Pain Hill

The Hospital Shorts. Cafe Locked Out

For Graham

Painting by George Bellows

These last several years I have been going so fast that these shorts and novels I’ve written, usually born from the stories of people i meet, haven’t had the time to see the light of day. I apologize for clogging up your inbox. . . MGG

In my time I've seen a lot of good boxers, and some great ones. In my time I've fought a few, beaten some, trained a few . . . but I only ever met one champion.

Cromwell was from Mauritius. He’d been here since he was four, so technically he was an Aussie. His father had wanted his sons to have English names, so he'd named Crom after Oliver Cromwell, and his other son, Dirk, after Dirk Bogarde—who he’d seen in black-and-white films showing on Mauritius TV at the time of that boy’s birth.

Cromwell, who was a year younger, had it all. The speed and the strength, the focus and the brains, the strategy—but most importantly, the drive.

I saw that in the first few days. I was his trainer.

There’s this hill near our gym. It’s called Red Hill, but we call it Pain Hill, because it just goes straight up—and then it goes up again. I make all my boys run up it. They think it’s to train their legs, to make them stronger, and it is that too. But the real reason is to see if they’ve got it—that want to win.

You see, that hill is an opponent—and the best kind. Bigger and stronger than you. Merciless. Not only does it use gravity against you, but its length, and in summer it hits you with the heat and the flies. Before they’re even a quarter of the way up, their legs are hurting. And it always hurts, no matter how many times you do it. It always hurts.

If you stop, even just to get your breath, then that’s it—the hill wins. But I never tell them that. I never say anything. I just drop them off at the bottom, then drive the bus up to the top and wait.

Cromwell wouldn’t stop. He never stopped. Head down, he fought it every time, stride by stride, until he’d reached the top. Then he’d go sit under a tree and wait for the others. He never bragged, never jumped around or celebrated. He just did what he was determined to do—beat it. Vocal boxers can be a lot of fun, but there can be a real excitement around a quiet fighter.

In the ring he was the same. Sparring, training, and in the few bouts he had—he never stopped. He never had that many fights. I didn’t want people to know about him. To talk. You see, this kid was headed to the Olympics. To the medals. I could feel it in my gut. I still can. Every time he walked into that gym with his dad and his brother, I could see him standing on the podium.

And with cage fighting a new thing then, but on the rise, I knew Crom could be the boxer who could hold it off. That his success could bring the boys back to the gyms. He was only young, but he was a man of his time. Special. Real special. And all I had to do was help him hone the natural skills that God had already given him.

Dirk, on the other hand, all he wanted to do was computers. He’d sit in the corner of the gym on his phone, headphones on, or in my office, where I’d let him play on my old computer—just as long as he fixed it first. And he did. I didn’t know what he did to it, but afterward my old comp was as fast as his brother’s jabs.

Their dad, Rocky—that was his actual name, so he said—had been a boxer in Mauritius, a heavyweight. He always used to say to me that Dirk was the better fighter, the real killer. He just wouldn’t do it. He was stubborn, like his mother. He was always teasing the boy. He’d put him down in front of us all the time. Call him useless. A coward. But Dirk would never react. He’d just stay glued to his screen—or, if his dad took it away, he’d just look at the floor.

It was bullshit, and I hated it. I always wanted to say something—well, more than say. Yeah, more than say. But I didn’t, because I didn’t want to lose my access to Cromwell. I was the coward.

Rocky told me once—after I suggested, delicately, that a different approach with Dirk might help—that he knew his boys. He knew them like he was them. Cromwell, he said, needed love. That was his motivation. And he loved boxing—loved the idea of being the best. And that would be his undoing, he said. Love. Whereas Dirk, he needed to hate. And only hate would finally wake him up. Then you’ll see. Then he’ll fight. And he will fight.

And it was then I realised that in his ignorant skull, he thought he was training Dirk.

Then one day, Cromwell’s sparring partner twisted his ankle in the ring. I tried to find a replacement, but none of the other lads were that dumb. Out of the ring, Cromwell was as gentle as they come—polite, considerate, a real young gentleman. But in the ring, even when just sparring, you were the hill. He couldn’t help himself. That’s who he was. That’s why he was great.

It came down to the point where I was considering gloving up myself, but then Rocky told me to wait—and it was now that he finally got Dirk off his arse and into the ring. I didn’t know what he said to him, but he just walked up, whispered something, and then a little while later, I was helping Dirk pull on his gloves.

Rocky was excited. We all were. But at first, it was no good. Dirk wouldn’t fight, and Cromwell wouldn’t hit him. He just wouldn’t. First time I’d seen that.

But then Rocky called to Dirk. And when Dirk looked over, Rock made a fist. It was then that I first saw it. The anger. The hate. After glaring at his old man, Dirk lifted his fists and approached Crom—who just looked, well, perplexed. Dirk threw a few punches, but he never landed anything. This was Cromwell, and he was way too fast. And the few that Cromwell did land, he pulled them—I could see that. Everyone could. They were just humouring their dad.

I was just about to call it when the boys broke apart. Dirk stayed where he was, fists up, and Cromwell bounced back to his corner. He wanted out. I could tell. I turned to Rocky to tell him this—when I saw it. I can still remember it clear as a bell. Clear as bell.

Rocky called to Dirk again—“Hey, you. Useless.” And when Dirk looked over, Rocky made another fist—and then he turned and headed for the door. I watched Dirk as he watched his father leave. The boy was holding onto the ropes, and the closer his dad got to the door, the more he started pulling at them. We were all confused. Crom too.

Then, just as Rocky reached the door, Dirk grunted—like an angry animal—then he turned and went for Crom.

Now, while the boys had issues with their dad, the boys adored their mother. She was a little thing. Pretty too. Beautiful, but quiet.

What we didn’t know then was what Rocky had told Dirk: that Dirk needed a good beating. But rather than beat him—if he didn’t get in that ring and take out his brother—then Rocky would give Dirk’s beating to their mum. Turned out it wouldn’t have been the first time. He was a prick, but everyone knew he was a man of his word.

Poor Crom. He had no idea what was driving his brother. All we knew was that this time, it was different. This time we all saw it.

Cromwell was a truly great fighter—but it wasn’t enough. Dirk powered through to him. He was so fucking fast, it took your breath away. By the time Crom had realised he’d been hit, he’d been hit again. Twice.

But then Crom exploded—and suddenly they were both at it.

The father in me wanted to stop it, but the boxer . . . I was in awe. The raw talent of Dirk—all his rage and this natural focus—was just pounding against all the training I’d done with Crom. Cromwell was blocking beautifully, darting, ducking, and hitting back—jabs mostly—but Dirk was no hill. Dirk was an avalanche, and he broke through again. One right sent Cromwell staggering back to the corner.

It stopped him.
Stopped him still.
Something Pain Hill had never been able to do.

“I told you,” I heard Rocky say. I didn’t even know Rocky was next to me. I was just transfixed.

But it wasn’t over. Dirk might have unleashed on his brother—but now he’d backed off. It was like he’d come to. He didn’t even defend himself as Crom—now roaring, and that was the first and only time I’d ever heard him do that—came back with a flurry of punches that ended with an uppercut. A punch I’d never seen Crom use. It was a hell of a punch. Even as Dirk fell back, I knew he was out. If he’d been landing on concrete, it would have probably killed him.

It woke us all up. Together, we all raced into the ring—but Cromwell got to him first. He was all over him, begging for him to wake up. Apologizing like crazy. He was crying. The boy was crying.

And then, when his dad came up, he swore at him. F this, F that. Rocky didn’t know what to do. He just didn’t know.
None of us did.

And then Dirk woke up.

I saw Cromwell recently. To be honest, I’d gone out of my way to see him. He works in a Telstra store in Fairfield. He told me he was in the running to become the manager. And he’ll do it. He won’t be able to help himself. He’s a hill climber.

And he looked good—a bit of a belly—but good.

It was then that he told me what his father had said to get Dirk into the ring.

They were separated now. Dirk and his mum lived in a rental in Geelong. And they were doing good.

Then he even gave me a hug.

Hell of a kid, that boy.
Hell of a kid.

But he never fought again. Not after that fight.
Neither did Dirk.
But that Dirk—man, with a little training, a little motivation—who knows, aye? Who knows.

Now and again, I still watch the CCTV footage. I kept it. Not the fight—that’s too painful to watch.

No, I watch the part when Cromwell helps his brother out of the ring.

It’s a beautiful thing.

And there on the canvas behind them—if you pause it and zoom in—there’s a dark smudge.

That’s Dirk’s blood.

It’s not a lot of blood. I’ve seen bigger pools.

But it was big enough to drown a load of dreams in it.

Yep.
It’s more than big enough to do that.