, as the points against him registered and the punches kept coming.

He could smell the leather as Doherty’s gloves made contact, he could taste the blood from his own nose. With just ten seconds to go before the end of round one, he had failed to connect with a single punch. He hadn’t even thrown one.

More by luck than judgement, Danny managed to duck an enormous left hook just a second before the bell. Patsy jumped into the ring and led him back to his corner, amid the derisory boos of the partisan crowd.

Danny felt cold water on his face as Patsy’s fighting tactics flowed over him. Albert was nowhere to be seen. Danny tried to listen to Patsy’s instructions, but wondered where Albert was. Perhaps he had left. Given up on him.

Danny was trying to clear his head for round two when he got a tap on his shoulder. Albert was back. In his hand, he held Danny’s father’s medal.

“For courage, Danny, for courage,” Albert whispered. “Do this for your father.”

The bell sounded for round two.

Something big had changed, Danny was back in the hall, and back in the fight. No more back-pedalling. Now he was the aggressor.

“Yes Danny, jab jab!” Albert cried.

“Keep moving, son!” rang out from Patsy.

Danny was boxing. Motivation, concentration and courage accompanied his every punch and move. With quick footwork and fast hands, Danny won the second round convincingly on points. The Bermondsey boy had met his match.

Danny’s corner was now more confident.

“Keep moving, son,” Patsy barked, sponging Danny’s face. “Keep going, you’re doing good.”

“You can win this,” Albert said simply.

“Seconds out, third and final round!” coughed the referee.

Patsy wiped the blood from Danny’s nose and put the gum shield back into his mouth as the bell for the decisive third round rang out. A slightly stunned but vocal crowd roared the fighters on.

The Bermondsey boy knew this was the round that would decide the winner. It was clear as he sprang away from his corner that he wanted to turn the fight into a brawl and not a boxing match, and he came at Danny in search of a knock-out. But Danny kept to the plan, jab and move, as Doherty’s wild flaying arms missed Danny’s elusive chin.

Danny was ahead on points when a straight left from Doherty made contact, followed by a vicious right hook. Danny literally saw stars as his knees buckled. He should have gone down, but spinning in his head were Albert’s words.

For courage, Danny, for courage. Do this for your father.

A power seemed to come over Danny as he fought back. Having almost been down and out, now he was winning. Punch after punch, blow upon blow rained down on Doherty, a barrage of aggression that brought the crowd to their feet.

Who was this boy, Danny Watson?

In the dying seconds of the round, Doherty was caught by a glorious straight right from Danny that signalled a convincing end to the contest. Doherty, a worthy opponent, crumpled to the canvas.

Albert, Lenny and Patsy were cheering like they’d won the football pools. Lenny was even doing a sort of celebration calypso dance.

“The winner in the red corner, Danny Watson, West Ham Boxing Club!”

Bruised, battered, but elated, Danny and his new family left the ring.

“Get up on my shoulders, man!” Lenny yelled.

“Steady on, Len,” said Patsy, smiling. “That’s a bridge too far.”

Back to the changing room, Danny was walking on air. Handshakes and pats on the back rained down on him.

“Well done, Danny!”

“You beat him, mate! You got him!”

This was respect. This was it.

“Keep calm for the losers, boys,” Patsy reminded them. “They was good fights, all of ’em.” But his words fell on deaf ears.

Albert was taking off Danny’s gloves when a happy Lenny came back in through the door after picking up his winnings from a very suspicious bookie.

“There’s a visitor for you, champ,” Lenny said, grinning.

Just as Danny thought the night could not get any better, he saw Wendy standing in the doorway.

“I wouldn’t like to meet you down a dark alley,” she said with a smile.

“Wendy, you came!” was Danny’s joyful reply as he picked Wendy up in his arms. “Thank you!”

WITH Wendy now on board and cautiously behind him in his quest for glory, Danny was feeling invincible. He started slacking off on the training, coasting through gym sessions. The world was his for the taking.

“Don’t let it go to your head, lad,” Patsy warned. “Your next fight’s against a boy from Dagenham, a lad called Trevor Grey. He’s never fought in an amateur contest, so it’s going to be tough to judge his form or work out tactics for the fight.”

“No problem,” Danny said with a shrug. “I’m gonna teach him a lesson.”

Patsy looked concerned as Danny shadow-boxed around him.

“I know what I’m doing, Patsy,” Danny insisted. “This kid don’t stand a chance. You worry too much.”

On the night of the fight, the venue in Dagenham was packed. Danny started showboating when the referee introduced him, to boos and catcalls from the local crowd. The kid he was fighting, Trevor Grey, looked nervous.

“Be careful out there,” Albert warned as Patsy shoved the gum shield into Danny’s mouth. “Don’t take this boy for granted. We don’t know nothing about him.”

Danny felt irritated. Did his last fight count for nothing? “Ain’t you seen the kid’s face? He’s scared,” he said. “This is gonna be over quick.”

He leaped up, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Wait,” said Albert, fumbling in his pocket. “I’ve got the medal.”

“Don’t need it, Albert. Not for this one.”

Danny touched gloves with Trevor Grey. Winked.

“Seconds out!” cried the referee as the crowd roared.

Ding ding!

Danny came out, his guard held low. He wanted to laugh at his new opponent as he moved around the ring. He could have done this in his sleep.

“Come on then,” he challenged, grinning. “Ain’t you gonna hit me?”

Hit him Trevor Grey did. A massive right hand almost lifted Danny’s dancing feet into mid-air. Danny saw stars, felt the rough canvas on his cheek. Then nothing.

“…nine, TEN!”

Danny became dimly aware of cheering and the stink of smelling salts under his nose. His voice sounded groggy, like it didn’t belong to him.