Hard Road to Glory - How I Became Champion of the World. Johnny Nelson
Theresa had left, so I was no longer under her protection but I was tall so most of the kids seemed to think I could probably handle myself and left me alone. It’s a good job they didn’t realise I was just skinny rubber Johnny, as useless at fighting as I was at avoiding punishment.
There was a guy called Russell, who always seemed to have plenty of money and was considered cool by the girls. He was older than me, stronger and more mature but we were friendly for a while. Eventually, we fell out; I can’t even remember what about, but it became inevitable that we were going to have a fight. I was terrified, knowing I would be beaten up, and decided this needed a bit of careful thought. If I couldn’t be a hero, I had to be smart.
I was surprised how quickly camps formed around this argument. People I’d thought of as friends sided with Russell and started to goad me, calling me ‘monkey’ and a ‘black bastard’. I was shocked because until then I’d never been on the end of racial abuse. Only two guys, my friend Desmond and another mate Kenny, stuck by me, so a mass brawl was out of the question. I decided the only solution was psychological warfare, a tactic I often used to good effect in the ring later in life.
Russell was a bit of a poser in front of the girls so I realised he wouldn’t want to risk being shown up. I also banked on the fact that he didn’t know I was a crap fighter.
‘OK, we’ll fight in the woods with everyone watching. I want everyone to see what I do to you,’ I said.
It was bullshit but I sensed for the first time that he was a bit apprehensive. For the next few days, I told everyone the fight was on and sounded as upbeat as I could manage. My apparent confidence seemed to undermine him a bit more.
When it came to the day of the fight, I was crapping myself, especially when I saw how many people had fallen for my bluster and come to watch. This could become the most humiliating day of my life. Russell asked how we were going to do it and I replied, ‘Rounds.’ Clearly, I already knew I was going to need some gaps in the punishment. I said Kenny would time the rounds and on his signal we started. Russell was all over me, punching, pushing, whacking me against trees. I was taking a helluva beating. He got me on the floor and was punching me, grunting, ‘Do you give up?’ between blows. I was desperate for him to stop but my stubborn streak kicked in again and I shook my head.
Luckily, Kenny realised I was out of my depth and called, ‘End of round one!’ It must have been one of the shortest rounds in the history of fighting. Kenny came over to me and with a mastery of the obvious, said, ‘You know you’re getting hammered, don’t you?’
Russell was chatting to his mates and smiling, so I made my way over next to him just as Kenny was about to call the next round. I didn’t cheat by anticipating the ‘bell’ but, as soon as Kenny shouted, I put everything I could into a punch and caught Russell in the face. He was shaken and all his doubts returned to his eyes. He waved his hands in front of him and said, ‘Let’s call it a draw.’
I gracefully agreed, trying not to look as relieved as I felt.
Towards the end of my time at Notre Dame, the teachers began to despair of me. Nothing they tried would get me to study and, looking back, I realise I was probably a pain in the ass to them and a distraction to the other kids. Finally, a teacher marched me to the end of the school drive, gave me a piece of paper with the details of my exams on and told me only to come back in time to sit them. Of course, I didn’t pass any and was suddenly out of school, out of work and back on my own patch where I hardly knew anyone. You often hear stories of people taking up boxing as a way out of their neighbourhood: for me, it was to find my way back in.
I soon realised I had to find some new friends or become a real saddo, hanging around on my own. The people I’d known at school had either gone on to college or were from the other side of town and in jobs, while I was back in Upperthorpe and out of work. At least I wasn’t alone in that – while the ‘loadsamoney’ whizz-kids in the south were knocking back the champagne, unemployment in Sheffield had gone through the roof. It was a bleak time to be leaving school with no qualifications and no mates.
I knew a few of the local lads to nod to, but that was about it. I needed to take action and, as I often did, turned to my brother Allan for inspiration. He seemed to have plenty of friends he’d met at a boxing gym called St Thomas’s in Wincobank on the other side of Sheffield, run by a guy named Brendan Ingle. I didn’t fancy fighting but I’d got energy to spare and I knew that some of the people Allan hung around with didn’t box but went along just to train. That sounded good to me. There was one snag. Allan was adamant that no kid brother was going to his gym. It would be too embarrassing.
‘But I want to box,’ I lied.
He was still not impressed. However, when I kept on pleading, he relented and offered me a compromise. There was a small gym nearer our house called Croft House Boxing Club and Allan said, ‘If you go there and stick it out for a year, then you can come with me.’
I had no choice, but it wasn’t the same and I think I only went to Croft House half a dozen times. On the other nights, I’d leave the house with Allan but, as soon as we went our separate ways, I’d slip back home. Later, I’d go out again, timing my ‘return’ to make sure I bumped into him in the street again. He never cottoned on or, if he did, he didn’t let me know, and, before the year was out, he said I could go to his gym. There was still a condition – I mustn’t let anyone know we were brothers.
I continued to have doubts about boxing, especially after an experience I had at an exhibition Brendan ran where members of the public could get up and spar with some of his lads, including his number-one fighter, Herol ‘Bomber’ Graham. It was a bit like the old fairground boxing booths except it was held in working men’s clubs and better controlled.
I knew Herol by reputation but, when I watched him spar, he didn’t look especially impressive. He was ducking and weaving and getting out of the way of the punches, and to me he looked like a girl playing tiggy. The next time Brendan called for someone to go in the ring, I stepped forward. I got gloved up and went after Herol, throwing punches for all I was worth. He just grinned and slipped inside them, whispering, ‘Come on, Blackie, you can do better than that.’ Now I was even more determined. I threw both hands at him but still didn’t land.
Most kids soon punched themselves out and got tired but I didn’t and Herol started to get bored with ducking out of the way of this human windmill. He decided to bring it to an end, slipped inside another of my swinging shots and put a short stiff punch into my midriff. He knew he wasn’t meant to hit the punters but did it on the blind side of Brendan, who probably thought I was just tired. All the wind went out of me like a punctured balloon and I just doubled up on the floor, gasping for air. For a moment, it felt as if I might never be able to catch my breath again. I thought, I’m going to get even one day.
When Allan told me I could finally go to St Thomas’s, we started a ritual that lasted for a couple of years. We sat together on the bus going into the centre of Sheffield and he reminded me that no one was to know we were brothers. ‘When we get there, don’t talk to me, don’t sit next to me, don’t even look at me,’ he said.
When we got the bus for the 20-minute trip from the city centre out to the gym, he went upstairs while I sat downstairs. When we got off, I would wait at the bottom of Newman Road, even in rain, sleet or snow, while he went up to the gym in the church hall opposite St Thomas’s Church. After a while, I would follow him up. No one could guess we had come from the same house.
Allan didn’t even introduce me to Brendan that first time. I just stood in the doorway, staring at the buzz of activity inside. This was very different from Croft House. The room was long and low. It looked as though it was being dragged down by the four huge metal girders that ran from side to side just below the ceiling. At the far end was a ring, raised