‘I’d go to the weigh-in and the commissioner would say, “OK Mr Johnson, you can come over to the scales.’”
Harold leapt from his bed and started shouting, ‘Clunk, clunk, clunk,’ with each step around the room, walking as though it was an effort to lift his feet.
‘The commissioner would look at me suspiciously and say, “You better take those shoes off.’’
‘Then I’d sneeze.’
With that, Harold faked a sneeze that shook his apartment windows and made me jump from my perch at the foot of the bed.
‘I would say that I didn’t want to take my shoes off because I might catch a cold before the fight. “I think I’m coming down with something already,’’ he would tell officials.
‘I’d clunk on to the scales; the commissioner would look at me, look at the scales, look at me and look back at the scales again. He’d scratch his head and say “190lb?” And really I was just over 170lb.
The commissioner would say, “OK, you can walk away now.’’
‘Clunk, clunk, clunk,’ again filled the room as Harold stepped off the make-believe scales and moved around his room.
‘I learned to walk up on my tip-toes so they wouldn’t hear me so much,’ he continued.
With that, Harold tip-toed carefully, demonstrating, on his way back to sit beside me.
‘One time I had a guy come up to me and he said, “You know Harold, you could lose this fight tonight and make very good money.”
‘I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I said, “What do you mean? I’m going to try to win.”’
‘He said, “But you could lose.”’
‘I said, “Noooo way!” In a roundabout way he was telling me to throw the fight. I was scared. Back then there were some bad guys hanging around boxing. Someone wanted me to throw a fight with Archie Moore but they didn’t have to. He beat me fair and square.’
Harold chuckled at that one.
‘So when you finally won the title against Doug Jones, how did you feel?’ ‘I was like a kid who got what he wanted for Christmas,’ he enthusiastically answered. ‘People would ask, “How does it feel Mr Johnson, now you’re champion?” And I was speechless. I was so excited I could hardly reply.
A friend had asked me to get Harold to sign a piece of 10x8 photo paper so he could scan a picture over it. I asked Harold to make his mark, adding he was under no obligation to do so. He said he would try but wasn’t sure he could do it very well. I instantly regretted asking him as he struggled with the pen and scrawled across the slick paper.
With time moving swiftly and the interview becoming increasingly repetitious I asked if he would pose for some photos. A little reluctant at first, he soon warmed to the task.
‘Like this?’ he asked, standing with his hands clasped in front of his belly. ‘How does this look?’ he said, changing position. ‘Is this the type of thing?’ he went on, as he held his hands up in a traditional boxing pose. ‘Yes, Harold. Yes, that’s great.’ ‘One more like that?’ I asked. ‘How about a jab,’ he offered, prodding out his once meticulous left. ‘Good,’ I said, encouragingly. ‘And follow it through with a right hand.’ He was getting into it, smiling, and then he suddenly stopped and looked at me.
‘You came all the way from England to see me?’ ‘Yes, Harold, you were a great champion. Of course.’ ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I might not be how you wanted me to be. I hope you haven’t been disappointed,’ he said softly, as we sat back on the bed. ‘Don’t say that, Harold. I’m privileged to meet you.’ ‘But look at me,’ he said. ‘Harold, you’re brilliant. I can’t believe you’re in such good shape.’ ‘Really?’ he said, looking up hopefully.
‘Are you sure you have to go?’ he asked, as I gathered my things. ‘Yes, I must.’ He thanked me again and crushed my hand once more. I promised we would stay in touch and he watched me walk back down the long, dark corridor towards the lift. I turned and waved, then heard the door close.
(Tris Dixon)
