Given the positive response to my previous column on hilarious moments in sport, I take the liberty of sharing another “golden oldie”.
As young sport writers at the Citizen newspaper in the early eighties, my colleague at the time, Geoff van Heerden, was no doubt the best boxing scribe in the country.
I say this without fear of contradiction. He had an open line to all the big wig promoters, trainers and fighters the world over.
He was the guy who famously coined the nom de guerre “Bek van Boomstraat” for former SA heavyweight destroyer and world title contender Kallie Knoetze.
Just by way of explanation, Knoetze and his camp went Muhammad Ali-style (big mouth syndrome to drum up publicity), and their gym was situated in Pretoria’s Boom Street.
Although my forte was more vested in rugby, athletics and so on, I have always been a keen fight fan, and Big G and I had a mutually beneficial arrangement – I covered the preliminary fights at major tournaments so he could focus on the main bout stuff. This allowed me free ringside seats and passes to attend all the pre-fight interviews and sparring sessions.
And so it was that a new young heavyweight prospect emerged, a giant who pundits described as one of the most devastating punchers of his era.
He was a menacing two-metre tall hulk and was destined to go places.
It would be unkind to name him, so we’ll call him Tank Donderbuis.
In his wisdom, Big G began toying with the idea of also honouring the juggernaut with a suitable nom de guerre. “Ambling mine dump” was a brief consideration, but then he settled on ‘Dancing Doughnut’.
Arriving at a sparring session before a big fight, Tank the behemoth rumbled over and grabbed Geoff by the chest.
“You the guy calling me the Dancing Doughut?” he thundered. Thinking faster than Usain Bolt exploding out of the blocks, Big G stuttered a quick denial, vaguely blaming another out-of-town scribe for “such a dastardly indiscretion”.
‘Jus’ sous you know, the next guy calling me that will get his $#&@! head knocked off his body. Spread the word!”
“Point taken…” Big G retorted with a nifty rapper move thrown in for effect.
Back at the office he typed furiously and handed me the copy – a broader smile than usual plastered on his face.
It read something like this: “Heavyweight fighter Tank ‘The Dancing Doughnut’ Donderbuis yesterday took exception to being called the ‘Dancing Doughnut’ during his sparring session in preparation for Saturday’s assignment against American Bubba Bronski.
‘We note that the ‘Dancing Doughnut’ takes umbrage at being called the ‘Dancing Doughnut’, and will henceforth refrain from calling the ‘Dancing Doughnut’ the ‘Dancing Doughnut….’
OK, you get my drift….
I pointed out that if he was serious about publishing such a suicide note, I would feel compelled to temporarily suspend our long-lasting friendship – at least until after the next afternoon’s sparring session when his $#&@! head was surely going to be torn from his torso.
Although at 1.90m I’ve never been called ‘Shorty’ by anyone, standing head-to-head with the killer doughnut instantly turned one into mouse mode, a fact I strongly emphasised along with the sentiment that maniacal self-harm tendencies on his part had no right of call on compassionate brothers in arms’ expectations.
‘Relax, he won’t get it,’ Big G assured. A man of considerable intellect, the only conclusion was that our previous night’s usual Hillbrow think tank gathering at the pub must have disturbed his feng shui, chakras, neutrons or whatever, causing him to take leave of his senses.
Boxers in general are not rocket scientists, but I reckoned there was no way Tank or somebody in his assemblage would not get it.
With great trepidation I shuffled into the gym that afternoon with a firm commitment of maintaining friendship distancing.
As the Tank and his formidable entourage rumbled in, Big G raised a friendly arm.
“Hey, Tank, did you see my article this morning?”
”Yus, ja man! Lekker hey. Thanks a stack Geoff, you’re my mate.”
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