The Knock Out

It’s funny how things happen but I met someone the other day with the surname Duffy. I knew this name from the past, it had a resonance with some deeper part of me but I was not sure what it was. I knew my dad had worked for someone called Jack Duffy when I was a kid so that had some resonance. But that wasn’t it.

Then three days later, out of the blue on a Saturday morning, I remembered Ray Duffy. Ray Duffy was a boy of 13 or 14, when I came up against him. It was in a boxing ring in West London, and he knocked me out! That was the resonance I felt deep down when I heard that name.

I was, like Ray, about 13 years old when I met him. I was in the third year of my secondary modern education when I found myself faced with the dubious task of fighting Raymond, who was I might add, the previous year’s ‘National Schoolboy Boxing Champion’. Which meant basically that for his weight he was the best fighter in all of England, Scotland and Northern Ireland.

Looking back, as one does from time to time, I can see that I was not really a boxer, I was a fighter for sure, but not a boxer. The only reason I put my hand up on the day the gym teacher asked if anyone would like to fight for the school was because my uncle Peter, who wasn’t really that much older than me had done a bit of boxing. It was a hero worship thing, if he did it so ‘should’ I.

But you know what, it wasn’t too bad. This particular year I’m talking about was my third year at trying to be a boxer. In the previous two years I had been beaten quite easily because I wasn’t really interested. But this year, my third was different and to this day I still have no idea why it was different it just was. I had managed to get through to the Middlesex finals. And according to my gym teacher I had ‘put away’ some pretty good competetion.

We never had much money in those days and I needed a proper pair of boxing boots. I mean I couldn’t go to the Middlesex finals wearing ‘bumper boots’. My dad told me of a man he knew who was an ex-boxer and that I should go and see him. I went and saw him and he gave me this old pair of boxing boots, I mean really old, and being the polite an respectful boy that I was I took them home.

Anyway on the night of the fight there I was with my boxing mate Dave Beavis and for some reason Dave had not packed his boxing shorts, and he asked me if he could borrow mine. My boxing shorts were fantastic black with broad gold stripes down both sides. As I handed them to Dave I heard my gym teacher say to him “Don’t put the mockers on em Dave”. Dave went off with ‘my’ shorts and got absolutely slaughtered. I stood and watched with mouth open, as a guy that looked like he was at least twice his size battered him to a pulp, my young heart sank.

At almost the same moment a fellow came up alongside me and asked. “Are you Terry Reader?” “Why?” I said. “You’re fighting Ray Duffy aren’t you?” “Am I” says I. It’s funny because up to that point I hadn’t looked at the programme and I think probably that my gym teacher felt it best not to tell me I was going to be fighting the best fighter in the country! As you can maybe imagine my brave heart sank a bit deeper. It felt as if somebody had pulled a plug out of the bottom of my feet and all my enthusiasm and strength had drained away in a second.

But somehow I managed to pull my socks up and become a little more ‘up for it’. I thought I would do a bit of psychological warfare and I spotted where the dreaded Ray was standing and with a few of my mates in tow I put my foot up on a chair near him to show him my very well worn and experienced boots. “I gotta get another pair of boots soon these are nearly worn out,” I said loudly enough for Ray boy to hear. I very much doubt if it made any difference whatsoever to the final outcome of the event. But there is that tiny voice that whispers. ‘If I knew then what I know now, things may have been different’.

We finally climbed in the ring, I felt ok and boxed away for the first round with nothing to dramatic happening. The second, that’s the guy in the corner who is supposed to look after me, rubbed his nicotine stained hands and water all over my face. This didn’t help but I suppose he was just doing his job. Or maybe there was some conspiracy afoot to undo my enthusiasm once more. No just paranoia surely.

Off I went into the second round, it was easier than I thought. Then out of the blue. Whack!! When I came too, I was looking up at the ref who was counting, 8, 9, 10 ding, ding. I wanted to carry on, now the fighter was more evident, I was angry and I wanted to kill this geezer. But no it was, as they say, all over.

To this day I sometimes drive past the Hoover building on the A40, which is where this event took place, and feel a bit nostalgic. But I still have my certificate to prove that Terry Reader was the ‘Runner up’ Schoolboy Champion of Middlesex at the 8st 3lb weight, and Middlesex is lot bigger than it looks on the map I’ll have you know! And Ray if you’re out there still. No hard feeling mate.