ipswich express
07-15-2007, 06:20 AM
It takes a lot to make Danny Green break down, in or out of the ring. Then a kid called Damo entered his life.YOU'RE a tough man who fights for a living, so how does a cheeky 10-year-old named "Damo" - who calls you "Greeny" and bags the fact you drive a Ford - win you over?
That first time you meet at the children's hospital in Perth in 2005 he puts it on you to buy a clay trinket he made at craft.
Most people pay two bucks a pop, but you're Danny Green . . . you're rich . . . you can shell out five. His spark captures you, so you say he's underselling a wonderful piece of art and pay $60. He's gobsmacked. His mother Sharon wants him to hand the notes back. But you say no. Such a small price for so big a smile.
You leave your mobile number and ask for updates on Damo's battle with cancer.
Before you know it, he's sending regular text messages to say the good fight is being fought, Ford suck and he hopes you're training hard.
You know pain, but you feel a dreadful hurt to learn Damo waited faithfully outside the ward while you were delayed at a meeting. Worse still, he rang your management to ensure you hadn't forgotten the meeting. You hadn't; couldn't.
When you turn up, the kid hugs you and hands over a birthday card he's spent ages making. He's cut a piece of green cardboard into the shape of a boxing glove and written words that sting your eyes.
From one fighter to another. DAMO SCOTT IN REMISSION. 2007 PS Holden still rule.
A few weeks later you go to the airport. The Make A Wish Foundation has granted Damo his dream to hit Disneyland and you delight in his joy at the prospect of meeting Mickey Mouse. You hug him farewell only to be told - yet again - Ford suck. As he heads through customs you hope Damo has the greatest time a kid could ever have.
A few days later you finish a sparring session banged up and busted, but a text from California makes you smile.
Damo here. Anything you want me to bring back? Got Chloe [your daughter] a present.
You want nothing, but hear yourself say aloud: "The kid is all heart".
You invite Damo and his family ringside for your fight with former world champion Manny Siaca.
The fight falls through when Siaca gets sick. When you tell Damo, you hear the disappointment in his voice, so you tell him not to worry, there'll always be next time . . . Before "next time" arrives you are in Sydney training to fight a world title eliminator against a hot-shot American, Otis Griffin. Because you expect a tough challenge you decide to become selfish and allow nothing to disrupt your plans. The phone rings. Damo's cancer has returned, things look bad.
He's handed the phone by his father John and you're distressed to hear his chirpy phrases are replaced by tortured grunts. You say upbeat things, like a trainer to a fighter with little hope of victory. "It's going to be OK little buddy" . . . "I want you at my next fight" . . . "I love you, mate."
You realise being selfish was crap in the first place - it's not you - and ring Qantas for the first available flight home, then hit the south-west highway for four hours to see Damo.
You've had to call on all your bravery before when you've fought with broken hands and nose. This time your courage comes in the teeming rain, knowing what your visit will mean.
You want to cry when you see the little boy on his death bed. He stops cracking jokes to get out of bed - for the first time in four days - and when you realise the reason he's shuffling slowly and painfully across the room is to get the Mickey Mouse ears that have Chloe's name embroidered on them, you bleed. While the kid is being counted out by life, he hands you presents. Tears are shed.
You learn something about your mate that dreadful night. He has two girlfriends - twins. You ask him to repeat himself to ensure you heard him correctly? Yes, twins. You shouldn't be surprised. If any 12-year-old was to have twins as girlfriends, it was Damo.
It is time to go. You say what your heart knows will be the last goodbye. Still, you grasp at straws of hope. You tell Damo you want him at your next fight; you'll embroider his name on your trunks to draw on his courage during the bout . . . you tell him you love him. He smiles and signs a photo. Every letter is an effort but he scrawls: "To Danny, love lots, Damo". Your fight face caves in and you sob. You hug him goodbye and again say you love him. You kiss him on the cheek and try to walk out the door, but have to go back again. . . and again . . . It took all your courage to enter his room, you don't have enough to walk out.
When you finally leave, you look back to see a warrior offering you the thumbs up. You bawl all the way home.
Once you thought being robbed of the world title because of an accidental head clash was the greatest injustice of all. On that drive home you wonder how a little boy - any kid - could be dealt such a lousy hand.
You're tough, but when you send a text message the next morning saying: "It was great to see you. Love you little guy" before a press conference to announce you're fighting Griffin, you don't anticipate a reply that chills you. "Damo died at 1.10 that morning. You were the last person he ever climbed out of bed for." Your mind wanders during the conference. You remember the cheeky smile, his effort to hand you his presents from Disneyland, the $60 clay trinket . . . Ford suck. Cameras rolling, you break down. It doesn't matter. What's macho pride compared with the loss of Damo?
On Wednesday, Danny Green will enter the ring in Perth with the name Damian Scott embroidered on his trunks. You'll understand if, on the night, he finds it too hard to explain the story behind the gesture.
Source: The Sun-Herald
That first time you meet at the children's hospital in Perth in 2005 he puts it on you to buy a clay trinket he made at craft.
Most people pay two bucks a pop, but you're Danny Green . . . you're rich . . . you can shell out five. His spark captures you, so you say he's underselling a wonderful piece of art and pay $60. He's gobsmacked. His mother Sharon wants him to hand the notes back. But you say no. Such a small price for so big a smile.
You leave your mobile number and ask for updates on Damo's battle with cancer.
Before you know it, he's sending regular text messages to say the good fight is being fought, Ford suck and he hopes you're training hard.
You know pain, but you feel a dreadful hurt to learn Damo waited faithfully outside the ward while you were delayed at a meeting. Worse still, he rang your management to ensure you hadn't forgotten the meeting. You hadn't; couldn't.
When you turn up, the kid hugs you and hands over a birthday card he's spent ages making. He's cut a piece of green cardboard into the shape of a boxing glove and written words that sting your eyes.
From one fighter to another. DAMO SCOTT IN REMISSION. 2007 PS Holden still rule.
A few weeks later you go to the airport. The Make A Wish Foundation has granted Damo his dream to hit Disneyland and you delight in his joy at the prospect of meeting Mickey Mouse. You hug him farewell only to be told - yet again - Ford suck. As he heads through customs you hope Damo has the greatest time a kid could ever have.
A few days later you finish a sparring session banged up and busted, but a text from California makes you smile.
Damo here. Anything you want me to bring back? Got Chloe [your daughter] a present.
You want nothing, but hear yourself say aloud: "The kid is all heart".
You invite Damo and his family ringside for your fight with former world champion Manny Siaca.
The fight falls through when Siaca gets sick. When you tell Damo, you hear the disappointment in his voice, so you tell him not to worry, there'll always be next time . . . Before "next time" arrives you are in Sydney training to fight a world title eliminator against a hot-shot American, Otis Griffin. Because you expect a tough challenge you decide to become selfish and allow nothing to disrupt your plans. The phone rings. Damo's cancer has returned, things look bad.
He's handed the phone by his father John and you're distressed to hear his chirpy phrases are replaced by tortured grunts. You say upbeat things, like a trainer to a fighter with little hope of victory. "It's going to be OK little buddy" . . . "I want you at my next fight" . . . "I love you, mate."
You realise being selfish was crap in the first place - it's not you - and ring Qantas for the first available flight home, then hit the south-west highway for four hours to see Damo.
You've had to call on all your bravery before when you've fought with broken hands and nose. This time your courage comes in the teeming rain, knowing what your visit will mean.
You want to cry when you see the little boy on his death bed. He stops cracking jokes to get out of bed - for the first time in four days - and when you realise the reason he's shuffling slowly and painfully across the room is to get the Mickey Mouse ears that have Chloe's name embroidered on them, you bleed. While the kid is being counted out by life, he hands you presents. Tears are shed.
You learn something about your mate that dreadful night. He has two girlfriends - twins. You ask him to repeat himself to ensure you heard him correctly? Yes, twins. You shouldn't be surprised. If any 12-year-old was to have twins as girlfriends, it was Damo.
It is time to go. You say what your heart knows will be the last goodbye. Still, you grasp at straws of hope. You tell Damo you want him at your next fight; you'll embroider his name on your trunks to draw on his courage during the bout . . . you tell him you love him. He smiles and signs a photo. Every letter is an effort but he scrawls: "To Danny, love lots, Damo". Your fight face caves in and you sob. You hug him goodbye and again say you love him. You kiss him on the cheek and try to walk out the door, but have to go back again. . . and again . . . It took all your courage to enter his room, you don't have enough to walk out.
When you finally leave, you look back to see a warrior offering you the thumbs up. You bawl all the way home.
Once you thought being robbed of the world title because of an accidental head clash was the greatest injustice of all. On that drive home you wonder how a little boy - any kid - could be dealt such a lousy hand.
You're tough, but when you send a text message the next morning saying: "It was great to see you. Love you little guy" before a press conference to announce you're fighting Griffin, you don't anticipate a reply that chills you. "Damo died at 1.10 that morning. You were the last person he ever climbed out of bed for." Your mind wanders during the conference. You remember the cheeky smile, his effort to hand you his presents from Disneyland, the $60 clay trinket . . . Ford suck. Cameras rolling, you break down. It doesn't matter. What's macho pride compared with the loss of Damo?
On Wednesday, Danny Green will enter the ring in Perth with the name Damian Scott embroidered on his trunks. You'll understand if, on the night, he finds it too hard to explain the story behind the gesture.
Source: The Sun-Herald