I never felt I was getting any slower, it was everyone else that had gotten so much faster. I used to throw these punches, they would crunch into the jaw, and it’d be goodnight. But they started to move so quick, those punches were brushing off the shoulder. And the referee too; never before that night had I still been struggling to get up at eight, let alone nine.

“You nearly had him there,” said Charlie as he walked in with a bucket of ice. I sat up and shook my head.
“Nah, I was never in it, surprised the judges called it so close.”
“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said, pointing at me the same way he always has, ever since I was a dumb kid, still learning how to throw a punch, “he’s building up to a title shot, it was always gonna be tough.”
“That’s three in a row I’ve lost though, Charlie. I think I might be done.” I hold out my gloves for Charlie to take off.
“You still got it, Tommy, come on!”
“Don’t get me wrong Charlie, boxing’s been good to me, we’ve been all over the world, fought some good fights.”
”Great fights.”
”Damn right they were. But you know,” I looked Charlie in the eye, “I may have lost a few, but I’ve never been knocked out, and I’m proud of that.”
“And you never will be,” he said as he finished pulling the gloves off, “you’re made of rubber, keep bouncing back up.”
“Not forever. He nearly had me out for the count tonight, it was too close.”
“Worse boxers have gone on a lot longer than you, look at Maloney, look at Radsinski – not held a belt for a decade, but they still box all over Europe, Japan, Australia – pulling in big crowds too.”
“Yeah, and they get knocked out. I don’t want to be a notch on some young buck’s punch bag.”
“Tommy, I don’t want you making a rash decision. Sleep on it tonight, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

In the back of the taxi the fight replayed in my mind. I never saw that left hand coming at me. A good fighter would have dodged it, a mediocre one blocked it, but it put me on the canvas. Charlie had been spot on with the strategy, he did leave his right-side wide open, but I couldn’t land a convincing punch there. I was still replaying it over in my head when the driver called out.
“Hey, man, can I just say how great it is to have you in the back of my cab.”
“Nice of you to say,” I muttered.
“I remember seeing you fight when I was a kid, knocked out that big American guy to win the title, it was awesome.”
”Thanks,” I said as we arrived outside my home, and I pulled some notes from my pocket and gave them to him. He shoved them in his pocket without even checking.
“I’m gonna be telling everyone about this for weeks, a heavyweight champion in the back of my cab.”
“Hey, thanks for the ride,” I said before clambering out of the taxi and making my way up the drive.

I walked into the house and switched on the lights. As I passed the photographs on the wall, I stopped to look at each, from fifteen years ago with the British belt, ten years ago when I held the Commonwealth title and that one huge moment, six years ago, winning the WBO belt after knocking out Kingsley in Vegas. Nothing since, no photograph to capture the defeat to Maxi Gonzalez in my next match when I lost the belt. No picture from my last win, a year ago now, no point capturing a slight up-turn in fortune of man on the decline, but I figured there’d never be a new picture on that wall, and it looked wrong. I thought maybe I could space them out a bit, make it look like there was never supposed to be another event worth capturing.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, my mind racing through all I’d done, every fight playing over and again. I had no regrets, it had been a good career, another shot at the title, a chance to win it back would have been nice, but it never came. And I was sure it was time to end it, but to do what? I didn’t immediately need money, but what the hell was I to do for the rest of my life? At 37, most people work the best part of another 25 years, what was I going to do?

I put on the TV as a distraction. On one channel there was a rugby player ballroom dancing, on another a former footballer, some TV actresses, a singer I semi-recognised and a lot of people I don’t know were sitting around a pool making small-talk. Then someone came onto the screen in a fish costume. He splashed into the pool, and everyone was laughing. I swore I recognised him. He swam a couple of lengths and everyone was cheering him on. Eventually he stopped, and someone pulled him out. They all slapped him on the back. Their cheers were cut out, and the show’s narrator said he’d won the housemates more beer. As he slid out of the costume I realise who he was. It’s Harvey ‘Haymaker’ Michaels. I’d beaten him in at Wembley Arena about four years back, and yet he was the one that got the title shot, and took it from Gonzalez. He held it for a year or so, until he was dumped on his arse in a match they all said he should have breezed through. He’d retired after that. I turned off the TV and went to bed, but barely slept.

In the morning I went to see Charlie. He was on the phone, but he gestured me in to sit and wait.
“That was Patrick Anderson.” He says as he puts the phone down. “He wants to represent one of my young hot shots. He kind of reminds me of you, he’s got heart.”
”You gonna let him?”
“I’ll arrange a meeting, I gotta let the kid decide. I can’t compete with what they can offer. Makes me wonder why you stuck with me all those years?”
“Why not, you never did wrong by me.”
“They were all interested, Benzini, Warren, all of them – would probably have made you more money.”
“There’s more to life than money.”
“You would have got another bite at the world title.”
That was a blow –we got screwed out of our chance a couple of times in favour of contenders with more hype, less skill or promotional unification matches, whilst I was considered number one contender.
“They wouldn’t have looked after me like you did.” I said, smiling to disguise the pain I was feeling.
“See, that’s the problem,” said Charlie, as he came to stand behind me, “I’ve looked after you in the ring – but what can I do for you if you want to throw in the towel?”
“You don’t need to look out for me anymore, you’ve done right by me, but it’s time for me to go on my own.”
“A proper manager would be able to set you up with something. Get you an agent to keep you in the spotlight – I don’t know anyone like that.”
“You know what I saw last night? Harvey Michaels dressed as a fish. You think I want that?”
“A fish?”
“This man was a world champion, and he’s dressed like a fish, just to stay in the spotlight. I don’t want to stay in the spotlight.”
“Well you’re welcome here anytime you like. I’ve got a lot of good guys that would benefit from your experience.”
“That’s nice of you Charlie, but I think I need to make a break from boxing for a bit, get some breathing space, think about the next move.”
I pushed back my chair and as I moved to get up, Charlie placed his hands on my shoulders, holding me down for just a second.
“You were one of the greats, Tommy, and no one will forget that.”
This guy had been like a father to me, taught me all I knew. My stomach was in knots, but boxers don’t cry. I stood and wrapped my arms around him.
“Thanks Charlie, for everything,” I said as I left, heading straight for the exit, forcing my eyes away from the ring, the punch-bag and all the memories I had to tear myself away from. 


I kept up my habit of jogging each morning, but without the emphasis of training for an event, I noticed how many people would give me a wave, or shout out encouragement to me – don’t get me wrong, I never had hoards of kids following me like a Rocky movie, but people did take notice, and I liked it. Then I’d go home and pass the photographs on the wall, still thinking that something was missing. I filled afternoons in the garden, cutting grass, trimming hedges, digging borders, planning to do something with it, but not knowing what. As the days closed in I’d go through all of my old souvenirs, amateur boxing trophies, special mementos, and the scrapbook my mum had put together for me. Each night I’d read a couple of articles, starting from a couple of lines in a local paper, until after a couple of weeks I was reading the multi-page spread, a blow-by-blow account of the Vegas bout. I found myself putting the TV on for a bit before bed, watching Harvey Michaels play the fool to a nationwide audience; the former heavyweight champion of the world dancing around in a pink ballet tutu, ‘Haymaker’, down on his hands and knees barking like a dog.

As each morning passed, I would hear more and more people talking about ‘good old Harvey’, I’d see people reading red-tops with his picture on the front, I’d potter in the garden in the afternoon and they’d be talking about him on the radio, and I was almost hooked by the whole thing.
The scrapbook entries were thinning out, detailing further stories on other, smaller victories, articles stating I deserved another shot at a title, lists of the greatest British boxers, with me making the lower reaches, and then, nothing on the last few pages. My mum had been taken suddenly by a heart-attack none of us had seen coming, but even if she hadn’t, what could she possibly have collected? Staring at those empty pages, I reached down to tear them out, as if the story was finished. But it was like the hallway photographs, it felt as if something needed to be there – which may be why I said yes so quickly when the phone rang.
“Tommy! How you doing?”
“Hey, Charlie. Yeah, not bad,” I wanted to say more, tell him I just didn’t know what to do with my life, but I’d been his burden for long enough.
“Look, I’m sorry to call so late, I wanted to give you space, but thought you should know,” he paused, waiting for an invitation to continue.
“Go on?”
“Well, reason I’m calling is, ‘Boxing Monthly’ have got wind of your decision, and they wanted to do a piece on you, like a retrospective,”
“Seriously?” I said, opening the scrapbook to the last, empty pages.
“I know, they’re vultures, after you so soon, who’s to say you won’t be back in the ring?”
“No, I’ll do it,” I said, and Charlie takes a long deep breath before he talks again.
“So I can give her your number?”
“Sure can. Thanks.”
“No worries Tommy, stay in touch, ok?”

I switched on the TV to see Harvey sat alone on a sofa. It cut to an outdoor scene, crowds of people gathered around a floodlit stage.
“And the winner of Celebrity Big Brother… Harvey, ‘Haymaker’ Michaels!”
There was a huge cheer from the crowd, and as he stepped through the curtain it only got louder. The screen was a mess of tiny flashes as the crowd took pictures. Harvey walked towards the centre, to where the hostess announced him winner.
“So, how does it feel, Harvey?” she said.
“Ah, it’s amazing,” he said, “best feeling in the world.”
“All those people that voted for you, have you anything to say to them?”
“Just, thank you. I’m in shock, I mean, it means so much, just, thank you.”
I switch off and go to bed.

I got in from my morning jog to find the phone ringing.
“Ah, hello, is that Mr Dawson,” said a voice through the receiver.
“Speaking,” I said, between heavy breaths.
“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” she said, and there’s something in her voice, so soft and gentle.
“No, just got in from my morning jog.”
“Staying in shape then, good to hear,”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “who am I speaking with?”
She laughs, “Oh, sorry, I’m always doing that, launching into mid-conversation, without an introduction. Sorry. I’m Jennie Bell, from ‘Boxing Monthly’. I was hoping to arrange an interview.”
“Well my schedule’s hardly hectic right now,” I joke.
“Can you do Tuesday?”
“Monday would be better,” I said, there was no more busy-work I could find in the garden, I had to draw the meeting closer.
“It’s a date,” she said, “I’ll send a car round.”
The weekend passed in a flash. I found myself reading through the scrapbook all over again, reading about my run of first round knock-outs that helped me rise up the rankings, the heartbreak of my first professional defeat, the titles I’d won, and for the first time I seemed to have a little distance from it. Looking at each of these events in isolation, and as the sum total of a career, I felt proud of what I’d achieved.

I was still in this positive frame of mind when the car came to pick me up on Monday morning, and when the driver dropped me off and Jennie Bell met me at the door, I was turning cartwheels inside. All of the charm she’d exuded on the phone was magnified in person, as she led me through the office to an air-conditioned room over-looking the park. We spoke for hours about my career, with a few laughing and joking along the way and I felt completely comfortable until a couple of questions towards the end.
“Any regrets?” she asked before pouring another glass of water, and taking a sip.
I became transfixed on her lips, the way they parted ever so slightly to let the water in, and her slender neck as she tipped her head back ever so slightly.
“None in the ring,” I say, and I think she picks up on the hint of unintentional sadness.
“You’ve always been a private man in regards to your life outside of boxing,” she said, and I suddenly become very aware of the Dictaphone on the table, “kept yourself on the back pages rather than the front. Is there any reason for this?”
I never had time for anything else, it was always about the boxing, training for the next fight. Charlie did a good job of keeping the distractions to a minimum. “I had good people around me,” I say, and then think about the empty house I have to go back to. Good people at protecting their own interests, snuffing out potential distractions like Louise, and Claire, snuffing out the chance to build something outside of the ring.
“And any plans for the future?”
I had nothing, “We’ll see what comes up,” I replied, and forced a smile.
“I think that’s all I need,” said Jennie, before leaning in towards the Dictaphone, “unless there’s anything you’d like to add?”
I paused for a second, “No, thank you,” I said and waited until she hits the stop button, “but would you like to grab some lunch?”
An age seemed to pass before she answered. I thought perhaps I’d misread things, I wasn’t particularly experienced with women, but then she tucked her hair behind her ear, “Yeah, that’d be nice,” she said and I got that feeling like just before the bell rings, like I had butterflies in my stomach.

She knew a nice local place, not far away, and we walked through the park together. It’s a nice day for it, the sun is shining, and there’s a light breeze taking the edge off the heat. We pick a table outside, and I finally get the chance to ask some questions.
“So, how’d you come to be working at a boxing magazine?” I asked, aware that she was pretty much the only female in that office.
“My Dad was a photographer, used to take us with him on some of the trips. I guess I got hooked on it too,” she says, with a smile so engaging, I can’t help but grin back across the table.
After a lengthy pummelling of question, she slipped in a counter, “So, really, do you have anything planned at all for the near future?”
I was against the ropes, and then came an almost knockout blow,
“It’s just that I’ve got this friend and he’s…” a boyfriend? I was down.
She must have seen the colour drain from my cheeks, “Are you ok?”
“Yeah, go on,” I murmured,
“We’ll, he’s a TV producer, and I’m friends with his fiancée, you see.”
Not her boyfriend? I was back on my feet, “a producer?” I say, with my eyebrows raised.
“He wanted me to ask if you’d be free for a couple of weeks to go on his show,”
“What kind of show?” I asked
“I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here,” she said, and she was biting her lip as she awaited a response.
“The one in the jungle?” I asked, though I already know the answer. In my head I see an explosion of camera flashes, and Harvey Michaels telling everyone that it’s the best feeling in the world.
“That’s the one,” she said, “I’m sorry, I said I’d ask, now I feel bad for doing so,”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, and I reach a hand across the table to hers.
“I’ll tell him no, then?” she said.
“Well can I at least think about it?” I say.
“Sure”, she said, perking up a little again, “he needs a final list by Friday though. Do you want his number?”
“How about we go out again Wednesday night, and I’ll have made my mind up by then?”
She smiled, “Sounds good to me,” and we clinked glasses together.

I was never a boxer for the fame, but it came with the success. I can’t deny that I like people to recognise me, to shout out my name, or strike up conversations about my bouts. People remember where they were when I ‘knocked down that big American guy’ and become world champion, and they like to tell me about it. I knew that if I went on this show, people would continue calling out my name, and a whole new generation of people too, those that have never seen the fights. I spent a couple of days wondering if I could fill those blank sections of wall in the hallway with pictures of me as king of the jungle, me experiencing the ‘best feeling in the world’.

The doorbell rang at seven pm on Wednesday evening. It was an hour before my date with Jennie, and I was in the shower. “Hang on,” I called out, and rinsed out the shampoo from my hair, before stepping out of the shower and wrapping myself in a towel. I pulled open the door to find Jennie stood there, looking stunning.
“Well this is a little forward, Mr Dawson,” she said looking me up and down, “opening the door semi-naked, and it’s only our second date,”
“I was, in the shower,” I said defensively, but I must have gone bright red.
“I’m sorry I’m so early, but I wanted to show you a draft of the article,” she said, holding it out to me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking it in one hand, and holding the towel up with the other “come in,”
“I know it could have waited until later, but I just wanted you to see it as soon as possible,” she said with an excited grin on her face.
I pointed her towards the living room, “Sit down,” I said, “and I’ll throw some clothes on.”
I lay the article on the bed and grabbed some clothes from the wardrobe. As I dressed I spotted the scrapbook left on the bedside cabinet, from where I’d been reading it the night before the interview. I opened it to those last empty pages, and realised the article would fit perfectly. I read through it, and found it captured every proud moment, all the highs and the lows of a career, that I knew I had been right to draw to a close.

I made my way back towards to the living-room, only to find Jennie stood in the hallway looking at the photographs.
“My Dad took this picture,” she said, stood in front the Vegas picture, my big win, “and I was watching it on TV, back at the hotel”. The way the last of the evening sunlight shone in through the window onto the glass, all I could see in the picture was our reflection. It hit me, that was what I wanted, me and Jennie, together at the start of a whole new life in the next picture.
“Look, Jennie,” I said, staring into her eyes, “can you tell your friend I don’t want to go on the show.”
“He’ll be disappointed… but I’m not,”
“I’d rather spend the time getting to know you better if you’ll let me,” I said, as I pulled her close.
She looked into my eyes, “I’d like that”.
We kissed, and I felt like a champion all over again.