In 1968, I was about to turn 11. Our family was living on a public housing estate in Richmond, consisting of row upon row of low-rise flats. I came from a boxing family. My great uncle, Les Moodie, had been the Australian bantamweight champion during the first world war. My father loved boxing and had taught his children, including his daughters, to fight. On a warm February night of that year, our family huddled around a radio and listened to the broadcast of the world bantamweight title fight, from Tokyo. The defending champion, Masahiko “Fighting” Harada was up against the great Aboriginal boxer Lionel Rose.
My father loved Rose and had closely followed his career. The tension in my father’s body was on display that night. He leaned forward in his chair throughout the bout, ducking and weaving in support of his hero. At the end of the fight the judges’ cards were tallied and Rose was declared the winner. A roar exploded across the estate, in each family flat, throughout every building. The moment was euphoric, a celebration I doubted I would ever experience again – until a September night in 2000.
