This is a true story.
As young sport writers at the Citizen newspaper in the early eighties, my best bud and 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 all over the world when boxing still had the magical street cred that hogged newspaper front page headlines around the globe – an era before greed and stupidity effectively killed the sport.
Big G was the guy who famously coined the nickname ‘Bek van Boomstraat’ for former SA heavyweight destroyer and world title contender Kallie Knoetze, a nom de guerre eventually adopted by the whole South African pugilistic population – and then even by the foreign Press.
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.
Knoetze certainly lived up to the name. Whenever we were short of a back page lead, Big G would simply give ‘The Bek’ a ring and he would oblige by, for example, dishing out nasty insults at arch-rival Gerrie Coetzee across the Jukskei River.
Big Mike Schutte was also often at the receiving end of such tongue lashings.
This made for excellent copy, and although Knoetze’s vilifications were mostly a lot of pre-fight nonsense, the more serious Coetzee, who later became world champion, often took the comments personally, which caused huge fireworks come ring time.
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 – well, mostly beneficial for me.
I covered the preliminary fights at the big tournaments so he could focus on the main bout stuff, but this allowed me to get ringside seats for free and a pass to attend all the pre-fight interviews and sparring sessions.
And so it was that a new, young heavyweight prospect suddenly emerged, a giant who pundits described as one of the best punchers of his era.
He was a rough and tough, two-metre tall hulk and there was something seriously ominous and menacing about him. He was destined to go places.
No names, no pack drill – it would also be unfair. That he’s still alive and tracking me down quite easily, is besides the point.
In his wisdom, Big G began toying with the idea of also honouring the juggernaut with a suitable nickname a-la ‘Die Bek’.
The ‘ambling mine dump’ was a brief consideration, but then he settled on the ‘Dancing Doughnut’.
Arriving at a sparring session before his next big fight, the tank-like behemoth rumbled over to us and grabbed Big G in front of the chest.
‘You the guy calling me the Dancing Doughut?’ he thundered, eyes aflame with lightning bolts.
Thinking faster than Usain Bolt can explode out of the blocks, Big G stuttered a quick denial, vaguely blaming another out-of-town scribe for ‘such a dastardly indiscretion’.
Spreading the word
‘Jus’ sous you know, the next guy calling me a dancing doughnut will die. I’ll knock his $#&@! head off his body. Spread the word!’
‘Yah man, cool… dude. 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 to read – a broader smile than usual plastered on his face.
It read something like this:
‘Heavyweight fighter Killer ‘The Dancing Doughnut’ van Helsdingen (not his real name, of course) yesterday took exception to being called the ‘Dancing Doughnut’ during his sparring session in preparation for Saturday’s assignment against Amrican Bubba Bronski.
‘This newspaper therefore notes 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 to Big G 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, still with a broad grin.
A man of considerable intellect, the only conclusion was that our previous night’s usual Hillbrow frolics must have disturbed his feng shui, chakras, neutrons or whatever, causing him to take leave of his senses.
While certainly not the sharpest pencil in the box, there was no way Killer – or somebody in his assemblage – would not get it.
It was published.
With great trepidation I shuffled into the gym that afternoon, convinced of some brutal act of grievous bodily harm shortly to be witnessed and a firm commitment of maintaining friendship distancing.
As the Tank and his formidable entourage rumbled in, Big G raised a friendly arm.
‘Hey, Killer, did you see my article this morning?’
‘Yus, ja man! Lekker hey. Thanks a stack Geoff, you’re my mate.’
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