The big trucks came in one after the other, crunching across the loose gravel of the supply depot. The vehicles from Four Field Regiment, One Battalion and Two-Four Battalions were ready for the big field exercise to come. The supply depot outside Lavarack Barracks, near Townsville was abuzz with activity. Trucks in, trucks out, cargoes loaded to the brim. But what was going on in the canteen was totally different. Nobody was talking about war exercises, fuel supplies and ration packs. What really mattered was the big one in Africa; Muhammad Ali v George Foreman. A heavyweight title fight in Kinshasa, Zaire. Right in the heart of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.
The overwhelming consensus was that Ali was going to get his backside kicked by the much younger and stronger Foreman. Nobody said anything differently, except me. All I said was that you never know with Muhammad Ali. Well, that did it. The bets were on. Open a book said some corporal. I’ll do it, said another. It was me, Private Nobody against the rest. All wanted to bet on a Foreman win. Everyone was an expert, some even predicting the round in which Big George would knock out Ali.
A corporal called Barry held the book and the money. It went like this. Somebody put on money for Foreman to win and I matched it with an equal amount. And how the money flooded in. Everyone was confident of a killing. In the end there was over five hundred dollars in the book, half of it mine as I matched all the bets. Bear in mind this is 1974 and for around five thousand dollars you could buy a house.
The day of the fight arrived and this being Townsville, in which nothing of importance outside of Townsville happened or mattered, we didn’t get the fight on television unlike most of the country. All we got was half-baked news flashes on the local radio station that gave a brief summary of each round. Through all this the trucks kept on rolling in to be filled with fuel drums, ammunition and the ubiquitous ration packs.
So what was happening in Africa? The radio summaries kept saying that Big George was pummelling Ali on the ropes, round after round. Everyone had an expectant grin on their faces while loading the trucks. It all seemed a matter of time. Easy money to come.
I’m not certain what I was doing through this, but I know I wasn’t listening to the radio. I guessed that whatever happened I would hear about it soon enough. Or so I thought.
Time passed, but nothing happened. All had gone quiet. Surely the fight was over by now? The guys were still loading the trucks with nobody seemingly interested in what was happening in Zaire. Tentatively I ventured to find out what had happened. Who had won? What was the result? I’m not sure who told me but the winner was Ali; he had won by a knockout in the eighth round. No wonder everyone was behaving as though nothing was amiss.
The Barry guy was true to his word and in about half-an-hour he gave me the money and the book in which all the bets had been recorded. When you earn about eighty dollars a fortnight, the sudden windfall of two hundred and fifty dollars looks rather sweet. But this all changed the next day.
One by one the wise monkeys who had bet on a Foreman win wanted their money back. The excuses were worthy of a schoolboy giving an explanation to his teacher why he hadn’t done his homework.
The excuses ranged from, my wife didn’t know anything about it and I’ll get in trouble if she finds out, to that’s my weeks drinking money, to it was only a joke bet and the killer one, don’t be a arsehole and take our money. I was confronted by excuses, one after another, all day long. So what do you do? Fight or flight?
I chose flight. I relented and gave it all back. And without shame they filed into the office section where I worked and collected their bets. And those that didn’t ask for their bets back I gave it anyway.
A few weeks later I was gone, on my way to Brisbane for discharge, my time in the army over. I was glad to leave the supply depot and all those who worked there.
Years later I told the story to my grown sons and one day about a year ago a large parcel arrived at the house. Inside was a huge glass framed photograph of the Ali v Foreman fight and a boxing glove signed by the two men. It was sent by my eldest son.
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