‘Everyone has a plan till they get punched in the mouth.’ Mike Tyson.
Ever since Muhammad Ali passed on into the great boxing ring in the sky, I evince scant interest in the pugilistic sport. Cassius Clay, as we first came to know of him, was a fast-talking, fast-punching and, for good measure, a handsome and charismatic young man who had the world, and indeed most of his opponents, at his feet. His immortal quote, ‘float like a butterfly and sting like a bee’ was enshrined in legend and song. Boxing as a sport was a closed book to me till I joined boarding school in Bangalore in 1960. During those early sixties, our sporting heroes were mostly non-Indians. Everybody thrashed us in cricket, we paid obeisance at the alter of Sir Garfield Sobers and Ramanathan Krishnan’s semi-final appearances at Wimbledon, immense as they were, would propel us into an orgy of celebratory overdrive. Rather like Milkha Singh’s 4th place at the Olympics 400 metres (P.T. Usha was to reprise that performance several years later). The bar was not set very high. Hockey was pivotal to our sporting hopes and dreams in that we covered ourselves in golden glory on multiple occasions only to lapse into permanent decline. A false dawn.
Let me get back to boxing. When we boarders were taken to the motion pictures by our school masters, once a month, to one of the many English cinema halls in the vicinity (Elvis Presley’s G.I. Blues anyone?), we would spend our precious pocket money on popcorn or stick-jaws and wait, with bated breath, for the trailers and newsreels to commence. Apart from the Indian News Review which was mostly about Nehru or Shastri visiting Egypt or Moscow, China’s Zhou Enlai or the Queen of England visiting India, not forgetting the dreary accounts of agricultural production in the face of drought and something called PL 480, nothing that was riveting. A crashing bore for us boys. Then came the British Movietone News and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) newsreel when we all sat up bolt upright popping popcorn into our cavernous mouths, eyes agog.
Though politically naïve, if not totally ignorant at the time, the Kennedy-Nixon election campaign and the subsequent assassination of John Kennedy held our attention. Invariably, there would be a section on sport and boxing was in the limelight. Floyd Patterson, Ingemar Johansson, Joe Frazier, Sonny Liston, Henry Cooper and yes, our hero, Cassius Clay, before his conversion to Muhammad Ali were all lit up in neon lights. Not necessarily in that order. It goes without saying that no one caught our fertile, young imagination more than the last named. The Thrilla in Manila, Ali vs Frazier was to come later in 1975. Even without understanding the science of boxing or knowing the difference between a left hook and an upper cut, Ali’s personality and charisma captivated us impressionable lads. It was not uncommon to find us boys side-stepping, feinting and flailing imaginary jabs at one another, instead of walking unctuously from chapel service to the science lab or the classroom. This juvenile exhibition often earned us a sharp clip round the earhole from the master on duty, ‘Boxing, eh? I’ll box your ears in a minute’ was a common refrain. It was a small price to pay for the punches we were throwing at shadows.
Then came the unexpected announcement from the school’s sports master. The inter-house boxing championship was to take place, dates revealed and all those who wished to take part had to present themselves at the weighing-in. I thought this was a voluntary invitation (and it was) but our housemaster was not having any. Unless one of us was battling consumption, chicken pox, diphtheria or some other deadly affliction we had to enter. ‘Be a man,’ we 9 and 10-year-olds were told. For me, this was crunch-time. I had never, ever stepped into a boxing ring before (for heaven’s sake, I was barely ten years old from a traditional Tamil Brahmin family) and was not looking forward to it. Dormitory pillow fights and a scrappy brawl behind chapel was as close as I ever got to a fight. It was all very well mimicking Ali in our dormitories but this was the real thing. Bloody nose time. Given that I was quite puny at the time (not that I am a Hercules even now), I qualified for the feather-weight class. ‘Am I not below the minimum weight, Sir? I could get seriously injured. I prefer to represent my house in table-tennis. You should see my wicked forehand top-spin. If it’s cricket you want, my gentle off-spin is quite deceptive as well.’ For which impertinence, I was given a smack across the back of my head. (They can’t do that nowadays). Anyhow, after the weighing-in was completed, the lightweights, bantamweights and welterweights got measured up for height, weight and a quick physical. Heavyweight was not on the cards. The draw was to take place the same evening for the preliminary rounds. We were up early next morning to check who we were pitted against.
Then came the practice sessions. Not shadow boxing, mind you, but the real thing. With real, pulpy gloves. No helmet was mandated in those days. Our P.T. Master ‘Vincy’ Vincent was our coach. ‘Now come on laddies, let’s see what you’re made of. That’s it boy, lead with the left unless you’re a southpaw. Wait till you see the whites of his eyes. Jab, jab, jab. Duck, duck, duck. Feint, feint, feint.’ By now I was ready to faint anyway. After that, we had to run round the field three times, do some skipping and were finally let off, our tongues hanging out.’ We had to go through this routine every day for the next five days before the actual bouts commenced. Each bout was an elimination round. Three rounds per fight, each round lasting three minutes.
At last, D-day dawned. The referee, the bow-tied Bill Scott’s booming voice introduced us two boxers in the red and blue corners and made the ringing cry, ‘Seconds out of the ring, first round, fight.’ It was only later that I learnt seconds did not refer to a unit of time but to the coach and the two lackeys kneading and massaging my skinny hands, whispering sweet nothings into my ear. Believe you me, those three minutes each round felt more like 30 minutes given the nerves and the battering I was taking. All the while, supporters of both the boxers screaming encouragement, ‘Go for his throat,’ ‘His guard is down. Give him an upper cut,’ ‘Right hook, you idiot,’ ‘A roundhouse punch,’ and so on. What the hell was a roundhouse punch? At the end of each round, our Vincy and the two seconds, probably prefects, doused water on me and made me drink as much as I could without bringing it up. ‘Come on laddie, fight, fight. Lead with your left. You are ahead on points. Go for his stomach.’ Vincy was beside himself. ‘Sir, I am feeling groggy, can I give a walkover?’ I was half-serious. Vincy pointed his right forefinger at me. ‘How many fingers?’ ‘Seven,’ I lied. ‘Liar,’ he yelled, gave me an encouraging if painful headbutt and said, ‘Fight on, laddie.’ That was that.
My opponent, one Prem, was a good foot taller than me. I did not believe for one moment that he was less than 12 years old, the age limit for my category. There was no way I was going to even reach his stomach, leave alone his face. And as you all know, hitting below the belt meant instant disqualification. I set my mind on attempting to aim for the award under the fancy title, ‘Most Scientific Boxer.’ This involved no actual boxing at all. Just had to make sure you did not get hit and keep ducking, weaving and shaking your head sideways with the gloves covering your face so that your much taller opponent, Prem, could not reach you. As Ali said, ‘His hands can’t hit what his eyes can’t see.’ And lest I forget, plenty of skipping round the ring and leaning against the ropes as well. Rope-a-dope, I think they called it. Ali invented it. Every now and then I would just hug my opponent in a clinch and not let go. Till the referee’s admonishing whistle blew, ‘Break it up lads, break it up. No hugging. This is not a love feast.’ I could have also gone for the ‘Best Loser Award’ but who wants a loser tag against his name, best or otherwise?
At long last, the fight was mercifully over. Nine of the longest minutes I had ever endured. We stood beside the referee for the announcement. Old Scottie lifted the hand of the winner, Prem. It was not my hand but I had fought the good fight, lost on points and was not knocked out. Not even a technical knock-out. I was not awarded the ‘Most Scientific Boxer’ title either. That hurt. Apparently, you had to land a punch at least once on your opponent’s face or body, which I signally failed to do. After the fight, we two protagonists had to perfunctorily shake hands, or rather, gloves. We did not make eye contact. There was no ‘prem’ lost between us.
Simon & Garfunkel best captured the spirit of the aspiring boxer – inspirational but nowhere close to our nervousness and shaky legs in school. In the clearing stands a boxer / And a fighter by his trade / And he carries the reminders / Of every glove that laid him down / Or cut him till he cried out / In his anger and his shame / ‘I am leaving, I am leaving’ / But the fighter still remains.
Author’s note: Much of what is written in this piece is based loosely on fact and actual events. Loosely being the operative word.
Suresh's Corner 