Carol’s Column

Gerrie for Prime Minister

“GERRIE FOR Prime Minister!” Loud and clear, the yell echoed through the house, causing the 76-year-old doors to shake in their misshapen frames.

“Quiet, Ma,” hissed Jamie. “You’ll wake Daddy. You’ll wake Mr Caithness. You’ll wake the whole of Parkwood.”

I wrapped my faded-pink candlewick dressing gown tightly round my bulging waistline, straightened my curlers, patted my face cream to make sure it wouldn’t slip — the cream not the face — and bellowed: “Gerrie for Prime Minister!” even louder.

Every mother has to make her stand.

Especially at 5 in the morning.

“Ma,” said Jamie last Monday, “are you going to watch the Big Fight?”

All the text books tell you to listen to your children, participate with them and they’ll turn into wanted, useful members of society, instead of dropouts.

“Of course I’m going to watch the big fight,” I said enthusiastically, “er, what big fight?”

Jamie was horrified.

“Boxing,” he said, “boxing!”

I was a little peremptory. “Huh, you know I’m a boxing enthusiast from way back,” I growled angrily.

“Did you ever hear of Ingamar Johannsen, Floyd Patterson, Sonny Liston, Rocky Marciano, Cassius Clay and big Joe Louis?”

“Did I ever? Of course I heard of them. I grew up with them. I remember when Joe Louis knocked out Max Schmeling in the 30s.”

“But you weren’t even born,” said Jamie.

“It was in my previous life then,” I said defensively. “I want you to know I had a pair of boxing gloves before my first doll. I love boxing.”

“You do,” said Jamie. “Great. We’ll wake you early on Saturday morning for the Big Fight. Gerrie Coetzee’s fighting Michael Dokes. Are you on?”

“Of course I’m on,” I said happily, “what time on Saturday morning?”

“Four am.”

Jamie grinned, his R1 000-cemented-in dental work glinting in the sun.

Which is why at 4am I was woken and crept silently out of bed lest I disturb the snoring colossus besides me.

The father of this household knows when to opt out of his paternal responsibilities, I thought to myself as I tip-toed downstairs, tripping over dogs, cats, satchels, tennis rackets, bikes, smelly takkies and all the other endearing things that turn this happy family home into a jungle.

In the lounge sat my expectant offspring minus my oldest.

“Ma,” Barry had said earlier, “I’m sleeping at Johnny Sacke tonight — we want to watch the fight in peace. I know you’ll make so much noise, we want to hear the commentary.”

I’ve spawned a viper in my bosom, I thought bitterly as he cycled off into the twilight.

At 4.01 I sat while the kids rigged up the decor.

“You’ve got to have atmosphere, Ma,” said Ralph as he strung the South African flag across the room.

Blue, orange and white streamers hung from the curtain rods and the coffee table was piled high with biltong, chips and dried wors.

At 4.20am, as I snuggled on the sofa with three children, three dogs and a cat, the set burst into life.

There, striding across the screen, came Gerrie, larger than life.

We shouted ourselves hoarse and the dogs barked in unison.

Gerrie was followed by Dokes. “Such a spindly little fellow,” I murmured to Ralph as he leapt into the ring and started throwing flowers around.

The first round was super-charged. Both fighters darting about — and then came the bell and Liquorice-the-labrador whined.

“OK, OK, I’ll let her out,” I muttered and took her into the garden where she lost herself in the compost heap.

By the time I’d returned, Nicky was in tears and Gerrie was bleeding from a cut above his eye.

“That Dokes is a savage,” I said angrily, “look what he’s done. He shouldn’t be allowed to fight. Look what he’s done to our lad.”

“Ma, that’s boxing,” said Jamie, rolling his eyes heavenwards.

What Gerrie needed was encouragement, so we blew our whistles and shouted loudly: “Sock it to him, Gerrie! Kill him! Skop him in the belly! Knock him out!”

“Ma,” said Ralph a few rounds later, I think Gerrie can hear you over there.”

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

I grabbed a hockey stick and opened it to find our next-door neighbour.

“Is all well?” he asked anxiously, “I heard dreadful noises coming from here. I wondered.”

So what can you say to your neighbour at 4.40 in the morning?

“Come in and watch the fight and have some biltong,” I smiled brightly at him.

“No, no, I can’t eat biltong with my false teeth,” he snapped, “I’m going back to bed.”

Meanwhile, in the lounge, there was a roar and Dokes dropped to his knees.

The crowd and the Lazars went wild, even Macaroni yowled her excitement.

“Have you ever seen a cat so crazy about boxing!” I screamed to Ralph.

“Ma, if you get off her tail, she’ll stop yowling,” he answered.

Fists flying, connecting and thwacking, heads rolling, the punches rained down on the two boxers.

“Dokes is recovering. Dokes is bouncing back, Dokes is going to do it!” shouted the commentator.

“Go on Gerrie, hit him, slaan hom, get him down!” we yelled.

“Ma, please stop punching me, it hurts,” said Ralph.

Round about 5am, the doorbell rang again.

Ralph grabbed a hockey stick and answered.

It was the police.

Is everything OK?” they asked solicitously, “we heard a siren.”

“That’s not a siren, that’s my mother,” replied Ralph, “come in and watch the fight.”

So they did.

Together we sat and ate biltong and dried wors and yelled like hell.

The bell rang for the 10th round.

It was nervewracking. Dokes was looking good, he was rallying. Even Liquorice-the-labrador looked despondent.

When suddenly, Gerrie’s fist shot out and caught Dokes with a thump on his head. He stumbled. Then out it shot again, and flat as an unrisen koeksuster, Dokes was out. The fight was over.

Up and down we jumped with jubilation.

“The Boksburg Bomber done it!” said one police officer, his moustache quivering with delight.

“They’ll put up a statue to him,” said the other.

“They’ll rename Boksburg after him,” said the third.

“Stay for breakfast,” I offered.

“No, Lady, we’re still on duty,” they said and disappeared into the dawn.

Meanwhile, back on the home front, silence reigned. In the lounge — three children, three dogs and a cat had fallen asleep.

I knew how they felt. Gosh what a fight. I was exhausted.

“Gerrie for Prime Minister!” I shouted elatedly.

Liquorice-the-labrador opened her eye. I could have sworn I heard her say: “You could do worse!”

■