The Fighter (4 page)

The wins took Leon to the Commonwealth Games in Scotland, and the Sydney Stadium for an Oceanic flyweight title bout; and both boys to State and Australian titles and to Tel Aviv for the Maccabiah Games.

Leon was on first, fighting an Israeli for a place in the flyweight final. Henry sat ringside and urged him on as he tallied the score. Leon took control in the first round. He boxed his opponent round the ring. He controlled the pace. He slipped under punches, bobbed back up and struck him at will. He was so far ahead by the second round he toned it down, not wanting to hurt his struggling foe—the twins shared this flaw.

In a split decision, the two Israeli judges on the three-man panel favoured the hometown boy. The injustice was blatant, the verdict red-hot. Leon had been robbed.

Henry was enraged when he stepped into the ring for his bout, the semifinal of the bantamweights. He was out to put things right.

He too fronted an Israeli boy, bigger and stronger than himself, with a lengthier reach and greater height: five foot eight to his five two. Henry knew he could not rely on a points win. He didn't trust the judges. He had to put the Israeli away before he could muster a counterattack.

Henry had one round of controlled madness in him, he calculated, before his opponent's superior strength would prevail. He rushed out at the bell and allowed the Israeli no time to compose himself. He pummelled him with ferocious rips and hooks, lightning combinations—each punch an act of vengeance, each blow for a brother wronged.

He knocked his opponent out within two minutes, and went on to win the gold medal the following night in an undisputed thrashing.

In 1970 Leon retires. His heart is no longer in it, but Henry is not done. He turns pro, with seven years as an amateur under his belt—thirty-nine wins from forty-nine bouts. He wants to test his limits. He puts in the extra hours of training. He is honing his craft, gearing himself to step up; and if he's good enough, there's also quick money to be made.

Henry left school at fourteen. He has worked in many jobs—served in fruit shops, milk bars, stalls at the Vic Market and hardware stores; he's been a welder, a storeman and packer, and done time as a National Service conscript, seconded to provide physical instruction to army recruits.

He obtained a hawker's licence and sold menswear in pubs with Leon, while their older brother Solly stood beside his
beat-up Holden, minding their stock of shirts, jackets and jeans. The twins mixed with drinkers at the bar and at tables. They wooed potential customers with blow-by-blow descriptions of their most famous fights, trading on their names and the gift of the gab to cement each sale.

If there was trouble they knew how to defend themselves. A boxer's fists were unlawful weapons, to be used only in self-defence. They would have lost their boxing licences with one false move. But they had long learnt to harness their patience and wait for their assailant to throw the first punch. One counter-punch was all that was needed, and the aggressor would take off.

The clothes runs took them to pubs and markets all over town, and out into the countryside in the beat-up Holden, where they set up shop in caravan parks. Business was on the up. The brothers raised the funds to open a clothes shop in Northcote—Nissen Brothers Sportswear—and they were planning to set up more.

They grow their hair long and spend their days alongside mini-skirted shop assistants. The good life is calling, but Henry has unfinished business on his mind. He is spending less time at the store, and more time in the Reads' gym. He is dreaming of fame and riches.

His progress through the professional ranks is meteoric. He outpoints southpaw Johnny Annetta in his first pro fight and a month later beats Filipino Sid Vicera, flooring him in the fifth round with a clubbing left hook. He takes the Australian flyweight title from Harry Hayes in just his third professional fight. For fifteen rounds Nissen bores in on Hayes. Henry's right
eye is black. He has a cut under the left. Blood drips from his nostrils and from the bridge of his nose. He has fought with no regard for his own wellbeing, and with an abandon that has thrilled the crowd.

He beats the Japanese Tevero Ota, and takes out Hayes in a return fight. And he rises from the canvas after a knock down against the hotly favoured Filipino, Bat Socrates, in a circus tent on a bitter winter night at the North Melbourne football ground.

It is Henry's toughest bout to date. Socrates, as befits his name, fancies himself a thinker. He has a distinct advantage in height, speed and reach. He can be a dogged brawler if the occasion demands it, and a wily boxer when it counts.

It is a killer of a fight. The Filipino drops Henry in the fourth with a brutal left hook. He is on the front foot. He pins his opponent against the ropes. Henry's face is battered. His eyes are glazing over, but no matter what comes at him, he stands his ground. And he turns it round. He slows the pace, and he takes control with sheer strength and fierce body punches.

The boxing world is taking note. The longer bouts suit Henry. The amateurs are for sprinters, three two-minute rounds. The professionals are for those in it for the long haul: up to twelve three-minute rounds, and fifteen in title fights. Henry wears his foes down. He takes a while to warm up, but the longer a fight lasts, the more chance he has.

His success is also boosting business in the clothes store. The brothers set up a second shop in Carlton, home territory, and call it Henry Nissen's Jeans Joint. The business name is
emblazoned on the back of Henry's boxing robe, and paraded in the ring on fight nights.

He is undefeated after eight professional fights, and is dubbed the Miniature Freight Car, the Great Jewish Hope. Hammering Henry the Hustling Hebrew. He is the Son of David, and he wears an embroidered blue star on his boxing shorts. He attends interviews in flared white trousers and a double-breasted blue reefer jacket.

He moves in with the Reads a week before each fight. The two-storey terrace is a retreat from the cramped single-fronted house down the road. Peter's kids call him Uncle Henry and are thrilled when he stays.

Peter orders him to rest. Together with his wife Merle, he oversees what Henry eats. ‘Let you out of my sight,' he says, ‘and you'll eat yourself silly.' He's got to make sure Henry's within the flyweight limits—eight stone two, and a mere eight stone for title fights.

On the day of his most important bout to date Henry goes for a walk in the neighbourhood, and a light run in familiar streets. Peter drives him to the midday weigh-in. They return home. Henry does a bit of housework. Plays with the kids. Remains calm.

8

August 5, 1971: Peter drives Henry to St Kilda Town Hall. They arrive at sunset and make their way to the dressing room. Henry changes into boxing shorts, and laces his boots. Peter takes him through his paces, tapes his fists.

Henry is jumpy, on tenterhooks. He shadowboxes his mirror image to the roar of the sell-out crowd watching the preliminaries in the adjacent hall. He is the main act, the hometown boy, and the crowd is here in support.

He conjures his opponent as he does before each bout, and thinks through his moves. He is working up his intensity. The atmosphere is building. He is terrified, and elated. Switched on. As the time draws close, Peter gloves him up and gives
him his final instructions.

Henry had weighed in at seven stone thirteen and a half, and sweated down to within a whisker of the cut-off point. It has taken him just eight professional fights to earn an Empire Title bout. No Australian currently holds an Empire Title in any weight. Win this and the possibilities are endless.

McCluskey, the titleholder, is the bookies' choice. The Scot has never been knocked out, but Peter and Mick are hopeful. They figure both fighters are tough hustlers cut from the same cloth. Henry is in with a chance.

He enters the hall draped in a purple robe, with gold stripes on the sleeves and gold trimmings on the cuffs, tied loosely with a gold belt. Gold shorts and gold lace-up boots complete his regal attire. Henry glistens under the lights: gold upon purple, purple upon gold.

The patrons in the balconies are a blur of faces receding into the dark. Those ringside have paid good money for the smell of the action, a close up view of the sweat flying off the fighters' flesh.

Henry is exhilarated. And afraid—not of the inevitable pain about to be inflicted, or the potential re-opening of wounds on his brows but, as in his very first fight ten years back, afraid of losing, of slipping back to the lower rungs. He is afraid of the shame, the humiliation. The thought torments him.

He climbs the three steps to the ring and slips in between the ropes. He moves around the entire space, jabbing and sparring, loosening his joints. He shifts sharply on his feet, moves sideways, forwards and back. Each ring surface has its unique
movement, its specific feel. He is attuned to the nuances; his senses are acute.

It is a decade since he first stepped into the Reads' garage, and thirteen months since he turned pro—Henry is primed for the bout of his life. He is fixated on the task. This is his night. The crowd is a distant howl. Boxing is his passport to esteem, brutal though it is.

It is a human contest at its most naked, man unadorned, stripped to his trunks, left to fend for himself with his fists and his wits. It has been called the sweet science—action and thought, brute strength and instinct, working in tandem. It is the sport of the lone adversary with nowhere to run, playing out his fate in a tightly defined realm.

All is precise, impeccably timed. Three minutes to each round, and a minute between in which to adjust the mouthguard, suck in air and grab a gulp of water, as the seconds towel their man down; a minute to spit out the accumulated saliva, time for liniment and a quick massage.

The bell rings. Nissen rushes out. He leads with his left. Defends his ground. The men are finding their rhythm, testing each other out. Calming their nerves. The Scot is the first to settle; he takes possession of the ring and he's well ahead by the end of the round.

Henry's parents are at home. They cannot bear to watch the fight live. They have never attended a bout. Since the day they discovered the twins had taken up boxing they'd been at them to give up. They cannot bear the thought of them getting hurt, but on
fight nights Henry's mother is hardened, made of sterner stuff. She watches his contests when they are televised, and listens to the radio when they are not.

Tonight she sits by the bakelite wireless. She rides her son's punches, and winces at each blow. She clenches her fists and mouths words of support. Henry's father paces about in the passage. He prowls in and out of rooms. He moves between front door and kitchen, steps into the backyard and stands by the fence. He lights yet another cigarette. He returns to the living room after each round for a progress report.

In the second round Nissen pummels the Scot in the midriff. He hustles and dances, then jolts McCluskey's jaw with a sharp right cross. The Scot is hurled against the ropes. He buckles at the knees, and slides down for the count.

Nissen is in the neutral corner, jogging, body upright, gloves poised, surprised by the ease with which the Scot went down. He wants to get back into the action. He is anxious to maintain the momentum.

The Scot struggles to his feet. He is not done. He hangs on in the clinches and makes it to the bell. He slumps back into his stool, but he charges out for the third with renewed resolve.

Nissen withstands the onslaught and charges back. He is all over McCluskey, with alternating blows to his stomach and head. Henry is crowding, chopping and charging, boring in. Ringside spectators see the terror in the Scot's eyes, his moment of doubt. He glances frantically towards his corner. He appears frail against his smaller foe.

McCluskey endures the fourth, but in the fifth Nissen hits him with a savage right to the jaw. McCluskey's arms are flung open. His chest is fully exposed. An instant later he is hurtling backwards. For a millisecond his entire body appears to freeze mid-air. His heels are above the canvas. His left arm is high, as if suspended in the very instant he had tried to fend off the blow. Nissen is on his feet. His left foot is firmly planted, and his right leg bent at the knee, heel lifted, toes tensed, braced to propel himself back at the Scot.

The image will be published the following day, embodying the brute poetry of the sport. Fans will cut out the photo and stick it on their walls. They will marvel at the image of the Scot hurtling backwards, in free fall, his body spread-eagled mid-flight. It will be framed and hung in all the houses Peter Read will own long after he has retired. It will be displayed at boxers' gatherings with Nissen's signature scrawled below, and auctioned for charity; and it will be laminated by Henry, a reminder of his finest hour.

The Scot hits the canvas. The referee bends down to begin the count. His arms are raised. His right hand is open while the left is bearing down. He is a showman in his short-sleeved white shirt, black bowtie, black trousers and polished black shoes. This is his moment centre stage. He bends further forward. He spreads his arms. Exaggerates the drama, and whips his hand lower with each stroke.

But McCluskey is not done yet.

He is moving, rolling to the right, gasping for breath. He
hauls himself onto his right elbow and onto his knees. Swaying, steadying. He presses a hand on the canvas, and with one final exertion he is back on his feet. He wavers. Then straightens himself out. Holds his fists close to his eyes, gloves touching, elbows locked in: a shield.

McCluskey hangs on and is saved by the bell. In his one minute on the stool he musters the strength to tame his stagger to a stride that takes him back for the sixth. He pulls out his final card—a battery of punches to Henry's scarred brows, his weak point, and opens up a nasty gash.

Nissen is bloodied, his momentum derailed. He is tiring. Peter is anxious, baying instructions. He is pacing below the ring, back and forth. Willing his man on. He knows how abruptly things can turn.