Tandia (73 page)

The ref stopped to retrieve Jackson's mouthguard and Jackson spat out the broken teeth into his hand. The crowd had come alive, not believing what they'd just seen. Jackson grinned; he'd been careless, a lucky shot. He hadn't expected a punch like that to still be in the white man, but he was pretty sure he'd sapped most of Peekay's strength and he could now take anything the white man could dish out. He was still strong, although he was beginning to feel the effects of the altitude and was taking a little longer to recover between rounds. There was plenty of time left, he told himself; Peekay couldn't go beyond ten. But Peekay continued to land hard, clean punches that snapped his head back. The white man was working to his head; that wasn't his style, he was a body man. Now they were coming; sharp, clean, hard, into the nose, into his mouth- and then, towards the end of the round, Peekay drew blood again as he caught him with a mercurial right cross which opened up the old wound above his right eye, tearing a gash almost completely across the soft tissue below his eyebrow. The round was Peekay's, the first he'd won.

The next round wasn't exactly fireworks. The American tried to finish Peekay off but Peekay tied him up and on the break managed to hit him consistently to the head, banging away at the tissue above the broken eye. Peekay was resting, regaining his strength. Jackson's cut-man had worked frantically with adrenalin between rounds to close the gash above his eye. Peekay was working it, ripping his punches across the eye so that now it was taking a lot of internal blood and closing fast. Peekay wasn't trying to put Jackson away, but he was slowly beginning to bring Jackson's head to the ground and the crowd sensed that, miraculously, the tide was beginning to turn in the fight.

By the end of the tenth round Peekay was on top and he'd opened Jackson's left eye as well. In the following, the eleventh; Peekay closed it almost completely and Jackson was left with no more than thirty per cent vision in both eyes as Peekay, growing stronger by the minute, began to put his punches together brilliantly.

Dutch couldn't believe what he'd seen. Hymie was grinning and Solly and Togger were falling over each other to sponge and water Peekay. Dutch was still cool. 'All you do is hold him for the next two, work him up. You're too far behind to win on points, lad. You got to take him out in the thirteenth or fourteenth. Save your strength, you've taken a fair bit of punishment, save it for the big one.'

When the bell went for the end of the eleventh round the crowd was screaming and hadn't let up between rounds. Peekay was taking the fight to the American and giving the rapidly tiring Jackson a boxing lesson. It was almost as though they'd been allocated six rounds each to beat the living daylights out of each other. Jackson was plainly weary when they reached the end of the round. Peekay had kept at his head, putting the punches in with his left hand. 'Shit, they're cutting Jackson's eyes,' Togger yelled.

'Good!' Dutch said. 'There's too much old scar tissue, they'll cut. But listen, lad, if you can bang them shut again, that's the end. They won't be able to open them up again!' He tried to keep his voice calm. 'Listen carefully, son. The American has to try and take you out in this next round, he has no bleedin' choice! If he can hang on he'll win on points but he knows he can't. Dance him lad; stay out of clinches, keep off the ropes. If you can put a coupla good hard 'uns into the eyes to close them for good, that's all it'll take - then stay away, you hear me now. You're on top, you can get him in the next round. There's plenty of time, you've got three rounds up your sleeve.'

The twelfth round was perhaps the greatest in both men's careers. Jackson put Peekay on the canvas in the first fifteen seconds with a beautiful right cross. Peekay was on his feet at the count of six but shaky on his pins. Jackson came at him again and put him to the floor again with a sharp left which seemed to travel no more than eight inches but caught Peekay on the point of the jaw.

Peekay lay sprawled looking up at Jackson. Everything seemed fine except that he couldn't move. Inkosi-Inkosikazi's insane, high-pitched cackle filled his head…
The poison is in your right hand!
Almost immediately the feeling returned to his legs and he was standing at the count of eight. Jackson took him onto the ropes where Peekay tied him up. The ref called for them to break and Peekay came out of the break as a southpaw, leading with his right hand instead of his left.

Jackson went down to a right-left combination moments later. It was the first of three knock-downs for Jackson in the twelfth. Later Baasie Pienaar would write in
Die Vaderland:

Jackson, who'd fought brilliantly for the first ninety seconds of the twelfth, now seemed to have no counter for the southpaw switch of Peekay. The Tadpole Angel hit the black fighter one hunded and fifteen times in the remainder of the round, which included the three trips to the canvas. It was the most remorseless attack led with a right hand that I have ever witnessed. The Angel hits hard and clean and has a KO punch in both hands even this late in a fight, though the same punches earlier in the fight would have put the American away half a dozen times. Nevertheless they were still good punches and Jackson must have a head like Mount McKinley; how he managed to get back on his feet and see the round out this sportswriter will never know.

The thirteenth round lasted only thirty-two seconds before Jackson took a perfect right cross on the nose, smashing. it. The punch forced him backwards where he grabbed frantically at the ropes to stop himself going down. His entire body was exposed for a few moments and Peekay exploded a Solly Goldman thirteen-punch combination into the American which was so fast, perfect and complete that it would be talked about by boxing aficionados for years to come. Jackson simply pitched forward, sprawling on the canvas; then he rolled over once, his arms outstretched as though he'd been crucified. It was obvious, even from the furthermost row in the highest stand, that he wasn't going to get to his feet again for a long, long time.

Peekay moved to a neutral corner to wait for the Mexican referee to count Jackson out. It was all over. The small boy had conquered his fear. It had been enough to overcome the hate and the power that came with it. The long journey, begun at the age of six, was completed. Peekay was the undisputed welterweight champion of the world. 'Thank you, Hoppie Groenewald, wherever you may be.' Peekay said quietly to himself.

The crowd erupted and chaos reigned. Then, as suddenly, the hum of the Chant began to break through the tumult as fifteen thousand Africans rose up and danced in the stands, their arms raised in the victory salute. Suddenly the greater part of the white crowd joined them and turned and hugged each other and they too danced; white hands reached out past the police and over the rope to join hands with black. While the rope held and the policemen remained at the ready, it might as well not have been there at all; that is the peculiar thing about happiness, it comes from the heart and not from the head and when it demands to be shared it can't be separated by ropes, walls or least of all, by guns and three-foot fighting sticks which shatter kneecaps.

Peekay's dressing room was mayhem as he lay on a massage table while Dutch worked on him. Hands reached out to touch him, shouting their good wishes, and the room seemed filled with the dinner suits of the Odd Bodleians, including Aunt Tom. Some of the Oxford men had only arrived the previous day in South Africa and now shared the ecstasy of winning.

Jam Jar was playing his fiddle- in between taking deep swigs from a bottle of Chivas Regal which he passed out to anyone who seemed inclined to partake. Van Breeden, Smit and Gert, grinning from ear to ear, were standing nearest to Peekay trying to make themselves heard.

'I've never seen anything like it! I never seen anything like it, you were dead, Peekay!
Wragtig!
I never seen anything like it!' Captain Smit repeated, his voice hoarse from shouting. Gert, as usual, said nothing, but his pride in Peekay showed in his eyes and you would have needed a charge of buckshot to blast the grin off his face.

Solly Goldman was walking around the room collaring anyone he could find to listen. 'Six years ago, I taught him.

I never seen 'im use it, I never seen anyone use it, it was impossible they said, too difficult. Solly, they said, there's not enough time to seat thirteen good 'uns home! Then tonight I seen the Solly Goldman thirteen-punch combination win the championship of the whole world!'

It took Hymie almost half an hour to clear the room. He'd arranged for four buses to take the Odd Bodleians and other invited guests to Pretoria where a victory celebration for two hundred guests was arranged at Solomon Levy's palatial home. The ever-efficient Captain McClymont had laid on a police escort to accompany the buses. As well, he arranged for four motorcycle cops to escort Peekay and Hymie when they were due to depart an hour or so later, after the police had dispersed the main part of the crowd.

The moment the room was clear Peekay told Dutch he felt better. Dutch lifted him gently to a sitting position. 'Peekay, I'm not much with words, son. I've handled a lot of lads, good 'uns too. I don't mind sayin' I thought you was gone in the seventh. That was the bravest comeback by a fighter I've ever seen and what's more, my son, five of the last seven rounds, well, I doubt I'll ever see better boxing.' He towelled Peekay's shoulders. 'I still don't believe I saw that thirteen-punch combo, it was the fucking immaculate conception. You was magic, son!'

Peekay grinned. 'Thank you, Dutch. There was a lot of work in those winning rounds. I shall always be grateful.

One more fight to go. I know your contract is up but I hope you'll agree to train me?'

Dutch Holland cleared his throat. 'Now's a lousy time to tell you, Peekay.'

Peekay looked up quickly. The sudden jerk of his neck sent a stab of pain down his right shoulder. 'Tell me what, Dutch?'

'Son, I'm a professional trainer; win, lose or draw, the next fight with Mandoma is your last.'

'So?' Peekay was too tired to be polite.

'Mr Nguni has asked me to train Gideon Mandoma. If he wins against you he's going to have a big career in the ring. Even if he doesn't, the title will be vacant and I think he could take Jackson or any of the other top contenders.'

Only Hymie, had he been present, would have seen Peekay's reaction and known that Dutch Holland's announcement was like a sudden kick in the scrotum.

'Dutch, that's great! Solly Goldman has had a hard time playing second fiddle and I'll be happy to go back to him.'

Peekay extended his hand. 'I shall miss you in my corner.'

'Peekay, you make me feel a right berk.'

'Dutch, I owe tonight to Mandoma. Had he not interfered in the break before the eighth, Christ knows what would have happened. Nothing was going for me.' Peekay rose from the massage table, wincing from the effort. 'I understand your decision, Dutch. It seems only right that Gideon should have the services of the best fight trainer in the world.'

Peekay wondered whether Hymie knew of Dutch's decision. He felt betrayed and his gut was taut with anger but he was buggered if he was going to let on to the Englishman. He wondered to himself why Holland couldn't have waited for just one more fight? Mr Nguni must have made him a terrific offer. Peekay made a note never to underestimate the black fight manager again, and smiled once more to conceal his thoughts. 'No hard feelings, Dutch.'

Holland smiled back, relieved. Then he draped the small C towel he was carrying over Peekay's head and took his hand. 'Keep warm, son,' he said, 'I promised I'd make a champ outta you and I done that; not too many trainers part with their fighters when they're at the top.'

Togger entered the dressing room at that moment. Peekay beckoned him over and whispered in his ear. Togger nodded and left the room. Peekay removed his gown, boxing shorts and jockstrap and moved painfully into the shower cubicle.

The doctor who had examined him immediately after the fight pronounced his nose broken and also several suspected broken ribs. His face was swollen but seemed to have responded well to the ice packs Dutch had used on him immediately after the fight. Apart from a black eye where Jackson had cut him, his face was almost back to normal. If anything, despite the pounding Jackson had given him in the first six rounds, he was in a lot better shape physically than after the New York fight.

Peekay was out of the shower with a towel around his waist when Togger returned and closed the door behind him. 'He's waiting outside, Peekay,' he said.

Peekay walked to the door and opened it, pulling Gideon into the room. Dutch had left and Solly, together with Hymie and Togger, stood silent, not sure for a moment what was going to happen. Then Peekay hugged the black fighter and both of them started to laugh.

'Shit, Peekay! Don't do that to me!' Hymie yelled, holding his heart in mock consternation. 'I thought World War Three was about to start!'

Peekay grinned. 'You think I'm crazy? This black bastard had an easy fight, he could probably go another ten rounds!' Be turned back to Gideon and put a hand, on either shoulder, looking into the eyes of the black boxer. 'Thank you, my brother, it is your title, you broke the
isiBango,
the spell, so my shadows could come to my rescue; it is you who are
the one.'

'Haya, haya, Peekay, this is nice but it is not the truth. You are still the
Onoshobishobi Ingelosi;
the people have seen you tonight. They are very, very happy.'