ON THE WALLABY- 30th April 2006

” He who has something to sell should never whisper down a well”- a saying that ran in the Fairfield Grange Merino stud advertisement in the now defunct publication (and which was Australia’s pastoral bible for generations) “The Pastoral Review”

JIMMY SHARMAN, ONE OF AUSTRALIA’S GREAT SHOWGROUND TROOPERS PASSES ON.

“Hoolah, hoolah, hoolah, beat the drum Sambo. Let’s see who’s here who can take my boys on and go a round or two for a pound or two???”

I was greatly saddened this week when I heard that the great Aussie showman Jimmy Sharman had passed away at age 94 for even thinking of his name and his famous Jimmy Sharman boxing troupe brought childhood memories racing back to me.

Just how many country showgrounds across eastern Australia, at their annual show, had blokes, young and old, up and rearin’ to go when they heard the booming voice of boxing tent owner and raconteur Jimmy Sharman echo across the showgrounds, will never be known but it would be in the thousands.

Jimmy was born in the Riverina town of Narrandera, famous for its magnificent Plain Trees in 1912 and lived what could only be called an ”extraordinary life”. He got into the tent boxing game in 1945 when he returned to the “Jimmy Sharman boxing troupe” that was founded by his late father James Senior in 1910.

The tent toured until 1971 when regulations and a growing sense of “political correctness” that soon was to sweep the world (and bugger up what often was great fun) saw the tent enter the history pages.

For my part, growing up as a kid in the small NSW country town of Grenfell, and being boxing oriented already through listening to the “direct broadcasts” of the big fights from the then Sydney Stadium in Rushcutters Bay

I have written about Jimmy and his lads in my soon to be published autobiography and this is what I had to say about boxing, Jimmy Sharman and life then in a little country town:-

“How fond are my memories of going down after school to Mr Chris Hardy’s home and stables ( he was Dad’s racehorse trainer ) in Church Street and riding horses and mucking about in games with his son Chris, known to one and all as Bluey. We became close friends and I often stayed with the Hardy’s when Mum and Dad were away on business or at a race meeting.

Both Bluey and I were keen boxers and whenever the big fights were broadcast on the radio from Sydney’s renowned Stadium ( where the Rushcutters Bay traffic lights are now), Melbourne’s Festival Hall or from overseas, we would tune in as very keen listeners.

After a while we got sick of just listening and we decided that we would each be one of the boxers and play-act the fight as we listened. The bloke I always tried to be was Don “ Bronco “ Johnston, a real wild man when he stepped in the ring and as any of the boxing afficionados will testify, a man that made the turnstiles ring.

You can imagine the big thrill Bluey and I got when our hero came to Grenfell as a participant in the Jimmy Sharman boxing troupe. Dad never had his hand out of his pocket as we stung two bobs ( 20 cents) from him so we could go to each session.

What fun Jimmy Sharman and his troupe provided and how much has today’s “ civilised “ society missed out on by no longer having these boxing troupes. I dare say a few rounds by some of todays young hoods with some of Jimmy’s boys wouldn’t do them any harm.

In fact, neither would a good kick in the arse by a benevolent Police Sergeant or two but then, today that would be looked upon as victimisation of youth. Far better to either let them run rampart or have them incur a criminal record !

And what a showman Jimmy Sharman was.

The big brightly coloured tent with the footway about eight feet above the ground and on which Jimmy would berate both the crowd and his performers.

At either end stood a big bass drummer and his resonant “ Boom,Boom,Boom” could be heard all over the Showgrounds. Jimmy or his spruiker in the middle would challenge all and sundry to “ step up and have a go” and invariably someone quite unknown to all the locals would call out and be invited up.

Under heavy questioning by Jimmy over the PA system, he would establish his bona fides as “ a fettler from Koorawatha ” and to the roar of the crowd he would disappear over the back to don his gloves for the coming bout. I suppose Dad and all the other adults twigged every time that these were plants but we youngsters came in hook line and sinker.

However, one man was guaranteed to get a big crowd of Grenfellites into the tent and that was our local hero, Norm Anderson. Norm was a plumber by trade and by way of recreational pursuits, thumped himself up the pugilistic ladder to where he was the Riverina heavyweight champion.

Given that this was, in our opinion and especially since he was Grenfell born and raised, a title only just under the world heavyweight class, you can be sure that Jimmy was aware of this and many a good bout was held on the canvas with 99.99% of the crowd with Normie.

Harking back to Bluey’s and my radio side vigils, probably the greatest fight I remember from those days was when Jimmy Carruthers took the world bantamweight title from Vic Toweel in South Africa.

This was broadcast live, which meant that it was very early in the morning, and Bluey took the role of Jimmy Carruthers and I was Vic Toweel. The only trouble was that Jimmy Carruthers landed about 176 punches in the first two minutes and both Vic Toweel and I were down for the count !!

It was through being involved with Bluey and amateur boxing that Dad suffered probably his greatest ( or worst ) sporting humiliation. In those days, the building which is now headquarters to Grenfell’s famed Panthers Rugby Union Club was known as “ The Boys Club” and we would all go down there for boxing training each week.

The Mayor of Grenfell, Nelson Sweetnam was a keen boxing man and under his guidance and encouragement, boxing tournaments were held and many country titles were won and lost in the Grenfell Boy’ Club ring.

As Bluey and I were pretty even in ability, we made a number of appearances on the card. For some reason that now escapes me, this nights boxing had been pretty widely promoted and Mum felt that her two lads should at least step into the ring looking like fighters.

Given her mastery of the sewing machine, it wasn’t long before two sets of black and white satin boxing shorts, complete with the initials “ AF” and “BH” emblazoned on their leg appeared. I remember them vividly for they also has the crimped elastic waistband, just like the “ proper “ fighters.

As you can imagine, for a couple of ten year olds, this was indeed a rise in the ranks and my next door neighbour and schoolfriend Colleen McSpadden was given the opportunity of sighting this raw fighting machine prior to the fight.

To do so, I stood on top of the garden shed that overlooked their backyard and struck up a suitable pugilistic pose “ a la Jimmy Carruthers”.

Colleen, obviously in an effort to water down the cockiness of this lad, hit me with a jet of water from the water hose just as I got to the rooftop. Bang, I stepped back and went arse over and landed backwards on the gravel about eight feet below.

Boy, it hurt but with the fight only an hour or so away and after some heavy duty smooching and coddling from Mum, I had little choice but to grin and bear it.

By the time we got to the Boys Club, my elbow was as sore as anything and you can be assured that this pug wasn’t looking forward to the opening bell.

Well, that moment did come and Bluey and I shaped up. Even allowing for the state of my elbow, Bluey came out with all guns blazing and by the end of the first round ( the fight scheduled for three), I wasn’t sure if I was punched, bored or eaten by white ants!!

I remember turning to look at Mum and Dad at the end of the first round sitting there at ringside and then bursting into tears. Poor Dad, he was so embarrassed he could have dangled his legs over the end of a sixpence.

Anyway, that bout was over and has been forgotten by all but years later when I lined up to box for the Open Championship at Scots College,I was determined not to go under.

When I rang Mum and Dad that night to tell them that I had won, he calmly said “ It sure beats tears eh son”!!

A great man, Clarrie Fountain.”

They were great times and I reckon we will never see their like, unfortunately, again!

Carpe diem

Tony

Tony Fountain

Professional Speaker, auctioneer and author

Sydney NSW Australia

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