Bucket List of an Idiot Page 2
So there I was, cowering on the ground, bewildered and startled, as my assailant stood over me, his fists still clenched and his angry eyes looking all . . . you know . . . angry. Mike was to my right, protected by the desk in front of him, and using the heavy cart rack he managed to keep our local sporting hero at arm’s length and a wee bit more until some other staff from round the office got wind of what was going on. Luckily for us, the guy was done, and saw himself out before the situation got any worse, but on his way out he said, ‘You pricks have had this coming for a long time,’ and he was dead right. We had. It was a well-deserved thumping.
The police were called in but we didn’t press charges. I wasn’t really that keen to give the cops a detailed statement explaining what we did to provoke this guy and then how I ended up falling off my chair into a heap on the floor. It wasn’t a story I wanted to share in a courtroom, especially since the one strike hadn’t left any cut, mark or bruise. The ear stopped ringing after a couple of days and the only long-term damage was a fractured ego.
Thankfully, I had not been punched again since then. In fact, apart from a couple of fairly low-key schoolyard scuffles, that was the only time I had been hit in my life. And the total number of punches I’d thrown was even smaller. I truly had no idea if I was even capable of physically hurting another human being.
It was time for me to get in a fight. A proper fight too—not some street brawl outside a kebab shop while waiting for a taxi at 3 am, but in a boxing ring.
And I wanted my opponent to be a lady. There were a couple of reasons for this. Firstly, I wanted to find out if I could actually bring myself to throw a punch at a lady—even if she was giving me her greatest hits. I despise men who hit or bully women. I think this stems from the environment I was raised in. In 1970s New Zealand, belting kids with the jug cord was all right if they deserved it—but it was a complete no-no for men even to swear in front of the women.
Secondly, if I’m being completely honest, I thought that a punch thrown by a female fighter would probably hurt a lot less than a punch from any male boxer. It sounds like a reasonable theory . . . but that was before I met ‘Diamond’ Daniella Smith. (‘Diamond’ my arse! I can assure you that on the women’s boxing circuit this particular Diamond is anything but a girl’s best friend. If she was being more truthful she would have gone with ‘Rough Diamond’ or ‘Blood Diamond’.)
It was my friend Monty Betham who put me onto Daniella.
Monty is a retired rugby league player. He used to play for the Warriors and the Kiwis. He retired from league to concentrate on boxing. Nicest bloke you’ll ever meet, Monty, but he really does enjoy hurting people. As long as it is done in a sporty kind of way. He currently spends his days training people at a gym called Boxing Alley in the Auckland suburb of Parnell.
I told Monty about my bucket list and how I wanted to fight a girl. I also made a point of telling him I was unsure if I would be able to bring myself to hit a girl. Monty laughed at this. He assured me I would have no problem hitting a girl once I got into the ring with Daniella Smith.
Daniella was the number one women’s boxer in New Zealand at the time and had a world ranking of number six. Monty told me that Daniella only trained with male boxers, because she was just too good to have a serious sparring session with any female boxers. She would kick my arse. No question about that. The big question for me was, how badly? And how angry would she be if I punched her in the boob? I was about to find out.
The fight was set down for a Friday at the Boxing Alley gym where Monty trains Daniella. It would consist of three one-minute rounds. Monty offered to give me a ‘Boxing 101’ lesson, just a crash course in fighting and blocking, prior to setting foot in the ring, but I declined. It was probably incredibly stupid to turn him down but I was determined to be totally unprepared and untrained. This way I would learn if I was a fight, flight or freeze type of person. Because I had never fought before, I had no idea.
The week leading up to the fight I was bloody nervous. Not constantly. Not crippled with fear. But whenever I thought about it I had a sick feeling in my stomach.
Also I was wrestling with a lot of internal conflict as I recalled a saying I’d once heard. I have no idea about the origins of this quote but it does make a lot of sense:
‘There is no honour in beating up a girl but there is a whole lot of shame if a girl whips your ass!’
A whole lot of shame was really the only outcome we were going to have here.
When my co-hosts Mike Puru and Jay-Jay Feeney got wind of what I was doing they pissed themselves. They were adamant that the fight should take place live on the air during the breakfast show. I was a bit iffy about this. I mean it’s one thing to get humbled/humiliated in a boxing gym with a small handful of spectators. It’s another thing to have it broadcast live to a nationwide radio audience.
Jay-Jay and Mike invited and encouraged spectators to come along, promoted the fight time with enthusiasm, decided my fighting name would be the rather pessimistic ‘Dead Man Dom’ and convinced TV3 sports presenter Hamish McKay to call the match. All of a sudden we had a very public fight on our hands.
I got to Boxing Alley at 7.30 am on the Friday morning, half an hour before my fight. Diamond Daniella Smith was already there. We met. I kissed her on the cheek and we chatted. You know, it really is an odd situation to be in—having a pleasant conversation with someone only half an hour before you are going to be punching each other.
Given my massive advantage in height, weight and reach, Daniella looked nowhere near as petrified as she should have.
I stood a lot taller than Daniella and after looking at my arms she commented on my ‘reach’. She actually seemed a little nervous. She was nowhere near as intimidating as I expected. I was still bloody nervous myself but all of a sudden I wondered if things would perhaps not be as bad as I had been building them up to be.
My hands were bound tight with tape, another first for me in this whole fish-out-of-water experience. It made me feel a little bit tougher, a little bit more like a fighter. Then the gloves went on, a lovely feminine pink pair. It’s an odd feeling, losing the use of your hands. I was reliant on my mate, Sharyn, to help me put my protective headgear on, give me water, put my mouthguard in and even scratch an itch—thanks for that, Sharyn!
The boxing ring is a terrifying place to be. No exits, no hiding places. It’s a fairly big area when you inspect it from the outside but once you get in there to fight it appears so much smaller.
I was standing in my corner, my arms numb with fear. Monty was yelling instructions at me: ‘Keep your hands up! Always keep your hands up.’
The theory is that your hands will protect your face and head while your arms keep your body covered—but I was so paralysed with fear, even lifting my gloved hands and keeping them up felt like hard work.
Monty Betham agreed to referee the fight. He called both fighters—Diamond Daniella Smith and Dead Man Dominic Harvey—to the centre of the ring. ‘I want a good clean fight, especially you, Dom. Protect yourself at all times, especially you, Dom. Ready? Box!’
Monty Betham does up my headgear. When your brain cells are down to the final couple of thousand it is important to protect them.
And with that we started. I looked the part, I think. We danced around for the first two seconds of the round before I went in and threw the first punch—if you could call it that—a fairly feeble jab which hit Daniella’s glove. I think I was reluctant to hit her with any real force for fear of making her angry. Something I learned seconds later: you don’t need to hit Daniella to make her angry.
Daniella threw a punch with her left hand which got me just below my rib cage. It hurt. Then immediately after that she took a big swing with her right hand which I managed to back away from. It just glanced off the corner of my headgear but knocked me off balance. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Shit. That was close.’
I stood up and tried to use my long arms, my reach, to jab away at her. Li
terally keep her at arm’s length. Then she came at me again. A right hand to the side of my body followed by a right hand to the side of my head.
These blows hurt but I was still able to focus and keep composed. I was just wondering when the hell the one minute would be up. I had never known time to go so slow.
Hamish McKay:
She is looking to go to that rib cage early.
He’s copped a right hand! Harvey has copped a big right hand to the head that stunned him. Boom. A right hand to the head again. With that leading left from the champ Daniella, that seems very effective.
Oh no. He’s just copped another one. Four beauties right on the kisser!
Daniella kept coming at me swinging, hitting. I kept moving backwards trying to avoid being hit. Finally my back scraped against the ropes on one side of the ring. Then she unleashed fury. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Blow after blow. She had me trapped and there was nothing I could do about it. I was getting weaker with each punch. I could feel my eyes rolling into the back of my head. I remember thinking, ‘Why isn’t anyone coming to stop this? Monty, I thought you were my mate. What the hell are you doing?’
I know this is the sport of boxing. But I’m not a boxer.
I’m just a guy writing a book. My legs and feet gave way beneath me. My arms slung over the ropes were the only thing that stopped me from falling to the canvas floor. Diamond Daniella showed her compassionate side and stopped punching me. Or maybe it was just that the first sixty-second round was over. I had a mouthful of blood and felt physically drained. Already I was dazed and exhausted. The thought of another two minutes like that was daunting.
There were thirty seconds of downtime before the next round would begin. In my corner, Sharyn reiterated what I had to do—keep my arms up and my face covered, advice I had successfully ignored in the first round. Then the bell rang—from the world’s slowest minute into the world’s fastest thirty seconds.
Hamish McKay:
What can we expect? The second round is underway. And Dead Man Dom has started better this round, actually! He’s looking a bit more confident. Just moving around a bit better, trying to avoid the punches.
When you realise you are all alone and nobody is going to save you, survival becomes the key. I was trying to box her, fend her off. But I was also trying to avoid being hit. My unorthodox technique was to basically just keep moving back as she stalked me around the ring. Hardly courageous-looking . . . but I was not too concerned with how things looked at this point.
Monty’s suggestion of keeping my hands up in front of my face failed me miserably. No matter where my hands and arms were, my opponent managed to find a gap, a way to get my head or body. This method may work for other fighters but I really needed a third arm to give me adequate shielding.
Hamish McKay:
She is working him towards the corner. Looking to go towards the body. And she does. Gets him a beauty and now she’s gone upstairs with two huge rights. And another one. The fight has been stopped. Surely it’s all over. He can’t carry on.
Monty came over to get Daniella off me. I was still on my feet but I was stumbling around, bewildered. As exhausted and beaten as I was, I wasn’t going to stop the fight—I didn’t feel it was my place. But I was clearly not in a good way—why the hell didn’t Monty or Sharyn in my corner make that call? Throw in the towel on my behalf? I suspect they were all enjoying this a bit too much. Daniella had not actually knocked me out yet so until that occurred, this top-quality entertainment at my expense would continue.
Hamish McKay:
Let’s start the third round. Dead Man Dom took a terrible hiding midway through the second round. And this is where it gets very dangerous. She’s got him up against the ropes again and Monty Betham steps in to pull the two fighters apart. And it’s a left to the head. A swinging right arm to the body. Ooh! Low blow! I think he might have copped it on the you-know-where. And the mouthguard has been spat out.
I doubled over in agony. I had been hit in the genitals. The blast of pain was excruciating. In my opponent’s defence, the low blow was not intentional. She didn’t need to resort to dirty play to get the edge on me in this tussle! I think it had to do with the awkward angle I had got my body into, in an attempt at self-preservation. Boy, did that plan backfire!
Monty Betham came over to me to ask if I was okay. Through gritted teeth I spat back at him that my dick was burning, a heat-of-the-moment comment that Hamish McKay heard ringside and repeated in his live radio commentary.
Hamish McKay:
He’s got a burning dick!
The dull, sickening pain of testicular damage engulfed me, and my penis felt like it was on fire. This was a first for me and, men, I can assure you a dick-punch does not feel all that good.
I paused for a few seconds to compose myself and let the burning subside. Monty encouraged me to jump up and down on the spot to alleviate the pain. Fat lot of good that did.
The fight continued. I was hoping that the time I had spent doubled over nursing my jewels would have been taken off the third round. Sadly that was not the case. But it was the home stretch now. It had been a feeble effort on my part, but if I could get through to the end of this third and final round without being knocked over, it would allow me to leave the ring with just a tiny bit of dignity.
Hamish McKay:
Daniella the champ looking for that body again. Watch the way she comes upstairs and cracks him! Ouch, that must have hurt! And that one, another big right hand. I’ll tell you what, he is going to have a very sore rib cage when he wakes up tomorrow morning, this young man.
We are just about ten seconds away from the end of the fight. Can he hang in there and go the distance? Remarkable effort from Dead Man Dom. Wind up the Rocky music, he’s almost there. And that is it! The end of the fight.
It had not been pretty. But I had survived. I’m not sure how much effort Diamond Daniella Smith was putting in. But if she wasn’t hitting me with her best shots, I shudder to think just how dangerous she is when she goes all out on an opponent.
Our fight had been the perfect role reversal, really. I was a man fighting like a girl, fighting a girl who was fighting like a man.
I woke up the morning after and felt like I had a bad hangover. My head and neck ached. My right shoulder was sore. There was blood in my urine. And the bottom of my left rib cage was unbelievably agonising, making essential tasks like getting dressed, coughing and putting a seatbelt on very difficult.
Out of courtesy, I texted Diamond Daniella Smith to make sure she was not feeling too beat up. She put my worried mind at ease—she was fine. So fine that after I left, her coaches made her do some more training! Way to make a guy feel good about himself. And to add insult to injury, I signed my text off with an ‘x’ to represent a friendly kiss, which she didn’t return in her text. I’m pretty certain she hates me. Imagine if I’d actually managed to punch her!
I was hoping to learn a thing or two about myself by fighting a girl and I did. I realised that your own mind, your own imagination, can be your biggest enemy. Leading up to the fight I was crippled with nerves. And the three minutes in that ring were pretty damn scary. Then it ended and I had time to reflect. And that’s when I gained a bit of perspective and realised that even though it was bad, maybe even worse than I’d anticipated it was going to be, it was still manageable. I had survived. And that feeling right there—getting through something I wasn’t sure I would be able to—feels pretty damn good.
I also found out my boxing technique resembles a newborn giraffe attempting to walk on hind legs.
RELEASE AN ORIGINAL SONG
I can’t sing. Not one note. In a lot of people the inability to hold a tune is due to tone-deafness. Not so with me! I am the complete opposite of tone-deaf. When I sing, I can hear the tone in my ears and I find the sound just as offensive as those unfortunate enough to be around me.
It really is a pity, because I like to sing. So out of courtesy to others I only sing whe
n I am alone these days. And out of courtesy to my own ears I make sure I turn the song I am singing along to up really loud to drown myself out.
I am okay with this impediment now. I have had years to deal with the disappointment.
I first got wind of it when I was nine and joined the Riverdale Primary School choir. Back then I was a big fan of David Bowie and held aspirations of one day being a famous singer like him. In the choir we practised for a whole term singing two songs: ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’ and ‘Yellow Submarine’. We were working towards a goal—at the end of the term the choir was going to go on the road and visit rest homes around Palmerston North to sing to the elderly.
By the way, the poor old people! Here they are paying good money to be looked after in their twilight years and this is all they have to look forward to—shitty lunchtime concerts from primary school kids. Then again, maybe the rest-home staff member in charge of entertainment intentionally books crap acts so the old people don’t feel so bad about their imminent death. If I was eighty-seven years old and the highlight of my week was a group of children butchering a Beatles classic, I would probably start to look forward to the prospect of dying.
I was so eager to be a great singer that I used to position myself in the front row of the choir and sing with as much effort as I could. Singing made me so happy. I even got a blank cassette and taped ‘Lion Sleeps Tonight’ off the radio so I could practise it at home. This was the only way to get a song back in 1982. There was no YouTube or iTunes. There was not even a music TV station. There was a half-hour chart show on TV2 every Saturday night called RTR and that was it. So most kids had a blank tape on stand-by in case a song they liked came on one of the limited range of AM music radio stations.