“Jab and move, Danny,” was Albert’s advice as the crowd cheered and crowded around. “Out-box him, don’t get involved in a street fight.”
“Yeah, out-box him, son,” Patsy agreed. “You’re the better boxer, keep your distance.”
Danny could still hear Albert’s stinging rebuke from all those years ago, when he’d lost to the Dagenham first-timer through stupidity and over-confidence. Don’t you ever take for granted that you’re gonna win a fight. You must always, always respect your opponent. It had been a humiliating defeat that had hurt Danny badly, and one he was determined never to repeat.
When Anderson arrived in the ring, it was clear that he was the local crowd’s Big White Hope. There had been a lot of talk in recent weeks about him turning professional. He was the hot shot, and Danny, for all his growing reputation, was the underdog.
Anderson seemed to have muscles on his muscles, and Danny could sense his aggression. Tonight, Danny was far from over-confident, and his nerves were raw.
“Seconds out! Round one!”
Just as Patsy had warned, Anderson came out with a vengeance. Danny tried to box, to keep his distance, but the fury of his opponent was intense. He managed to avoid some of the more telegraphed, windmill-type punches, but was caught by a body shot that winded him badly and brought home the vicious power of Anderson’s punch.
Round one went to Anderson, the Peckham boy.
“Keep out of trouble, lad,” Patsy barked, back in Danny’s corner.
“You’re doing OK,” Albert encouraged. “Keep moving, jab and move!”
The bell went for round two. Anderson, buoyed by the winning first round, came out like a Tasmanian devil, aiming for the kill, spurred on by a partisan crowd baying for blood.
Danny tried hard to follow his corner’s advice, but when three vicious blows landed on his head guard and chin, his knees started to buckle.
Dimly he heard Patsy yelling.
“Get your guard up, Danny!” Patsy yelled as a right to the ribs winded Danny again. The referee was looking anxious and on the verge of stopping the fight. If the fight stopped, the contest would be awarded to his opponent. Danny felt a slow, burning anger as he lifted his gloves. He’d had enough of being a punch bag. It was now or never.
With a power he had not shown before, he summoned all his energy and began to fight back.
“Box him, Danny!” Patsy shouted. “Box him!”
But Danny wasn’t listening. If Anderson wanted a street fight, he was going to get one.
From back-pedalling, he now moved forward on the offensive. Toe to toe with his opponent, sweat and blood covering his face, his fast hands started to push Anderson back. The crowd sensed the battle was on. In a way, the gloves were off.
The two men fought as if their lives depended on it. Blow after blow, both boxers giving as good as they got. Danny fought on grimly. His punches were landing more accurately than Anderson’s manic onslaught.
The mood in the hall began to change. Before Danny started bringing the fight to Anderson, the local crowd had thought that their boy was going to be the easy winner. But Danny had other ideas, and they could sense it.
“Box!” Patsy screamed. “Don’t brawl!”
“Keep going, Danny!” shouted Lenny. “Keep landing them punches!”
Danny was matching Anderson’s aggression punch for punch. Patsy threw his hands in the air. This was a powerhouse of a fight rarely seen in the amateur boxing world, and the crowd loved it.
Anderson was in retreat, backing off for safety, when a right hook from Danny caught him like a hammer blow, smack on the chin, visibly shaking him. Sensing his moment, with a left and a powerful right Danny sent Anderson crashing through the ropes and into the crowd.
Anderson wasn’t the only thing giving up the fight. The ring was collapsing too. Danny grabbed for the ropes as the structure fell apart beneath his feet. Anderson was out cold, sprawled across the laps of two front-row punters, as chaos descended. The referee gave up trying to call for order and went to consult with the judges. After a brief and confused conversation, the referee waved his arms.
“Draw!” he yelled. “In the circumstances, we call a draw!”
Albert, Patsy and Lenny went ballistic. Even the local crowd were booing the decision. Danny had clearly won, well before the ring had collapsed. After giving his all, fighting the kind of fight Anderson had wanted and beating him, Danny had been cheated.
The travesty of justice left a bad taste in his mouth.
“We should demand a return match,” Albert said, angrily pacing in the changing rooms as the officials did their best to reassemble the ring for the rest of the bill.
“Cheating bastards,” said Lenny.
“Told you this was a piss hole,” Patsy said.
“Next time you’ll beat him,” Albert swore, lifting Danny’s chin up to look the dejected boy in the eye. “Don’t worry, son, you’ll get your revenge.”
As a semblance of calm began to settle, the door was suddenly pushed open and the smell of aftershave lotion wafted in. Albert narrowed his eyes at the two well-groomed newcomers in mohair suits who had waltzed in unannounced.
“Who the bloody ’ell are you?” he said.
The men looked around the changing room like they owned the place.
“The name’s Costa,” said the taller of the two, producing a business card. No one moved to take it. “Tommy Costa. And this here is my business partner Jack Cohen.”
“No one asked you in here,” said Albert.
“Steady, old fella,” Costa replied. “You don’t want to have a heart attack. Who are you anyway?”
“This man is the ex-army middleweight champion, Albert Kemp,” Lenny bit out, “and you need to show some bloody respect.”
“What do you two want?” Albert said bluntly.
Cohen looked at Albert with a slightly patronising smile. “Nice fighter you have there Albie boy,” he said.
“Good-looking boy too,” said Costa, his eyes lingering on Danny. “We’ve been keeping an eye on him.”
Cohen smiled, showing sharp little teeth. “Now, I’m sure you want the best for the boy,” he said.
“The best for the boy,” echoed Costa.
“He needs proper management,” Cohen continued.
“Someone to nurture, to care,” added Costa.
Albert was reminded of a comedy double act, but not a very funny one.
“Someone to open doors,” Cohen went on.
“Get him the right fights,” Costa put in.
Costa’s eyes glinted. “Perhaps get him a shot at a professional title.”
“And is that you, Albert?” said Cohen, a little too close to Albert’s face for comfort.
Cohen was wearing a grey well-tailored suit, pink tie, striped shirt and what seemed to be a gold ring on every finger. The straight man, serious, perpetually glum, with very black hair, greased and swept severely back.
He spoke quickly and sharply with an almost middle-class accent. Tommy Costa looked like a Greek Cypriot, with a five o’clock shadow, long curly brown hair, bushy eyebrows and big brown eyes. His black mohair suit would have fitted fine, if Tommy had not put on a few pounds living the good life. More casual than Cohen, he wore an open-neck white shirt and a pair of very shiny Cuban-heel boots.
“Why don’t you call him over,” suggested Costa now, his eyes flicking towards Danny. “So we can have a little chat?”
“Go get changed, Danny,” said Albert, not taking his eyes off Costa and Cohen. “Len? Patsy? Look after the boy.”
“It’s all about you, ain’t it Albie?” said Costa.
“Standing in the way of a young man’s dream,” said Cohen.
The men pushed past Albert and headed for Danny. Lenny and Patsy hovered uncertainly.
“Danny boy,” said Cohen. “Allow me to present my card.”
Albert gritted his teeth as a bewildered Danny took the business card from Cohen’s fingers.