David Essex - Faded Glory

Danny and Patsy both looked round at the hotel reception desk. Albert was arguing his case for a reduction to the bill. The hotel manager was looking nervous and awkward as Albert’s voice rose in volume.

“And don’t give me any of that bollocks about company policy, you hear?”

“We’re terribly sorry sir,” said the manager. “In the circumstances, and after due consideration, we would be prepared to offer you a discount.”

Danny watched as money changed hands. Deal done, Albert headed their way, looking pleased with himself.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” he said with a sharp nod. “Now, let’s go and knock this Livermore bloke out.”

With purpose and a collective energy, Danny and his team made their way to the venue. Dropping their bags in their allocated room, they decided to take a look at the battleground while it was still empty.

Danny whistled, looking around the cavernous space. “Look at the size of this place!” he said.

“It’s big,” Albert agreed with a smile. “And every ticket sold out. In just a few hours, the place will be packed.”

They stood around for a while and watched the Wembley Arena staff place chairs and vacuum with a vengeance.

“Right,” said Patsy at last. “Let’s go back to the room and do some warming up. Time to get focused, and then relax.”

Back in the changing room, Danny hit some pads and did some gentle skipping to loosen up while Albert listened to the radio for the football results. In the nineteen sixty-seven season, West Ham were in their usual mid-table position. As Danny lay on the massage table being pummelled by Patsy, Albert leaped to his feet.

“Yes!” he cried, waving his walking stick and doing a jig that resembled something out of Mary Poppins . “Five nil to the Cockney boys! What about that, Danny boy? West Ham five, Newcastle nil! Now that’s a good omen if ever there was one.”

Danny tried to smile, wincing at Patsy’s less than gentle massage and managing a strangled: “Come on you Irons.”

Albert grinned. “I’m just gonna take a look at how it’s going in the hall.”

Albert walked into the hall and stood by the ringside, looking up at row upon row of empty seats.

“The calm before the storm,” he said to himself. “Come on Danny.”

Three men stood in a huddle on the far side of the room, having a whispered conversation. Moving a bit closer, Albert saw it was Costa and Cohen and the referee for the night, Stan Webster.

Knowing Costa and Cohen and their history of dirty tricks, it seemed obvious to Albert that Webster was looking a little too friendly with the two promoters. Albert had always thought that Webster was a straight and honest referee, but now he wasn’t so sure. He thought about confronting them, but decided against it.

A trickle of fight fans was beginning to take their seats. Albert headed back to the changing room, where Danny was recovering from Patsy’s over-zealous pummelling.

“How’s it looking, Albert?” he asked.

Albert pushed the image of Costa, Cohen and Webster to the back of his mind. Mentioning it to Danny might dent the boy’s confidence. “All good mate,” he replied. “They’re just starting the support bouts. I reckon we’ve got about an hour and a half to the fight.”

“Right, good,” said Danny. “I just wanna get going.”

“Yeah, I know. Won’t be long now. How you feeling?”

“Really nervous,” Danny admitted.

Albert could see the child in his grandson’s eyes. The look reminded him of Tommy, whenever Tommy had been scared of being told off by his dad.

“That’s all right,” Albert soothed. “Nerves ain’t a bad thing. You don’t wanna be too cocky. Nerves can put you on your guard.”

He sat down next to Danny. “You have every right to that title. You have worked for it. You came out of a dark place, and you deserve it. Just do what we have worked on a thousand times, and you will be the new British title holder, I promise.”

Danny nodded. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

Albert put his arm round his grandson. It was a special moment.

“I love you Danny,” he said.

“I love you too, Grandad.”

Patsy and Lenny came back in the room.

“They reckon about half an hour, then it’s us,” said Patsy.

“That Livermore must be quaking in his boots,” said Lenny, ever the optimist.

Harry Baldock put his head round the door.

“Go well tonight, son,” he shouted to Danny. Then nodding at Albert, “Albert, can I have a quick word?”

Albert followed Harry outside. Looking around to make sure he was not overheard, Harry spoke in whispers.

“Albert, I thought I better tell you that I think Costa and Cohen have got to one of the judges, given him a back-hander.”

“How d’ya know?”

“A friend of mine, a bookie, told me.”

Albert wasn’t surprised by Harry’s tip-off.

“I think they’ve got the ref in their pocket too, the bastards,” he said with feeling.

Harry nodded. “Just thought I’d tell ya. But whatever happens, the boy’s gonna make good money tonight. It’s packed out there.”

“Thanks for letting me know, Harry,” said Albert, rubbing his chin. “I appreciate it.”

Back into the room, Patsy was bandaging Danny’s hands.

“What did Harry want?” said Danny, looking round.

Albert thought on his feet. “He was just saying how well the tickets have gone and that.”

“You got Dad’s medal?”

“Here in my pocket Danny,” said Albert. “Safe and sound.”

“Ready when you are,” said someone in a bow tie and dinner suit who had poked his head round the door.

Patsy firmly tied Danny’s boxing gloves. Albert draped an English flag over Danny’s shoulders and hung Danny’s father’s medal around his neck. To the music of Land of Hope and Glory , Danny and his team entered the auditorium.

The noise from the crowd almost lifted the roof off the arena. Shadow-boxing his way to the waiting ring, Danny already felt like a champion.

Albert eyed up the referee and looked over at the three judges. Which one of them had Harry tipped him off about? Which one of them was in Costa and Cohen’s pocket?

The crowd hit another crescendo as Livermore and his entourage made their entrance. Danny watched the procession enter. There seemed to be fifteen or so of them, and right in the heart of the throng of the Livermore mob were Costa and Cohen.

The anticipation in the arena had grown to fever pitch as the two fighters were summoned by the referee to the centre of the ring.

“Ten four-minute rounds, no holding, break when I say break,” the referee barked.

Danny and Livermore stared at each other, searching for weakness, looking for fear. There was nothing child-like in Danny’s eyes now. Just pure determination.

Livermore looked at the medal around Danny’s neck and laughed.

“Putting your trust in a dead man?” he mocked.

Danny lunged at him, but Webster the referee stepped in.

“Back to your corners, gentlemen,” he ordered.

Danny was seething as Albert took off the medal and Patsy handed over his gum shield.

“He’s trying to wind you up,” Albert warned. “Just keep cool and box. Don’t get into a street fight. Box clever and keep your distance.”

“Seconds out!”

Amid the roar of the expectant crowd, the bell sounded for round one.

The two fighters moved around the ring just as they had at their previous meeting. A few punches were thrown. Both fighters were feeling each other out, sizing one another up. As the bell went for the end of the round, Danny sat down in his corner. He had hardly broken sweat.