Blood Sport
by Paul Lockey

I was six when Dad first introduced me to kiddie fighting, and I won my first contest before I reached the age of seven. The odds against me that night were such that Dad's winnings enabled him to retire early from the mill. The way I saw it, my ten year old could do exactly the same for me, and I told Sean my plans for him as we sparred together in the garden one day.

His enthusiasm was no less than I expected. 'Wow! That's great!' he said. Having already watched several kiddie fights he reckoned he knew the score and was eager to try his hand. As Sean's mentor, it was my painful duty to get rid of his illusions of grandeur.

The last thing he expected was for me to knock the wind right out of him with a sharp jab to his solar plexus. 'Wakey wakey!' I laughed, when he doubled up and dropped to his knees.

Sean's face turned grey as he fought desperately to suck air back into his lungs, and when he failed to get up on my command I gave him an uppercut which sent him sprawling backwards. 'Don't leave yourself open,' I then said to him as I followed up with a well aimed boot to his testicles. 'Believe me son, this is nothing to what your opponent will do if you give him half a chance. Now stop whining and get yourself washed, there's a good lad. You don't want to go upsetting your poor mum by crying now, do you?'

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I began Sean's training in earnest.

Barefoot running was just the thing for toughening up his young feet, and regardless of the weather we started each day with a minimum of three miles over all kinds of terrain. 'Come on, never mind the dog shit,' I'd say to him whenever he started flagging. As his stamina increased, so too did the weights he wore on wrists and ankles in order to build up his strength, and over a period of six months or so the distance covered was raised to a maximum of five miles a day.

Just as an engine requires the correct fuel, so too does the body. Unfortunately far too many kids gorge themselves on fast food these days, and they grow soft and flabby through watching too much television instead of taking exercise. As far as Sean was concerned, all the fatty-sugary junk foods which your average youngster takes for granted were strictly verboten. Instead, Sean's meals were prepared by myself using only organically farmed produce, and supplemented with a high protein milk shake plus anabolic steroids to increase his muscle mass. Tea, coffee, fizzy drinks and alcohol too were off the menu; only bottled water or freshly squeezed tomato juice were allowed to pass his lips.

As I've already said, Sean was a cocky little so and so, and my concern was to inspire without making him over-confident. As an aid to motivation I let him watch videos of all the great martial artists; Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan,
Steven Segal... I also made him carry a sparkplug in his coat pocket as a constant reminder of the power residing in each and everyone of us; something which can be utilised to great effect in times of need. Stories like the old Italian woman who single-handed lifted up a car in order to free someone trapped underneath, or the Fijians who walk barefoot across red hot coals without so much as a blister may sound fantastic but one only has to read the papers to see what traumas the human body is capable of withstanding. Mind you, I could scarcely believe it myself sometimes what Sean managed to endure... The boy was a natural, believe me!

I had a variety of tried and trusted toughening methods which I employed to good effect.

A personal favourite of mine is the makiwara, which is basically a wooden post covered with coconut matting and fixed so that it stands upright; the idea being simply to attack the thing using hands, feet, knees, elbows, head, shins and forearms. Poor Sean was a mess of cuts and bruises after he tried it the first time, so I made him practice for up to half an hour each day and eventually he was able to strike the makiwara full force without injuring himself.

A bucket of sand is an excellent device for toughening and strengthening hands and fingers: each day Sean chopped, stabbed and scrunched the sand over and over until his skin was raw and his fingernails split, but in no time at all he developed fists of molybdenum steel that were capable of smashing wooden planks and delivering a bone-crushing grip. 'I think we can lay off the bucket for now, son,' I said with genuine humour one day after he almost broke my jaw during an impromptu sparring session. Jesus - that right hook of his would have floored Iron Mike Tyson himself! Needless to say, I was obliged to reciprocate just so Sean didn't get too carried away.

With circuit training I believe one cannot be too creative, and certainly with Sean the results were spectacular. I had him doing all kinds of push-ups; on his finger tips, inclined, vertical, you name it - and I stamped on his fingers whenever he failed to give it one hundred percent effort. I've always favoured rabbit hopping for strengthening thigh muscles, though with Sean I'd swipe at his ankles with a broom stick in order to encourage him to jump higher. As for sit ups, I'd kneel astride his ankles and pummel his stomach hard whilst he performed his reps. Jumping up and down
on his stomach as he lay on the floor was an alternative toning exercise. Skipping, stepping, katas and dumbell exercises were all included for variety, and I changed the circuits every six to eight weeks to prevent staleness
setting in. Boredom and over-training is the enemy of all athletes, and the last thing I wanted was for Sean to suffer burnout.

With the daily injections of growth hormones, and frequent sparring in order to develop his fighting techniques, I reckoned my scientific training regimen would see Sean ready to compete before the year was out. The only other thing he required was plenty of rest and recuperation after each session.

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Sean's moment of truth finally arrived one bitterly cold November night, and despite the long drive we were both feeling very tense when I parked the Escort alongside the forty or so other cars on Blackthorn Farm. It didn't help matters knowing we were almost an hour late.

Pete Hathersgill, the event organiser, came running over.

'Fucking hell, lads. What kept you? The punters are getting restless in there.'

I grinned. 'Sorry mate. You know what that M6 is like. Still, we're here now.'

Despite the near-freezing temperature inside Pete's barn, the atmosphere was incredible. 'Come on, son. Don't let them get to you,' I said to encourage Sean as we pushed our way through the baying crowd.

We climbed into the ring. As Sean stripped off his track suit I did a quick head count and estimated around 100 spectators all eager for blood. 'Not a bad turn out, eh?' Pete said to me, unable to disguise his pleasure.

For obvious reasons, kiddie fights are not advertised, and in order to see one you need to be invited. Despite a long history in the UK there are currently less than two dozen serious contenders and a few hundred or so devoted fans, and in a typical year one can only expect maybe four or five events to be staged. In theory, anyone under 16 can compete and combatants can expect to receive severe injuries. Fatalities are not uncommon. Betting is ferocious, and tens of thousands of pounds are likely to change hands at a single meeting. The whole thing is about as underground as you can get, highly organised and tightly controlled. Just talking about it to outsiders can be very dangerous to one's health, if you know what I mean.

I could feel Sean trembling as I massaged his shoulders. 'That's the lad you have to beat. Take a good look at him,' I said, nodding at the freckle-faced 12 year old seated in the opposite corner.

Sean's blond opponent was the youngest and hitherto untested member of the renowned Smithers clan. The bookies favourite, Andy Smithers looked relaxed and confident as he listened to his father's last minute pep talk. Rumour had it Old Man Smithers routinely buggerd his sons in order to make them mean and keen, and judging by the way Andy was glaring at my Sean I could well believe it. Personally I can't be doing with all that disgusting queer shit, though many trainers do swear by it.

Wearing his referees hat, Pete ordered all non-fighters out of the ring and introduced the two contestants. 'Remember lads,' he said to them. 'Give it all you've got and may the best man win.' I had no doubts that my son would put up a good fight, but I had staked my life's savings on the outcome. Watching from Sean's corner, my nerves were such I had to stand with my buttocks clenched to avoid shitting myself.

From the outset, it was clear that Sean was outclassed. Time and again, Andy breached Sean's defences with a flurry of kicks and punches. I couldn't believe it. 'Come on! I yelled, alarmed that my son appeared to have no answer to the dazzling combinations which Andy was able to put together.

With each successive attack Sean was left looking more bloody and bruised, and I began to fear for him.

'Get up!' I shouted, when he was suddenly felled with a classic backfist. On hands and knees, Sean looked at me in disbelief as blood poured from his smashed nose.

Andy followed up with an axe kick. Intended for the back of Sean's neck, his heel came down on the shoulder blade instead. The bone fractured with a loud cracking noise, and Sean started screaming. He struggled in vain to get
up as Andy delivered more punishing kicks to his ribs and thighs. Unable to escape the merciless assault, Sean curled up in a ball in order to protect himself.

I wanted to save my boy, but the rules forbade any interference and I could only watch helpless. The crowd went wild, urging Andy on as he kicked and stomped Sean to a bloody pulp. The boy was like something possessed and I
screamed at Pete to do something. When Pete eventually jumped into the ring to declare Andy the winner, he gave me a pitying look and I took it as my cue to drag Sean out of there.

Oblivious to the onlookers who gathered round, I held Sean in my arms and did my best to comfort him.

The left side of his head was caved in so badly it looked more like a deflated football, and I could see pinkish-grey brain tissue beneath the floating skull fragments. His left eye dangled from its empty socket, his nose and most of his teeth were missing.

His breathing rattled as his rib-punctured lungs filled with blood. He was barely alive, yet he was trying to tell me something. Leaning closer, I heard him whisper just one word: 'Sorry.'

I started sobbing, unable to contain myself.

Pete and Old Man Smithers came over to offer me their condolences.

'Sorry my lad got carried away back there,' Smithers said awkwardly. 'It's the PCP. You know, Angel Dust... I give some to all my boys before a fight.'

'Thanks,' I mumbled, greatful to him for the unexpected tip.

'Here,' said Pete. 'It's only right that you should do it. Come on, you don't want the lad to suffer any more.'

Pete was right. It was the least I could do for Sean.

Accepting the revolver he offered, I placed the barrel against my son's head, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening, and when Sean's flesh and blood sprayed my face I almost vomited.

The hushed crowd began to chunter and disperse as Sean's body was placed in a bag ready for disposal. 'Don't worry,' Pete reassured me. 'My pigs'll take good care of him. By the way, I almost forgot...'

He reached inside his jacket and produced a thick wad of cash. 'Your winnings,' he explained, pressing the money into my hand when I failed to take it.

©2001 Paul Lockey

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