Almanac Pugilism: The Muse is musing on boxing and boxing tents

 

 

 

 

 

Well it’s still Spring, or is it Winter, in our fair city. Plants are confused, dogs are confused and I am confused to the point I don’t know whether to enjoy an Abbotts Lager [Nectar of the Gods] or an Abbottsford Stout to brace me against the elements.

 

The Nectar of the Gods won the day  and I enjoyed a couple of longnecks rolled a Capstan ready-rubbed and commenced to muse on boxing tents which once toured our country and were a feature at Royal Agricultural Shows. For the Yankees on this trail think the County Fair. Now why would I be musing on boxing tents? I have just read Jimmy Sharman’s Boxers, by Stephen McGrath, a great book and best described as a combination of fact, fiction and perceived fact .

 

The book is set in the times of the Great War and focuses on how Sharman was able to keep his boxing tent going despite the bulk of fit young Australian men being on the other side of the world in Europe fighting for the King  and the British Empire. As an aside, if you thought the referendum of the weekend was polarising, I suggest you read up on the two referendums conducted in World War I. Billy Hughes the Prime Minister [The Little Digger] was keen to introduce compulsory conscription and both referendums were lost  by around 51% to 49 % .

 

I digress, but now to the point. In the olden days when I was a boy and then matured into a callow youth, every country town had an annual show and at every country show there was a boxing tent. The three big boxing tents were run by Jimmy Sharman, Roy Bell and Fred Brophy. I assume they competed against each other at the big city shows but outside of that they seemed to have an agreement in regard to the smaller shows. Roy Bell had Wycheproof and the surrounding Mallee towns as part of his circuit.

 

The typical boxing tent comprised around ten fighters. They were a mixture of veteran boxers who had fought in better venues and sadly many of them were punch drunk stumblebums who knew no other way of surviving. The young blokes in the troop were aspiring to fight in better venues, some were running away from things they didn’t want to revisit and I guess they were keen to cut a nubile young maiden from the herd on the way through town. Indigenous fighters featured heavily on the agenda.

 

Now the boxing tent was reliant on attracting strapping young lads from the surrounding district to chance their luck in the art of pugilism against the ‘professionals’ from the troupe. Coincidentally, the tent was always located adjacent to the publican’s booth which ensured the local lads would  load up with some Dutch courage and then step up.

 

Roy Bell would get up on a platform outside the tent. The troupe would be on the platform in boxing boots, trunks and dressing gowns all of which had seen better days as had the blokes wearing them.  One of the troupe would beat a drum as Roy introduced them  and then he would go into his spruik to encourage would-be local champions.

 

“Whose brave enough to take a glove or are you all soft around here? Jeez, the local sheilas look tougher than you blokes.”

 

“Some of my blokes are easybeats, my back is buggered from picking them up off the canvas.”

 

“Marquis of Queensberry rules supervised by myself. C’mon step and have a crack make your parents proud.”

 

“Who will go a round or two for a pound or two?”

 

“Whose gunna fight the darkie?”

 

This was the terminology of the day. They were different times.

 

I do recall one year Roy had a big bloke on stage who was perhaps a Maori or a Solomon Islander. Roy’s spiel went: “Have a look at him. I captured him in the jungle in Borneo, he can’t speak a word of English, he can’t fight to save himself but jeez, he can drive in a tent peg with a sledge hammer. Which one of you big blokes down there want’s to earn some easy money?”

 

On cue, the big fellow on stage starts beating his chest and shouting a language no one in the Mallee had ever heard. Some fool takes him on gets knocked down in the second round [good tent fighters knew you never finished a mug in the first round].

 

Fight over, I am picking up glasses in the publican’s booth as my publican grandfather had won the tender to run the booth and the man from Borneo comes the bar. He is still in his boxing trunks as these blokes fought two or three times a day. He produces a ten bob note and says: “Two beers thanks mate, it’s bloody hot work in the tent today.”

 

Now don’t assume Roy’s men won every fight. That wouldn’t have been good for business. Every year the results might go seven to Roy and three to the locals. Most of the bouts Roy’s men lost would be best categorised as ‘he took a dive’. I saw knockouts from punches which at best were glancing blows and at worst missed by six inches.

 

However, from time to time, a local who could really scrap would turn up and take one of Roy’s boys to the cleaners, much to the chagrin of Roy. One of the Wycheproof lads, Barry Enever, was well-trained in the sweet science by his father Wally and he turns up one year and takes the challenge. Barry was an apprentice baker I reckon [I should know as he lived next door to us]. Perhaps Roy saw him as a patsy as he had a pasty complexion and was thin and wiry and perhaps Roy should have taken the hint when Barry entered the ring in boxing boots and fair dinkum trunks. He then commenced to give Roy’s man a mother of a hiding to the point where Roy threw the towel in to save his boy from further punishment. I suspect Wally had a substantial wager on Barry as the Enever family enjoyed a big drink that night. Of course Roy twigged and the next year he pitched his best fighter against Barry but alas it didn’t end happily for Roy’s man. Another big drink for the Enever family in fact the celebration was reminiscent of the end of World War II as no doubt Wally had cleaned up again.

 

Fairly sure Barry moved to Bendigo after that and fought  undercard fights at Festival Hall, but I am more than sure Roy Bell wouldn’t have accepted his challenge again.

 

Bit all over the place here but I persist with doggedness of a seagull chasing a chip. Police Boys Clubs were a big thing in country towns in the olden days when I was a boy. The local copper was Frank Mannix and he was old school a kick up the arse or a clip around the ears was the best way to pull a kid into line. I digress, but later on Frank had a heart attack and died  sorting out a fracas whilst on duty thus becoming a policeman who gave his life in the line of duty .

 

Boys Club was Tuesday nights in the footy sheds and it was something to look forward to. In fact a punishment at home which hurt was ‘no boys club for you next week’. Fairly simple structure: 2 to 3 hours of things like  ball games, quoits, hooky, trampoline, rope climbing, tumbling and boxing all supervised by good willed local men who were giving up their time for the benefit of the youth of the community.

 

Boxing was interesting and wasn’t compulsory, but most kids had a go and some were better than others and some were a lot more keen than others. No real matching of fighters, it was more a question of who wants to fight who tonight. Now there were two kids there who not only could scrap but they loved a scrap. My cousin Frank Pocock was one and the other was an indigenous kid Michael Karpaney. Every second week when we had boxing Frankie and Mickey would ask to fight each other and for three rounds they would go at each hammer and tong as the other kids cheered them on. Fight over, they would shake hands and wait another two weeks. There was never any animosity, they were just two kids from the bush who loved a scrap.  Michael went on to fight main events on TV Ringside and won a Victorian title before an eye injury incurred in his day job ended his career when he was favoured to win an Australian title. Frank never pursued it after we finished Boys Club .

 

About every two months a Police Boys Club Boxing night was held at surrounding towns. The format was simple: bring your boys and we will match them with kids of similar weight from other towns and they will fight 3 2-minute rounds. It was big time as you got to fight in a real boxing ring in the middle of a packed town hall. Better than Festival Hall but slightly below Madison Square Garden I reckon. The Wycheproof boys were in the care of the aforementioned Frank Mannix and the local butcher Jack Neil Hommelhoff or, as he was known, JN Hommy .

 

JN was a story in himself. Aside from owning the local butcher shop he was a fine musician who could play a number of instruments and was a brilliant trumpeter. His twin brother Brian Percival Hommelhoff was his sidekick in the  butcher  shop and Perc as he was known was also an accomplished musician. The twins would feature every Saturday in the Royal Mail Hotel with Smacka Fitzgibbon who owned the pub at the time. People came from miles around to hear them jam and JN and Perc were at their brilliant best at around 10pm after closing the butcher shop around 2pm and enjoying a well-earned drink for eight hours whilst having a punt and listening to the races and the trots in the bar.

 

Not sure that’s relevant but thought I should share it. On reflection JN liked to punt on his boys and on further reflection they reckoned JN was inclined to weigh his boys under on the unsupervised scales. Hindsight consulting is a wonderful thing but I did win my first two fights rather convincingly and on reflection I may have had a weight advantage over the two kids I fought. I might say I am not sure how good I was given I was a southpaw who couldn’t hit a barn door with his left which in boxing parlance isn’t a good combination.

 

The final night of the season is at the Saint Arnaud Town Hall and fair dinkum Saint Arnaud is a big town with a big town hall. I felt like Lionel Rose must have felt all those years ago when he went to fight in the Tokyo Town Hall. There were only three boys all aged nine or ten  from Wycheproof invited, and we set off in the  Frank Mannix  green Falcon issued to him by Vic Police. JN a fine conditioner of athletes is in the front and smokes 10 Craven A Cork tips on the 39-mile trip with all the windows wound up while given us instructions in the art of the sweet science. He did offer us 10 bob if we won which on further reflection would suggest he was going to bet on his charges. We step out of the car and into the back of the hall and things start going a little pear-shaped. JN had been weighing me in at five and a half stone but unfortunately because it’s a bigger night there is an official monitoring the scales. JN says about five and a half, the official says 6 stone 2 pounds the same weight as the local kid. I reckon you will be fighting him. Not a problem for me after all I am unbeaten and I am a southpaw with a killer left hand which one day will connect.

 

I am matched against an indigenous kid from Saint Arnaud Barry Rafferty. JN is in my corner giving me instructions when Rafferty enters the ring to the cheers of the hometown crowd. JN looks at him and says we ‘ve been done as that kid is at least 7 stone which  didn’t exactly buoy me with confidence. Tactics are hastily rearranged ‘he looks a bit pudgy and will knock up. Stay away from him early , make him chase you , duck and weave in the first round and you will get him in the second or the third.’  Well to my credit I carried out JN’s revised strategy for at least 15 seconds before Barry caught up with me and caught me with a left hook I could only dream about throwing. For two rounds he hit me everywhere except  the roof of my mouth and the souls of my feet. As Merv Williams would say, I was in more trouble than a grasshopper in a penful of starving turkeys and just like the boy with the barrow I had the job in front of me. Mercifully, JN threw in the towel at the end of the second round and I was spared further punishment. Thus a brilliant boxing career was nipped in the bud.

 

I got to know Barry later as we played footy together in North Central representative teams. He was a gentle soul to say the least and our paths crossed again at Telstra when he worked there. I was a fair bit higher up the food chain and supposedly was Telstra’s tough executive. We got on well and he often said: “If you give me a hard time I will pull out the video my mum took at the Saint Arnaud Town Hall and then they will know how tough you really are.”

 

Lastly the only Kelly family member who ever made money in the ring was my older brother Andrew. Andrew was born a pacifist without an angry bone in his body  and at 71 he remains a pacifist. Before my prime years in the ring, the boys club boxing night was scheduled for Wycheproof and George Bracken an Australian champion [great fighter] was coming up as the celebrity guest and had offered to referee a few fights. The local club decided to open the card they would put Andrew and Frank Pocock in chaff bags gloved up, bring them into the ring, tip them out of the bags and they would go at each other as soon as they were released. Fairly good marketing and I sense JN may have been involved. Andrew and Frank were perhaps 4 or 5 years old  and they apparently  put on a spectacle for a minute or two before George called it a draw . A shower of coins came into the ring in appreciation and I remember Andrew coming home with enough coins to fill his money box plus change.

 

Not sure it was the best of times but I am certain it wasn’t  the worst of times and all part of the resilience gained from growing up in the Mallee.

 

Cheers All
The Muse

 

 

Read more musings and some fine memoir from The Muse (Drizzle) HERE

 

 

To return to our Footy Almanac home page click HERE.

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?

And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help things keep ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE.