friend, I’d been around long enough to know the realities of big versus small. Big, it seemed to me, always finished on top and my heart was filled with fear for my new-found friend.
‘My God! Look at the sparrow fart!’ Big Hettie exclaimed, pointing to the tiny referee. ‘How the devil is he going to keep them men apart?’
‘Hoppie says he knows his onions, Mevrou Hettie,’ I ventured.
Jackhammer Smit began to shuffle around the ring throwing imaginary punches. He seemed to be increasing in size by the minute, while Hoppie, seated on his stool, looked like a small frog crouched in the corner of the ring. Nels was putting Vaseline over Hoppie’s eyebrows while Bokkie seemed to be giving him some last-minute instructions.
The tiny referee said something and the seconds left the ring and the fighters moved to the centre. The crowd grew suddenly still. Standing between the two men with his head thrown right back, the referee looked up at them and said something. They both nodded and touched gloves lightly and then turned and walked back to their corners. The crowd began to cheer like mad. The referee held his hands up, turning slowly in a circle to hush the crowd, his head only just showing above the top rope of the ring. Soon a three-quarter moon, on the wane, would rise over the Murchison range, though as yet the night was matt black with only a sharp square of brilliant light etching out the ring with the three men in it. It was as though the two fighters and the dwarf stood alone, watched by an audience of a million stars.
The referee addressed the stilled crowd, his surprisingly deep voice carrying easily to where we sat. ‘
‘Weeping Jesus! Sparrow Fart’s going to give us a Bible lesson,’ Big Hettie hissed at no one in particular. She took a quick swig from the half-jack as the referee continued.
‘Will history repeat itself? Will David once again defeat Goliath?’ The railway men went wild and the miners hissed and booed. The referee held his hands up for silence. ‘Or will Goliath have his revenge?’ The miners cheered like mad and this time it was the railway men who booed and hissed.
The little man held up his hands again and the audience calmed down.
‘Introducing in the blue corner, weighing two hundred and five pounds and hailing from Murchison Consolidated Mines, the ex-light-heavyweight champion of the Northern Transvaal, Jackhammer Smit. Twenty-two fights, eleven knockouts, eleven losses on points, a fighter with an even stevens record in the ring. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Jackhammer Smit!’ The miners cheered and whistled.
‘What’s eleven losses on points mean, Mevrou Hettie?’ I asked urgently.
‘It means he’s a pug, a one-punch Johnny, a slugger,’ she said, taking another swig and wiping the top of the bottle with the palm of her hand. ‘It means he’s no boxer.’
The referee turned to indicate Hoppie who raised his hands to acknowledge the crowd. ‘In the red corner, weighing one hundred and forty-five pounds, from Gravelotte, Kid Louis of the South African Railways, Northern Transvaal welterweight champion and the recent losing contender for the Transvaal title; fifteen fights, fourteen wins, eight knockouts, one loss.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Let me remind you that the fighter he narrowly lost to on points in Pretoria went on to win the South African title in Cape Town.’ He raised his voice slightly. ‘Let’s hear it for the one and only Kid Louis!’ It was our turn to cheer until the referee orchestrated us back to silence. Hoppie had once again calmly seated himself on the tiny stool, while Jackhammer Smit was snorting and throwing punches at an imaginary opponent soon to become Hoppie.
‘This is a fifteen-round contest, may the best man win.’ The referee had already assumed the authority of the fight and he didn’t look small any more. It was clear the crowd accepted him. He moved to the edge of the ring where the light spilled sufficiently to show three men seated at a small table. ‘Ready, judges?’ They nodded and he turned to the two fighters. ‘At the sound of the bell come out fighting, gentlemen.’
Out of the darkness the bell sounded for round one.
Hoppie jumped from the stool as Nels pulled it out of the ring and Jackhammer Smit stormed towards him. In the oppressive heat the air was as still as a dead man’s breath and the big boxer’s torso was already glistening with sweat. I had earlier unwrapped my first sucker, as usual licking the clear Cellophane clean. It was the yellow one the beautiful Indian lady with the diamond in her tooth had given me, and the wrapper tasted vaguely of pineapple, only even sweeter than a real pineapple.
Hoppie danced around the big man and Jackhammer Smit let go two left jabs and a right uppercut, all of which missed Hoppie by a mile. He followed with a straight left which Hoppie caught neatly in his glove as he was going away. Hoppie feinted to the right as Jackhammer tried to catch him with two left jabs, then he stepped in under the last jab and peppered Jackhammer’s face with a two-handed attack. Two left, then two stabbing rights to the head. The blows were lightning fast; Hoppie had moved out of reach by the time Jackhammer Smit could bring his gloves back into position in front of his face. Hoppie continued to backpedal most of the time, making Smit chase him around the ring. Occasionally he darted in with a flurry of blows to the head and then danced out of range again. Jackhammer came doggedly after him, trying to get set for a big punch, but Hoppie was content to land a quick left and a right and then move quickly out of harm’s way. The first round saw him land a dozen good punches, most of them just above Jackhammer’s left eye, while the big man only managed a long straight left that caught Hoppie on the shoulder as the welterweight was moving away.
It was clear that Jackhammer Smit was having trouble with the southpaw and was showing his frustration. The bell went for the end of the first round and the fighters returned to their corners. This time, like Hoppie, Jackhammer sat down, breathing heavily. He drank deeply, straight from a bottle of water one of his seconds held up to his mouth. The other second sponged him, dried him and smeared Vaseline above his left eye.
Hoppie looked composed, breathing lightly. He drank from a bottle with a tiny bent pipe coming out of it, rinsing his mouth and spitting the water back into a bucket Bokkie held for him. Nels was massaging his shoulders and Hoppie was nodding his head at something Bokkie was saying.
‘Is Hoppie winning, Mevrou Hettie?’ I asked anxiously.
‘It’s early times yet, Peekay. In the early rounds the Kid will be too fast for the big guy, but one thing’s for sure, Hoppie’s punches are too short to hurt Smit.’
The bell went for round two, a round much the same as round one except that Jackhammer Smit landed three punches to Hoppie’s head, all of them glancing blows, but each time the miners went wild. After the second round a red blotch began to appear above Jackhammer’s left eye. The next three rounds saw Hoppie leading Smit all around the ring making him throw punches that nearly always missed and then darting in with a quick flurry of blows before bouncing back out of harm’s way.
The bell went for the sixth round and Jackhammer shuffled to the centre of the ring, his gloves rotating slowly in front of his chest. He was getting the hang of the southpaw and was going to make Hoppie take the fight to where he stood rooted to the centre of the ring.
Jackhammer dropped his gloves, leaving his head a clear target, knowing he could take anything Hoppie dished out. Hoppie was forced to move in close enough for Smit to hit him in the gut and around the kidneys. In this way Hoppie had to take a couple of vicious blows to the body every time he moved in to hit the spot above Jackhammer’s left eye. Jackhammer gave a grunt as he drove a left or a right into Hoppie’s body and the crowd responded as one man with an exclamation of pain. By the end of the sixth Jackhammer’s left eye was almost closed but deep red welts showed on Hoppie’s ribs where Jackhammer had caught him. Both men were breathing hard as they returned to their corners.
‘It’s not looking good for the Kid. The big ape has found his mark and he’s going to wear him down with body punches. You could of fooled me, he got more brains than I would have given him credit for,’ Big Hettie said. She didn’t show any emotion, appraising the progress of the fight as though she were simply an informed, though disinterested bystander.
‘Don’t let him have brains, Mevrou Hettie. Brains is one thing you’ve got to have to win,’ I said in anguish. Big Hettie was fanning herself with a brightly coloured Chinese paper fan, the perspiration running down the sides of her face and neck. ‘He hits awful hard, Peekay,’ she said absently.
The bell went for the seventh and Jackhammer shuffled back to the centre of the ring. The heat was plainly telling on him and his gloves were held even lower than before. This left enough of his body exposed for Hoppie to hit him at long range, getting a lot more power behind his punches. The left eye was closed and Hoppie was beginning to work on the right, jabbing straight lefts right on the button every time. Near the end of the round he attempted a right-cross to Jackhammers’ jaw just as the big man had moved back slightly to throw a punch. Hoppie
