Sport ing Aspects
A Bob's Worth
By J. P. W. MALLALIEU INSIDE, the third boxing show of the day was nearly over, and, standing on the wooden platform which runs across the front of Alf Stewart's Excelsior Pavilion, the Master of Ceremonies was beginning his preparations for the fourth. In front of him on the Green at Hampton Court the Whitsuntide bank holiday crowd was strolling by. "In a moment," said the M.C., "you will see the crowd streaming from this booth. Ask any one of them what they thought of the show." Soon the curtain's were pulled back; the third show was over; the crowd came streaming into the sun and the M.C. got back to work again in earnest. Behind him now were the booth's four boxers, wrapped in dressing gowns, their hair still glistening from recent exertions. Mouths were shutting and eyes opening. Soon there would be real excitement, but first the M.C. had to draw from the crowd two, three, even four challengers to take on the glistening boxers behind him. Sometimes, perhaps, these challengers may not be quite the local boys that they are billed to be. Some follow the booths from fair to fair, through love of fighting and through love, also, of the ten-shilling note which comes to them if they stay on their feet three rounds. Some are there by previous invitation, for no promoter can always rely on a supply of genuine volunteers. But no one in a Fair crowd minds these little deceptions any more than he minds the larger and far more artistic deceptions Which occur when, through lack of volun- teers, spontaneous or induced, the pro- moter has to match two of his own boxers against each other. Such fights are desperately exciting. First one fighter gets on top, and his opponent is saved only by the bell. Then his opponent rallies wonderfully, and the, first fighter in turn is saved by the bell. The final round is level all the way, and works itself into such a tornado of blows that the two fighters affect not to hear the bell above the shrieks of the crowd, and we applaud the very high degree of artistry which allows them to come through such an apparently murderous battering completely unscathed. Yes, there are deceptions in the boxing-booth business. But they do nobody any harm, and provide many people with great pleasure; and beyond the little deceptions, beyond the care- fully contrived art, there occurs that event which is more real, more genuine, than anything else in boxing anywhere, when from the crowd there comes a challenger who not merely can box but is absolutely determined to flatten the booth's cham- -pion. I saw that happen last Monday. The M.C. had already picked two volunteers from the crowd. One, slight but well knit, combined a crew-cut hair style with an old-fashioned fringe of stubbly beard. The other looked like a dream poet, with long hair, calm, unchanging expression, faraway gaze and all. I wondered if he had ever boxed before. He had. That faraway look was ,directed strictly at the pro- moter's ten-shilling note. He earned it with all the tricks of ringcraft, especially the old stager's sharpness of hearing when the referee has reached a count of eight. But I forgot about him, and even about stubbly-beard who fought the first bout as if he enjoyed every second of it, when a massive, golden- headed boy put up his hand to challenge the heavyweight. It was not the challenger himself, but the booth's heavy- weight, who fixed my attention. He, too, was massive, with legs like tree trunks and a head which hung forward under the Weight of an oversize and well-spread nose. He seemed slow-
New Contributors on Sport
From next week the following well-known sporting writers will join J. P. W. Mallalieu as regular contributors to the Spectator
JOHN ARLOTT BERNARD DARWIN NEVILLE CARDUS
Edward Crankshaw, Michael Berry and Patric Dickinson moving but immensely powerful. I happened to be looking at him when the challenge was made. He had been brooding darkly in the background, with the bored air of a well-fed lion, when suddenly a shadow shot across his face, momentarily tightening the loose skin. It was there and gone in a second, leaving behind it only a suggestion of weariness, but from it I knew that the heavyweight had met his challenger before and had not liked what he met. '
The challengers were now sent behind the scenes to change, and the first enthusiasts began to file into the booth. Once inside in the sickly smell of canvas and hot grass, with the tent flaps drawn back to let the tobacco smoke seep upwards to a yellowing sky, we stood watching the first bout and waiting for the second. When at last the heavyweights clambered into the ring and stripped off their dressing-gowns every' one in that booth knew that we were about to see a real fight. The challenger erect, confident and determined, stood with his back to his opponent, pawing at the ground and eager for the bell. The booth cham- pion draped himself over the ropes, eager for a miracle. In the meantime his brown eyes and sallow face were grave with wary calculation, How best, in one's fourth fight that day, Co last three rounds against a fresh opponent who, anyway, was probably the better boxer ?
In the first round we saw the result of the champion's calculations. He was not fast enough to keep the fight at long range. Therefore he would try to pin his opponent against the ropes and wear some of the edge off him by weight alone. That part of the campaign lasted some thirty seconds. Then the challenger, wedged, as it appeared, without hope of escape against the ropes by the full weight of his opponent, suddenly darted under and out of the trap, and, swinging round, sent a right smash against a half-turned chin. The booth champion defended as best he could for the rest of the round.
But his defence was not good enough. Once again in the second round he pinned the challenger against the ropes. Once again the challenger sprang the trap, sent in a right and, this time, knocked his opponent clean through the ropes. The champion had eight seconds in which to think again. He used them well. "It's no good covering up and leaning against this fellow. I'll just have to fight it out," said his reflective but no longer wary eyes as they emerged above the level of the ring. Fight it out he did.
At the end of the third and last round the applause was enough to shake green leaves from the surrounding trees. Once more the champion was sent through the ropes on to the grass below, and if he had not come back no one would have thought the worst of him. After all, four fights in one steamy day are more than enough. But he did come back, knowing himself a loser, fighting as best he could, and, at the end, saying only : "That boy was too good for me." Alf Stewart, one-time champion of Ireland and of France, ran this boxing booth for the last thirty-four years of his life, and indeed died in it four years ago. He would have liked that fight. But he would not have liked people who say that boxing is evil. He would not have liked the British Boxing Board of Control who appear to smile on big business but frown on the little booth. After Monday I am with Alf Stewart. He, his family, his fighters and his booth have given me the best bob's worth I ever had in my life.
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