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The Parrsboro Boxing ClubBruce GrahamNovel Order this book from:
Nimbus Publishing (or 1-800-Nimbus9) |
![[Cover of The Parrsboro Boxing Club.]](../images/1895900352.jpg)
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They are all at the wharf to say good-bye. His mother, with tears in her eyes, hugs him as Mouse tells him to remember them all when he's world champ. Dewey smiles. Danny is holding Heather's hand while wishing him good luck. As Duff Martin slips the ropes and his sloop begins to move away, he looks at Heather. For an instant their eyes lock. The way she looks that morning stays with him.
Duff has chosen to run away. Run from his father who is already dead and from Heather who he already loves. Four days later, into the dark and choppy waters of the Gulf of Maine, he knows running was the wrong choice.
The Parrsboro Boxing Club is six years in the life of Duff Martin. In 1954, Duff is sixteen and getting ready for the most important fight of his life or at least his farther's life. Duff is fighting for his father, a man driven by the bitter passion to make his son a world champion. Increasingly, Duff is caught between his parents as his farther's drive intensifies and his mother's concerns deepens. It's on the water that Duff finds a refuge.
Trying to escape things he can't understand, Duff sails down the Bay of Fundy into the swirling black waters of the Gulf of Maine, then on to Boston and down the Jersey coast into Delaware Bay. He's boarded by the US Coast Guard, rammed in a rainstorm by a tug boat and encounters an amazing range of unforgettable characters. He is influenced by the nautical wisdom of the coastal people of Maine and the hard-nosed gangsters of Boston. He faces the fastest man in the world and experiences the kindness of a Mexican immigrant, trying for one last big fight.
Eventually, Duff returns to Parrsboro. He has tasted defeat but also discovered himself and vows to start things right by winning back the girl he loves. But boxing is the only thing he knows and circumstances draw him back to the ring and leads him back under the spell of his father -- even from the grave, his father seems to hold a power over him.
The Parrsboro Boxing Club is about a young man's search for his true self and his gradual realization the only dreams you should follow are your own.
If you could look down from a great mountain on Parrsboro you would see the salt water snaking its way for a mile from the Minas Basin to the centre of the town. You would see the one main street -- the commercial district -- where on Saturday nights the stores stay open until nine thirty and folks shop for Sunday dinner. Standing on that mountain you could see the steeples of four churches and plenty of white houses partially obscured by maple trees. The town of two thousand is surrounded by the Cobequid Mountains, a low range of wooded hills. White and yellow birch and maple trees mingle with evergreens in these hills and small brooks pour over steep ravines turning into waterfalls. In mid-air, their falling water can catch the sun's rays, producing tiny rainbows just before the water splashes into pools and changes back to a brook rushing along the forest floor, always moving towards the sea.
Parrsboro is one of the five lean towns of Cumberland County. Of these towns ,Springhill is the best known because of its misfortunes. Twice in the 1950s Springhill was the focus of world attention when its coal mines rocked and bumped. People from all over the county came to Springhill. They came into town driving past the union hall and the houses coated with coal dust, to stand and wait by the mouth of the pit. They waited in the rain sometimes and in bleak chilly mornings as the Salvation Army served coffee. Day after day they'd come and wait to see if the miners would get out alive. Some did. Many didn't.
Twenty eight miles away our town's industry had already disappeared by the time of Springhill's sorrows. Parrsboro still had its bragging rights, something no other community could claim: the highest rise and fall of tides in the world. In the morning, boats are riding high in the water. A few hours later those same boats are sitting on the bottom, their keels kissing the gritty sand. Twice a day the tide reaches its high water mark and twice a day the light house is surrounded by miles of mud flats. The water has disappeared. What has also disappeared are ships that once made our little town a maritime trading centre. Beautiful barks and the brigs, and later two and three masted schooners once dotted our horizon, their billowing sails a monument to the capitalism that carried Nova Scotia coal and lumber all over the world.
It was in Parrsboro my father started his boxing club. He said it was a chance for young men to learn pugilistic skills: the art of the bob and weave, the jab, the hook , the counter punch and, most important of all, footwork. Over the years, the club attracted many of the towns young men. Most dropped out, unable to take the training and my farther's verbal barrage. In his eyes you were either committed or you were wasting his time. The pressure was extreme, the practice long, the training hard. Twice a week there was sparring and on Saturday there was roadwork, starting with a slow run around the town's perimeter, known as the four mile square.
He usually ran with us even though he had a bad leg. Many a citizen of Parrsboro would unexpectedly come upon this strange parade of steamy adolescents led by a limping man whose disability forced him to leap slightly upward at every step as if he were trying to snatch something out of the air in front of him. He was usually unshaven, white stubble on his beet-red face. As we ran he offered no pep talk, no calls of encouragement. The only sound was our hard breath mingled with almost inaudible sighs and wheezes in the hurtful sucking of hot air. Some couldn't go on and staggered to the side of the road. There were sprained ankles and a broken leg when an exhausted Baxter Hebb fell into a ditch.
Parents complained and took their children out of the club. But a few remained. Hard core and hard driven, they survived the roadwork and sparring and my farther's harangues. I don't really think my father cared if anyone stayed in the club as long as I was there. The club was really his way of making sure I was ready.
Given our training, it wasn't surprising that in competitions the Parrsboro Boxing Club did well. The club got mentioned in the sports pages of the Halifax and Moncton newspapers. Even critics of Alex Martin grudgingly admitted the boxing club gave the town a certain renown.
My mother cared nothing for the town's claim to fame. In a heated arguments her voice would never get as loud as his, but it had a painful sob to it as she accused him of torturing me. In a way, I guess she was right but I preferred to endure the torture and win my farther's approval. I never complained. Complaining would bring on more hostility and seeing them argue and hearing my mothers sobs was hurtful.
My boxing career began early. Not only was I exposed to the roadwork and sparring, but I'd box with my father every day until my mother would force a temporary stop to my training. These lapses never lasted long and within a day or two I'd be back at the punching bag or boxing with him in the home-made ring in our basement. Once my mother was so adamant that we stop that she threatened to leave him and take me with her. That halted my training for two whole weeks. I was eight years old.
Bruce Graham is also the author of: Diligent River Daughter, Anchorman, Dream of the Dove, and Ivor Johnson's Neighbours.