The Birth of Walcot ABC Boxing Club

Ernest John Rivers, always known as John ("Only my parents called me Ernest") or Jack to his close friends, was an amateur boxer in his youth. There exists somewhere a photograph in the archives of the Evening Advertiser (now the Swindon Advertiser) of him receiving a medal for his boxing endeavours. However, like me, his eyesight became an issue and, when your orbs have the focal capacity of Mr. Magoo, the punches find their target quicker than you can see them coming. And that was his boxing career over. Fast forward to the 1970's and he found himself the proud sire of one daughter and four sons.My Dad was always keen that, if any of his boys found themselves in a spot, they would be able to defend their honour. Don't get me wrong, the best advice and something he always advocated is to walk away from trouble. However, if push came to shove, he wanted to make sure that his sons had the basic skills to get their defence in first. What about his daughter, my sister, I hear you ask? Have you seen girls fight? She could handle herself. She would be all right. She kept four younger brothers in line after all!

Ken Norton v Muhammad Ali

From an early age, I liked to watch boxing and could appreciate the skill of the pugilists, bobbing, weaving, getting a jab in or an uppercut through the defence of their opponent. The heavyweight division of the 1970's had in its fold Muhammad Ali, Ken Norton, Joe Frazier and George Foreman. The fights involving these boxers were always technical, especially any featuring "The Greatest". Ali was an inspiration and I am grateful for having been alive to witness his bouts on television, especially those involving the other aforementioned protagonists. My Dad recognised my interest in the ring and encouraged me to learn the basics of the art of boxing. I am right-handed, but, due to my left eye being the stronger of the two, and having a primal urge to defend it over the much more myopic right one, my natural boxing stance is as a south paw. He taught me to keep my chin deep into my chest, tuck my elbows in to protect my ribs and to keep my guard high. Inevitably, one Christmas in the early seventies produced at the foot of my bed a boxing punch ball on a stand and two pairs of boxing gloves in the pillowcase that served as a stocking.

The competitive nature of four young boys who shared a bedroom in a mid terrace council house was

"Milling"

always to the fore in 27, Buckhurst Crescent. Games, sports - there always had to be a winner. As we got older, the playing field out the front became our Wembley, our Twickenham, our Oval and once, after the council had cut the grass and fences of cuttings had been built, our Aintree. However, it was our front garden that served as Madison Square Garden. The grass (it could never be called a lawn) served as the canvas as we, along with our friends, would take turns in sparring with one another. Without headguards or gumshields, we would pummel one another until someone threw in the towel. We would have a semblance of order with one of us acting as referee, but, more often than not, it was more like "milling" a la The Parachute Regiment than fighting under the Queensberry Rules.

If you think of the lyrics to the Madness song "Our House", that was 27, Buckhurst Crescent as we grew up in the 1970's/80's. On a sunny day, the garden was more akin to a school playground than a place of peace and tranquillity in which to appreciate the wonders of nature.When the boxing gloves came out, everyone wanted to have a go. Soon, the sound of fists flying, padded leather connecting with head and torso, and the referee trying to stop the bout degenerating into a free for all rang around the garden. On one particular day, my younger brother, Paul, took on all comers and he found himself facing the imposing form of Harold Scott. Harold was one of the youngest members of our group, but he was rather big for his age and seemed to be more than an adequate match for the youngest of the Rivers brood. However, being of a large frame, Harold's style was that of a plodding Frank Bruno compared to the fast and slick manner of my brother who was more a Sugar Ray Leonard. As Paul danced around Harold, slipping in and out of his guard and easily landing punch after punch on our young friend, his dad, Harry Scott came walking past the garden.  

The Scotts lived just around the corner in Cherbury Walk. Harry Scott was an imposing figure and his

Joel Garner

Afro-Caribbean accent was distinctive amongst the babble of Swindonian boys in our garden. He would often come and join in our games of cricket encouraging his son, Harold, to "Get behind the wicket". Harold would don the wicketkeeper's  gloves (we didn't have any pads) and set himself behind the stumps and trepidatiously await the fast delivery from his father. Harry would take an enormous run up and bowl in the style of Joel Garner; the batsman at the crease would sensibly duck or step aside to let the cricket ball whistle pass, but poor Harold, being the one between a quick retrieval of the ball or seeing it disappear swiftly down the road, would have to try and catch the missile launched at him by his dad. In this guise of tough love from father to son, it was with interest that Harry watched my brother jabbing and punching his son with no real response from Harold. Finally, having seen his son take one punch too many, Harry called for the fight to stop put on my brother's gloves and proceeded to give Harold a lesson in the art of boxing. On the one hand, it was difficult to watch Harold take a bit of a pasting from his dad, however lighthearted the intent, but it was immediately obvious that Harry was quite a skillful boxer in his own right.  

Once the lesson had been taught and Harold waited for the stars to disappear from his eyes, we fell into conversation with Harry. It turned out that he had been a boxing coach during his younger days when living in the West Indies. He asked about the whereabouts of the nearest boxing club, but, at that time, there wasn't one nearby. He said that he would like to start one up, so we suggested that he approach the local Boys Club that was down the street to see if he could set one up there. In its early years, when I was a babe in arms, Walcot Boys Club had been home to amateur boxers, but in the late seventies and early eighties, it was home to a football team only. The boxing session finished, our friends all made their way home to tea and the conversation with Harry was all but forgotten.

A few weeks later, as another sparring session was under way, Harry came by with an old friend of his, Paddy Burke. Paddy was an old Irishman, short, but from his looks and grizzled demeanour, you could tell that his life had been full of adventure. As we stopped our boxing and began to chat with them, we learned that Paddy had seen active service in the army and that he had been his platoon's designated grenade thrower being able to toss a grenade further underarm than any of his comrades could in the usual overarm manner. He enthralled us with demonstrations of his prowess by tossing our cricket ball halfway across Buckhurst field with his unorthodox technique. Further discussion led us to discovering that he too had been a boxing coach and was keen to set up a gym with Harry.

Walcot Boys Club was our sanctuary in our early/mid teens; with no money on the hip and the streets cold and dark on a winter's evening, the white, breeze block building offered the chance to spend time in the evening with your mates in some degree of comfort. The sports hall was ideal for five-a-side football and had a trampoline which allowed us to perform acrobatic skills which would have the health and safety brigade of today shutting the place down quicker than you could say Jack Robinson. The place was rundown and with us freeloading (we couldn't afford to pay subs), and no investment from the Council, it was only a matter of time before it would close. But, in those days, such problems were not our concern. Two stalwarts of the community who put their heart and soul into providing football coaching to the local boys were the late Pat "Far Post" Walsh and Brian Roberts. The Roberts family consisted of five brothers who were experienced boxers and it was Brian who we approached with the idea of helping Harry and Paddy set up a boxing club. Naturally, Brian was all for it and a trial session was set up.

At first, it was just the lads from the local area who turned up to see what the new boxing club could offer. Hurvin Morgan is a year younger than me, but we were about the same size, Donning the gloves and under the steely gaze of Paddy, we set to. Paddy was impressed by our boxing skills and asked if we had any previous training, which we hadn't. However, with my poor eyesight, I was never going to be able to progress with any sort of boxing career, and getting hit on the nose hurt, but Hurvin went on to try his hand professionally under the guise of "Kid Sylvester". Word got about, the sessions became more slick and soon Walcot ABC Boxing Club was an entity. Everything was going smoothly until, bereft of maintenance, one morning after a particularly nasty storm, the sports hall's roof leaked and the flooded floor warped as the wooden flooring dried out. Sensing the death of the boxing club, we turned to Peter Neal, landlord of The County Ground Hotel and ex-boxer and whom we knew through using the pub as a base for our after match "warm downs". He had a gym set up in the old coaching stables and it was an ideal place for the fledgling boxing club to set up home and where it still resides today.

The sparring session that sparked the idea of setting up a boxing club took place in the summer of 1980, when Punk Rock was on the wane, and the Mod and Skinhead revival was in full swing. It is heartening to know that Walcot ABC Boxing Club is still around nearly forty years later, thriving and providing an outlet for the local community to get fit, learn the art of boxing and have the opportunity to take part in competition. And to think, it all started with me receiving two pairs of boxing gloves one cold Christmas morning in the early 1970's.