‘Bullshit. That wasn’t luck. I could take him any time.’
‘You’d need to be a lot fitter. Give up your Gran’s tarts, turn fat into muscle.’
‘Does he wanna have another go in the gym?’
‘A bit more than that. How’d you like a bout at the stadium?’
‘Too right.’
‘It’ll be a preliminary for the lightweight champion later.’
‘I’ll take ‘im easy.’
‘Don’t be too cocky; he’s never lost a fight. I reckon you could win, but ...’
‘What’s the but?’
‘It’d mean laying off booze and fags.’
‘Easy.’
‘You got a girl?’
Eddie was quiet. Ida would really do her block. She’d cut up a bit rough when she found out he was learning to box. Why, Ed.? Yer nose’ll go crooked, yer’ll get yer face smashed in and start dribblin’. He’d talked her round, but she always set her mouth in a straight line if he mentioned boxing. He’d never seen her so dead set against anything. They were going to the pictures later, a box of chocolates and she’d be real happy, but that’d only last until he told her about his big chance. Better wait until they’d cuddled for a while by the front gate.
‘Ed?’ Arnie prompted.
‘Yeah, Ida’s her name.’
Arnie tipped his chair back and lit a cigar. ‘You’d be training every spare minute. How’d Ida feel about that?’
‘She wouldn’t like it, but I reckon she’ll cop it sweet.’
‘There’s something else—your name.’
‘I learned to fight because of me name. Fought tougher blokes than Tar Brush because of bloody name callin’.’
‘It’d go down well with the punters if you had an Aussie name, seein’ as how Tar Brush is more than a bit on the dark side.’
Eddie decided. He’d change his name, win the bout, and start a new life. ‘I come out fightin’ when the bell rings. What about Bell?’
‘That’ll do.’
Eddie trained two hours before a shift and two hours after. He trained six hours on Sunday. Arnie ran with him on the beach, sparred with him in the ring. He timed his responses, massaged his muscles and egged him on with the promise of winning.
‘You’re still a bit green, Ed. Plenty of others with the right build and strength like you, but I reckon you’ve got bloody brains as well, so use them. Good boxers never lose their heads. Timing, watching, thinking. That’s what makes Tar Brush so good.’
‘I’m gunna win, Arnie. You’ll see. I’ll do you proud.’
Eddie dreamed. Beating Tar Brush would be just the beginning. He’d win the club championship, the state title, the national and then the world title. He’d travel. He’d be in the money.
He still saw Ida on Sunday nights, but getting horny didn’t help him sleep, so he told her he wouldn’t see her until after the fight. ‘I’ll be flat out trainin’ for our big chance. Just a few weeks, Ida.’ She was sore all right, but she’d get over it when he won.
The blokes at the building site chiacked him, but Lofty was the worst. Always needling, taking the piss. Trouble was he and Lofty were the best riggers and often pulled the same shift. A few days before the fight, Lofty tried to trip him when they were clocking off. Eddie sidestepped, but Lofty moved in front of him and poked him in the chest. Eddie caught a whiff of alcohol. Spittle hit his face when Lofty snarled, ‘Bloody loud-mouthed liar. You couldn’t knock the skin off a rice puddin’.’
Eddie knocked Lofty’s arm away. ‘Back off.’
‘Reckon you’re so bloody good, ‘ave a go. Come on.’ Lofty started bobbing about and punching air.
Eddie tried to push past. ‘Get out of me way.’
‘Make me.’ Lofty moved in closer.
Eddie stepped back. ‘I wouldn’t waste me time.’
‘Changin’ your name doesn’t fool anyone. You’re still a bloody dago.’
Eddie flushed. He sensed the other blokes getting interested. ‘You’re pissed, you stupid bastard. Now move.’
He was itching to plant one on Lofty’s nose, but shoved him aside and walked off. A bit of sniggering. He’d show them.
When news of the bout did the rounds, the odds against his winning were fifteen to one. Eddie bet everything he had on himself. Word spread that Eddie looked good and the odds shortened down to three to one on the day of the fight. His dad fished out three bob and told him to put two on Tar Brush and the rest on himself. ‘Just hedgin’ me bets,’ he sneered. Gran gave him a bob to place on himself, grinning like a chimpanzee. He’d find a bookie at the pub after work. Being pay day, the bloody place’d be packed.
Eddie washed and packed his Gladstone bag, smoothing his new red and blue satin dressing gown on top. Sweat streamed off him as he pushed his way through the crowded bar where wreaths of cigarette smoke hung over the heads of the poor buggers who’d been digging ditches, carrying bricks or haunting factories looking for work. He elbowed his way through the crowd and shouted over the babble and clatter of glasses to barman Alf.
Eddie pushed his bag across the bar. ‘Keep this for me while I place some bets.’
‘Barney’s takin’ ‘em down the other end. Yer want a cold one?’
A cold beer would hit the spot, wash away the dust and soothe his dry throat. ‘Make it a squash.’ Eddie edged his way down the bar to where he could see Barney taking cash and scribbling tickets as some of the blokes from work called out their bets. Most of them seemed to be backing him, but Lofty placed a fair wack on Tar Brush. He’d be sorry. He placed Gran’s bet then called his dad’s. ‘Two bob on Tar Brush.’
While Barney was scribbling the slips, Lofty jeered. ‘Hear that you blokes? It’s the dago bullshit artist bettin’ on Tar Brush.’
Eddie ignored him.
‘Knows he’s got Buckley’s ‘imself. Lousy swine.’
Some of the others joined in the taunting: ‘What’s up, Ed? Lost your nerve?’ ‘Where’s your guts?’ ‘Bloody bragger.’ ‘Piker.’
Eddie kept his mind on the betting slips. Only three hours to go. He choked on the smoke and the crowd, hostile now, was pressing him against the bar. Alf slid the squash along the bar. As he raised it to his mouth, Lofty knocked it out of his hand and hemmed him in, swaying and mean. Eddie itched to floor the drunken sod, get out quick and clean with the blokes back on side.
Lofty stuck his ugly mug up close. ‘Slimy dago ... drinking lolly water ... using your mates to drive up the odds ... tight-arsed bastard ... when was the last time you shouted a bloke a drink?’
Eddie sneered. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Make me. Stinkin’ dago.’
Eddie grabbed him by the shirt collar, gave him the bum’s rush through the crowd and pitched him out the door. A cheer went up; he was in good with everyone. Alf stuck a cold beer in his hand, but he passed it to the bloke next to him before shouting the bar. When a bloke came round selling prawns and crayfish, he bought them all the biggest feed some of them must have had in months.
Alf cleared the bar at six, handed Eddie his bag and wished him luck. He went to the stadium, stood under a cold shower until his skin wrinkled and his head cleared.
In