Ted

I sighed when I read the few lines whichTold of his demise –A shock to go at only sixty five.

I was once quite proud to boast of goingTo his gym, of sparring with him,Hitting a heavy bag, skipping

With a rope in spite of the cigsAnd the lard on my aging waistWhich signalled a fast-losing race.

Ted smoked far more than meBut he had boxed as a kid in the ringOf the fairground booths where nothing

Like a foul could help the poor punterFrom taking his fiver, his prizeAnd his joy and his pluck to survive.

To survive for three rounds was a feat,Old Ted used to say, for he’d eat them aliveWith relish and skill and his blows would drive

Them away from the dreams of being tough.Even muscle-bound thugs tattooedWith their blood knew they’d been used

By a boxer like Ted, sparkling with skillAnd the threat of the sack if he lostTo a mug who deserved to be toast.

He had fought as a pro and retiredFrom the game with the scarsOf the pug and the Brando-like dreams

Of the man who’d missed being a contender.Ted wouldn’t quit- for him no answer –The same with the cigs, but the ref cried: cancer.