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September
There's nothing quite so Glorious as a Good Fight
with your Fists!
“Blessed be the LORD my strength,
-which teacheth my hands to war,
-and my fingers to fight.
-My goodness, and my fortress;
-my high tower, and my deliverer;
-my shield, and he in whom I trust;
-who subdueth my people under me.”
Psalm 144
‘Do you do sparring here’ he asked.
‘Yes’ I said, wishing I had another
answer to give him.
Normally I’m mad keen when new guys wander
into the gym looking to do some training, but this
was different. Normally guys wander in by
themselves or with a mate. This was a group of
four, and only three of them were teenagers. The
guy talking to me was an older guy, probably in his
fifties.
The first time I met a group like this I assumed
that the older guy was the father or uncle of the
younger boys - scouting around for a good gym for
his kids. This time I knew better. Teenagers always
scout out their own gym and then tell dad about it
later. The old guy who leads kids into a fight gym
can only ever be a trainer, and a trainer who turns
up unannounced at somebody else’s gym is
generally a trainer who’s got something to
prove.
“Mohammed here needs some sparring
practice” the old guy continued. “Can he
spar with you?”
Mohammed was tall and dark, about 18 years old,
and had attitude written all over his face. He was
standing about two metres away from me, arms
folded, eyeing me out. It occurred to me that the
trainer might not have been the only one in that
group with something to prove.
“Well, we’re just about finished up
for tonight” I said, “but if you’d
like to come back on Sunday afternoon, I might be
able to do a couple of rounds with your boy
then.”
Sunday was three days away, and I anticipated
that this wholly unsatisfactory response would
result in the pack simply moving on in search of
more ready prey, but the old guy said “That
will be just fine. What time do we get
here?”
I responded with some feeble dialogue about how
we only spar for fun at our gym and about how we
all try to take care of each other, but it was too
late. The match was set in stone.
When the group showed up on the Sunday I was
still busy chairing the monthly Parish Council
meeting. I had forgotten about my church management
duties when I made the date with the old guy, but
the meetings are scheduled to finish before the
kids arrive for training anyway, so it
shouldn’t have made any difference.
I deliberately hold the meetings in the room
adjacent to the gym, so that if the meeting does
run late I can zip across and open up the gym and
keep out a listening ear while I finish the
meeting. I can’t remember whether we were
running late that day or whether the boys arrived
early. What I do remember was that the last half
hour of the meeting was dominated by a rhythmical
‘thwack’ penetrating the walls of the
meeting room - the sound of my prospective opponent
belting into a punching bag in preparation for the
big event. Needless to say, it made it difficult
for me to concentrate on the concluding details of
the meeting.
When the meeting finally finished, I hurried
over apologetically to where the challenger was
warming up. I deliberately went over still wearing
my clerical collar, hoping that the sight of the
venerable old rector of Dulwich Hill might have a
calming effect on the challenger, who by this time
had worked himself into quite a lather of sweat. A
little focused reflection should have told me that
neither Mohammed, nor his brothers Mustaffer and
Achmed (whom he introduced me to) were likely to be
impressed by the priestly garb. Perhaps the meeting
had drained my brain. It had seemed like a good
idea at the time.
Meeting the brothers made me aware of something
else. Mohammed had brought quite a sizable
entourage with him. In addition to the brothers
there were cousins and friends, guys and girls -
quite an audience. I did not get introduced to all
of them, but I got the picture. One of them had
brought a video camera, hoping to capture vivid
images of the great shellacking on tape. I made a
few more feeble utterances about ‘all taking
care of each other’ but all words were, by
that stage, just more unwanted delays to the great
showdown. I got into my gear and fronted up to the
ring.
I think I was still muttering niceties when the
bell rang and Mohammed started for me. He was
young, fast and strong, and he came at me like a
wild animal - panting hard, eyes ablaze, fists
flying. I had been in this position before and I
knew what to do. The boy was fit and fast, but he
was still a teenager, and this was the Achilles
heel that I had to aim for.
It’s all about ego when you’re a
teenager. It’s all about showing how tough you
are - showing that you can beat your chest more
loudly than the gorilla next to you. If you can
frustrate the young Achilles - make him miss and
ideally make him look a bit foolish - then you can
take control. So I did what I do best - I ducked
and weaved and used my footwork to stay away from
him, let him swing at the air for a while and then
tied him up when he cornered me. And in the clinch
I continued my friendly dialogue - “Let’s
settle down a bit, eh? No need to hurt anybody
today, is there?” I kept up this pattern for
the best part of two rounds before accepting that
the friendly dialogue was having no positive effect
whatsoever.
Normally a young buck like Mohammed can keep
this sort of pace up for about half a round. The
more they swing and miss, the more frustrated and
tense they get, and the more frustrated and tense
they get, the more energy they throw into each
successive punch. Other young kids I’ve had
like this have been all punched out in about a
minute, but Mohammed was fit.
Given that this guy had not only his friends but
his family watching, the potential for
embarrassment was enormous. Every now and then he
would swing so powerfully but so wildly that he
would almost trip over himself – a move that
drew giggles from the female members of his
entourage and which must have made his blood boil.
The constant streaming of videotape could not have
been helping him maintain his equilibrium either.
Every indicator suggested that this guy had to
punch himself out soon, but by the end of the
second round he seemed to be showing no signs of
tiring whatsoever!
At the beginning of round three I clinched him
again and tried to talk him down again, but he just
wrestled me off again and continued swinging. And
it seemed that no matter how many times he would
swing at the air, he would launch the succeeding
punch with the same level of energy, convinced that
he was going to floor me forever with the next
hit.
Now there’s only so much of this that any
human being can be expected to take, and I’m
no exception. I pride myself on being as calm as a
cucumber in the ring, but after two and a half
rounds with this guy I was starting to get really
pissed off. After all, there’s only so long
you can keep ducking and avoiding before your
opponent does land a lucky punch, and this guy was
punching hard and continuously.
Half way through round three he got me onto the
ropes and started working my body and throwing
uppercuts. It was when the third right uppercut
whizzed past and singed my nose hairs that I
remember something within me saying ‘stuff
this’ and I spun off the ropes and started to
give him a few back.
Perhaps it was the sheer shock of receiving some
shots from me after two rounds of almost complete
passivity, but he wasn’t prepared for my
comeback at all. I don’t think I’ve ever
landed a three-punch combination quite so squarely
on anybody as I did on Mohammed on that fateful
Sunday afternoon. I threw a right hook, a left
hook, and a right uppercut, and the great beast
just dropped like a sack of potatoes at my feet -
‘boom’.
I knelt down and picked him up. I embraced him
and whispered in his ear “You’ve got your
friends watching. You’ve got your family
watching. You’re on tape. You don’t want
to look like a complete fucking idiot do you?”
The guy who replied seemed to be a different
character altogether from the one that had hit the
floor - “Let’s just have a bit of fun, eh
Father? No need for anybody to get hurt here, is
there?”
After that Mohammed and me were best mates. We
did a few more fun and respectful rounds together,
after which one of his brothers (I can’t
remember which one) did a couple of rounds with me.
The brother was completely respectful from start to
finish and not a shot was thrown in anger. We had a
lovely time.
When it was all over I stepped through the ropes
and down the steps, and Mohammed’s entire
entourage formed a silent guard of honour as I
exited the ring.
I had just watched the movie
‘Gladiator’ the week before, and the
memory of that scene where Maximus passes between
his fellow gladiators and they all rise to their
feet to salute their hero came flashing back to me.
I think it was the greatest moment of glory I have
ever experienced.
There I was - towel over my shoulder and gloves
under one arm - emerging from the gladiatorial ring
to the silent adoration of the assembled crowd, who
stood and parted before me as I made my way from
the stadium.
I can think of two other moments of glory in my
life. Fighting Dave Guleyan over five rounds back
in 1991 was the first. It wasn’t that the
fight was anything spectacular, but the event was
televised on one of the big TV current affairs
programmes. And I won!
The second point of glory came when I caught
Anthony ‘the Man’ Mundine with a left
hook, and I heard the roar of support come from the
very partisan home crowd at Dulwich High School. It
had nothing to do with me thinking that I could
beat the man, but to catch him with a single solid
shot, and to know that all my mates saw me do it
– that was glorious!
But the incident with Mohammed was the
gold-medal moment for me. Perhaps it was because it
was so unexpected. I had been concentrating on
survival. I think it was only as the spontaneous
honor guard formed that I realised that Mohammed
hadn’t been the only one ‘on
show’.
I saw Mohammed about twice more after that
Sunday. I was sorry to loose touch with him, but
there’s no way his trainer would have allowed
him to maintain the contact. The event lies well in
the past now, but the sense of glory lingers. It
still feels good when I think about it.
“Blessed be the LORD my strength,
which teacheth my hands to war,
and my fingers to fight.”
©2011, Rev. David B.
Smith
* * *
Never contend with a man who has nothing to
lose. - Baltasar Gracian
Rev.
David B. Smith is a Parish priest, community
worker, martial arts master, pro boxer, author of
Sex,
the Ring & the Eucharist: Reflections on
life, ministry & fighting in the
inner-city and a
father of three. Get a free preview copy of Father
Dave, the 'Fighting Father's book when you sign up
for his free newsletter at www.fatherdave.org
or dave@fatherdave.org
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