Danny reached out and took the bundle of joy for the first time. Tears filled his eyes as he looked down at this small, helpless miracle.
“She’s got your nose, Wend,” he said.
Wendy smiled. “And look at her little red ruby lips.”
“A little Wendy,” Danny said, almost bursting with pride and love. He felt completely different now. He felt like a man. He was a father to a baby girl, and this wonderful thing filled him full of pride and selfless love and a modicum of apprehension.
“Not a little Wendy,” said Wendy. “A little Ruby. That’s what we should call her, Danny. Ruby.”
Wendy and baby Ruby were going to stay in hospital for a few days to get over the operation. Visitors en masse duly came to see the newborn. Albert bought some grapes, Lenny a box of chocolates, Rosie a little pink dress.
“You have to be a father to a daughter,” said Albert as he took Ruby in his arms for the first time. “And a good one.”
Danny was determined to be just that.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT was time to concentrate and focus on the task ahead.
Mother and baby were doing well back at home. As proud as Punch and keen to help, Mr Bristow had furnished the happy parents’ bedroom with a cot, and Mrs Bristow was proving a godsend with all the night feeds.
In the days before the birth, Danny had felt nervous about the head-to-head. Now a fearless determination prevailed. He had the extra incentive of his new baby girl. Her future was in his hands.
On the day of the weigh-in, Patsy arranged for Albert, Danny and Lenny to meet him at the Live and Let Live at two o’clock. Lenny had agreed to drive them to the venue, but again refused to wear a chauffeur’s hat.
At two-thirty, Danny materialised.
“Sorry,” he said, gasping a little. “The baby.”
Albert, Patsy and Lenny all nodded sympathetically.
“Test driving this one and all, Len?” said Albert as they all got into the swanky Humber Hawk parked outside the pub.
“You can’t say I don’t offer a thorough service,” said Lenny cheerfully.
“So, Danny,” said Albert as they drove to the York Hall, Bethnal Green where the weigh-in was taking place. “Why did you decide on Ruby and not Alberta for the baby, eh?”
Danny laughed. “I reckon Ruby is a good name. It seems to suit her.”
“I had an aunt called Ruby,” reminisced Lenny from the front seat. “Best cook in Jamaica. Her jerk chicken was magic.”
At York Hall, there were people already going in. As Danny got out of the car, there was a spontaneous cheer from well wishers, and people surged forward to shake his hand and ask for his autograph. It was obvious that the fight had attracted interest and caught the imagination of fight fans. Local boy, in his first professional fight, against a seasoned ex-champ. That natural British instinct to support the underdog was gaining momentum.
Danny and his entourage were shown into the hall like visiting royalty. Lenny looked like he was loving it, while Patsy took it in his stride. Albert stayed by Danny’s side as the team was shown to a room at the back of the hall and asked to wait.
Tommy Costa appeared, sweating and behaving like a mother hen.
“The press is going crazy for this, Danny,” he said. “Tickets are sold out. It’s gonna be a night to remember.”
Sold out. The news turned Danny’s stomach. He could hear the assembled fight fans in the hall, a chant from Davies’s followers of “Dragon! Dragon!” This was really happening.
Cohen appeared, as business-like as ever.
“Danny, you’re to sit on the stage on the right. Davies will sit on the left. Davies will do the weigh-in first and then it will be your turn. After the weigh-in, we’ll have a press conference and some photos. Got it?”
Danny took it all in, his mind racing. There was a surreal feeling of slow motion to the proceedings.
“Danny! Danny!” greeted him from a partisan cluster of supporters in the hall as Danny climbed on to the stage. The flashbulbs were going crazy as he blinked in the spotlights.
Another chant struck up, louder than the first.
“Dragon! Dragon! Dragon!”
Danny did his best not to feel intimidated, but watching Davies walk through the hall like the king of the ring was terrifying. Proud as a peacock, the Dragon hit the stage with his arms raised in triumph, like the fight had already been won. Shooting an ice-cold look to Danny, he took his seat.
The official prepared the weigh-in procedure as the fighters stripped and stood face to face. The hostility in the Dragon’s eyes was palpable. Danny stared him out the best he could, doing his best to keep any trace of fear from flickering in his eyes.
Davies was ten stone, twelve pounds: just two pounds inside the welterweight limit. He was shorter than Danny, but solid like Welsh granite, with muscles that looked ready to burst and a neck like a raging bull. Danny weighed in at his usual ten stone ten pounds, giving the Dragon a slight weight advantage.
As the fans cheered themselves hoarse, the Dragon’s shaved head glistened in the spotlight. This was a man from the Valleys, a hard man born from a line of miners. His record was impressive too. He had never been knocked out and had twenty-three contests to his name, with nineteen wins, a draw and two losses. Importantly, in his last two fights – one of which had been for the British title – he had lost on points, and was now looking to find that purple patch back to the title to avoid entering the twilight of his career.
At thirty-four, he was ten years older than Danny.
Danny and his camp hoped that the age difference would go Danny’s way. Danny had a reach advantage too, being the taller man, plus a hunger that maybe Davies had lost in the sweat and tears of his past battles. It all felt like wishful thinking, seeing the prime shape the Dragon was in, but Danny was intent on giving it his all. This was Danny’s chance and he was not going to let it slide.
With the weigh-in done, the press conference started. Cohen was on stage to fend off any awkward questions and to organise the photo session. A few staged pictures were organised, with the two fighters staring at each other, each doing their very best to look as mean as possible.
Then the questions began.
“Dragon, why did you agree to fighting a relatively unknown fighter like Danny Watson?”
“For the money and as a stepping stone back to my title,” came the Dragon’s reply.
“Danny, you have been given the chance to fight a British ex-champion in your very first professional fight. Do you think you might be out of your depth?”
Albert couldn’t hold back. “Have you seen Danny fight?” he shouted at the journalist, raising a cheer from the fans.
“I would like to thank Mr Cohen and Mr Costa for this chance and I intend to do my best,” Danny said.
Cohen took up the baton. “Danny is a worthy contender and we believe he has a great future.”
“Yeah, but not against me,” drawled the Welshman.
Cohen, at that point, decided to call an end to the press conference. With the applause, jeers and cheers from fight fans ringing in their ears, the boxers and their entourages left the stage.
Back in the dressing room, the verdict was that the event had gone well.
“I liked your humility out there, Danny,” said Costa, slapping Danny on the back.
“Davies is over the hill and no match for you, Danny,” Cohen assured him. “You’ve got youth and hunger on your side. That Dragon ain’t gonna breath no fire.”
Albert stood back and listened to the words of comfort, but was not comforted or convinced that Davies was past it. He felt deep down that this was going to be a very difficult fighter to overcome.
Lenny left to fetch the car. As Danny was held up for a few autographs, Albert was stopped by Harry Baldock, the old boxer and friend he had recently met in the Blind Beggar.
“Your boy’s looking good, Albert,” Harry said as they shook hands.