Friday, December 8, 2017

THE SHOWGROUND ~ CHAPTER 7 ~ Part 4 ~ THE BOXING TROUPE ©

    At the end of the Wogga Wogga show, Duffy came up to me and said,
"Here's ya fuckin' money Cobber. I won't be needing ya anymore. I'm gonna start sprooking miself again."
"Alright Duffy. Ya know anyone else who's looking for help?"
"Try my mate. He's got a tent, over the backside, look for Barney the Bull."

     Duffy never said another word. He blew his nose out onto the ground and wiped it on the back of his hand and walked off in the direction of the bar.
"Duffy fired me.", I said to Nerada when I got back to the tent.
"The rotten old fucking bastard. Why'd he fire ya."
"He said he's going to start sprookin' himself."
"Jesus Christ, that's all I fuckin' need, Duffy sprookin' for me, like I need another arsehole. That fuckin' soak will never be on the mic. He'll spend more time at the bar than he will sprookin' for my fuckin' show!"
"Maybe not Nerada."
"Maybe not, my fuckin' arse. He does that to me every fucking time. Soon as I get someone who's good at sprookin', he gets all fuckin' jealous and give's 'em the boot. Where the fuck is he anyway?"
"Last time I saw him, he was headin' for the bar."
"What did I fuckin' tell ya Yorky., I'm goin' over there right now and tell that fuckin' skid row rat just what I think of him!"
     With that, she stormed out of the tent and headed over to the bar.

     I went to see Duffys' mate. He was in the process of pulling his tent down when I approached him. He was a fat, short man with a bald head and bulging eyes. His face was beet-red from high blood pressure which came from years of gittin' on the grog. He was as big an 'alchy' as Duffy was. I only worked for him for 2 days 'cause he said he had no money to pay me. At least I got to see old Barney, who was a Texas longhorn bull. I don't know how much he weighed but he was about five foot across the rump. I've see a lot of bulls but old Barney took the cake.'

     After I left Barneys' sideshow I got pretty friendly with the Aborigines who worked for Jimmy Sharmans' Boxing Troupe. I got a couple of bucks a day, for a start, to help with the putting up and pulling down of the tent.
     One of the Abo fighters was called Sally. He said he'd teach me how to 'show fight', and then I could get a job with the troupe fighting instead of laboring. There were about eight Abo boxers and one white wrestler in Jimmy Sharmans' troupe, plus myself.

     Every evening, after the show was closed, Jimmy Sharman would bring four half-gallons of brown Muscat wine and a packet of fags each for all the boxers.
     Sharman was an ex-boxer himself but he was pretty old when I met him. He had a medium build and had a dark complexion. His clothes, although old-fashioned, were always neatly pressed.
"How ya going, Yorky?" he said, when he came in the tent. "Sally teaching ya the moves is he?"
"Yeah, I'm picking it up pretty well, Jimmy."
"Hey Sally, grab the gloves mate. Let's see how well he's going."

     After a couple of minutes of sparring around with Sally, Jimmy Sharman said, "All right mate, that's good enough. It's about showmanship, see. Ya swing the arms wide. That lets Sally know where they're coming from. He'll catch the punches and take the dives. He's real good at that, is Sally."
"What if he misses one?" I asked.
"That's not your problem Cobber. Anyway, these bungs have got heads as thick as a brick wall. Ya can punch 'em around all day and they won't even feel it. Isn't that right Sally?"
     Sally just gave Sharman a big toothless grin and said, "Whatever you say, Boss."
"Start tomorrow Yorky. When the boys walk out on the platform, you hang around with some of the local Yobos. Make out ya one of 'em. It's good for business, mate. Now when I start sprookin' about Sally and call for someone to fight him, you stick ya hand up high and I'll call ya up on the board and we'll make a real good show out of it. The next session we run, I'll call ya back for a grudge match. That way we'll sucker a few more of those local yobos in. All right?"
"All right Jimmy", I said.
"Oh yeah, and don't drink too much of that cheap plonk. It wasn't made for white fellers!"

     The rest of the evening was spent drinking the plonk. I only took one mouthful out of a flagon as it was passed around the circle. I donated my share to the boys. Most of the boys were half-cast Aborigines and two of 'em were full bloods that came from the Northern Territory.

     They'd tell me some of their tribal stories once they got to know me but I was made to promise not to tell any mens' secrets to another white fella. I learned about the Kadaicha man who is the tribal executioner. All talk of him was conducted in the lowest of whispers, in case he heard and came after us with his weapon of choice, which was known as 'The Bone'.

     The Abo boxers I lived with had no concept whatsoever of ownership.
     On one particular morning, when Sal walked in the tent, he said,
"Yorky, ya bastard, how the fuck are ya mate?"
"Not good Sal. I forgot to lock mi port last night and this morning most of mi good gear is gone!"
     Sal started to laugh as he looked at mi open port that was half-empty.
"I warned ya not to leave it open Yorky. Now ya know why. I just saw most of the blokes struttin' round the showground dressed to kill. I recognized your tie that one of 'em was wearing for a belt so I knew I'd better come and find ya.
"Fuck me dead Sal, do ya think ya can find 'em and get mi good gear back?"

     By this time Sal was laughing his head off as he said, between laughs,
"Sorry for laughing Yorky mate bit it so funny seeing those black fellas' in shiny shoes and suit pants with a crease in 'em."
"Ya think they've fucked 'em up already mate?"
"I dunno' Yorky but I gotta' tell ya, most of 'em aren't potty-trained, so who knows."

      Sal had another good laugh as he watched the look of horror spread across mi face.
"Are ya fuckin' bullshittin' me Sal? They're mi best suit pants!"
     Once Sal had stopped laughing he said,
"Yeah Yorky mate. I'm taking the piss. Give us a smoke and I'll go round 'em up. I'll have ya gear back in no time."
     Sal was still laughing to himself as he left the tent. I lit up a smoke and then sat on mi half-empty port waiting for his return and mi best clothes.

     Jimmy Sharman had a really large tent. Of a night-time we would sleep in it. Of a day we would fight in it. Outside the tent was a tall, wooden platform, which we would all stand on as Jimmy 'sprooked' to the crowd. At each side of the tent hung large posters of well-known ex-champions that, according to Jimmy Sharman, all got their start in the boxing world at his fathers' tent, which was now his.

     At one end of the tall platform was a large bell, which was suspended from the steel scaffolding, and at the other end was a bright red, double-bass marching drum. Jimmy would stand in the middle with the boxers on each side of him. He'd start by saying,
"Ring that bell! Beat that drum! This is what you've all been waiting for! The highlight of the day! The most exciting thing you'll see on this Showground! This is where ya git ya moneys' worth folks! This is where ya see some of the best boxers in Australia! Have a look at those posters there folks. They all started out like this, at Jimmy Sharmans' World Renown Boxing Troupe! Some of the best prizefighters you'll ever see, got there start right here. Have a good look to my right and left, folks. These are some of Australias' up-and-coming future champions! Now, this is what we're gonna do folks. We're gonna match up my fighters to some of your local boys. So, if there's any of you local louts out there who think ya pretty handy with ya fists, now's the time to speak up. Not after we're gone! If you blokes wanna' do a bit of of bragging and skiting in the bar tonight, this is the place to make a name for yourself.
     Ya see that tall black feller of mine, down the end? He's called the Northern Territory Tiger. He'll take on all comers, no matter what size ya are! He's 6 foot tall and weighs 180 pounds. Any of you local footballers think ya good enough to stand on ya feet for three rounds with him and I'll give ya 6 dollars. Come down here to the center stage Tiger. Let these local louts see ya muscles! Look at that!" he says, as he felt Tigers' biceps.
"Six bucks to anyone who can knock him out or go the distance with him! What about you young feller?" he'd say to one of the crowd. "You look like ya can handle yourself. You're a pretty big bloke for ya age. Ya wanna make ya-self six bucks or have ya no guts unless ya with a bunch of ya mates?
Ring that bell, beat that drum, here he comes Ladies and Gentlemen. This is one of your own local blokes. Give him a big round of applause!"

     Once Jimmy got one of the local blokes up on stage, all his mates wanted to follow, so as not to be outdone. When Jimmy called for a match to Sally, I stuck mi hand up in the crowd. Most times he would match me up with Sally first because I was not that big, so he'd say, "If this little bantam rooster from the back-blocks of New South Wales has got the guts to fight, what's wrong with all you strapping big footballers down there? Don't tell me you're a bunch of puftas'?"

     This little challenge to their manhood was usually enough to make them climb up the 15-foot ladder onto the platform. Once the tent was full of local people the fight would start. Jimmy was also the referee, so he'd give the local blokes a large 16-ounce pair of gloves to wear and he'd save the thin 12-ounce gloves for us. That way if any one of the locals were Police Boys Boxing Club trained, which some of them were, we'd still have a good advantage over them. Most times Jimmy told us not to hurt them unless they got smart because if one of 'em got a bit roughed up, his mates wouldn't come forward for a go.

    I traveled all through New South Wales and into Victoria with Jimmy Sharman.

     We stayed in Warrnabell for a few more days and then it was time to move on to another Showground. Everyday was show day for a 'showie' but for the locals it only came around once a year. "Thank goodness." I heard a couple of locals say as they walked out of the grounds a few dollars lighter.
     All the 'showies' were making their way to Melbourne, which was one of the biggest events of the year. Just before we were due to do the Melbourne show, Jimmy Sharman said to me, "I'm putting ya out of the troupe, Yorky."
"Why?" I asked. "Aren't ya happy with my performance?"
"It's not that mate. Ya doin' fine. Melbourne is a real rough show for the troupe and I don't want to see ya get hurt."
"How am I gonna git hurt?"
" There'll be too many tough blokes there, that's why. A lot of those blokes are really hungry for the bucks and quite a few of mi boys got hurt last year. A lot of the ex-cons who can't git regular work show up at Melbourne, Mate."
"Well, couldn't I just try it, Jimmy?"
" No mate, I like ya too much to risk it. Ya can ride to Melbourne with us though and ya can come in the show anytime ya like Yorky."
"D'ya think I'll be able to find a job at the Melbourne Showground?"
"Find one? You'll have ya bloody pick of 'em mate. They're always short handed as hell at Melbourne. There'll be hundreds of thousands of people go through that place, not like these pissy little one-horse towns."

     Jimmy was right. I was offered five jobs in as many minutes.