The Fighter (20 page)

And Henry is bringing up the rear, having reluctantly said his last good-byes, and his signature refrain, love and good wishes. He unlocks the Hyundai door, settles in his seat, and eases it from the kerb. And he is off and moving again.

He is Hammering Henry the Hustling Hebrew. Henry, the Star of David. Marauding Henry. Could-have-been-champion-of-the-world Henry. Just one more round, he pleaded. He had him cornered, had him on the ropes, just one more friggin' round, that's all he needed.

He is Bombardier Henry, the reffo kid. The boy from the block who has remained on the block, friend to the down-and-out, the bewildered and unwanted, who would do anything for a mate, or a stranger. Who would lift you out of the gutter, no questions asked, no reward expected.

All you need do is call and he'll be in your corner, tending your wounds with affection, sponging you down, administering advice, urging you to keep going. Then propelling you back into the ring, back into life, and yet another chance at redemption.

Another chance!

He is steering his mini gold chariot through dark thoroughfares, towards the lights of the city, moving in and out of the shadows, cutting through backstreets and bluestone alleys, and through deserted parklands. Wherever you are, if you're in need, he will find you.

The city continually changes. Many back lanes have disappeared, and many a vacant lot has been built over. Many a hangout has become prime real estate. Yet Henry remains constant.

He is on the move, mobile phone on the seat beside him, ever ready for the next call, the next plea for help, the next cry of a wounded spirit in search of an arm or a shoulder, a return to childhood, a father's protection.

A mother's love.

Human contact.

Rapture.

Don't do anything stupid. He's on the way. Vanishing into the night.

Hang in there.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is an account of Henry Nissen's life and the forces that shaped him. I have drawn on many sources—Henry's siblings and people who have known him and his parents; media reports of Henry's fights and youth work; historical documents—and on time spent with Henry on the wharves, at boxers' reunions, at fight nights, in rooming houses and courtrooms, and on the streets of his various beats and neighbourhoods.

The story took on a momentum of its own, and led me to research and include the perspectives of other people crucial to Henry's life, in particular, his mother, Sonia, and his father, Simche. Sonia's haunting presence became central to the story. I was compelled to enter her world and recreate her point of view, and to reconstruct the scenes that depict her descents into madness and her brave battle to be a loving mother and grandmother.

There are many people to thank. Henry Nissen, and his identical twin, Leon Nissen—identical also in generosity of spirit. Henry's brother Paul and his sister Sandra—her quest to understand her family history was an inspiration. Raimond Gaita for his encouragement at a critical time in the writing. Mischa Merz, Richard Freadman, Frank de la Rambelya for reading early drafts. And Peter Read, Leon Kurop, Henry Erlich, Bloss MacDonald, Rose Banks of the Gatwick, Vicky Flynn, Frank Bourke, Forty Koumakis at the Port Diner, the folk at the Seafarers' Mission, Barry Michael for fight nights at the Melbourne Pavilion, the Australian National Boxing Hall of Fame, the Victorian Past and Present Boxing Association. Jane Pearson, for her dedicated
editing and belief in the book, Chong Weng Ho for the striking cover design, Glyn Davis for his encouragement during my tenure as VC fellow at Melbourne University, and the late Jimmy ‘Hoppo' Hopkins who would get the Princes Hill mob together at the Kew Junction Hotel. Memuzin River and Jayden Hill, and their fellow workers at the Father Bob Maguire Foundation, and the legendary Father Bob himself. I am grateful for the assistance this project has received from the Australian Government through the Australia Council for the Arts, its arts funding and advisory body.

As always, I thank my partner, Dora, and my son, Alexander, who have supported me in many ways.