Chapter 6 of "The Knock 'em Down Boys" a coming of age novel with a toxic twist.
Gladiators, Sparky's boxing gym and an ancient History course at Oxford University.
What was it that I said at the beginning?
I’m crying because I realise that I love my mate and he’s probably dying.
Well, we bundled Sparky into the ambulance that El Pigface had called. There wasn’t the time to do anything else. I got in the back with him too.
The paramedics kept asking what had happened, over and over again. What could I say? I told them that we had been walking around, minding our own business, when some tossers came along and just jumped us.
I could see that the paramedics didn’t believe us, let alone the coppers. But with the injuries Sparky had sustained demanding their attention, that was what everyone in the moment had to concentrate on. Far more important than whatever lies I might be spewing out.
I felt sick too. Sick to the core.
My best mate’s congealing blood smelling sickly sweet, with that faintly metallic smell clogging up my nostrils, was making it so that it was taking every last bit of strength I had left not to puke my own guts over the ambulance floor.
And because it was everything I could do to stop retching, I could hardly stop myself crying as the paramedics desperately tried to save my best mate’s life.
Chapter 6
Sparky
I told you that Sparky was a boxer.
“Sparky” is his fighting name: Tom “Sparky” Johnson.
Boxing is full of these nicknames. And Sparky’s comes from the fact that when his opponent realises that Sparky’s left hook has connected with his head, he’s already on his back, “sparked out” on the floor.
Sparky’s had plenty of amateur bouts, and he hasn’t lost one yet. He’s that good there’s talk of the Olympics in the future.
Sounds like a simple plan?
It isn’t.
Sparky works his arse off.
He’s up at 5am doing his roadwork. He’s at the gym four times a week, and he fights whoever his coach thinks is right for his progress.
Boxing is a sport, but you don’t “play” boxing like you “play” football or rugby. There’s a reason for that. Your opponent plans to hurt you: to punch you in the face, or the ribs, or the heart – and as hard as he can. You take boxing seriously, or boxing seriously hurts you.
The thing is I’m sure that Danny, Sparky’s coach, doesn’t like me.
You know how sometimes you just get a bad feeling when someone looks at you a certain way? I don’t think he knows why, but Dannyy suspects I’m a bad influence on Sparky.
I’ve thought about calling Danny out about this. But while Danny might be in his mid-forties, he doesn’t look it. He’s got this thing for hats for a start; it’s kind of his thing. He’s always wearing them and it makes him look younger. And he’s got this kind of, “don’t worry about a thing” smile that gets people to trust him straight away.
It’s also true that he’s got steel in his eyes, and his arms and legs too. I’ve seen it when he gives advice. He’s still quick. He moves effortlessly around a ring, and when he hits the bags hard it’s easy to imagine how it feels.
Danny would be a very dangerous opponent if anyone was stupid enough to underestimate him.
I’m not stupid.
For now, this is one fight I’ll leave alone.
The night after the Leyton Orient game, I went to meet Sparky at his gym.
The gym was tucked behind a terraced row of houses in the centre of town in a building that looked like a large garage from the outside.
The session had probably been going on about half an hour or so. I approached the side door. It was like the door was sweating. Even the outside was wet and the glass was steamed up with condensation.
I went inside and leaned against a giant tractor tyre that was propped up against a side wall.
It was always the same in the boxing gym. After thirty minutes, all of the lads’ clothes were clinging and sticking to their sweaty bodies.
Most of the lads were at the heavy bags. Their wedge-shaped torsos were like triangles. They began at minimal waists that widened out into hard stomachs protected by muscle and ended in powerful shoulders and taut chests filled with explosive energy.
They were crouched over, with their chins tucked into their chests, guards held high, one leg forward and one back. Danny was shouting out combinations: double jab, slip, straight right, hook, roll and slide out. And immediately the heavy bags took the punishment as the lads imagined trying to finish an opponent just as Danny instructed.
Expulsions of air: tsst, tsst, tsst; specks of spittle and sweat, and animal grunts of aggression on power shots flew around the gym as the combinations thudded out for three minutes at a time.
There was music too, which I liked but seemed somehow out of place in a gym designed to teach the business of hurt, “Don’t worry, about a thing, ‘cos every little thing, is gonna be alright.” The peace, love and tolerance of Bob Marley’s Reggae accompanying lads as they perfected the art of damaging each other – figure that one out.
I moved along the wall to get nearer the ring.
Sparky was in the ring now with Danny working out on the pads as someone else took over leading the heavy bag session. Sparky was slamming out quick and powerful combinations into Danny’s mits. Danny was catching the shots and swinging out wide arced hooks for Sparky to roll under and then come up on the opposite side with an accurate counter-punch.
They were moving around as they conducted the training exercise and I could hear Danny coaching as they did it.
“Tidy feet Sparky, tidy feet. Pivot, slide back. If you jump back, your feet are off the ground and then you’re vulnerable.”
Sparky was making slight nods of acknowledgement – never taking his eyes off Danny the way he wouldn’t an opponent.
“Your feet are the most important part of boxing,” continued Danny as he caught Sparky’s punches and swung out hooks for Sparky to evade. “You can make a mistake with your arms or your fists, and your feet will get you out of trouble. But if your footwork is bad, you’ve had it. You’ll be off balance, or too square so that your opponent has a wide target, and then bap – bap – bap,” Danny fired off three quick shots that Sparky caught or avoided, “you’re iced.”
Sparky nodded his understanding.
“The fact is,” said Danny as he signalled a short break and Sparky dropped his guard, “when you get in this ring, you know you’re gonna be in a fight. It’s when, not if. But your feet allow you to choose when. If you feel like things aren’t right, then use your feet to get out of the situation, take a little walk and then build up your attack again.”
Danny demonstrated by weaving his way around Sparky, moving in and out or range of Sparky’s potential attacks and taking short walks to re-establish his position and build an attack again.
Training continued for Sparky for another twenty minutes or so before he dropped down out of the ring and began to towel off.
I didn’t go over straight away.
I could see that Danny was offering Sparky some last advice before he would move off to work with another fighter.
When it looked like Danny was about finished with Sparky, I made my way over.
When I was close enough Danny turned with his body between me and Sparky. He simply looked at me. I stood in front of him for a few seconds and held his gaze, and then I stepped to the side.
I’m not stupid.
Danny walked past me and a smile immediately formed itself on his face when he saw a fighter he wanted to work with.
“He properly hates me mate, and that’s a fact,” I said to Sparky.
Sparky kept towelling himself off, but he didn’t dispute what I had said.
“Meet you outside in five minutes at the wall?”
I had had enough of the gym, and its rainforest-like humidity, so I stepped out.
When Sparky came out to meet me, he was wearing a thick hoodie, with the hood up and sweatpants over his training kit. The boxing gym had no changing rooms so the lads would put on dry clothes over their training gear and try to avoid colds or muscle strains.
“Let’s get back to mine,” said Sparky, “so I can change.”
I nodded and we began a brisk walk back to Sparky’s house which would help as part of his warm down routine.
When we arrived, Sparky didn’t acknowledge whether there was anyone from his family around and we went straight up into his room.
As soon as we got into his bedroom, Sparky started stripping off his gym kit. He dropped the hoodie and his sweatpants immediately on the floor after placing his trainers against the bed frame. Next, he pulled his T-shirt from his damp body, followed by the shorts and socks he had been boxing in, and left these in a pile on top of the outer clothes.
Sparky turned to me in his underwear, “I won’t be long, just hang on there.”
I watched as he left the room and shut the door behind him before taking out the tablet that I had brought with me in my bag.
I switched it on and the device loaded up at the most recent webpage I had been studying: History – Ancient and Modern at Oxford University. I had been reading about the course: The Hellenistic world, Augustan Rome. It seemed right up my street.
And the kind of jobs Oxford Historians had gone on to after graduation: law, investment banking, advertising, accountancy even – all financially very lucrative, and just what I needed.
I looked at the requirements to get on the History course: three A grades at A Level with one in History. Fair enough, I could do that. A general interest in the Historical world would be helpful? No problem there. I hadn’t even done my A Levels yet, but I could happily talk about what I had learned from reading: Plutarch’s “On Sparta”, Thucydides’ “Peloponnesian War”, or several books on the battle of “Thermopylae”.
And finally, it would be desirable for me to evidence some kind of community service or Leadership experience. That one made me laugh out loud. I couldn’t imagine that the blazer wearing Oxford Dons would quite appreciate the significance of my leadership of the Firm, our recent successes, or the commitment we demonstrated to the honour of Swindon Town F.C. on a Saturday afternoon.
But Oxford was where I wanted to study, for a variety of reasons, and I knew exactly what I would have to do to get in.
As Sparky wasn’t finished yet, I continued to look at the Ancient History pages. Images of The Roman Colosseum and Gladiators moved across a banner above the course content.
My particular favourite were a class of Gladiators who fought without weapons. Muscular and powerful men, with no protection at all, who fought with their fists to the death. These men would wrap their hands with Caestus: leather thongs studded with metal, which would inflict serious and life-threatening wounds on an opponent.
It’s hard to imagine now how long this combat may have lasted. Or how much willpower a man must have had, to defeat an opponent this way, and effectively beat him to death.
When Sparky came out of the shower, I had two pages open on the tablet and I was moving between them, studying the images. One page showed images of ancient Gladiators and the other our modern-day Olympians.
Ancient Greek representations of competitors always showed naked men ready to test themselves against each other in the purest way – man versus man, perfect body versus perfect body.
Comparing this with some of the bodies of the male diving competitors at our Olympics, there didn’t seem to be that much of a difference. Only what the skin tight covering of some tiny Speedos concealed. Oh, and the beards. Those Greek lads had proper beards back in the day.
Drying himself off, and looking over his shoulder, Sparky frowned as he saw the images of the Olympic Divers I was looking at.
I flicked page to the Ancient Olympians and the images of Gladiators.
Sparky was dressed in only his underwear as he rummaged in a drawer to find some trackie bottoms.
“What are you looking at those pictures for?” he said, not turning around.
“Research.”
“Research for what?”
“University. A History degree.”
Sparky nodded.
“Competitors from back in the day,” I said. “Olympians, Gladiators, that kind of thing. I was comparing them with what we have now at our Olympics. The Ancient Greeks competed naked, so what’s the nearest thing we have? Swimmers, isn’t it.”
Sparky stood up, nodding his head and looking like he was processing the information.
“I suppose so,” said Sparky. “Let’s get something to eat.”
And that’s when they popped into my head, probably because I had been talking about victory and defeat and man versus man.
The two biggest dickheads that I knew.
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