He awoke to the thudding of rain. Steel dawn light encased his bedroom curtains, many hours away from a full halo. No alarm clock was needed; the routine had become sheer habit. Reflective road clothes were donned, complemented this morning by a nylon rain jacket. A quick protein liquid breakfast and he slipped out of the side door.
The air held mist and raw salinity from the sea. It entered his lungs and coated them with vigor, offering purpose. This was the most serene part of his day; the only time his thoughts were truly his. On this particular morning, like most, they fixed on himself. He was a thirty two year old journeyman and this would be his thirty sixth professional fight.
Artie “The Hammer,” Breedt was raised on a Western Cape farm, the youngest of five brothers. Being the youngest, daily torment tempered his will and resolve. Bailing wheat straw and chopping wood molded his features. Wet leaves ahead on the shoulder, best slow up and preserve footing. The road corkscrewed upwards through Cape pines.
He pounded the asphalt at a steady pace round switchbacks for a half hour. Occasionally his right hand would flick upwards followed by a quick left shadow cross. Gotta take away his jab, neutralize it with the cross. Little traffic joined him in the premature hour but occasionally a car would pass and flash their hazards in support. Artie saluted back with a raised fist and beaming smile. I’m not anyone’s stepping-stone. 25-10 with five victories in a row, no bru, never anyone’s stepping-stone.
The journey ended on the beach. Past the white palisades of Cape Town holiday homes and onto the hard packed powder white sand of Hout Bay he tumbled. His shoulders slouched from exertion and with hands held low, he sashayed and flipped his hips, running backwards at full steam. This poor moegoe has got something coming to him. Overrated green punk has never seen the likes of my experience.
In the shadow of Table Mountain he careened past street urchins still intoxicated from the night before. This one is dedicated to little Maggie, God bless her. She deserves all the fruits of my labor. Artie slowed to a brisk walk and started on the usual route. It took him past corner bodegas where Afrikaners and Indians alike beamed with pride and shook their fists.
“Beat the pants off that blerrie kid Artie,” they’d yell.
To which he’d respond with a simple “Ay bass.”
He made a point to stop in at the same café every morning for a brief English breakfast and chat with a family member.
“Hoezit boet?” Sam, who owned the joint, was married to his cousin and reliable as an in-law could be. He had acquired the business through hard work and Artie fancied him a quasi-spiritual advisor, always quick with pearls of wisdom.
“Good. Good Sam. I’ll take the usual. Tall glass of the orange juice as well.” Highlights of the national rugby team’s, the Springboks, Test victory in Rustenburg the night prior flash across the TV screen.
Sam glances up from the sizzling eggs. “They are looking sharp this year, I’ll say.” Artie half nods. “Not as sharp a figure as you’re cutting though. How do you feel about this one?”
“Ah…I feel good, all things being equal. This is a good fight for me and him really. He’s fresh off a kak hot amateur career and the pride of the Transvaal from what I gather. All the promoters want a piece and figure Jean Ingram is the next great export fighter.”
“Do you buy the hype?” The question is honest and not overly skeptical.
“Yea, I do actually. I saw him spar way back when he was laaitie in Mitch Ross’ Jo’burg gym. I saw talent then. But he hasn’t had to go the distance in a pro fight and he’s never faced a slick southpaw with my skills yet. I like my chances.”
Sam scratches his head before plating the fried eggs and tomato. “You’re not such a spring chick anymore Art, nè? If you find yourself in there, walking down a dark hallway, be smart. You got a little girl to tend. There’s no shame in surviving, not with the career you’ve had.”
It’s mid-morning by the time he returns to his house. A quick shower before crawling into bed. He will sleep soundly for an hour and a half, giving his muscles time to repair. As he drifts off, his arm lashes out sporadically and jolts him awake. Christ, I’m like a sleeping dog these days.
Whap…whap…WHAP! The right hook thuds home square on the mitts center. Even though he wears heavy training gloves, the foam compresses satisfyingly on his knuckles. It feels like if only he swung a little harder, he could go clear through. Bending his knees he sweeps under his coach’s outstretched paw. Keep the eyes up. Chin in, hands up and eyes up. Need to see when he tries to shoot the right up the pipe.
The thirty-second bell tolls twice and he ups his output. Pushing beyond his minds limits he digs deep and fires combos. Ratatat…Ratatat…Ratatatat, they go, echoed by hissing exhales. The round comes to a close and he slumps on his stool.
His coach, a large Boer leans through the ropes from the outside and addresses him whilst wiping sweat and spittle from his face. “Good round maat. You need to lean more with your body on the right hook though. Really dig and shift your weight. This guy, he’s got a tight shell defense so you gotta really thwack him to break the guard. The advantage to that though, is he’s slower on the counter and he doesn’t move much laterally, so you have a target to work with.” Artie looks him dead in the eye to display comprehension. “Don’t give him much time after the first round to get off punches. Step in, smother and get back out. Frustration will muddle this kid’s power and speed. It’s also going to get him swinging wildly as the rounds go on, so there’ll be openings for you. When you see one you gotta commit and step in, you got it?”
They had worked together for the past ten fights. His uncle had coached him since he was a boy, but had succumbed to cancer a few years back. Pieter de Bruin was the most well respected trainer on the Cape and Artie’s recent string of wins validated that.
The session marches on to a well-known tempo heard only by fighter and coach. It spans four hours and its intensity does not wane. The final half hour is spent sparring with a new partner.
“Artie, this is Sam Debeza.” They touch gloves. “He’s going to give you some work. Seven three minute rounds, minute breaks. I want you both to go hard, get some shots in.” They retreat to opposite corners.
Pieter leans in close to Sam. “I’ll give you six hundred rand if you get him down.”
To Artie: “he is the closest thing you’re gonna get to Jean sonny; come-forward, aggressive and fast. Get in there and do your thing.”
The opening bell sounds and Artie bounds forward. He’s light on the balls of his feet. His opponent advances with plodding steps.
True to his purported style, Sam wades in with a high guard and begins to bob and weave. He’s looking for an opening on my flanks to land a body blow. Artie shuffles his feet, double jabs and moves to his right. None of them land, but they put his opponent on his heels. Before Sam has a chance to re-set himself, Artie feigns a high jab, squats low and fires a hard overhand left at his chest. The tactic works as Sam’s lead left had drifted away in a parry, exposing his middle.
The punch knocks the wind from him and he covers as he retreats. Artie, sensing his chance, steps in behind another flicking jab and follows with a hard hook-cross-hook combo. His opponent rebounds fast though and his shell defense deflects most of the damage. And as Artie looses his second hook, Sam times it, rolls under whilst stepping in to his left and fires a quick upward hook to his exposed liver.
He masks the expression of sharp pain that threatens to show, but his quick jabs and two-step recoil betray him. Sam is on him with a flash of leather. Artie’s experience lets him screen most of the punches and turn them away with his gloves. He does misjudge a slip though and falls into a straight right, which stuns him. This kid is bladdy quick. I’m gonna have to show him who’s bass.
Sitting with his weight on his trailing foot, he picks off the last few of the onslaught before immediately lunging at his partner. Straight left cross lands flush, followed by a body hook and left uppercut. It is he now that is bobbing and weaving, slipping a few tired counters and slamming home vicious hooks. Luckily for the newcomer, the bell trills.
The rest of the rounds are uneventful for Artie. Sam is suddenly weary to let his hands go and risk a counter attack. He jabs and stays away, satisfied with surviving, untempted by the bribe. Artie tries to press the attack, frustrated by the caution.
Hunched on his stool he growls at Pieter through a deluge of sweat. “If that’s as close to Jean as I’m gonna get bru, I might as well take the next month off and eat what I want. Pathetic.” Pieter smiles a reply of satisfaction.
The next few weeks follow the trajectory set forth by Pieter and experience. Runs in the morning are followed by long gym sessions with small meals interspersed throughout. Any free time he spends with his daughter, Maggie. He takes her on beach walks and reads her bedtime stories that often align with his own nightly curfew. A few local newspapers and one from the Transvaal contact him for quotes. Artie gives them little to work with.
Everything is in place: his weight is inline with the 155lb catch and is he is in the best condition of his life. The fight is a week away when he falls ill.
It starts with an innocent enough head cold. It soon progresses to chills and a low grade fever. He pushes on with training, hoping to sweat it out. When that fails, he takes a respite and quaffs cold medicine in bed. Three days before the event, Pieter pays a visit to his home.
“Artie, boet. I’ve seen you in brighter spirits I have to say. How do you feel, truly?”
“Good. Good enough to give this a go still. I think I’ve improved since yesterday, so maybe tomorrow or the next, I’ll be able to get back in the gym for a tune up.”
“Well we certainly don’t have to worry about you making weight.” The two share a chuckle. “Listen, there are going to be other fights round the corner, fights more advantageous. There’s no shame in withdrawing when the deck is stacked against you and it’s not your doing.”
There is a slow silence before Artie responds. “Baas, I need this. This is the fight that will see Maggie through till womanhood. There is no other way I can see. Unless you have something to offer.”
They glare at each other briefly before Pieter concedes. Give was not a trait the Hammer was known for; most had been tempered out.
His dressing room contained the bare essentials and no fanfare. Pieter wrapped his hands in silence. The two had met for one final session the day prior. Pieter had been frank in his assessment – his tank was three quarters full at most and his punches lacked their usual crispness. They would have to press early and often and look for the knockout; something Artie had never been comfortable doing. They had run through the gambit of scenarios and now silence seemed the appropriate course.
Artie did not showboat per his usual ringwalk, despite the overwhelming local fan support. A strange clarity overcame him – borne of medicinal side effects or focus, he couldn’t say. The ropes and large box approached him down a narrowing tunnel, its juncture fixed on him.
He toned out the ambient noise, the nags from Pieter, and even the referee’s instructions. His sole focus was his opposition. Noticeably a few inches taller and leaner, Jean Ingram had acquired the physique of a real contender. His anthracite coal skin accentuated the features groomed by a youth spent in the gym. The unstoppable force glared at this immovable object across the ref’s chasm. Scheduled for twelve, he aimed to end it in the fourth.
The first two rounds go uneventful, much to Artie’s chagrin. Working off his jab, he tries nearly every trick to break his guard and get inside to do damage. Apparently Jean had already seen that show as he manages to skirt his advances and jab out of harm’s way. Like the sluggish puff adder, he conserves his energy in anticipation of a fatal strike.
As the second round draws to a close, fans begin to boo the pedestrian pace. Artie’s punch output is high, but Jean slips and parries the damage. He seems content to pace himself and does not fire many counters. Right before the bells sounds though, Artie missteps. He feigns a jab to the head, steps to his right and fires a heavy-handed right hook at Jean’s temple. Almost as if scripted, Jean drops his lead hand to sucker him into the step and pivots to his left in unison. By the time Artie’s hook lands, Jean’s left is back in position and it thuds harmlessly off his leather. Without hesitation his right accelerates across his body and slams home on Artie’s unprotected chin. Artie’s legs abruptly gel and he falls back onto the ropes. He trampolines off and collapses to his knees, both gloves planting on the canvas.
The stage lighting had glared overhead moments before, but now they wax and wane. A viscous dark encroaches upon the edges of his vision. He opens the door of the dark hallway and it beckons him with black velvet. Sam’s seer-like words from weeks ago permeate his memory but can’t bridge his corpus callosum to form coherent thought. The round ends mid-count and standing on the precipice of the hall, he slams the door shut.
“Fok Art. You really hit a luck with that one. Are you alright?” Pieter’s concerned face looks in through his stabilizing vision.
“Yea. Fine. Lovely, I’d say. Kid is blerry fast bru. What did he hit me with?”
Pieter responds as he sponges his brow. “Straight right. Caught you right on the button. But if you’re fine, shake it off. Keep pressing, keep hammering. Fok it, hit his arms, his elbows, he’s gonna get tired, sore and drop his hands–”
“Excuse me.” A pair of latex gloves poke through the corner ropes. “Turn towards me please.” Reflexively Artie squints at the blinding white pen light. “Open them please, open!” A few tense moments pass. “OK. You’re fine to continue, if you wish.”
“Bladdy right I wish.” The opening bell for the third rings, but Artie is already at center ring.
Jean extends his arm to touch gloves, a sign of respect. Artie disregards the gesture and lands a jab overtop. He slides in low on the balls of his feet and peppers his ribcage with hooks. His weight screws violently from front to back and right to left as he snaps his hips. While they land on his forearms and fail to score, he feels Jean wince and notices his elbows dropping. He darts out and feigns a low flicking jab. The elbows drop in anticipation and he lets his hands go up high. Thu…Thud…THUD. Left uppercut while stepping in catches his chin, right hook lands flush on his jaw and straight left up the pipes slams his nose.
Game for a fight, Jean keeps his composure and counters in quick reply. A double jab sets up a double left hook combo which Artie eats. His legs sway as he slips a right, another hook and body shots. His lack of stamina begins to take its toll and he clenches as much as the ref permits for the rest of the round.
“Piet – nothing seems to be working. Body shots won’t put ‘em down.” He labors for breath. “I hit him with everything up top and he answered. I dunno how much I got in the tank.”
“You’re doing good in there Art. Keep it up. Got an idea though. Clench up early and he’ll think you’re gassed. Really cling good. Wait till you’re breaking and get off a pair of uppercuts with everything you’ve got. I gotta hunch he’s not giving you due respect.” Pieter rubs a red spot developing over his right eye with petroleum jelly. He knows he’s close to cutting. Artie slows his breathing and nods in approval.
They meet for a fourth time. Jean wears a sly grin of confidence and bounces playfully on his feet. It is now Artie who plods. They circle each other and exchange a few combinations, none of which land flush. Jean manages a glancing blow to his temple and Artie senses his chance. Stepping in abruptly, he smothers his opponent, ties up his arms and forces his forehead between his collarbone and chin. He sags and the ref hustles to break them. Artie ignores him and continues to hold.
“Get out of there. Get your hands free. C’mon now,” as he butterflies them. Jean, conserving energy too, lets him peel off like a slug, failing to protect his chin. No respect at all. He sets his feet, springs through his legs and drives home a left uppercut, followed by a right. It is now Jean’s turn to answer the hallway door.
Artie swings a one-two combo out of habit, but they both miss. His opponent’s head and torso, for that matter, drop to the canvas as fast as gravity allows. He’s taking the long walk now. All black velvet and silence. The door handle shatters from a hammer’s blow, sealing him inside.
The ref begins the count, but he’s already turned and headed back to his stool. He’s thinking about summertime trips to Hout Bay with Maggie. He’s thinking about picnics under African skies and finally taking her to a game preserve. He’s thinking of his beloved uncle and Sam, and English breakfasts. Love surges in and fills the void so long stretched and fouled by violence. No shame in surviving, none at all.
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