Hymie and Harriet were devouring Harry's bacon-and-egg sandwiches when Peekay returned to the gym. It wasn't like Hymie to eat before noon, and the sandwiches were a sure sign he was nervous.
Peekay could feel the tension in his stomach which always came before a fight. It meant his concentration was back with him, although his stomach was tighter than usual and he knew he was a little scared. It had been more than a year since 'he'd stepped into a ring, other than with a sparring partner, and his whole boxing future was riding on this one work-out.
Peekay lifted his arms up high and, displaying the tracksuit, said through clenched teeth, 'Thanks, Hymie, a perfect fit!' Hymie had gone to his usual trouble but Peekay wasn't at all comfortable in it. He felt a bit ungrateful, knowing he was going to have to sort the name business out later. That is, until he suddenly realised Hymie was probably counting on him to feel rotten about making a fuss. He walked over to where the two of them sat. 'We're going to have to talk about the embroidery.'
Hymie spoke with a mouthful of egg-and-bacon sandwich. 'Sure, sure, turn round, let's have a deck.' Peekay turned to show his back. The yellow embroidery on the blue background was typical of Hymie, who loved continuity and tradition. Yellow and blue were the colours of the Barberton Blues, the prison boxing squad in the small
bush veld
town where Peekay had started as a boxer at the age of eight, and where he had been trained by his first and best boxing coach, the wily old coloured lag, Geel Piet.
'The Tadpole Angel! What a lovely name,' Harriet exclaimed.
'Now don't you start!' Peekay growled.
'Oh, but it is! There must be a story. Do tell, Peekay?'
'I think you'd better go and warm up,' Hymie said quickly, avoiding Peekay's eyes. 'Dutch Holland will be here any minute.'
Peekay could see the puzzled look on Harriet's face. 'Ask shit-face to tell you,' he said, jerking his thumb in Hymie's direction and, walking over to the wall directly behind them, he selected a skipping rope.
Peekay skipped lightly for a few minutes and then moved over to the small platform where the speedball hung. Soon a sound like the throbbing of jungle drums came from the blurred red ball and he knew his co-ordination was perfect.
A voice cut through Peekay's concentration. 'Well, that's one good thing, we won't have to worry too much about your co-ordination then will we, son?'
Ducking to avoid the flying ball, Peekay stepped off the platform. A light sweat had formed over his face and, pulling the tracksuit top over his head, he tossed it to Hymie. Then he looked directly at the man standing beside Hymie.
'Dutch, let me introduce you to Peekay,' Hymie said. His voice was calm enough, but Peekay knew he was as nervous as he was in front of the famous English trainer. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr Holland,' said Peekay. Dutch Holland took his hand and shook it almost absently. 'Likewise, Peekay.' He nodded his head towards Hymie. 'We've heard a lot about you from your manager.' He looked Peekay up and down as a jockey might examine an unfamiliar horse. "Ere, let me see your 'ands, son.'
Peekay extended both his hands. Holland took his right hand and turned it palm upwards, then back again, testing the flexibility of Peekay's wrist. Then he pushed Peekay's fingers apart, scrutinising them for past breaks or possible weakness. Folding Peekay's hand into a fist he slapped the exposed knuckles with the flat of his hand. He then repeated the process with the left hand before taking up the right again. He opened up Peekay's hand and placed his own over it. His was wider, though his fingers were shaped like small, fat, cocktail sausages and Peekay's extended well beyond them. Next he took a good look at Peekay's eyes, poking and stretching the soft tissue around them with the ball of his thumb.
Dutch Holland had the reputation for being the best cutman in Europe and Peekay wondered how those small, pudgy; clumsy-looking fingers could be so deft with a cotton bud stick, adrenalin, and a jar of vase line
Peekay, who'd had very few cuts in his career, was pretty confident that Holland would find nothing wrong with his eyes. He was equally sure of his hands, though they bore several permanent scars from working in the mines. They were strong, not only from working out daily with his bare knuckles on the coarse canvas punching bag in his hut, but also from a childhood spent at Doc's piano doing five-finger exercises. They were already the hands of a pro; the scar tissue built up around his knuckles from working the big punching bag with his bare fists gave them an extra layer of protection.
'Them's grafter's 'ands, son. You supposed to be a toff from Oxford University. How'd you end up with 'ands like a bleedin' navvy?'
Hymie, standing slightly behind Dutch Holland, winked. It was obvious he'd told the famous trainer about Peekay's stint in the mines. Borrowing from the idiom, Peekay replied, 'I've done my share, Mr Holland.'
'That's good, my son. I like a grafter. All boxing is about work and boxing as a pro is about more work than you've done in your whole bleedin' life.' He placed a cocktail-sausage hand absently onto Peekay's shoulder. 'Might as well understand each other from the start. I do the shouting and you do the grafting, know what I mean?'
Peekay nodded as Hymie spoke up. 'Does that mean you'll take us on?'
Dutch Holland, a little smile on his face, jerked his head in Hymie's direction. 'Hang about! First your boy here is going to 'ave to show me if he can sort a coupla lads out in a right and proper manner.'
He pointed in the direction of the change room. Peekay turned to see two boxers wearing their sweats, with their hands already taped, walking towards them. One of them was heavily set around the shoulders as though he worked with weights, obviously a middleweight; the other, like Peekay, was probably only just a welter.
'Hang on a mo! You said two good welterweights, Dutch,' Hymie protested.
Peekay knew Hymie was protesting as a matter of course. There wasn't a great deal he could do about the situation other than call the session off, and he wasn't about to do that. 'I changed my mind,' Dutch Holland replied, but made no attempt to explain any further.
'Peekay, this is Peter Best,' Holland said. 'He's had only six fights as a pro, five KOs and a decision in his favour. He's good and he's fast and as you can see he's a middle. Peter's come along so I can see what sort of punch you carry as a fighter.'
Hymie grimaced. 'Boxer, please, Dutch. Peekay isn't some country-bumpkin fighter, a one-punch Johnny who leads with his head.'
Peekay wished Hymie hadn't interjected. He felt small next to the much "larger middleweight.
'Peter, Peter, bumpkin eater!' Dutch quipped, pleased with the pun. 'We'll see about that soon enough. If your lad's a poncey little boxer and can't put a man on the canvas with both 'ands he ain't no bleedin' good to me.'
'Hello, Peter,' Peekay said. He offered his hand to Best who grunted, barely touching it. Best was dark-eyed, square-jawed with a swarthy complexion, the type of looks known in Britain as black Irish. It was a face which just naturally looked unfriendly and it was obvious Best didn't do a lot to offset this initial impression. Peekay had already noted that Best's nose had been broken more than once and that he carried the pink wedge of a recently cut right eye. It was a sign of a stand-up fighter. He calculated the length of Best's arms. Best had a reach advantage of perhaps two inches; it would be difficult to hold him off so he could throw his punches from a safe distance.
'Not a man of too many words are you then, Peter?' Dutch said slapping Best lightly on the shoulder. 'You're in first against Jock of the Bushveld here, lad. Warm up and then get Togger to lace you. Wear your headgear.' He grinned. 'I don't want Peekay here to mark your pretty face.'
Dutch turned to the smaller of the two boxers. 'This is Togger Brown. He's here to test your speed. He's as good a young welter as you'll find in this or any other manor.'
Togger Brown was a ginger-haired, freckled-faced chap with a happy, open smile and friendly enough eyes. He stepped forward and shot his hand out. 'Nice to meetcha, Peekay. I don't mind admittin', you looked a tad fast yerself on the speedball an' all.'
'Hi, Togger,' Peekay smiled, relieved that Togger Brown seemed like a nice sort of guy. Togger, without waiting for Dutch Holland, stepped over, hand outstretched to Hymie. 'Nice to know you, Mr Levy.'
'Howzit!' Hymie said, greeting Togger perhaps not as warmly as he might have done. He liked to keep a small distance between himself and the boxers. Trainers and other managers didn't respect you if you acted like one of the lads.
'Righto, Togger! Get warmed up and
stay
warm. Your turn after Peter, lad.' Togger hadn't been able to take his eyes off Harriet since he'd entered.
Dutch Holland pointed to a box of bandages and three pairs of gloves which Fred had earlier put in the ring: two six-ounce gloves and a pair of twelves for Peter Best. At least Holland had seen to it that the bigger boxer should wear heavier gloves to cushion his punches.
Peekay sat down beside Harriet so Hymie could bandage his hands. Harriet was silent, though her eyes were excited. She'd opened up her sketch pad and she watched carefully now as Hymie fixed the bandages, noting how the tape passed high over the wrist and covered the palm while stopping short just before the first joint of the thumb and fingers. Hymie completed Peekay's left hand and Harriet lifted it carefully from Peekay's knee; feeling the texture and the tension of the binding with the ball of her thumb. She watched as it fell back naturally into his thigh, with the palm uppermost, fingers slightly curled inwards. Then she began to sketch.
Hymie held the left glove open for Peekay to insert his hand. Peekay made a fist inside the glove and pushed it against Hymie's chest so that Hymie could lace it up. He repeated the process with the right hand. Peekay got up, banging the gloves together to seat his hands firmly. This was the moment when a fight started for him, the moment his hands slipped into a pair of padded leather gloves.
The routine had always been the same from the very first time when he'd been six years old, travelling alone in the train on a two-day journey to his grandpa's new home in Barberton. Hoppie Groenewald, the train guard and North-em Transvaal Railway boxing champion, had befriended the lonely little boy. He'd brought a pair of boxing gloves into the compartment. 'With boxing, small can beat big,' he'd said, pushing the frightened child's fists into the giant gloves. It was the moment boxing came to Peekay. He'd felt the huge gloves over his hands and instinctively knew they felt right. First the left then the right, that was Hoppie's instruction that first time, and this was the order he'd insisted on ever since.
'Righto! Make it snappy, lads, let's have the two of you up 'ere then,' Dutch Holland called from inside the ring. Best and Peekay climbed up into the ring from opposite sides and moved to the centre to stand beside the trainer.
Dutch Holland was a nuggety, square-jawed sort of chap with oiled dark hair combed directly back from his brow. His hairline receded to midway down his scalp and his black, almost bushy, eyebrows swept back to give his face a slightly owlish look of reproof. A narrow vertical crease ran permanently down the centre of his brow. It added to the impression of a man who grew quickly impatient when things didn't happen the way he wanted them to.
'Three -rounds, one minute between rounds, you both know the drill.' Holland looked down at Hymie seated beside Harriet, who was sketching fast, her eyes darting up and back to the paper in furious concentration. 'Mr Levy 'ere will act as timekeeper,' he said, touching the stopwatch which hung around his neck. 'At the end of three rounds Peter steps down and Togger takes over.' He lowered his voice slightly, addressing the two fighters. 'Now lads, I want a nice workout, no clinching, no unnecessary aggro. Now, Peter, we're here to see what the lad's got an' all. I want you to go hard, but no roughing up in the clinches, break clean and fast!' Best nodded and brought his right glove up to touch his nose. He sniffed noisily, looking at Peekay for the first time. Dutch Holland climbed down from the ring and, taking the stopwatch from around his neck, handed it to Hymie.
The two boxers moved over to their corners and waited for Hymie's signal. Peekay was nervous as hell. He'd waited a long time for this moment.
'Okay, ready?' Hymie looked down at the stopwatch, 'Box on!'
Peekay moved out of his corner towards a determined-looking Best. 'This guy only knows one way,' he decided. Best came straight towards him, trying to cut him off, gloves held fairly wide and low, affecting the more open -stance of the professional, confident of his extra reach. If he couldn't trap Peekay in a corner he would expect Peekay to dance a little, moving him around the ring, a smaller man naturally wary of his bigger opponent, leading with a left, feeling him out.
In boxing you can quickly learn to take opportunities as they're presented to you, and the wide-open stance affected. by the middleweight was a blatant show of arrogance. Peekay moved in fast and hit Best hard with a left lead to the jaw, followed by a vicious straight right, a one-two combination which set the bigger man back on his heels. Peekay was well out of harm's way as Best attempted the retaliatory right hook.
The surprise showed in his opponent's eyes. Peekay had hit him cleanly and hard with the back of the knuckles and Best was going to make the smaller man pay. But now Peekay started to box off the back foot, using the whole of the ring to stay out of trouble. It was simply a tactic to make the bigger man look bad as he threw punches and missed time and time again. If you can get a boxer to mistime his punches from the start, it can take a couple of rounds before he gets his combinations right. But Peekay knew that sooner or later Best would get him against the ropes or in a corner where he could do some real damage.