THE LIFE OF RILEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND

Chapter Twenty Five: In the Red Corner...

Dad had dreams, big dreams, of becoming England's foremost boxing-trainer. One way or another he had been a fighter for most of his life and now his ambitions centred on showing others the noble art. He was a tough old buzzard, and that's the truth. When he was born, it was said of him, they rang a bell and he came out fighting. His muscles were made out of pig-iron and his fists had been dipped in concrete at a very early age.

He was also entirely fearless, and despised anyone who showed signs of timidity. To live with such a man is a terrible thing. To spend your life in shame for feeling scared about any small thing and being made to feel like a coward for not wanting to fight is a dreadful way to spend one's childhood. But enough of that, let's get on with the story.

His son-in-law, who was married to Dad's daughter from his first marriage, was a man by the name of Don Little. Now Don Little already had a boxing-gym at the other end of town and he had a stable of up-and-coming fighters training hard for him. Included in this pugilistic squad were his two sons, Tommy and Ronny, who were twins. They were his pride and joy. Already they had won several bouts each in the amateur circuits of Lancashire and great things were expected of them.

One night Dad took Mike and me to Don's gym to watch the boxers train. While we were there I was put to work on the big punching-bag, but when Don saw what I was doing he called me to a halt. The problem was, you see, I was a right-hander but I was shaping up to punch as a "southpaw" -  I was leading with my right instead of my left. Well, it all seemed pretty natural to me and I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. But Don would have none of it. He tied my right hand behind my back and made me punch the bag with my left.

I thought this was damn crazy, and I told him so, but he ignored my objections and made me continue as ordered. Without one gram of enthusiasm I did as I was told and punched the stupid bag in this stupid manner till my arm fell off. I vowed never to come back to this awful place where everyone did things in back-to-front ways, and I stuck to my word.

During this historic night, where a great boxing career was swiftly counted out, so to speak, another drama was acted out which concerned my brother, Mike.

Dad had been watching the twins sparring in the ring and in his inimical way had mentioned to Don that they couldn't fight their way out of a paper-bag. To which, naturally, Don took umbrage. An argument ensued from this and in the process Dad bet that his son, Mike, could fight them both with one hand tied behind his back. There they go again, I thought, everyone wants to fight with one hand.

Mike and I had been taught the rudiments of boxing by Dad but Mike was by far the better of us. However, he had not had anywhere near the kind of training these boys had had and he was hardly grateful for Dad's boastful claim. Besides, they were both older than him and bigger too. But he had two things going for him: speed and fear.

The first twin, I forget which, climbed in the ring and started dancing around like Rocky Marciano, looking mean, tough, and confident. Mike climbed in after him looking very reluctant. Oh, hell! I thought, there's going to be a blood-bath here. Why doesn't someone stop it?

The bell sounded and away they went. The twin came at Mike full of confidence and promptly walked in to a pile-driving right from Mike and was laid cold. What an uproar!

Don dragged his fallen son out of the ring and the other twin took his place. He lasted twice as long. Mike hit him with a left and a right and that was the end of him. Well, he always was ambidextrous.

Dad was cock-a-hoop. If Mike had won the Heavyweight Championship of the World he could not have been happier. Mike was a bit baffled by it all but secretly pleased, I could tell.

Don was beside himself with fury and shame. His two champions flattened in one night by a nobody, a lad younger and smaller too. How the salt stung in the wounds. How would he ever live it down?

Dad was still celebrating when we got home. His new "find" had set his thoughts in motion. He was going to start up his own gym - right here in our house! The funny thing was, I don't think Mike actually liked boxing all that much. But when Dad was enthusiastic about something it wasn't a good idea to go against his wishes.

The bed was moved from Dad's room and Mike and I shared one of the others. The front bedroom was now converted into a boxing-gym. Dad acquired some under-felt and a great big sheet of canvas to serve as the ring-floor; the walls would have to do for the ropes. He then "borrowed" about six pairs of boxing-gloves and that was that.

Next, the kids from West Bank were invited down to train with us and it was not long before Mike and I were required to fight every week from Monday to Friday. This was the start of a very unhappy period for me. I didn't care much for boxing, I had little or no aptitude for it, and I had a decided reluctance to be hurt.

But Dad was not to be denied his dream. He sent me in every night and always seemed to put me against boys who were bigger and stronger than I was. It would be impossible to count the number of times I had my head smashed against the wall as one boy or another used me as a punching-bag.

It was beginning to get me down. I began to dread the coming of night when another several hours of beatings was all I had to look forward to. I feigned illness in the hope that Dad would give me the night off, but he never listened. On one occasion I slipped out of the house and went round the back to escape the torment. Dad came after me and asked me what the hell I thought I was doing. "I've got cramps, Dad, and me legs are aching all over!" said I, doubling up and groaning and wishing to God he would be convinced.

"Oh, yeah? You little coward!" Dad replied. "You'll bloody well ache all over when I've finished with you!" he continued, and proceeded to give me the hiding of my life. Thanks very much, Dad. That was just what I needed. Now, I suppose I'd better go back inside the gym again, eh?

This happy state of affairs went on for several months, as I recall, but no world champions were ever produced. What a frightful shame. I found during this time that I had developed a liking for wrestling, perhaps this had come about as a self-preservation method, a pathetic attempt to reduce the number of beatings, I expect. Several times I managed to convince Dad to let me wrestle the big boys and to my amazement I found some modest success. Shortly after this I took up judo and became fairly advanced in the junior ranks, but Dad never came to watch me; I think he thought it was all a bit of magic or something.

The Spike Island Boxing Club came gradually to an inglorious end. I don't recall anything dramatic happening - it just petered out, I think. I was not unhappy about it.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for the manly art of boxing there were two occasions in outside locations which remain locked in my mind. Both happened in school, one in primary and the other in secondary-modern. The first brought only shame, the second brought fame - of sorts anyway.

The headmaster of Saint Patrick's primary school took it into his head one day to hold a sports-day in the assembly-hall. Since it was belting down with rain at the time it was not such a bad idea, I suppose. My friend, Peter, and I were each given a pair of boxing-gloves, so big you could have slept in them, and were told to get ourselves ready for a contest. This done, we shaped up to commence pounding each other and the headmaster told us to touch gloves and step back before we started, the way all honourable boxers do before a fight. This tradition was not new to me since Dad had inculcated me with the sport since the age of two, or thereabouts.

Now, something malevolent and despicable entered my head at this point. Why it did, I cannot say, but it ranks as one of the most dishonourable sporting acts of all time. As Peter approached me to touch gloves I moved towards him to do the same. We touched and instead of stepping back I let fly over the top and punched him smack in the face. He went tumbling over and began to roar in fury. He picked himself up and there was murder in his face. I took off like a rabbit and ran out of the hall. He came chasing after me cursing and screaming for my blood.

Down the corridors I fled, trying uselessly to open doors of escape with the monstrous gloves on my hands. Eventually he caught me and we began to fight and in my shame my heart was not in it to offer much resistance. When it was over I apologised to him and then the headmaster took me away to give me "six of the best" with his cane. A punishment I most certainly deserved. I was about nine years old at the time and it was not the most glorious start to a boxer's career.

The second contest took place when I was about thirteen. The venue was that well-known boxing stadium, St.John Fisher and Sir Thomas Moore secondary-modern school. It too was on a rainy day and the sports-master-cum-maths-teacher-cum-tyrant, a certain Mr.Traynor, (how appropriate), had converted a classroom into a gymnasium for the day.

At one end of the room he had set up a boxing-ring from chairs and ropes and the star-attraction was a boy by the name of Billy, whose last name escapes me now. Billy was the Lancashire schoolboy champion and the protege of none other than my step-brother-in-law, Don Little of the champion twins fame.

My best friend, Joey White was the first to be put up against this awesome champion, Billy. It was a terrible mismatch. Billy was the only kid in our school who owned muscles and he was lightning-fast on his feet. Joey never stood a chance. He was being pummelled from one side of the ring to the other and I, his best friend, was laughing my head off.

Mr. Traynor saw this disgraceful show of mirth coming from me and decided there and then to put a stop to it. "Okay, smarty-pants, let's see if you can do any better."

"Gulp!" said I, several times, and wished to hell I was somewhere else. I pulled the gloves off Joey's fists as he looked at me gratefully for my timely, but unintentional intervention. Slowly, I put on the gloves and made my fearful way into the ring. By this time all the kids in the room were giggling themselves silly in anticipation of the slaughter to come.

The bell sounded, I think it was a pencil on a glass, but it served the purpose, and the fight began. Billy came at me looking quite menacing and I danced and skipped around the ring, staying out of his reach as much as I could. He let fly with a few hay-makers but missed me by miles. All my training with Dad was now coming to the fore. I skipped some more and danced even more than that and found to my surprise that he couldn't hit me. Well, this was going better than I had expected. The crowd wasn't too happy about it, but since no blows had been landed by either of us yet it was fine by me.

I saw a chance and swung my right fist in a great circle, missed him by yards and did a complete pirouette in front of him. The whole class erupted with laughter. He came at me again, determination written all over his face. He feigned and lunged and eventually threw a hefty blow at my face. I saw it coming from a week away and punched him straight in the mouth. The combined forces of his forward thrust and my lucky punch resulted in his front tooth being knocked out. Blood spattered everywhere. The crowd was aghast. The teacher jumped into the ring and stopped the fight, an action for which I was entirely grateful.

"Go and help Billy get cleaned up." he ordered, and I happily complied. The looks I got from the other kids showed awe and admiration. They didn't know it was a fluke that my blow had landed, and I was not about to disenchant them. Billy was not hurt in the least; he was as tough as old boots. The sight of so much blood made it seem so dramatic but he was in no way put out by it, except perhaps the fact that the fight had been stopped meant that his unbeaten record, even if unofficially, was now broken.

As I took him to the bathroom I said to him with a victor's solicitation, "Sorry about that, Billy. Just a lucky punch, eh?"

"Don't worry about it," was all he said, and I didn't. To tell the truth, it was the most conspicuous day of my life up to that point and I was revelling in the glory. If Dad could only have seen it, he would have been so proud - I think. So what, if it was a lucky blow. And so what if I didn't get hit. Only Billy and I knew who was the better boxer, and it certainly wasn't me.

My brother, Mike, became involved much more than I with the boxing as time went on, but in the end even he started to drift away from it. I think it was Dad's fanaticism that eventually drove him away. We both had had enough, yet the irony of it all is that we both still love to watch the fights now that we are grown-ups. You would think that after all the hardships and embarrassments we had to endure we would be sick of it. But the truth of the matter is: you can't beat a good fight!

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