Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley (14 page)

The other lads started getting into the history too, so one day Dickie, Wally, and I went for a historic day out to Bannockburn where the Scots won their fight for independence in 1314. We went in the Visitors Centre
where Robert the Bruce’s helmet and chainmail were on display, bolted to the wall on the end of a small chain. I was really excited when the curator allowed me the privilege of wearing this warrior’s helmet and chainmail. I’ll tell you what, it was bloody heavy. I wouldn’t have wanted to go 12 rounds with that kit on. I had my photo taken and we took a camcorder with us, so we have the whole day on film. From there we went to visit the William Wallace Monument, which I would very much recommend. They have Wallace’s sword in a glass case. It’s the actual sword that was taken off him in 1305 when he was captured by the sheriff of Dumbarton. The sight of such implements of war conjures up many things in the imagination. I had nothing but respect for these ageless warriors.

The bloke who owned the cable firm was a millionaire and once you got to know him he was a nice fella. He owned houses, clubs and businesses. In one of his clubs the manager and manageress were taking him to the cleaners, saying that stuff was being stolen, but they were behind it all along. They were a pair of cheeky, loud-mouthed bastards who always had to have the last word. He wanted them out but wanted to do it legally, so he got papers drawn up for the manager to sign. He knew he wouldn’t sign them and that there’d be trouble, so he phoned me and asked for my help. After we agreed on a price for the job, he came and picked me up and we went along. When I got to the club
in question, I told the manager to sit down and ordered, ‘Listen to me and listen good, if you open your mouth just once to speak or answer back when I’m speaking, I’m gonna break your fucking jaw! Now listen to what that man has to say and sign the papers. Do you understand?’ He knew the game was up and mumbled, ‘Yes.’ His woman must of known the game was up as well because she never came into the room, preferring to stay out of the way. The papers were duly signed with no problems and they were evicted.

All the history visits must have made me sentimental, as not long after I wanted to get myself my own piece of history. I had noticed a beautiful pot statue behind the bar of a bare-knuckle fighter and asked the millionaire club-owner about it. He raised an eyebrow and said that plenty of people wanted it. I said that I would like to buy it but, as an act of generosity, he gave me it as a present. It still stands tall and proud in my bedroom. The boxing promoter Frank Maloney has the exact same one in his house, as I saw it one day on the TV programme
Through The Keyhole
. He must have very good taste.

I ended up working on the cable installations for three years. I enjoyed that time and generally avoided trouble, although the little rascal had a habit of turning up from time to time. One night I was enjoying a few drinks on my own in a pub away from home. I got talking with the doorman about boxing, and everything was fine. But then a bunch of pissed people walk in. I was stood at the end of the bar minding my own business, just deciding whether to have one more for the road or to go. As I looked up I noticed I was being stared at. Five lads, all in their mid-twenties, were slowly getting closer and closer. Instinct told me they were going to have a pop at me. Knowing how important it is to be the first to the fight, I started up right off, and belted the biggest one with a cranking right hand. BOSH! He was out for a nice
sleep. Always deck the strongest of the group to send out a clear message to the other pricks. I blasted his mate, who was stood to the right of him, with a beautiful, classic left hook bang on the chin. It rocked him so much that he was out of it before he hit the deck. Why bother stopping now, I thought to myself, so for good measure I put the third one away into cloud cuckoo land. The doormen arrived just as I had just put the last one of the five to bed. All the time, I had been expecting to be punched from the side or bashed over the head with something, but luckily for me that never happened. The next day, my elbow was swollen right up and I could hardly move it. For the next week, I was being woken up during the night with jolts of pain in my elbow. I decided to get an X-ray and found out that it was fractured, but I decided against a pot – plaster cast – as it would have driven me fucking mad.

Nevertheless, this scrap reinvigorated my interest in the world of fighting, so one night I went with a few lads to watch a friend of mine fight at a boxing show in Sunderland. The guest of honour was Ernie Shavers, the American heavyweight puncher from the 1970s. I used to love watching him fight, as he was one of the
hardest-hitting
heavies of all time. I couldn't believe it when I saw him there. I shook the great man's giant of a hand and asked him who was the best fighter he ever fought and without hesitation he said, ‘Muhammad Ali.' There was a professional photographer there and he took a
photo of us with Ernie. About a week later, the photos arrived in the post. I had them enlarged and sent all the lads a copy each. I got mine framed and it hung it by the stairs, where it proudly sits to this day.

I got to know the coach, Graham, at the Boys Welfare. He invited me to go to the gym and watch a few sparring sessions. While I watched, it started getting in my bones again. I decided to help out with the youngsters. I went on a coaching course over in Sunderland in order to get qualified. I hadn't done any training for God knows how long and after the first day, I was wiped out. The next day, I had to go through it all again and was as stiff as a board. I was sweating bucket loads and one of the instructors said to me, ‘You should leave the beer alone the night before you come here.' But I hadn't had any beer – I was just unfit! The second part of the course was held two weeks later. My partner throughout the course was Neil Fannan, whom I knew from the old days. When we were going through various blocks and combinations I'd slip a hard one into his ribs when he wasn't expecting it and he'd give me a ‘you crafty cunt' look. Then just when I'd relax and forget about it, BANG! I'd cop the same treatment and I'd look at him and he'd have a big cheesy grin all over his face. A few weeks later, we got our results: both of us had passed with flying colours.

The 1998–99 season was a unique time in Hartlepool amateur boxing, especially for the Boys Welfare.
Everybody seemed to come together from far and wide and we had three boxers in the National ABA finals, a feat never done before in the town and never likely to be achieved again. We had some good lads, at senior and junior level. We had one lad from Tunisia called Mo who was raw and needed schooling, but he reached the National Novice Final where he was out pointed. There were two lads fresh out of the army who came for a change of scenery to box for our club, one of whom, Kevin Bennett, a light-welterweight, was an England International The other one was called Billy Bessey. Billy's brother, Chris, won six National ABA titles and regularly came up here to a boxing show or for a night out.

I enjoyed meeting all the younger lads, as they were all well mannered and a joy to be with. One night, I was sat in a club watching England v USA with two of the England boxers, Chris, who was the captain, and Ian Cooper. The Yank who Ian fought was called Jeff Lacy, who is currently the undefeated IBF Super Middleweight champion of the world. Ian gave me his vest and medal from the fight because he knew I appreciated anything like that. I framed the vest. Ian was a class act and reached the National ABA final at light middleweight in 1996, but went one better the next year and won the title at middleweight. I also became close friends with Kevin Bennett, as I liked the way he was polite and had nice manners. You go a long
way when you have both, and he did. An old gypsy
bare-knuckle
fighter from years ago who lived round these parts used to say, ‘It's nice to be important, but it's important to be nice.' After all, manners cost nothing.

We travelled all over the place for boxing shows. We especially had some good nights up in Scotland and we were always invited back. When we left clubs, there would be a crowd of people in the hall all clapping us off because they appreciated the quality of our boxers. They couldn't believe that one club would go up there and beat the best lads in Scotland. We always had a warm welcome and a couple came down to watch the lads in the ABAs. I took two junior boxers to the Royal Armouries at Leeds. We went up with another club from the town to share the petrol. Graham gave us a van to go in and said the brakes were a bit iffy but to just ‘pump it and it'll stop'. I didn't like the sound of that.

On the way to pick the other club up, as I came to some traffic lights, I realised there were no brakes. I pumped and pumped and it still kept going. Incredibly, nothing came my way or it would have been a head-on collision. I was thinking, this cunt has set me up. Graham was always doing things like that. When I got to the club to pick Timmy and his boxers up I warned, ‘Timmy, you can drive that, I'm not, it's a fucking death trap.' There were a few hair-raising moments that night and we were nearly killed a couple of times. When Timmy got out, his hair was grey!

I was still doing a bit on and off with the cable installations. I was working with a lad called Stewart Lithgo, who was Commonwealth Cruiserweight Champion in the 1980s; he brought the title back to Hartlepool from Australia when he knocked the champion out in the 11th round. He was as tough as old boots and was no mug. He fought Frank Bruno and big Frank hit him with his best shots and couldn't put Stewey down, it was stopped on cuts and Stewey protested furiously. He still runs and hits the bag a few times a week.

We had six boxers entered in the ABAs one year. Three of the lads fought the reigning national champions in the North East finals. At lightweight, Mo Helel lost a very close decision to Andy McLean. At light welterweight, Kevin Bennett beat Nigel Wright and at middleweight, Ian Cooper lost to John Pearce. With the others we had left, we realised we had a great chance of going all the way. The semi-finals were being held at the York Hall, in Bethnal Green, which promised to be a cracking show.

While we were there we went to Charlie Magri's sports shop and I had a good chat with him. Charlie was World Flyweight Champ in 1983 and his fights were allaction affairs. We talked about various fights and fighters and we got talking about George Feeney. Charlie said that he came to Hartlepool as an amateur and boxed George and won on points. When he and his
coaches left the club, they were followed and chased by a gang of skinheads. He said they ran like hell with the skinheads in hot pursuit but they never got caught. Not surprisingly, Charlie never fought in Hartlepool again after that. When I got back home, I relayed that story back to George and he laughed his head off and said it was true. Most of the skins were his mates who never took too kindly to their pal getting beat.

I bought a blue pair of Everlast mini boxing gloves off him and they still hang in my car. After we left Charlie's shop, my pal Wally and I went to a pub called the Blind Beggar and had our dinner there. The pub, as most people know, was made famous as the place where East End gangster Ronnie Kray killed George Cornell with a bullet in the head. Strangely enough, the record playing on the jukebox at the time of the murder was by the Walker Brothers called ‘The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Any More' and as Ronnie was walking out he supposedly said, ‘The sun ain't gonna shine any more for George.' The pub has changed a lot since then; it has been refurbished and is now a family pub. They do some nice scran.

We went back to the York Hall for the weigh-in and everyone started to think about the job in hand. As fight time approached, the place was packed out and everyone was buzzing. First up for us was Michael Hunter at bantamweight who boxed excellently and won by a wide decision. Then our light welterweight,
Kevin Bennett, was in action. I've never seen Benny more fired up than he was before this fight; he really did have the eye of the tiger. He tore straight into Jon Honney and ripped him apart. It was all over in 45 seconds. Our last man was at super heavyweight, Billy Bessey. He fought a big fella from Swindon and stopped him in the second round for a clean sweep. We had three in the National finals.

The biggest day ever in Hartlepool's amateur boxing history had arrived and a few coaches made the journey to the Barnsley Metrodome to support the lads. Ironically, our three boxers were up against three lads all from the same club, Repton, in London. They are the biggest amateur club in the country and have been for years. First up for us was a cracker, as Michael Hunter slugged it out with Andrew Wallace. Hunter came on strong in the last, making it anyone's title. The decision was announced as 10-9 to Hunter. Then we had Kevin Bennett against Danny Happe. I remember all the hair standing up on my neck with the noise and electricity as we were walking to the ring. Bennett was all over Happe in the first two rounds with Happe hardly throwing a punch because of the onslaught. He did connect a few times in the last round but we had Benny winning by a couple of points at the very least. But then the decision was announced as 9-8 to Happe. Benny said, ‘I'm absolutely gutted. I won that fight, I'm sure of it. I've worked really hard all season and had no easy
fights. I think I deserved a bit of luck and I didn't get it.' I knew the feeling. We were all gutted for Benny; if anyone deserved a title, it was him. Billy's brother Chris was in next at light middleweight. Chris beat K Hassaine from Balham, in London, by a score of 17-6. It was his sixth ABA title. He had won one at welterweight and five at light middleweight, putting him second on the all-time list with only John Lyon from St Helens ahead of him with eight titles.

The last fight of the night saw another Hartlepool v London encounter. It was the big men, the super heavyweights: Billy Bessey against Joe Young. It turned out to be a thriller and the crowd went wild. As the bell ended the second round, Young hit Bessey twice. Billy wobbled on unsteady legs back to the corner. Young should have been disqualified, which I think he would have been if Billy had stayed on his stool, but Graham said, ‘Go out and win it the proper way.' Billy's nose was bust and there was blood all over his face. When they went back at it, Young was looking for the winner when Billy pulled out a big one, which landed flush on the chin. BANG! Young was counted out in the third to spark delirious scenes.

Billy said it was the best punch he'd ever thrown, and the best moment of his life. He and his brother Chris wrote themselves into the record books, not only as ABA Champs, but also as one of only a handful of brothers to win titles on the same night. In the local
paper Graham said, ‘I'm so pleased for him, he has lived in his brother's shadow throughout his career and to win an ABA title is a tremendous and fitting reward for him.' Underneath that feature, it read, ‘It was also a fitting reward for the Welfare coaching team of Reed, Neil Fannan and Richy Horsley, who guided three boxers through to the grand finals and ended the illustrious competition with two magnificent champions.'

Perhaps my biggest influence over the lads centred on a humble vest. I gave Billy one of my old Nike ones to replace his old white vest and, as I gave it to him, I joked that if he inherits a bit of my power from it he'll be undefeated. All joking aside, when he wore it, he notched 13 wins in a row including the ABA title. So a bit of the Horsley magic did rub off on him.