Some boxers, to be sure, could wither under such adulation, such pressure to perform, but not Les Darcy, never Les Darcy. For now in response to the roar Les waved cheerily, flashed a broad smile—much as he did to anyone who recognised him on the streets of Maitland—and made his way into the ring, attended closely by Hawkins, Fletcher and Newton. Of course there wasn’t really a need for all three of them to attend as his ‘seconds’, but Les just wanted them there, so that was that.
Same thing with Father Coady, who sat in the front row. It was not a part of Father Joe’s pastoral duties to be there, and he had not attended as a fight fan pure. Rather, he had become extremely close to Les over previous years, and it was unthinkable for him not to be there.
From his own corner, Fritz Holland surveyed the scene with an experienced and therefore entirely untroubled eye. There was no way this unmarked fellow opposite smiling at him could beat him, but he, too, had been interested that such a young man could have generated a following enough to fill a stadium this size, and apparently have 3,000 or so more outside trying to get in! How could this be? How could a man of so few years have already developed a following so strong? Such musings were interrupted, as young Darcy’s seconds unfurled a large Australian flag…and now the crowd roared even more!
From the opening bell, Les did what he had always done in boxing matches, which was to charge at his opponent like a bull at a gate, throwing lefts and rights, uppercuts and crosses, in furious flurries that would have completely overwhelmed a lesser opponent. And indeed, Fritz Holland was surprised at the extraordinary intensity of the young man. Nevertheless, by simply covering up, he was able to absorb and parry the worst of the blows, smother the charges, and come back with a few hard punches of his own. The key, the American knew, was to weather the storm. There was no way the kid could keep up this pace for long. But why did he keep smiling? It near put a bloke off to have to punch such a pleasant, friendly countenance, but Fritz did the best he could as Les continued to charge in…obviously enjoying it hugely!
Down in the crowd, Father Coady and not so far along from him, the Australian heavyweight champion Gentleman Dave Smith were watching the clash closely—the latter, as always, analysing every punch, every feint, every move. It was obvious that Les was giving a very good account of himself against this veteran boxer of vast experience, but equally apparent that much of young Darcy’s energy was being wasted against Holland’s bristling defensive shield.
Though the 27-year-old American really had seemed shocked early at the unexpected thunder and lightning emanating from the youngster’s fists, he was nothing if not wily, and bit by bit was able to adjust and make his way back into a fight that in the first rounds seemed to have escaped him.
The spectators, sitting in near-darkness as the two figures went at it beneath the harsh electrical light bulbs suspended above the ring, roared themselves hoarse, trying to will Darcy to a great win, but it was always going to be a nail-biter…No matter how hard Les bored in, the American always seemed to have an answer, a parry, a block, a sharp jab, to momentarily rock him backwards. In the thirteenth round the younger man did seem to get on top but, no, Holland held on and came out almost as strongly in the fourteenth round. True, by the end it was clear that the American was completely exhausted, while Darcy appeared comparatively fresh, but even then Holland was managing to counter most of what his young opponent threw at him and still give back some of his own. No matter, with just a few rounds left in the bout, Les said to Mick Hawkins during the break, ‘Gee this is great! I hope it keeps going.’
After twenty rounds of the finest fighting many in the crowd had ever seen, it seemed to most of the spectators that Les was the victor, but the referee and sole judge of the fight—Harald Baker, the brother of the manager of the stadium, Snowy—was not of the same opinion. And the winner is…Fritz…Holland!
Fritz Holland!?!?!
Never mind that Les himself smiled gracefully, and warmly shook the hand of the man who had bested him. All around, the stadium went crazy. Boos, hisses, chairs thrown, fists flying, the lot. The men of the coalfield did not take lightly one of their own being called a loser when he had bloody well won fair and square, and they made their feelings known in no uncertain terms. Order could only finally be restored by directing fire hoses at the brutes who simply wouldn’t quit…and those who were trying to set fire to the stadium besides. Even after the police arrived in force, there were still an estimated 8,000 men in the environs of the stadium an hour after the match was over. Back in the dressing room it was all quiet and Les, for his part, was not at all upset.
The smile he had displayed throughout the fight was genuine; he really had enjoyed going up against such an experienced campaigner as Fritz and, again, felt he had learned a lot. For now the most important thing was to gather himself together and get to Sussex Street in time to catch the 11.30 pm steamer to Newcastle, which would allow both him and Father Coady to make 6 am Sunday morning Mass. And though, because it was a Saturday and Les didn’t have to work on the morrow, he nevertheless wanted to get straight home so he could have the early pleasure of giving his prize money—no less than £500!—to his mother.
On the steamer, Father Joe was impressed by the young man’s upbeat mood. He had been afraid that Les would be downcast and need reassuring. Instead, Les was thrilled at having fought at the stadium, against such a veteran as Holland, and having acquitted himself well, without yet attaining victory. ‘It’s a step in the right direction,’ Les told Father Joe, as the throbbing of the small ship’s motors propelled them north along the sleeping Australian coastline.
(by Peter Fitzsimons)
