Autobiography

olled up, flexing his muscles, when there was
murmuring from the crowd telling him he had
to remove the ring. He eventually agreed, but
then claimed he couldn’t get it off.
For a moment I hoped it would mean the fight
being called off, but this was not a bout
organised by the British Boxing Board of
Control conforming to the Queensberry rules.
With a shrug, he launched himself at me,
landing a punch on the side of my face,
splitting my cheek with his ringed finger. The
cut was so bad that I still have the scar to this
day.
I went down, but whereas today you would be
kicked, in those days you were allowed to
regain your feet, even in these unauthorised
bouts. The fight was stopped and there was
another effort to get the ring off. It failed
again, and the fight continued. I decided all I
could do was keep out of the way again
because I knew one more punch would end the
fight. Like Pikey, Moony gradually tired and I
was able to take advantage; raining punches to
his face and body until, suddenly, he stopped
fighting and looked ready to burst into tears –
which would have been unbelievable had he
done so.
I didn’t go for the final blows even though the
crowd were urging me on. His hands, one of
them still with that huge ring on, were hanging
lifelessly by his sides. He looked so pathetic I
just walked away. It was my last fistfight ever
– well, almost.
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