Carol’s Column

Mr Tannenboim

The other night, I watched a boxing documentary on TV, and thought of Mr Tannenboim, one of the most important influences in my youth.

As the youngsters danced around a punch bag, letting rip with a left hook, then right, then left again, as they perfected their foot work, learning balance, stance, and above all, to strike unexpectedly, he sprung into my memory.

When I was a kid, I belonged to a community youth club where we'd meet several times a week to listen to music, dance and sometimes go on little picnics.

Of course, the reason why my friends and I belonged, was so that we could meet boys. I attended an all-girls' school where even when we put on the annual Shakespeare play, girls played the male parts.

Then one week, one of the girls was attacked on her way to the club.

She was 14 and energetic. She managed to kick her opponent and run away– fortunately, she ran faster than he did.

And that's when Mr Tannenboim entered our lives. The next week, at the club, we were introduced to him, a small, wiry man with a wizened face. He had, we learnt, been a member of the Polish resistance during World War Two, and in his youth, he'd been a champion boxer. The story was that he'd represented Poland as a light weight.

Mr Tannenboim would, we girls were told, teach us how to defend ourselves.

A small gym was set up in one of the rooms, with, among other things, a punch bag and here, Mr Tannenboim taught us all to punch. Of course we giggled a lot, but nevertheless, this little man was determined that we'd learn basic defence skills, and within weeks, all of us skinny and plump, toothy girls, were packing a mean punch.

Mr Tannenboim also taught us survival. As happens with teenagers, we didn't take anything terribly seriously, but a few things stuck. Such as how to be resourceful, how to take advantage of the unexpected. Of course, in those days, guns and even knives were not part of the general scene.

A lifetime later, a few years ago in Durban, the ghost of Mr Tannenboim re-entered my space, so to speak. While walking down the main street, somebody attempted to grab my handbag. Without even thinking, I swung round and felled him with a vicious right hook. Well, I'd like to think I felled him with my great right punch but the reality is he probably got such a fright at somebody unlikely (I was old enough to be his mother and half his size) fighting back, that he mis-stepped and fell. I'm proud to say that I unsportingly kicked him twice while he was down (and I was wearing my daughter's wooden clogs). I'm not so proud to say that I broke my knuckle. Over the years, I'd forgotten exactly how to punch, how to hold my hand, how to swing.

No matter, he was the one lying flat and I kept my bag.

So, when I watched the boxing documentary, it occurred to me that in all the schools around South Africa, girls should be learning how to box. How to become agile on their feet, how to punch quickly and meanly.

At home, I've bought one of those punch bags on a stick, the kind that spring back at you. So, when my little granddaughter Maya, and all the other granddaughters I hope to have, come to visit, I will teach them the basics. As Mr Tannenboim would say: "Always be prepared."

It's not that I'm against dolls, but sometimes, the end justifies the means.

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