Wild Thing (22 page)

Shaw claims that Mickey Duff’s denial was made for much the same reason: ‘Duff was employed by the BBBC. It would have therefore been suicidal for him to admit to managing unlicensed boxing’s most famous fighter.’

This excuse does not hold water for me either. Frank Warren works with the BBBC and has never felt the need to deny his extensive involvement with unlicensed fighting during the early days of his career.
Time Out
magazine was invited by the Shaw camp to cover the fight with me. Don Atyeo, the journalist sent by the magazine to write the article, was given a story that enhanced Shaw’s reputation further. Atyeo was told that Shaw had lost the two fights against McLean because the first time he had overdosed on ginseng and on the second occasion he had overdosed on Vitamin E. ‘I take nothing but honey now,’ Shaw remarked in an effort to bolster his explanation.

‘But if you have lost, Roy,’ Atyeo replied, ‘you can hardly claim to be the Guv’nor, can you?’

Shaw thought for a moment and then said, ‘Well, that’s what it’s got to be down to, ain’t it? Now it’s between him and me.’

Nobody quite knew what Shaw meant, and, surprisingly for a journalist, Atyeo didn’t ask him to explain further. Shaw spent a lot of time in Atyeo’s company before his fight with me. They visited the Seven Kings pub in Ilford, where the pair watched several unlicensed bouts and enjoyed dinner with Joe Carrington. Little wonder that Atyeo ridiculed me, giving a distorted account of my fight with Shaw and describing Shaw as ‘London’s hardest man’ in the article he eventually wrote. The result of all the hype ensured that talk of books and feature films about Shaw filled numerous column inches in the media. The cash cow that was once the fighter Roy Shaw was turning into a far more lucrative product, and nobody, including me, was going to be allowed to get in the way.

In order to prepare myself for the Shaw fight, I began training at a gym near the Green Man pub at Plashet Grove, East Ham. George Walker, the proprietor, was related to Billy Walker, a legend in the ring who had fought Henry Cooper, Jack Bodell and Johnny Prescott. George was a really pleasant man, in his mid-40s but still very fit. I told him that I was in training to fight Roy Shaw, and George encouraged me to train hard for the fight. I was running three and a half miles per day and sparring with Neville and a man named Pat Thompson, but I couldn’t do sit-ups or allow my sparring partner to hit me in the stomach because of the umbilical hernia. Furthermore I couldn’t duck or weave very well because of the stab wound in my back, and the excessive weight I was carrying drained my energy. On and on, though, like a demented runaway train, I went, hurtling towards physical targets that I was never going to hit within six weeks. I knew that and so did Shaw. I started telling myself that if I caught him with a good left or right hook it would all be over. It was hardly a viable strategy, and there was certainly no plan B. Three or four days before the fight I had to start tapering off my training. I only did a quarter of the programme I had set for myself. The day before the fight I went for a long walk, had a short jog, did a bit of shadow-boxing and then spent the evening relaxing. When I went to bed that night, my mind was awash with thoughts of the bout I had waited five long years for. This time tomorrow, I kept thinking, I will be in the ring with Shaw; this time tomorrow I will finally achieve my goal.

I should have remembered the prophetic words of one of the greatest fighters that has ever lived before I closed my eyes that night. Muhammad Ali once said, ‘The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses, behind the lines, in the gym and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights.’ I assume that when Ali uttered the words ‘long before’, he meant more than six weeks. Despite my lack of physical fitness, though, Roy Shaw knows he avoided a humiliating defeat that night for two reasons: he was out on his feet in the second round and his associates had the bell rung early to save him; then, after being subjected to such severe punishment, his corner men realised he was never going to go the distance with me, so they had the referee stop the fight. According to the various journalists that Shaw and his management spoke to later, I was ‘slumped on one knee against the bottom rope, [my] face covered in blood, one red gorgon’s eye staring balefully out at the roaring crowd’. All I can say to that is photographs, unlike Shaw’s entourage, don’t lie.

When I walked out of the Ilford Palais, Barry Dalton was waiting for me. ‘You was fucking robbed, Lew!’ he shouted.

‘I know, I know,’ I said. ‘They were never going to let me beat him fair and square, Barry. His people had too much money riding on him.’

Barry put his arm around my shoulder and told me to forget it. ‘Come to the Room at the Top with me and we will have a few pints.’

To be honest, I didn’t fancy going anywhere, but I didn’t want to melt away into the background and look as if I had accepted defeat. ‘Fuck it, Barry, let’s go,’ I said. ‘Let’s show the bastards Lew Yates is far from beaten.’

Barry laughed and we walked up the road together talking about the fight and a future rematch. I’d first met Barry when he’d appeared on the bill of an unlicensed prizefight that was being held on a disused barge moored on the River Thames. In the dark sweaty cargo hold, a ring had been erected that was illuminated by fluorescent light strips that hung precariously from a chain secured to the underside of the barge’s deck. As soon as Barry leapt into the ring, three-quarters of the crowd were stomping their feet and cheering him. The adoration wasn’t really for Barry; it was for the fact that he was a white man about to do mortal combat with a black fighter. The East End and south London villains who were present didn’t attempt to hide the fact that they were racist. When Barry’s opponent, a Jamaican guy from Tulse Hill, south London, climbed into the ring, he was greeted by jeers and monkey chants. Approximately 50 people were there to support him, and they made it clear they were not happy about their man being racially abused. As soon as the fight started, I could see that Barry was going to do well to survive three rounds. The black guy was dancing around, unloading punches and jabbing Barry at his leisure. Beer cans began to rain down on the fighters as the crowd sensed Barry was only one decent punch away from defeat. At the end of the first round Barry too knew that he was in trouble, so he walked across to his opponent’s corner and head-butted him as hard as he could in the face. The man fell, clutching a broken nose, which began pumping blood all over the canvas. Barry began to dance around the ring with his arms aloft in a victory pose. Those supporting him were screaming with delight; those supporting his bloody opponent were screaming in anger. Barry, undoubtedly revelling in his new-found infamy, picked up his corner stool, ran across the ring and threw it into the section of the crowd that was jeering him. The place erupted. Black against white. A pitched battle raged both in and out of the ring, and in the middle of it stood Barry Dalton laughing like a lunatic. Whatever he did, Barry never failed to make me laugh.

I needed cheering up after being robbed of victory at the Shaw fight. I think that’s why I agreed to go for a drink with Barry afterwards. When we arrived at the Room at the Top, a loud cheer greeted us. People were patting me on the back and offering their support. As I was standing at the bar with Barry, three black guys approached me and said they had been at the fight. ‘You were beating him, big guy,’ one of them said. ‘That fight should never have been stopped.’

‘Thanks for that, mate,’ I said. ‘I just hope everybody else saw it that way.’ I extended my hand and said, ‘My name is Lew Yates, by the way. I’m pleased to meet you.’

‘I know your name, Lew. Everybody in this club knows you. My name is Nigel, Nigel Benn,’ the man said, smiling, ‘and I am pleased to meet you.’

It was to be another six years before Nigel was to turn professional, but I could see he had something about him. He looked fit, sharp, lean and very, very mean. Nigel told me that he had recently joined the 1st Battalion of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers but he was currently on leave. He said he had grown tired of life in Ilford and wanted a change. It was the first time that I had met Nigel. He seemed to be a decent all-round good young guy. He said that he often came to the Room at the Top for a night out with his friends. In fact he had been sneaking in there since he was a teenager. I hadn’t noticed him previously, but I told him I would be keeping an eye on him in the future. We both laughed, but I didn’t realise then just how true that statement would turn out to be. For almost a decade I followed Nigel Benn’s outstanding boxing career, and during that period we met up several times.

Danny, one of his six brothers, used to go to a club called Stop Outs, which was also in Ilford. I went in there one night to see a friend. As I made my way through the crowd, I heard somebody shouting, ‘Yo! Big Lewie!’

I turned around and saw a black guy beckoning me towards him with his hand. ‘Do I know you?’ I asked.

‘I’m Danny, Nigel’s brother. You know Nigel,’ he said.

There are thousands of Nigels in the world, so the vague details Danny gave me were not much help. ‘I still don’t know you, mate,’ I replied. ‘Who’s Nigel?’

‘The boxer, Nigel Benn,’ Danny said.

The penny finally dropped. ‘I didn’t recognise you,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘You have changed since I last saw you. How is Nigel?’

Danny said that his brother was in Atlantic City, training for his WBO world middleweight title fight with Doug DeWitt. I sat down with Danny talking about Nigel’s prospects concerning the fight until it was time to leave. Danny then asked me if I would give him a lift to his parents’ home. It wasn’t far away, so I agreed. When we arrived, Danny said, ‘Wait here a minute, Lew,’ before disappearing into the house. Moments later he had returned to my car. ‘Nigel would want you to have this,’ he said.

Danny handed me a framed photograph of his brother. I thanked him for it, placed it on the passenger seat and drove home. I hadn’t been able to have a good look at it in the car as it was dark, but when I got it home I had to laugh. The photograph depicted Nigel in action at the Royal Albert Hall during his Commonwealth (British Empire) middleweight title fight against Michael Chilambe. In the bottom right-hand corner Nigel had signed the photo with the words ‘With love to Mum and Dad from Nigel’. Despite Danny’s admirable intentions, I have a feeling that the photograph was never intended for me.

When Nigel returned from America after defeating DeWitt, I called around to his house to see him. The area was in darkness when I arrived, because the street lighting had failed. As I went to get out of my car, I saw Nigel cross the road and go into a corner shop. I restarted my engine, put my headlights on full beam and waited. Moments later Nigel came bounding out of the shop and into the road. ‘Benn, Nigel Benn,’ I shouted in a menacing voice.

Nigel turned and shielded his eyes from the bright headlights. ‘Who’s that?’ he said. ‘Who wants me?’

I turned the engine off and got out of the car laughing. ‘It’s Lew,’ I called out.

Nigel came over, stood behind me and said, ‘There’s only one man with shoulders like that: big Lew Yates.’

Nigel invited me into his home and introduced me to his family. We talked about his recent success, and when it was time to leave, he gave me a bag of baseball caps and other merchandise for the children. We continued to see each other fairly regularly until Nigel moved out of the area. Few fighters in the history of boxing have had the aggression Nigel showed in the ring and the compassion, warmth and integrity he has shown out of it. He is undoubtedly a credit to boxing, unlike some of the other fighters I met while in London.

 

WHEN THE CLUB FINALLY CLOSED, BARRY AND I WALKED BACK TO MY CAR. MY
ribs were playing me up, so Barry suggested that I go to the hospital and have them checked out, but I just wanted to get home. ‘Do you want a lift, Barry?’ I asked.

‘Not fucking likely, Lew,’ he replied. ‘I’m off to find another watering hole.’

We shook hands and wished each other well. I stood watching Barry as he bowled down the street. He looked as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Poor soul. If only I’d known just how many problems he did have, I would certainly have tried to help. Barry was always good to me, but another side of him existed that I knew little about. As well as prizefighting Barry indulged in setting up protection rackets and drug-dealing to make a living. He had consequently taken so much punishment both in and out of the ring over the years that his face was completely battered flat. Furthermore he was from inner-city Dublin and, although not involved himself, had several friends who had been active members of the IRA during the 1970s and ’80s. Anybody who met him was left in no doubt that his chosen profession was violence.

His boxing signature tune was somewhat ironic: Bobby Darin’s ‘Baby Face’. Barry Dalton’s face, far from being that of a baby, was in fact his greatest misfortune. At one stage Barry was sparring with 22-st. Lenny McLean, who took things too far one day. What was essentially a training session ended up being a bloodbath, with Barry on the receiving end. Everybody present was laughing as McLean smashed Barry around the ring; he even held him up rather than let him go to the canvas, just so that he could punish him further. As Barry was helped to his feet, he saw that people, inspired by McLean’s treatment, were ridiculing him and swore bloody revenge. The following week he went around to McLean’s home and knocked on the door. McLean appeared wearing just a bath-towel and said to Barry, ‘What the fuck do you want?’

Barry didn’t answer. He pulled out a double-barrelled shotgun, cocked both hammers and fired at McLean, who was by this time fleeing up the stairs. ‘Don’t ever try and fucking mug me off again!’ Barry shouted, before putting the gun back in his coat and calmly strolling away.