missed with the right and was thrown slightly off balance as Smit followed through with an uppercut that caught the smaller man under the heart. You could hear his grunt as the punch landed and Hoppie’s legs buckled under him as he toppled to the canvas.
‘Oh, shit! One-punch Johnny has found the punch. Goliath wins in seven,’ Big Hettie said in dismay as the miners went wild. The tiny referee was standing over Hoppie and yelling at Jackhammer Smit to get into a neutral corner, but the big man just stood there his chest heaving, waiting for Hoppie to rise so that he could finish him off. The referee wouldn’t start the count and precious seconds passed as the big man stood belligerently over the fallen welterweight. Jackhammer’s seconds were screaming at him to move away and when finally he did so a good thirty seconds had passed.
The referee started to put in the count. Hoppie rose onto one knee and waited until the count of eight before rising and getting to his feet. The referee signalled for the fight to continue and Jackhammer Smit lumbered across the ring to finish Hoppie off. The almost forty-second respite had been enough to stave off disaster and Hoppie simply kept out of harm’s way as Jackhammer, energy leaking out of him with every assault, kept charging at him like an angry bull. The bell went just as Hoppie landed a hard left uppercut to Jackhammer’s eye when the big man tried another desperate charge.
‘Dammit, Peekay! That was lucky. Thank the Lord Jesus, Sparrow Fart knows the blerrie rules, the Kid was out for a ten count for sure.’ Big Hettie removed a dishtowel that covered the basket and mopped her face and bosom. ‘Smit’s just another stupid Boer after all. All balls and no brains. Hoppie can thank his lucky stars for that.’
In all the excitement I had bitten the sucker clean off its stick and crunched it to bits, shortening its life by at least half an hour. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth, seeking the last of the pineappley taste. It could be a long time before another one came my way. Big Hettie took a Thermos flask from the basket and, using the silver lid which was shaped like a cup, poured it full of hot, sweet, milky coffee and handed it to me. Then she opened a large cake tin and handed me a huge slice of chocolate cake. My eyes nearly stood out on stalks, this was going to be a night to remember all right. If Hoppie, beloved Hoppie, could just keep away from the big gorilla. The way he danced around the big man, seemingly only to get out of the way of a punch at the last second, reminded me of how Granpa Chook used to dodge when stones were thrown at him. I only hoped that Hoppie had the same survival instinct. For an instant I grew sad. In the end even Granpa Chook’s highly developed sense of survival couldn’t save him, the big gorilla finally got him.
The eighth round saw another change in the fight. Jackhammer Smit had chased Hoppie too hard and too long. The gorilla’s great strength had been sapped by the heat and he was down to barely a shuffle, both eyes nearly closed. Hoppie was hitting him almost at will and Jackhammer pulled the smaller man into a clinch whenever he could, causing the tiny referee to stand on the tips of his toes and pull at his massive arms, yelling ‘Break!’ at the top of his voice.
The ninth and the tenth rounds were much of the same but Hoppie didn’t seem to have the punch to put Jackhammer away. Early in the eleventh Smit managed to get Hoppie into yet another clinch, leaning heavily on the smaller man. As the referee moved in to break them up, Jackhammer Smit stepped backwards into him, sending the tiny referee arse over tip to the floor. Still holding Hoppie, Smit head-butted him viciously. On the railway side of the ring we saw the incident clearly, but all the miners, like the ref, saw was Hoppie’s legs buckle and the welterweight crash to the floor as Jackhammer Smit broke out of the clinch.
This time Smit moved quickly to the neutral corner and the referee, bouncing to his feet like a rubber ball, started to count Hoppie out.
Pandemonium broke loose. The railway men, shouting ‘Foul!’, began to come down from the stands shaking their fists. At the count of six the bell went for the end of the round and Bokkie and Nels rushed into the ring to help a dazed and wobbly Hoppie to his corner.
A score of railway men had reached the ring and were shouting abuse at Jackhammer. The miners were yelling and coming down from their stands and, I’m telling you, the whole scene was a proper kerfuffle.
Jackhammer sat in his corner vomiting into a bucket and Bokkie and Nels were frantically trying to bring Hoppie round, holding a small bottle under his nose. I had begun to cry and Big Hettie drew me into her bosom while hurling abuse at Jackhammer Smit. ‘You bastard, you dirty bastard, come into my kitchen tomorrow and I’ll de-knacker you, you sonofabitch!’ she screamed.
I could hear her heart going boom, boom, boom and the smell of brandy on her breath was overpowering. I can tell you, I stopped crying quick smart, her arm was pinning me to her heaving bosom so tightly that I was beginning to feel faint. Thank God she released me so she could stand up and shake her fist.
Several fights had started around the base of the ring and the judges’ table had been overturned. The referee stood in the centre of the ring, his hands raised, his head shining like a beacon. He didn’t move and this seemed to have a calming effect on the crowd. Others rushed in to stop the ringside brawling, pulling their mates away. Not until there was complete silence did the referee indicate that both fighters should come to the centre of the ring. Hoppie, meanwhile, seemed fully recovered while Jackhammer, huge chest still heaving and both eyes puffed-up slits, looked a mess. The referee took Hoppie’s arm and raised it as high as he was able. ‘Kid Louis on a foul in the eleventh,’ he shouted.
The railway men went wild with excitement while the miners started to come down from their stands again. ‘Shit, it’s going to be one-for-one-and-all,’ Big Hettie said.
Hoppie jerked his arm away and started an animated argument with the ref, pointing his glove at the near- blind Jackhammer. Finally the referee held his hands up for silence. ‘The fight goes on!’ he shouted and both boxers moved back to their corners. The bell began to clang repeatedly and in a short while the ringside fighting stopped and the men, walking backwards still shaking their fists at each other, returned to their seats.
‘That Hoppie Groenewald is mad as a meat axe,’ Big Hettie declared. ‘He had the blerrie fight won and he wants to start all over again!’ She wiped away a tear with the dishcloth. ‘Jesus, Peekay, he has guts, that one is a real Irishman!’
Ten minutes passed before the bell went for round twelve, by which time Hoppie was good as gold and Jackhammer’s seconds, in between his bouts of vomiting, had managed to half open his left eye. The closed lids of his right eye extended beyond his brow so that he was forced to hunt Hoppie with only half a left eye.
It was no contest. Hoppie darted in and slammed two quick left jabs straight into the half-open eye and closed it again. The rest of the round was a shambles, with Jackhammer simply covering his face with his gloves and Hoppie boring into his body. The years behind a jackhammer were counting and Jackhammer Smit simply leaned on the ropes and took everything Hoppie could throw at him. He grunted as Hoppie ripped a blow under his heart and Jackhammer opened his gloves in a reflex action. Hoppie saw the opening and moved in with a perfect left uppercut that landed flush on Jackhammer’s jaw. The big man sank to the canvas just as the bell went for the end of the round.
Hoppie’s shoulders sagged as he walked back to his corner. It was clear to us all that he was exhausted, fighting more by instinct than by conscious will. Jackhammer’s seconds climbed into the ring and helped him to his feet, leading the almost blind fighter to his corner.
‘Sweet Jesus, they gotta throw in the towel!’ Big Hettie said in elation. ‘Hoppie’s got it on a TKO.’ My heart was pounding fiercely. It seemed certain now that small could beat big, all it took was brains and skill and heart and a plan. A perfect plan.
But we were wrong. The bell went for the thirteenth and Jackhammer Smit rose slowly to his feet, half- dragging himself into the centre of the ring. Hoppie, too exhausted to gain much from the rest between rounds, was also clearly spent. He hadn’t expected Jackhammer Smit to come out for the thirteenth and his extreme fatigue sapped his will to continue. It was as though both moved towards the other in a dream. Hoppie landed a straight left into Jackhammer’s face, starting his nose bleeding again. He followed this with several more blows to the head but his punches lacked strength and Jackhammer, unable to reply, his pride keeping him on his feet, absorbed the extra punishment. He managed to get Hoppie into a clinch, leaning hard on the smaller man in an attempt to sap what strength was left. When the referee shouted at the two men to break he pushed at Hoppie and at the same time hit him with a round arm blow to the head that carried absolutely no authority as a punch. To our consternation and the tremendous surprise of the miners, Hoppie went down. He rose instantly to one knee, his right hand on the deck to steady him. Jackhammer, sensing from the roar of the crowd that his opponent was down, dropped his gloves and moved forward. Through his bloodied fog he may not have seen the punch coming at him. The left from Hoppie came all the way from the deck with the full weight of his body to drive the blow straight to
