CONFIDENCE!

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 110, 30 July 1927, Page 11

CONFIDENCE!

Red Garvin was in misery; his manager was indignant; his backers were in despair. Something had come o ver him, some presentiment of impending disaster, and here he was, on the day of the fight, pale and anxious, aB optimistic as a convicted murderer awaiting execution, whose appeal for reprieve had been denied. He had passed a restless night, and had awakened with an all-gone feeling in the Pit his stomach. He tried to berate himself for his cowardice, but he knew that his fears were too wellfounded to be disposed of by arguments. He had eaten a tasteless breaklast, anfi now he was lying on his bed watching the clock-hands going round. Why, before every fight, must he have this sick feeling of dread? He had had it before, but never to this extent. Somewhere in his heredity, there must have been a strain of cowardice. He hoped that his manager and his trainer would stay away from him. He wanted no one to see that drawn look about his eyes. Damn them, and damn their well-meant encouragements 1 It was right enough for them to predict an easy win. Neither of them had to face this tearing devil Brannigan. They said that Brannigan could not punch, but they had neglected to explain how he had succeeded in knocking out his last four' opponents. They said that Brannigan had a “glass" jaw, but no one had ever yet knocked him down. The newspapers, too, had disparaged Brannigan, which made things still worse, for when he, Garvin, was beaten, he would be discredited entirely. What fools the people were! They had made him favourite in the betting. Garvin was at a loss to know how he was to defeat Brannigan, with arms that felt so feeble and with legs too wobbly to support his weight firmly. He arose to look into the mirror, trying to discover some trace of fortitude in his craven aspect. He tried to glare. A rabbit could have done better. Imagine a guy with a fac e like that, calling himself a fighter! Shades of Terry McGovern! Great Heavens! Look at that clock. Only another 10 hours to go. Then defeat, disgrace, oblivion. Here was a fln e ending to his career! How the public would deride him! How the critics would gloat! He could picture It all, the sneers, the mock sympathy, the unanimous "I told you so.” Garvin regretted his entering the gam;. It was a hollow sham. He remembered the plaudits of that fickle mob> when, in his last fight, he had knocked out Murphy. Only Garvin himself knew how lucky a victory that had been. He could see it all, even yet. Murphy, feinting, slipping, and back-moving, drawing him on, evading miraculously, by a fraction of an inch, Garvin’s jabs and swings, and replying with swishing uppercuts that, somehow, just failed to land. Only one of those paralysing jolts -would have been needed. Then, Murphy had misjudged his distance from the ropes. He had back-moved against them, and rebounded into the punch that Garvin had swung "clean from his bootlaces.” Even then, Murphy was not entirely "out.” He, with true Celtic heroism, had tried to rise, hut that "lucky punch” had settled him. Lucky, indeed! Then the irony of it! The papers had extolled Garvin for his generalship, his coolness, his patience, for waiting until the time was ri Pe; then—Bam! Garvin had not

waited. The winning punch had been one of a flock of indiscriminate clouts, swung desperately, because at the time, there seemed nothing better to do after so many ridiculous misses. His trainer, just now, had advised him to take a nap. Garvin did not want to sleep. He did not want the time to pass too quickly. Another predicament presented itself. He was too nervous to lie still, and he dared not waste his energy by moving around. He compromised by arising on the pretext of loosening his arms and shoulders. How futile he felt. He could imagine the stout-hearted Brannigan laughing and chatting with his trainers. But Brannigan came of a family of fighters. Oh, well, it might be all for the best. Maybe he, Garvin, after this licking, would get a job, and stick to it, leaving this hazardous game to those who were better fitted for it. The tim e came for him to go to the arena. His trainer came in and started to pack up his fighting gear. “Come on, Red, old kid! Let’s go down and collect the money.” “Righto, Jack,*’ Garvin responded, hardly recognising his own voice. Then, “I wish you’d cut out that damned whistlin’.” “That’s right, boy! I like to see you ‘cranky.’ It shows that you’re tuned up. They’ll be a great house to-night.” That was damned qonsoling! A whole houseful to see his downfall, eh? “Here, Red! Take a swig of this beef tea. It will do you more good, now than after you start to fight.” So his weakness was obvious* was it? “Go right after this fellow to-night. Red. He’s got the wind up.” Red grinned, sickly. “But don’t hold him too cheap. Don’t take any chances.” What dire consequences was the trainer hinting at? As they walked along, Garvin felt that his legs must belong to someone else. H e envied the carefree world about him. What did it know of danger and disaster? What cared the race, if one of its individuals suffered? Eager fans were hurrying by, their expectations differing widely from his own. Garvin and his trainer arrived at the club an ( l went straight to their dressing-room. Garvin’s nerves were ragged. He answered questions quav eringly. His throat was parched with a dryness that moisture could not relieve. He was alone in a hostile world. Prom the crowded hall came the cry of the pack thirsting for blood. What a pandemonium! What a hellish chorus! What music to the ears of that brawling, blatant Brannigan! Anyhow, it would soon be over. . Even the grim and terrible Brannigan could do no more than kill his enemy. Garvin could imagine him, over in the opposite dressing room, chatting and joking, leading the merriment with his gay, infectious laugh. Garvin pictured, mentally, the combat that was soon to begin. He could see himself being banged and buffeted by a rending, tearing fiend incarnate, whose chief delight was gore and slaughter. Then the gong. Brannigan dancing to his corner; Garvin, stunned and bleeding, being carried to his own corner, amid a bedlam of ghoulish glee. Then the next and final round. Clang! Brannigan would glide from his corner with the speed of an unleashed cheetah. Bam! There came angry voices at the door. The promoter entered. “Com e on, Garvin! Get dressed! the fight’s off!” “Wha-what’s the matter?” “Brannigan’s gone. Got the wind ud! ”