Chris Eubank: The Autobiography. Chris Eubank

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СКАЧАТЬ boxing and that is why people said that I had a very unusual style. I had learned the skills in the gym, then I put my own flavour in there with the martial arts, the stances, the angles. It was a complex hybrid of all the arts with regard to the foot movements and my personality.

      I must reiterate that the actual striking did not draw from any of the other martial arts, because boxing has it all in its own manual. Plus, how you deal with punishment is essential to your success. Absorbing punches without telegraphing pain is another skill that only comes with repetition and training. You stand in front of a fighter and leave your abdomen exposed, allowing him to punch it time and time again. Initially, it is agony and your face contorts with the pain, but over the months and years of doing this you learn to absorb the punch and not even flicker when contact is made. It hurts your stomach, but you learn not to hold your breath because if you do that you’ll get tired. You’ve got to learn how to breathe and be tense at the same time. You see a heavy shot coming in, you brace into it. It is instinct gleaned from repetition in the gym. You condition yourself; you mask the gut instinct to grimace or wince, because otherwise your opponent knows you are hurt and will come on harder. If you show pain, you will probably lose the fight. The best boxers are those who can absorb punishment; being able to give it out is only half the equation.

      This philosophy of fighting extends to your mental attitude as well as your physical conditioning. People assume you go into the ring prepared to take a life. Incorrect. You have to go into the ring fully prepared to surrender your life, if that is what is required. In fact, not only did I go into the ring thinking: you may damage me, you may even kill me, but I used to think: if you can do that to me, I will appreciate it. But know this: you are going to have to take me because I am not giving up, ever.

      If this sounds extreme, let me clarify my position. It is not that you consciously think you will die every time you step into the four-cornered circle. It is not that prevalent. Your strength of mind and resolve of character are prepared to face this possibility. You don’t think you will die, because you have a faith in your ability and because it is all about a positive mental attitude. You must always think positively. As will become apparent from my story as it unfolds, it all comes down to one deep-rooted factor: integrity.

PART TWO

CHAPTER SIX

       HOMESICK

      I returned to the UK in January 1988 to make my home there. I came back principally because I wanted to be with my brothers, whom I still adored. My first fight back in England was on 15 February of that year, against Darren Parker in Copthorne, whom I stopped in the first round. Then came a fellow called Winston Burnett, who was target practice, but he would have beaten me if I hadn’t known what I was doing. The next fight was a mismatch, against Michael Justin, who was supposed to have ability. He was hard and willing but did not have the ability to deliver shots. He showed lots of heart coming forward, swinging at me, but it was no contest. Two more middle-round stoppages against Greg George and Steve Aquilina and suddenly, I was 10 and 0. Over the next 24 months, I was to fight 11 times on my long haul towards a title shot.

      At first, however, it was tough. I had no money and lived in a tiny bedsit. Perhaps inevitably, I found myself occasionally drawn back into a life of shoplifting. Before I had left for New York, I’d been in many amazing chases with the police, but perhaps my finest was a two-day pursuit in mid-1988. It was an absolute classic. We had hired a taxi as usual to take us around our targets and he then escorted us while we took the gear around all the pubs in the Walworth Road or the Unity Centre in Peckham. That morning, the car that arrived was a big burgundy Granada, driven by this fat Turkish man, aged about 27. He picked me up at around 8 o’clock in the morning and we set off to collect Beaver. We drove to south London and headed for a large department store. On this particular occasion, I didn’t take anything but Beaver stole a leather jacket. As he walked past me he said, ‘It’s hot,’ meaning we were being watched by store security. So we started walking briskly (but not without style, even under pressure) towards the exit. It seemed at first that we had succeeded in not drawing attention to ourselves, but suddenly Beaver flicked his fingers in the air, which was the sign for us to take off.

      We split up instinctively. Beaver ran off in one direction and I headed for the car park, running up to the top floor where the Granada taxi was waiting. I said, ‘It’s hot, it’s on top, we’re being chased. I’ll get in the boot.’ The Turkish driver said, ‘No, don’t do that, just sit in the back seat and act normal.’ I should have gone with my gut instinct but instead I sat in the back. We started to descend the spiral ramp that led to the exit, down and round, down and round, all the time waiting for someone to stop us. We pulled around this final corner just before the ticket barrier, thinking we were going to escape when, dismayed, I saw two policemen stopping all the cars and checking the occupants. The taxi driver said, ‘Just stay where you are, you will be alright, they won’t know it’s you.’ I waited anxiously for our turn in line and decided to lie down on the seat. When the policeman stopped us, he looked in the back at me and said, ‘That’s him.’

      ‘Step out of the car, please,’ he said to me. I got out and immediately started explaining to the senior officer, saying, ‘Listen, you’ve got the wrong man. I haven’t got anything, look in my bags.’ Unfortunately, the security guard from the store confirmed that I was one of the culprits. At that point, I played an old trick I’d learned from my brother David, which he always used to great effect. I began to act frantic, severely agitated. ‘I’ve got heart problems, I’ve got stress problems, this is making me unwell. I’ll take you to court.’ I started shouting and ranting at this officer, trying to work my way out of the predicament. After about ten minutes, I just started to think I was getting somewhere when the officer, in a truly disparaging tone, said, ‘Will you just shut up!’ So that was that, nicked.

      I sat down in the police Rover and slid my way across the seat. Already my mind was racing – it was a Friday and I knew that I would spend the weekend at the station and it would be Monday morning before I’d see daylight. I had a blues to attend on the Saturday which was going to be fun: good music, lots of girls, drinking and ‘crubbing’ (close dancing). That, I wasn’t going to miss.

      More worryingly, I knew that as soon as they put my name in the central computer, it would alert them to the fact that I had jumped bail from the gentleman’s outfitter’s theft, where I had been caught on the M23. Then it would be prison and who knows what future for me. This was a desperate predicament. I had to escape.

      The obvious thought was to jump out of the car, at high speed if necessary. As we slowed down to drive around this flyover, I tugged on the door latch but the child-lock was on. So now I was really in trouble. A change of tack was needed. I started to apologise to the policemen in the car. ‘Officer, sorry about my behaviour earlier, I was out of order.’ I continued being Mr Polite all the way back to the station, in full charm mode. They were very much more relaxed by the time the car pulled up.

      Don’t forget, I am an unbeaten professional boxer at this point and training almost every day, so I am the fittest man on the planet – and I do not say that in jest! The police officer’s grip on my arm had slackened just a little, so that when he turned away from me to unlock the over-sized lock on the door to the cells, I pulled free and I was gone, off like a bullet. The only problem was, I was wearing my cherished £140 snake-skin shoes, which I had bought from Panache in Walworth Road. As stylish as they were, they were not best suited to sprinting, not least because they were dress shoes with smooth, wafer-thin soles.

      The officer was, of course, coming after me, so I ran around a car. He stood one side of the car, hands on the roof, staring at me. He said, ‘Now don’t be stupid, son,’ and, voice brimming with СКАЧАТЬ