I was woken by a big Aboriginal fella shaking my shoulder.
"Come on, fellas, time to get up."
"Righto, Tundah," Lawrence said, slowly rousing himself from his sleep in the back of the truck.
Tundah was someone who Lawrence evidently knew. We were at Logan Park in Warragul, a small town a few hours east of Melbourne, where a wafting smell of fresh dung and bubbling fat was filling my nose. When my eyes came right I saw a scene of show folk, vendors and farmers in the early stages of setting up.
"First house is just after lunch," Tundah said. "Get something in your belly first, then we’ll get set up."
There was no sign of Leachy as the three of us had brekky then got the big tent up and lugged around hay bales that would serve as a ring and seats. A little while later he appeared with a group of young local fellas, fit and full of fight, who were going to box alongside Lawrence and me.
The showground quickly filled. Billy pushed all of us lads up on the boards next to the tent and handed one of the fellas a drum. To the rhythm of the steady drumbeat, Leachy called in a crowd like a siren.
"Step right up, step right up, ladies and gentlemen. What do ya reckon! Is there anyone game here to take on one of these blokes? Step right up, step right up, and have a go if you think you’re good enough. But be warned, you have to be good because these killers will lay you out!"
Billy Leach was a deadly showman. He walked his way down the line of fighters, selling the pugilistic virtues of each. He started with a fella he called The Brown Bomber, who had power in his fists equal to a fully laden B-52. Next, was a gaunt and rugged local whitefella called Cowboy, who had the ears and nose of a brawler. He moved on to Lawrence, who he called Lachie Boy and claimed was dangerous, despite his impish grin. And then he got to me, the only fella on the boards who hadn’t fought for Billy before. He fixed his face with a curious look and leant close to speak to me.
"What was your old man’s name again?" he whispered.
"Hey?"
"Didn’t your old man used to fight? What was his name?"
"He was Archie, too."
"Snowball," Lawrence jumped in. "They used to call him Snowball."
"AND HERE’S KID SNOWBALL!" Leachy hollered. "More fights than feeds, this fella. He’s as deadly as he is young."
After my introduction, a young bloke stepped forward, or more precisely, he was pushed forward by the gathering crowd, who cheered loudly as Billy Leach caught the newcomer’s eye.
"You wanna fight, young fella?"
This kid, dressed like a farm boy, with choppy ginger hair and splotches of freckles, nodded unconvincingly. The crowd roared their approval.
"Who do you want to fight?" Billy asked as he waved his arm at the fighters behind him.
The farm boy raised an uncertain finger that fell in my general direction. There was another cheer from the crowd.
"Gloves on, then!" Billy hollered.
With a full and baying tent, this kid and I faced off. As soon as Billy rang the bell, I could tell my opponent had no heart for the fight. I stepped into his range, inviting him to engage, but he did nothing. I gave him a light jab on the nose, but that didn’t rouse him, either. I clinched with him and asked if he was all right. He nodded. I told him to have a go; I wasn’t going to hurt him.
I broke the clinch and threw a few little punches to the ribs, nothing too vicious. That did get him going a bit, and he did get to my head a couple of times, but he wasn’t much of an athlete and couldn’t get any weight behind his punches.
He started to look exhausted, and in the next clinch I told him I was going to give him one on the chin. It wouldn’t be too hard, but he should go down. And he did just that after not much more than a love tap, and the crowd yelled their approval.
I didn’t get called up in the next house; instead, I got to watch Lawrence fight from his corner. He was a natural, with quick fists that landed on a local man easily and a fast tongue.
In the third house I was chosen by another farm boy with few boxing skills, but unlike my first opponent this kid was game, fast and fit. He moved around me, left and right, tiring me out as I threw punches to his head. I tried to keep up with him but I found it impossible. Eventually, with my hands down and my chest heaving, he clattered a big right into my forehead and I dropped on the floor.
His mates rushed in to congratulate him, and when one of them peeled me off the floor he consoled me, saying there was no shame in losing since this guy was a good athlete.
I asked what his sport was and they told me it was tennis.
Tennis! I vowed never to play the game of fists with a good athlete whose sport was not boxing.