David Essex - Faded Glory

Walking Wendy home, he gently brought up the subject of the boxing gym and how interesting it had been.

“It might be something to do,” he said. “Somewhere to belong.”

Wendy looked straight ahead. “If it’s something you want to do, then I can’t stop you can I?”

Her icy reaction came across like an Arctic wind.

“Nah, listen,” Danny said. “I’m only thinking about it.”

Wendy shrugged. “If you want to get your face smashed in, and you don’t want to see me much ’cos you’ll be busy bloody boxing, then great.”

Danny kept quiet. He’d sampled Wendy’s temper before, and it wasn’t pleasant.

After a rather frosty kiss goodnight, he rode home full of mixed feelings. Up to now, Wendy had been his world. Now there was another world, and the door to it was open.

Despite Wendy’s reaction, Danny felt excited about this new challenge. If he became a fighter, he could protect Wendy like he always had done, but even better. There was the question of respect too. He’d been respected at school by both his peers and the teachers, not because he was a good scholar, but because he was a good footballer. He missed that respect, had stupidly tried to get it back by hanging out with the wide boys in the park. It was time for that to change.

Back home, Rosie was half cut and Ricky was snoring on the sofa. As a means to escape Danny’s fractured world, the gym seemed even more attractive.

“I might take up boxing, Mum,” he said cautiously.

“What do you wanna do that for?” Rosie slurred, planting an alcohol-laced kiss on his reluctant lips. “Messing up your handsome face.”

Danny escaped upstairs. He felt the need to reach underneath his bed and open the red and silver tin box again, to look at his father’s photo.

“Do you think this boxing lark is a way to go, Dad?” he asked, looking into the eyes on the faded black-and-white photo. “What d’ya reckon?”

“Sure, son,” the photo whispered in Danny’s mind. “You go ahead. Show them what you’re made of.”

With no prospect of dock work in sight and to fill the long boring days, Danny decided to start training as soon as possible. It would be good for him to get fit. So the next morning he got up early. He even heard the cockerel crow from a nearby back yard.

“A bloody nuisance, that chicken,” Rosie would often say, especially when she was woken after one of her many late nights.

Jogging to the park gates, Danny felt the sweet smell of fresher air inside him and power in his legs. This felt good. He ran and ran, finally taking a breather on a park bench. He had a purpose now. This was a new start.

Someone whistled at him from across the park. He looked up to see Vince and the other Canning Town boys watching him.

“Look at the state of you, Dan,” said Vince, shaking his Brylcreemed head.

Danny was a fairly easy target, dressed in ill-fitting navy-coloured shorts, a vest, thick grey socks and hob-nail boots. He wasn’t exactly an arbiter of fashion, or the cutting edge of a sportsman.

“What you doing Dan?” Vince sneered. “You look a right tosser.”

“I’ve started training,” Danny replied.

“Training? What for, to be a wanker?”

Derisive laughter followed. Danny decided not to rise to the bait. He began running again.

“He’s scared,” crowed one of the other boys. “He’s running away.”

Danny ran on through the park, his ears ringing with their jibes and laughter. If anything, they made him even more determined to make a fresh start. Being part of that gang of idiots was yesterday’s news. He was looking to tomorrow.

Running towards the duck pond, he recognised Albert in the distance, feeding the ducks. The old man turned as he heard Danny’s hob-nail boots pounding the path towards him.

“Blimey son,” he remarked. “You training for the Olympics?”

“No,” wheezed Danny. “Boxing.”

A broad smile crossed Albert’s face. “Seven o’clock at the gym?” he said.

Danny smiled back. “Seven it is,” he said.

Albert was alone again with the ducks. He watched Danny run into the distance and smiled. Maybe. Just maybe.

The boy’s enthusiasm was a positive thing. At least it would get him out of bad company. But only time would tell if he could last the course. If Danny was to make a new start, it would take dedication. Albert hoped for the best, but whispered to the ducks a few words of caution.

“Time will tell. We’ll see.”

THE clock in Danny’s hall struck six-thirty. Tea finished, Danny was ready to go.

He still had not made peace with Wendy. He had tried saying that he wouldn’t do too much boxing and just wanted to go to the gym to get fit, that was all, simple as that. But as yet, his reassurances had not worked. Hoping that Wendy would in time come round, Danny grabbed his bike and pedalled the streets to the Live and Let Live.

Albert was working the bar.

“Good to see you, Danny,” he said. “Let’s go on up, introduce you to Patsy properly.”

Patsy O’Neill wore the scars of both life and the fight world. He’d come over as a fighter from Ireland and settled in the East End, a stocky, fit man in his fifties with bushy eyebrows, impressive sideburns and twinkling blue eyes.

Patsy had respect for Albert, but little respect for his flock of wannabe fighters. He’d seen too many of them fall by the wayside, unprepared for the realities of the boxing life.

“Right then,” growled Patsy, hardly looking at Danny. “Let’s get cracking. Put these on and take those bloody boots off.”

Danny obeyed, putting on the boxing gloves and taking off his hob-nail training boots. He climbed into the ring with Patsy as Albert watched from the corner.

“Now hit these pads I’m holding,” barked Patsy.

Much to both Albert and Patsy’s surprise, Danny was good, his hands fast and pretty accurate.

“Not bad eh?” said Danny, feeling more confident.

“It ain’t all about punching, lad,” said Patsy.

The old trainer now put Danny through his paces. Exercise followed exercise until Danny was on the verge of exhaustion and green in the gills. As he lay panting in the centre of the ring, Patsy cheerfully dropped a medicine ball smack dab on Danny’s exhausted stomach. Danny heaved and threw up.

“That’ll be it for tonight then,” said Patsy with a flinty nod.

Any wind of confidence knocked out of him, Danny dragged himself to his feet. He felt embarrassed for letting himself and his dad down. Part of the motivation for this adventure was to make his late father proud, and here he was throwing up.

“That wasn’t a bad start,” said Patsy, to Danny’s surprise.

“Well done son,” echoed Albert. “That kind of thing can happen when you push yourself too hard, but just keep pushing. Don’t worry about the mess, I’ll get a bucket and mop.”

Danny felt a little better.

“See ya tomorrow, son.” There seemed to be a hint of a threat in Patsy’s words, a challenge to see if Danny was big enough for what lay ahead.

Danny, reasonably reassured, nodded back. “Sure Patsy,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

Back in his room that night, Danny took out his dad’s photo.

“I’m going to be a fighter just like you, Dad,” he said. “You were a fighter in the war and I’ll be a fighter in the ring. I’ll make you proud.”

Now Danny was on a mission. He trained the hardest, and his progress was impressive. As the months passed, Patsy had to admit that he could have a future.

Meanwhile, at home, Rosie’s frolicking was getting worse. Ricky was still in the picture, but coming up on the rails was a new bloke called Ted, a chubby train driver, whose rants whilst lovemaking were chilling. The training was a welcome release for Danny, and he threw himself into it, pushing and pushing as Albert had said.