THE ONLY GOOD THING

’The only good thing to come my way

The only thing that made me stay

The only good thing I ever had

The only thing that wasn’t bad.’

Prologue

I never saw dad in his prime. I was much too young, sadly. They said for five years he was the best pound for pound boxer in the world. ‘Smash’ Simpson, my dad, was a middleweight, not very tall, only 5’7’ but built like a weightlifter thanks to his obsession with exercise and keeping fit. He had a bull like neck, auburn crew cut hair, and light blue eyes, the colour of cornflowers. A bent misshapen nose spoiled his otherwise handsome features, but also he had a granite jaw, that people said could take the most ferocious of punches. And he threw a wicked left hook that would have felled a gorilla, he told me once with a glint in his eye, on one of the few occasions he made me laugh.

Most of the time he put the fear of God into me and mum. I was petrified of him, and I guess mum was too. I suffered many beatings for the most trivial of things, but that was nothing to what happened on that terrible night. A night I’ll never forget it until the day I die.

I’d felt tense and afraid for a long time, because having retired undefeated from the ring two years previously, dad had a lot of time on his hands. He didn’t know what to do with himself when he didn’t box and got bored easily. With his one motivation in life gone, he took his frustrations out on us.

So when he came to my room, one evening, I feared another thrashing. But he had a smile on his face as he sat down beside me.

‘How you doing son?’ he asked me, giving me a playful punch on the arm with his huge fist.

‘All...All right,’ I said with a slight stammer, almost pissing my pants.

‘Got a bit of news for you, lad.’ He winked at me.

‘What’s that dad?’

‘I’ve come to a decision, son - about going back into ring. I’m going give it one last shot. So what do you think about that then, eh? And you know what else? You and your mum can come and watch me. See me beat the shit out of fucking Joe Montana. That guy’s been disrespecting me for months, over how he thinks I walked away from him when I retired. Had the cheek to say I’m scared of him. Well, now I’m going to shove those words right down his throat. Going to kill the fucking bastard – you get my drift, young man?’

I nodded, my eyes widened. For a twelve year old kid it should have been a dream come true, to see one of the best boxers in the world, namely my dad, fight again in possibly the biggest bout of his life. But I hated the very idea of it. Fighting would never be in my blood. Maybe that was because of the beatings he’d given me, or perhaps because someone always fancied making a name for himself by picking a fight with me, Smash Simpson’s son. Mum told me to turn the other cheek and not get involved, but when some kid grabs you round the neck and starts punching you, you either fight or run. Usually I did the latter.

‘Haven’t you got anything to say son? Or are you mute as well as stupid,’ he grinned, spit from his mouth landing on my nose as he spoke. He sniffed, as he seemed to do a lot recently, and wiped it off with the back of his hand.

‘Sorry,’ I said finally. ‘Can’t wait, dad.’

I tried to look pleased and smiled, and he seemed happier then, even rubbed up my ash blond hair.

‘Good on you Scott, I’ll make a man out of you yet,’ he said, staring at me with that evil grin that made his eyes look glassy - usually a sign he was about to hit me. This time he was too full of his return to the ring, to think about doing anything else.

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So there I sat, ringside with mum, waiting for him to put in an appearance. The arena was packed, filled with lots of famous people, who I’d seen before but didn’t know the names of. Old time boxers too, talking to one of the ringside commentators, the one who wore glasses and never stopped talking. Asking their opinion as to who’d win the big fight. I can’t say I was really interested, but I did hope dad would win. It would put him in a good mood, and perhaps he might be nice to me and mum for a little while.

Mum squeezed by hand and whispered, ‘It won’t be long now.’

I nodded, looking up at the massive ring, and then at the crowd, which must have numbered thousands. Cold sweat trickled down the nape of my neck, as I imagined two grown men about to try to knock the living daylights out of each other. It made me tremble and feel sick, but I knew I’d have to watch.

The lights in the arena dimmed, apart from a spotlight beaming down on the ring. The crowd went deadly quiet, and then the music began. I don’t know what it was called, but it sounded like a fanfare. I saw a spotlight behind me, and then this big guy with a shaven head and jug ears came walking through. He wore a dark blue dressing gown, and had a towel around his neck. He stared up at all the people surrounding him, spat out phlegm, and then with his gloves began punching fresh air, as if he imagined he was already hitting my dad. He was a lot taller than dad, but had nothing like his thickset body. Followed by his entourage, he stepped into the ring, through the ropes, making his way towards the red corner, where he engaged in banter with his aides.

Soon afterwards there was another fanfare, the crowd roared as dad came bounding down. He also wore a robe, nodded in acknowledgement for the cheers he was getting. As he got closer, he looked for mum and me, and even winked when he saw me, which was unheard of. He also went through the ropes, but didn’t glance at Montana, and instead made for the blue corner.

The announcer came into the ring, followed by the referee, a little man with a beaky nose, wispy grey hair and a spotted dickey-bow, which I thought would wiz round at any minute.

I felt a strange sense of pride when the announcer introduced dad to the crowd, along with all his achievements in the ring. Fifty-five fights undefeated, with thirty-five knockouts or stopped contests, and fifteen successful defences of his world title. Montana on the other hand had only fought thirty times, was also undefeated, and now was the new world middleweight champion.

When they were brought to the middle of the ring, they eyeballed each other, their faces only inches apart. I could see there was a lot of bad feeling between the two of them, and I expected it to be one hell of a bout.

The referee talked to them, telling them to fight a fair fight, no holding or hitting below the belt, or biting or head butting. They touched gloves, then made their way back to their respective corners, turning around to wait for the bell to ring.

When it did, I felt a queasiness in my stomach, couldn’t keep my eyes off the two of them, as they prowled around the ring like two lions, squaring up to each other. I waited for one of them to throw a punch, hoping it would be dad. But no, the first punch was struck by Montana, vicious uppercut that caught dad on the chin. Dad winced, brushed his glove against it, then saw red. A combination of about six punches caught Montana in the chest. He retaliated with a right to dad’s eye, and another to the stomach.

The crowd went mad. To witness these two fighters trading punch after punch like that so early in the fight, was just what they wanted. Each time dad got hit, I felt his pain for him, and so did mum. For sure one of them would be knocked out soon if they carried on like this. But both of them seemed to shrug off the punishment as if they hadn’t been hurt at all.

At the end of the round, they both returned to their respective corners, breathing heavily. Dad sat on his stool, with a cut just above his right eye. The trainer dabbed it, applied a little grease, obviously hoping it would stop bleeding. It didn’t seem to bother dad, but I sensed this meant trouble.

The bell rang for the second round, and my eyes were glued to dad as he came out, guns blazing making straight for Montana. But Montana put up his gloves in front of his face and took everything dad could throw at him. Dad kept coming at him, caught him once on the cheek, and for a few seconds I thought dad would do it. Then out of nowhere, Montana smacked him on the chin, almost lifting him off the ground with it. Mum, next to me gasped. I saw dad’s legs wobble as he moved away. Montana seemed to realise something was happening. Dad staggered back against the ropes, bounced off, made a wild lunge at Montana but missed, and then got caught in the same eye as before. Blood streamed down, getting in his eye, and trickling down his cheek. But still dad didn’t go down. Montana hit him again, this time in the other eye, and in the mouth. I saw the smirk on Montana’s face. He shouted something, mocking dad. I wanted dad to kill him for not showing any respect

The referee stopped them both, gave dad a mandatory count of ten, before telling them to fight on. Then Montana went in for the kill. I was glad when the bell sounded for the end of the round.

Mum was in tears as the seconds tried to repair his face, and I wondered if they’d let him carry on. But he was off his stool before Montana, dancing on the spot, as if to say he wasn’t hurt, and would come again.

The third round started. Dad went on the defensive straight away. He tried to keep his guard up, even hit Montana a couple of times, but Montana was stronger and got through eventually. Punch after punch pounded into dad, but still he remained standing. He fought back, caught Montana once, but mostly he was wild, his punches carried no weight. How he got through that round I don’t know.

They’d stopped his cut from bleeding, but both his eyes were swelled up, and I guess he must have found it hard to see through them. He didn’t get up so quickly for the fourth round. Started arguing about something with his trainer and his seconds. The referee came over to look at him, stared really hard to see the full extent of his injuries. The man shook his head. It was all over. But dad went berserk. Tried to get past his trainer, his seconds and the referee. Despite them restraining him, he managed to get free, and ran towards Montana. Montana laughed at him, made a defamatory remark, had his gloves raised in victory, but then dad went for him like a maniac.

It took three of them to hold him back, kicking and screaming, but I knew he’d been beaten fair and square. He was still arguing when they wrestled him towards his dressing room. Mum and me looked at each other, wondering what was coming next.

Mum said to stay put for the time being, let him get it out of his system. I was glad in one way, because you didn’t want to be in punching distance when dad got mad. Instead we had to put up with Montana gloating over his win, chatting to commentators and anyone else who’d listen.

It seemed to go on forever, but finally Montana left the ring, raising his Lonsdale belt above his head, screaming ‘I am the Champion’ over and over again.

Mum was crying, and me too, not so much because dad had lost, but because we’d be the ones to suffer as a result of his defeat. Maybe we should sneak back to our Hotel room, I said to mum, and with a sad smile, she nodded.

So we got a taxi to the Hotel, left dad to his own devices, which may or may not have been a big mistake. I had an adjoining room to theirs, and mum said she’d sleep by me that night. There was even a lock on the door, so once we were inside, mum locked it, and took out the key. She gave out a great sigh of relief, held me tightly and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Said to get some sleep and hope dad would have calmed down by the morning.

A loud bang at the adjoining door woke me with a start. Suddenly it flew open. He must have kicked it down. Because when my eyes opened, I looked up and there he was, his hands balled up into fists, his teeth gritted, his hair wet and all ruffled up. But what scared me the most were his eyes. Both were heavily swollen, and his eyebrows were bloody even though they’d been stitched up. I glanced at mum next to me. She was sitting up in the bed, with her teeth chattering, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing in here?’ he growled with a slight slur to his voice.

‘Scott was frightened, so I said I’d stay with him until you came back,’ my mother explained.

Dad let out a hoot of laughter, shook his head, and started to walk towards us. He seemed a little unsteady on his feet.

‘Frightened? What! Is he a fucking mouse or a man? It’s about time you stopped wet-nursing him. At his age he should be standing on his own two feet, fighting his own battles. Can’t even do that – can you lad?’ he shouted at me.

Instinctively I moved closer to mum, for some kind of futile protection. I should have known that was the worst thing to do, the mood dad was in.

He bent over the bed and grabbed me by the ears, and pulled me out onto the floor. My ears hurt - they were hot and throbbed.

‘It’s about time you learnt to look after yourself, mate. Your mother’s told me all about how you walk away rather than face up to a lad trying to make a name for yourself. Is that what you’re doing – son?’

The way he’d said this made me shake like a senile old man. I couldn’t answer him.

‘What the matter? Lost your tongue,’ he screamed so loudly, my ears seemed to reverberate.

His face was only inches away from mine. I could smell something sweet and sickly on his breath, like liquor. I wanted to run away, but I knew I couldn’t.

‘I said have you lost your tongue?’ he roared.

‘Leave the lad alone Johnny,’ mum said.

‘You shut the fuck up, if you know what’s good for you,’ he said pointing at her.

I saw my mum cower.

‘All right, answer me, you piece of shit,’ he demanded.

I nodded.

Then he gave me an almighty push. I staggered backwards, but didn’t fall. I couldn’t look at him.

I tried to move away, but he caught me by the arm, then with his open hand, pushed me hard in the face, and this time I did fall to the ground.

‘What do you think about that matey?’ he said. ‘You going to put up with me pushing you around, or are you going to do something about it?’

I said nothing, stayed on the ground, with my arm in front of my face.

‘Get up NOW!’ he bawled.

I did as he asked. He started dancing around me, at first playfully punching me on the arm, then he hit me a little harder in the chest. It hurt, but not as much as what he was putting me through.

‘Come on Scott,’ he beckoned me. ‘Hit me back, you toe rag. Do it as hard as you can, cos you hate my fucking guts so much you want to kill me – don’t you? Do it before I knock your fucking head off.’

He hit me again. Tears welled in my eyes, and that more than anything in the world drove him mad.

‘You fucking cry baby. You want to let people walk all over you like that, and be nothing for the rest of your life. Is that what you want – you pathetic excuse for a son?’

I stood there, closed my eyes and hoped this was a bad dream that would vanish when I opened them.

‘Open your fucking eyes, you little bastard,’ he ordered me. ‘You’re nothing but a big girl’s blouse.’

But when I did, I saw something in his hand. A long knife, curved and glistening in the light. He came up to me, pulled down my trousers and pants. I glanced mum getting off the bed and running towards him. Swiftly with a flick of the wrist, the knife went towards mum and caught her on the arm. She went down clutching it, with blood streaming out of her.

‘If you want to act like a fucking girl, then you can be a fucking girl,’ he ranted, then brought the knife down on me. I’ve never experienced a pain like it. I screamed and screamed and wished I was dead. I collapsed almost glad it this would be my end.