Wild Thing by Bernard O'Mahoney, Lew Yates Page B
Authors: Bernard O'Mahoney, Lew Yates
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move nearer to Johnny’s gym in Preston so that I could train regularly. A house became vacant opposite Jean’s brother Bob’s in Blackburn. The gym was only a 20-minute journey away, so we made enquiries about it.
We were told the property was for sale rather than to rent. Jean and I had enough money saved for a small deposit, but I knew I would need a regular full-time job in the area if we were going to take on a mortgage. Jean’s brother came to our rescue. Bob said that he would be able to offer me full-time employment in the joinery and shuttering company that he owned. Three months later Jean, Glynn and I moved to Blackburn.
While I waited for Johnny to obtain his management licence, I trained exceptionally hard. The other lads who used the gym were reluctant to get in the ring with me so, in an effort to give them confidence, Johnny put on a pair of gloves himself and climbed in. ‘Come on then, Lew. Show me what you can do,’ he said. Johnny was a big man, so I kept my distance in the first round. I thought if I made him work, I could wear him down and then attack. In the second round, as he advanced towards me, I hit him so hard that he flew into the ropes. As he got to his feet, I could see that he had been shocked by the power of my punches. ‘You bastard,’ he shouted. ‘You bastard.’ Johnny took off his gloves, threw them on the floor and then climbed out of the ring.
‘Don’t call me a bastard,’ I shouted after him before getting out of the ring myself and heading towards the dressing-room. When Johnny calmed down, he began telling everybody that I was good enough to become the next Rocky Marciano. The only comparison I can draw today between myself and Marciano is the fact that his life and my boxing career ended in much the same way: unexpectedly and abruptly. Marciano died in an aeroplane crash and my hopes and dreams fell to earth when Johnny’s application for a manager’s licence was turned down. Johnny owed tax in America from his own fighting days, so the boxing board deemed him unsuitable for management.
Distraught but not deterred, I telephoned one of my old trainers, Herbie Goulding, at the Raven ABC in Warrington and asked if he could pull a few strings and get me in the ABA’s North-West Counties Championships. Herbie said that it was extremely unlikely, as applications for the current year’s finals should have already been submitted. ‘I will give it a go, though, Lew,’ he said, ‘but don’t get your hopes up.’ Three days later Herbie telephoned me and said he had managed to get me a place in the competition. I could not quite believe my luck. If I boxed well and won the competition, I still had a chance of turning professional.
I was chosen to fight Billy Aird, who was the northern counties amateur champion for three years running. The fight took place at Liverpool Stadium. I really liked fighting at that venue because it was like a proper professional fighters’ arena. The only thing I didn’t like about the place was the fact the dressing-rooms were always freezing cold. I fought there several times and also watched a lot of fights there. On the night I fought Billy Aird, I was feeling confident but anxious. I knew he was no mug, so I wanted to get stuck into him early and finish the job as soon as possible. The moment the bell rang to signal the start of the first round, I laid into him, pounding his ribs and torso. I knew I was hurting him because he was trying to hold my arms, grabbing me like a crab. In the second round Billy continued holding on to me, preventing me from landing any decent punches. I began to get frustrated and decided I would have to employ one of the dirty tricks George Gilbody Snr had taught me. Billy was 6 ft 2 in. tall, a nice height for my head, so I let him feel it a couple of times. As his legs began to buckle, the referee grabbed my arm and dragged me away. I couldn’t hear what he was saying because the crowd were cheering and
We were told the property was for sale rather than to rent. Jean and I had enough money saved for a small deposit, but I knew I would need a regular full-time job in the area if we were going to take on a mortgage. Jean’s brother came to our rescue. Bob said that he would be able to offer me full-time employment in the joinery and shuttering company that he owned. Three months later Jean, Glynn and I moved to Blackburn.
While I waited for Johnny to obtain his management licence, I trained exceptionally hard. The other lads who used the gym were reluctant to get in the ring with me so, in an effort to give them confidence, Johnny put on a pair of gloves himself and climbed in. ‘Come on then, Lew. Show me what you can do,’ he said. Johnny was a big man, so I kept my distance in the first round. I thought if I made him work, I could wear him down and then attack. In the second round, as he advanced towards me, I hit him so hard that he flew into the ropes. As he got to his feet, I could see that he had been shocked by the power of my punches. ‘You bastard,’ he shouted. ‘You bastard.’ Johnny took off his gloves, threw them on the floor and then climbed out of the ring.
‘Don’t call me a bastard,’ I shouted after him before getting out of the ring myself and heading towards the dressing-room. When Johnny calmed down, he began telling everybody that I was good enough to become the next Rocky Marciano. The only comparison I can draw today between myself and Marciano is the fact that his life and my boxing career ended in much the same way: unexpectedly and abruptly. Marciano died in an aeroplane crash and my hopes and dreams fell to earth when Johnny’s application for a manager’s licence was turned down. Johnny owed tax in America from his own fighting days, so the boxing board deemed him unsuitable for management.
Distraught but not deterred, I telephoned one of my old trainers, Herbie Goulding, at the Raven ABC in Warrington and asked if he could pull a few strings and get me in the ABA’s North-West Counties Championships. Herbie said that it was extremely unlikely, as applications for the current year’s finals should have already been submitted. ‘I will give it a go, though, Lew,’ he said, ‘but don’t get your hopes up.’ Three days later Herbie telephoned me and said he had managed to get me a place in the competition. I could not quite believe my luck. If I boxed well and won the competition, I still had a chance of turning professional.
I was chosen to fight Billy Aird, who was the northern counties amateur champion for three years running. The fight took place at Liverpool Stadium. I really liked fighting at that venue because it was like a proper professional fighters’ arena. The only thing I didn’t like about the place was the fact the dressing-rooms were always freezing cold. I fought there several times and also watched a lot of fights there. On the night I fought Billy Aird, I was feeling confident but anxious. I knew he was no mug, so I wanted to get stuck into him early and finish the job as soon as possible. The moment the bell rang to signal the start of the first round, I laid into him, pounding his ribs and torso. I knew I was hurting him because he was trying to hold my arms, grabbing me like a crab. In the second round Billy continued holding on to me, preventing me from landing any decent punches. I began to get frustrated and decided I would have to employ one of the dirty tricks George Gilbody Snr had taught me. Billy was 6 ft 2 in. tall, a nice height for my head, so I let him feel it a couple of times. As his legs began to buckle, the referee grabbed my arm and dragged me away. I couldn’t hear what he was saying because the crowd were cheering and
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