THE BOXER.

Otago Witness, Issue 3869, 8 May 1928, Page 81

THE BOXER.

B y

Ralph Marshall.

The knowledge that his chance had come at last dominated the mind of Kid Smith of Bermondsey, contestant for the Lonsdale belt and a sum of money exceeding £lOOO, as he awaited the sound of the gong. His chance! The opportunity that had been his star ever since he had been picked out of the ranks of the novices by Joe Barwood, than whom there was no shrewder judge of a boxer in the country, as a lad likely to go far in the profession of his choice. Kid Smith, champion of Britain—champion of the world, maybe. The Lonsdale belt and £1000; the belt to encourage him to even greater things, the money to rescue his mother and dad and brother Jimmy from their present drab surroundings.

Even a boxer had dreams, he ruminated as he submitted to the expert attentions of Joe. But not'•every boxer had such a vivid dream as his to build up a resolve which, in itself, was onehalf of victory. To-night -w-buld mark the end of his climb out of obscurity. A hard climb it had been, and not a very profitable one. A -boxer had to be a champion before he---could make money. He had fought his way through 50 fights before he had been accepted as a contender for the title. Fifty fights and, of these, only one defeat; and that solitary beating had occurred so long ago that it had no significance now. He had been a raw novice pitted against an experienced hand. He could think of it in a detached way now. without harmful effect on his confidence. Still, it was no a thing to recall on this night of all nights. . -ts.;.His opponent, Jim Williams, had been champion for as many years as he had experience, v’Williams’had a long list of successes tq his credit, sufficient to cause any young rival a qualm of doubt, but it was said that he was on the decline, that advancing age was taking its inevitable toll, and it had been freely prophesied that to-night -Kid t-mith would rob him of his crown, ■

Down in Bermondsey the family would be gathered to await news of nis victory. His dad and little Jimmy would share the earphones of the wireless set, and every announcement would confirm their view that Kid Smith was the greatest fighter since Tom Sayers. He knew that he could depend on them to lighten his mother’s anxiety. . . . A soft*, smile eeased abruptly on its passage-across his lips. He mustn’t get - setitnqejilal. Sorry, mother, he said to the image of her which arose before his eyes: (X dare, not think of you to-night. A man’s-mother makes him soft and merciful. There’s too much at stake for that. I Out'.of the mist of snioke that hung overhead she seemed to smile her

understanding and encouragement. Well, he had a mother in a thousand and a chance in a thousand; what more could a young man ask. of life? “ Don’t forget, kiddo,” Joe was saying. “ Take it easy for a start. Size him up before you let anything go. Don’t go into him—that’s his game. Keep your distance and pinch all the points you can without taking any risks. ...”

“ Seconds out—first round—time.”

It had begun. He leaped forward and brushed gloves with' - his opponent, a battle-scarred veteran, whose dark skin, flattened nose, and bunched muscles contrasted with his own fair, undamaged youth. A preliminary skirmish and they settled down, method opposed to method, brain matched against brain. Williams fell into position, his left arm extended almost to its limit, the tightlyclenched glove hovering within an inch of the kid’s face, the right hand held lightly across his body. A smile of confidence, in which there was a suggestion of contempt, hovered on his thick lips, and his eyes were hard and determined. There were no signs of weakness or of impaired confidence. However, the kid had not counted on that, and was prepared to fight every minute of the 20 rounds if need be.

The glove that hovered within an inch of his chin had a curiously tantalising effect. Surely, he thought, he had previously encountered this peculiar style, which required for its success an absolute self-confidence and an ability to subject the other man to one’s will? It seemed to be engraved on his memory. Then he remembered. That solitary defeat of his career, three years ago, in Edinburgh. His opponent had exploited a similar style. During the first four rounds, while he had been busy amassing points, the glove had steadily measured its distance. And in the fifth round, when he felt that he had the decision safe in his keeping, barring accidents, the accident had happened, his opponent had released his first real punch of the contest, and he, Kid Smith, had taken 20 minutes to recover from the effects. However, once bitten, twice shy; he had learned a great deal since. Nevertheless, it was disturbing that a memory of that ignominious display should disturb him to-night. He feinted and side-stepped and scored the first direct hit of the fight. But when he essayed to get outside the outstretched arm and hook his man to the chin, the glove moved with him and prodded him back, as though in gentle reproof that he could think to catch a champion with such an elementary manoeuvre.

The round ended, and he returned to his corner.

_ “ You are doing fine, kiddo. Next time you get inside land a wallop or two near the heart. That’s where he’s weak. He’s not so young as he used to be, and if you can slow him down it’ll be easy in the end. But don’t take any risks. . . .” The wireless announcer would be stating : “ The first round ended even.” His dad would be demonstrating that first point with little Jimmy as his opponent. And Jimmy, probably, would be indignantly protesting: “I don’t want to be Williams. I want to be our Tommy. You be Williams, and I’ll show you! ” And the old dad, forgetful of the rheumatism that prevented him from working in the winter months, would laugh with glee, and would submit to a knockout punch that would land just above his knee. His mother would bravely make a pretence' of sewing, and would nretend not to be aware that there were such things as boxing and big prizes to lure young men from the decent ways of life. Never mind, thought the kid, the cheque he would carry home would more than compensate her for her disappointment over the fact that he had not become a plasterer “ like his dad. . .”

Again he was facing the champion, advancing, retreating. side-stepping, doing all three simultaneously, ever seeking an opportunity of evading that outstretched arm. Of a sudden he darted forward, inside the dominating left, and shot out his fists in quick succession—left, right, left—three stiff jabs in the region of the heart. Williams gave ground. The kid rushed him to the ropes, and lashed out furiously at a jaw that slipped aside just in tfrne. The roar of ' applause was nectar to him. So there was a way of evading that left arm! He felt now that the fight was safe in his keeping. But even as this flashed into his mind, the clenched glove was again taking his measure, the cold eyes were once more gazing steadily into his own, unflinching, undismayed, the leering smile even more confident . . .

“ Stick it, kiddo, you’re doing fine. He doesn’t know what to make of you. But don’t get rash. There’s plenty of time. Keep him at a distance, and get him when he comes to you. . . .” His dad would be experiencing a rough time of it at the hands of Jimmy. “ One-two-three,” his dad would shout, and he would fall back against imaginary ropes as Jimmy gleefully and energetically followed up the attack. And his mother would look up from her sewing, tears of pride in her eyes; but, of course, a word of reproof on her lips regarding the damage these two children were causing to the polish on the worn linoleum. He was glad now that he had insisted on his dad remaining at home beside her. His antics and confidence would relieve the strain. . . “ Six to four on the kid! Six' to four on. . . .” They were at it again. He was tempted to go to see if Williams really had a trick up his sleeve. He was a poor sort of champion. Perhaps the stories that he was a back-number were

true after all. But he obeyed Joe’s instructions. Joe k«s«w wdiat he was talking about. Yet he felt that the slow, relentless manoeuvring of the other would get on his nerves soon if- something didn’t happen. Come what might, he must not lose his temper. No matter how sorely his patience was tried, he must keep his head. A toe-to-toe slam would be a relief from this tantalising immobility of the other. But coolness must be matched with coolness; and Williams certainly w r as cool.

He attempted to repeat the performance of the previous round, but Williams prodded him back with the left. But the kid, like lightning, shot back, got inside, and delivered a stiff jolt to the body. Williams grunted and clinched. The referee dragged them apart. The kid scored another clean hit on the break, and still another as he closed in again on the instant. “Kid Smith wins the title. Kid Smith wins on points.” He was fighting like a champion now. But when he looked into the eyes of his opponent, seeking symptoms of anxiety, he found none. The expression was as serene and confident as it had been at the commencement: if anything, the twist on the thick lips was a shade more contemptuous. If only Williams would show himself! As though in answer to his thought, the outstretched arm bent, and stabbed forward like a piston-rod. Yet, so sure was the judgment behind it, the blow was checked just as it reached the kid’s jaw, and a gentle prod was all that he received. Well, if the fellow imagined that he could play with him to the extent of refusing chances, he was mistaken. Spurred by a flash of temper, the kid stepped resolutely in and extracted satisfaction.

“ Stick it, kiddo, you’re leading on points.” What was a lead on points against the fact that his rival was deliberately holding himself back? What did points matter against a relentless machine? There were still 17 rounds to go. Yon fellow in Edinburgh had sidled about like this, doing nothing except measure his distance, »for five rounds. Then what he had waited for had come, and he had ended the fight with his first real blow. . . . He must win. For the sake of his mother and dad; for the sake of Bermondsey and the money that his friends had staked on his chance. In the fourth round, out of the corner of his eye, he watched his opponent’s chief second. Seconds sometimes provided an insight into motives. But Steve Stevens, ex-champion of Europe and now manager of champions, was leaning unconcernedly on the edge of the ring, his chin resting on his arms, his expression placid, almost bored. Like his charge, he had the look of a man whose moment of action had not yet arrived, of a man who could afford to wait in absolute knowledge that his plans would work out to their appointed end. ...

“Kid Smith beaten on points. Kid Smith knocked out. . .

The other side were giving him to think, and thought was knawing at his patience. Perhaps they were banking on that. There were other ways of wearing a man down than by sapping his strength by blows. Well,’he would show them. He would box as he had never boxed before. And he would not lose his head.

He hustled his rival into a corner, and delivered several jabs to the body. He kept Williams on the move, feinting, dodging, using every means known to him—and Joe had taught him almost every trick in the trade —to pierce the guard of his rival. Towards the end of the round he did find an opening, and he worked his arms like battering rams into the body of the champion. “ I’ve got a hunch they’re going to spring something on us this time, kiddo. But they can’t do much if you keep on boxing as you are doing.” The cheers that had greeted his last assault would still be ringing in the ears of his dad and Jimmy. Jimmy would be shouting: “Good old Tommy, you’re winning, you’re winning! ” ’into the wireless set in the simple belief that his encouragement would carry back along the ether whence it had come, and reach him in this huge hall. His dad would be repeating that he had known all along that “ our Tommy ” would be champion one day. And his mother would be silently praying for him. “ I’ll be praying for you all the time, son,” she had whispered when they had parted. The passionate kiss that had accompanied the utterance still lingered on his cheek. . . .

“ Now, kiddo, keep your lamps open. Keep clear of him rather than risk anything. If he lias got anything up his sleeve, he’ll show it now. Whatever you do, don't let him goad you to a fight —and don’t duck.”

As he stepped forward to renew the combat a silence fell upon the crowd, and he heard, clear and distinct, the words of the wireless announcer. “ The fifth round is commencing, with Smith holding a clear lead on points.” Down in Bermondsey they would hear that. And how Jimmy would cheer. He was a fool to permit the unorthodox style of his opponent to worry him. The thing was simple and straightforward just to keep, on boxing and amassing the points which would bring him the reward as surely as a knock-out would do. He boxed as though inspired, and even the extended arm of his rival could not keep down the toll of points he was extracting. He danced round the stiff figure of Williams,' shooting out his left over and under the guard, holding his own right hand in readiness for

a really telling punch. He maintained the attack at lightnning speed, and Williams wavered before the rapier-like left, gave ground, crouched, folded his arms across his chest in defence when he was at a loss. In the corner, Steve Stevens was attentive, bobbing up and down like a jack-in-the-box, making signs, a concerned light in his. eyes. The crowd was roaring for Smith, roaring for a finishing touch, but he was oblivious of the crowd, intent only on seeking an opqning through which to crash the devastating right hook that had earned him reward in the majority of his contests.

The opening came—and he stepped swiftly in to crash his fist, with all the strength of his body behind it, on to the jaw of his opponent. “Now kiddo!” screamed Joe, above the thunder of the crowd.

He advanced to complete the good work. But Williams, acting on instinct, instantly gave ground, and, as the kid eagerly followed him, suddenly stopped, poised on his toes, coolly measured his distance, and smashed his right into the face of the kid.

The kid spun round and sprawled on the boards. The fraction of a second in which Williams had judged his distance had been sufficient for him to save himself. . Once bitten, twice shy, the kid muttered, as he lay, half-dazed, but not greatly injured, on the boards. He took full advantage of the count, and for the remainder of the round boxed on the retreat, renewing his strength and confidence.

“ Gosh, kiddo, he nearly had you that time! And.l thought he was a gonnerlFor God’s sake don’t run into him again, even if I shout. If he’s properly done he’ll stagger into you. Beat him at his own game. You’ve licked better men than him many a time. Box for all you are worth. Never mind about a knockout. Points will do just as well. He’s tiring.” That knock-down would come as a shock out of the ether. His dad would stop, amazed and unbelieving, in the midst of his prancing. Jimmy would flatly refuse to believe it, and would insist that the announcer had made a mistake in the names. His mother would drop her sewing on to the earth, fervently praying that her boy had suffered no hurt. He knew that she would not care now whether he won or lost so long as Jie suffered no injury. But he was going to win. He had got over the fifth round, and could go ahead, piling up such a lead on po’ints and making the other man look so ridiculous that the referee would intervene.’ “Kid Smith won on points—£looo and the Lonsdale belt—Kid Smith won comfort for his parents in their old age * in the sixth round—Hullo, Hullo! — 2LO speaking—Kid Smith won on points. We are now closing down. Good night, everybody.” “ Six to four on Williams—six to four on. . . .”

So the’ layers were hedging! More fools they. He would show them. But when he stepped forward lie was instantly aware of a difference that became more pronounced as the seconds of the round were ticked off. Try as he might he could not circumvent that rigid arm. He ducked and dodged, endeavoured to entice his opponent into a trap by shamming weakness, utilised every device he had garnered in his experience, but his efforts were either shaken off or landed slightly on invulnerable parts of the body. He wondered if he were betraying the fact that he was puzzled: that his confidence was being steadily undermined by his inability to counteract his opponent’s remorseless tactics. There was a. difference now. with a vengeance. 'Williams was on the move. The left arm shot out like a piston-rod. and twice he tentatively lunged with the right as though easing it for imminent action.

Then the measuring glove gently caressed the kid’s jaw. He made a wild effort to get out of the way, but before his legs obeyed the promptings of his mind the right glove shot out straight and true, travelling a distance of about six inches, and a sickening jar ran through him. He regained consciousness before the referee reached the end of the count, but the power had gone from his arms and legs, and he could not scramble to his feet in time. He lay on the floor, weeping agonisedly, wondering why he was doing so. Then out of the mist that filled his head, and above the excited hubbub of the crowd, he heard a voice saying: “ Hullo, hullo. 2LO..speaking. Kid Smith was knocked out in the sixth round. We are now closing down. Good night, everybody. Good night. ..”