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BLOW BY BLOW

It was a childhood ambition, thwarted by a well-meaning mother, and finally achieved 47 years later.

When I was about 12 I belonged to the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade cadets. We learned about splints and slings and bandages. But the big treat was to put on the black serge uniform with white piping and a black beret and sit on the sidelines at big rugby union matches.

Whenever a player got hurt we would run on to the field after the grown-up Zambucks (as they were nick-named for some reason) almost tripping as we carried their medicine kits.

My grandfather had been with St. John’s and one of my treasures was his handed down black, shellacked shiny wooden medicine case with compartments for plaster and scissors and bandages. And it smelt of iodine and Dettol.

(Speaking of Zambucks I managed sideline duty when Dannie Craven and his Springboks played the All Blacks in 1957.)

My thwarted childhood ambition had less to do with helping people and more with hurting them and that’s where my mother stepped in.

At St. John’s training nights we also played some sport. One night, somebody produced a gleaming pair of red leather boxing gloves.

I put them on and was mesmerised. Had to have them. Took them home to Mum and Dad to see if they would lend me the money to add to my lean piggy bank to buy them.

To this day I suspect Dad would have helped out but Mum hit the roof. She sounded like all those broken record do-gooders who insist that the Government ban boxing every time somebody’s head smacks to the canvas.

The gloves went back and were not donned again until last week. At the age of 59 I took up boxing as part of a new walking and gym work regimen.

I thought I knew something about the sport. Have been to world heavyweight fights at places like Madison Square Garden in New York and the Houston Astrodome.

Over the years I have interviewed such champions as Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier and characters like Joe Bugner, now Aussie Joe – who went the distance with Ali, as did a Canadian man mountain named George Chuvallo.

He had an interesting defence strategy. Just walk in with a jutting jaw of steel and know you’ll go the distance. You’ll lose but you’ll lose on points.

Thought I knew something? I knew nothing. Do you realise just how exhausting it is? Not the boxing – just holding your gloved hands up for three minutes at a time.

And that was before a punch was thrown. And nobody on Day One at Queen’s Park Gym threw a single punch at me.

Henry Kiss, my trainer, simply stood there with huge pads on his hands and, moving them like semaphore flags, ordered me to hit them. Left, left, left, right, left.

Then a left hook. Then a few attempted upper cuts at imagined opponents (like former radio and television executives) and a few of those connected.

And then the bastard started moving backwards so I had to chase him. So by now you’ve got to think about moving your feet, keeping your hands up, remembering the combinations (always leading with the left unless you are a southpaw).

I was having trouble co-ordinating all of this when it dawned on me that even boneheaded animals like Mike Tyson had to be smart. At least when it came to the skills of boxing.

In the ring, they have to do all those things at once and also make sure the bloke throwing punches at them doesn’t poleaxe them. Now I know why Floyd Patterson, that graceful shy and complex fighter, adopted a hands-high style they called the Peekaboo Defence.

It worked for a while until a Swede named Ingemar Johannsen smashed his way through and took Patterson’s title and Floyd left the stadium in a false beard and sunglasses.

I remember one heavyweight title fight at Madison Square Garden and, having pulled on gloves myself, I appreciate why a boxer in his prime is called the perfect athlete. The best.

Mohammad Ali just stood there and let Frazier pound his midriff as if daring him to take him out the way a stray punch finished Harry Houdini. Ali would then dance away as if Smokin’ Joe’s best punch had been like a feather.

It is true that Frazier won the fight that night but it was Frazier who spent nights in hospital passing his blood and not Ali.

To bring this back to my mother and her concerns and her boxing ban when I was a teenager. She was right. Boxing is barbaric. And people die. And I shouldn’t like it.

But people die playing lots of sports and men (and now women) get into the ring voluntarily.

It has to be one of the most telling, gladiatorial moments of truth, in any sport. In the ring there is literally nowhere to hide.

Personally, I doubt I’ll ever experience that – unless Slammin’ Sam Newman and I glove up for a charity match.

Right now I am happy to go out tomorrow morning and try to beat the tripe out of Henry’s hand pads.

And speaking of violence. The Anzac Day just gone I believe does not glorify war. I believe it glorifies peace and commemorates the sacrifices made for us by so many brave men and women before us.

As you may have read in last week’s Sunday Herald Sun I have been involved in a fund-raising campaign for the RSL selling Slouch Hat chocolates. All profits go tot the RSL and we’ll extend the Anzac Day campaign through this weekend.

They cost $10 for a box of forty individually-wrapped chocolates plus $3 handling. Order forms and details on my website hinch.net or order through SweetOz 53 67 3100.