The boxing graduation

I don't really care that every Tom, Dick, and Harry uses the Western zodiac signs for astrology; how silly that is can be seen from the fact that I, for example, was born under the sign of Libra; an interesting animal, isn't Libra? — So, naturally, one would choose something more suitable, like the Chinese calendar, according to which I was born under the sign of the Rat. That's much more fitting. Or the Tasmanian Devil — definitely my zodiac sign! I would like it best if it were acknowledged that I was born under the sign of Auriga, whose main star is Canopus. And I could tell you quite a few things about Canopus, the brightest mind at the court of Pharaoh Ptolemy III.

Why am I thinking about this now? — Well, I was just wondering why I only got my high school diploma at 20, even though I didn't lose a single year by repeating a grade or anything like that. Since I was born in autumn and was therefore a teamster, I didn't start school until I was 7 and completed a 5-year upper secondary school program—including a polytechnic year—it's easy to calculate why I wasn't ready until I was 20. I spent those 5 years of upper secondary school in Salzburg.

Why Salzburg? — Well, the professor of Ancient Greek at our humanistic high school was a die-hard Nazi who, among other things, made my classmate Tomi, who was also of Hungarian descent, and me—sitting backwards on our wooden chairs—gallop across the wooden floor of our classroom while spouting his favorite saying (it doesn't get much dumber than that): "...there they are, the Avar horsemen from the East..." Well, it was difficult for me to learn Ancient Greek under such conditions. As an honorable representative of the Pure German Race, he offered me the choice of either failing every year—and he'd make sure of that, by Thor!—or leaving the school honorably. I was the wiser of the two and emigrated to Salzburg, where my parents were able to secure me a place at an elite school. — When I heard years later that this teacher had been dishonorably fired from the school because of his honorable but reactionary behavior, I was rather pleased. I was even more pleased when he lost his positions as a member of parliament because the Right Party fired him due to some embarrassing gaffes on the radio and a completely unhinged campaign speech on local television. He was then committed to a psychiatric hospital, where he lived to a very old age.

The fact that I only took my final exams in the fall requires some explanation. Subjectively speaking, I was always a good student; objectively speaking, other things interested me more and more than studying at that time; strictly objectively speaking, my grades were rather mediocre to just about passable, even if they put me in the top third of my class. No sooner had I painstakingly acquired a basic understanding of the topic of women (which hasn't changed significantly to this day) than I was presented with the consequences in mathematics.

No, I don't think it had anything to do with the fact that the math teacher was the second (and last) Nazi among my teachers; I was simply too ambitious when it came to basic knowledge and too lazy and complacent when it came to studying, and that's just not ideal for math. When I blurted out during a smoke break in the schoolyard and called the math teacher a "fucking Nazi" who "has to be careful not to paint swastikas on the blackboard instead of plus signs," I noticed far too late that my classmates were staring past me in horror; the teacher was standing behind me, his eyes flashing and his chin trembling with rage. Since my grades in the first three quarters of the school year were fairly satisfactory to just about acceptable, and I had already passed the written final exams, I wasn't particularly worried. But I should have been, because in the following last few weeks of school, I racked up failing grades in math. So far, so good.

And, since I've already started, I must also mention that Michael K., a lovable, affectionate, but eventually rather tiresome school friend, took me along to boxing training a few times, hoping we'd achieve something together at the Salzburger Stier* boxing club. However, I didn't have the right attitude towards training, and so Michael had to become a boxing legend on his own. The Salzburger Stier needs a bit more explanation here; perhaps you'll be in Salzburg sometime and wonder what all goes by the name "Salzburger Stier." First, since 1981, the Salzburger Stier has been a cabaret prize, and knowing this will make you the hero of the evening—hardly anyone knows about this coveted cabaret award. Then, the tour guides at Hohensalzburg Fortress show off an ancient organ* that, in earlier times, sounded a far-reaching alarm signal whenever the marauding Bavarians invaded. More famous, however, is the legend of the Salzburg Bull, a real beast that the besieged Salzburgers painted a different color every night and walked along the fortress walls in the morning so that the besiegers (sorry, but it was the Bavarians again) could see that the Salzburgers still had plenty of steaks in stock and would then actually withdraw. Last but not least, the renowned Salzburg boxing club, which has produced numerous champions, is also named after the Salzburg Bull.

But after this little digression into Salzburg's animal life, back to boxing: Michael soon gave up trying to drag me along; I was simply incapable of consistent training and wasn't really focused anyway; there was still so much basic knowledge to acquire! Moreover, Michael complained whining behind my back about my "lazy left," meaning a feint I had invented myself that repeatedly surprised him with painful punches.

Our headmaster, who held me in high esteem, appointed me as head of the boarding school, hoping to relieve his highly paid teaching staff through the "voluntary" Saturday and Sunday shifts he mandated—he wasn't about to miss the opportunity to exploit a naive young man like me. Unfortunately, his appreciation came to an abrupt end one fine Saturday afternoon when I beat a boy across the long corridor of the boarding school and then through the closed door at the end. I only stopped beating him when the lad was lying on the floor on the remains of the door—in the room of a housemaster who was standing at the sink shaving, wearing only brightly colored boxer shorts. The boy screamed, the housemaster screamed—he had slashed his cheek in shock—and I screamed too, because I was still furious. "Murderer!" screamed the bleeding housemaster, and the whole house came running, "Murderer!"

I was immediately put on house arrest. Before the police were called, my victim's mother rushed over and interviewed her son, inspecting his knocked-out tooth and bruises. Apparently dissatisfied with his explanations, she demanded to see me. I was stubborn and insisted I had been in the right (as if there were a right to beat someone!). Under her cross-examination, I had to repeat word for word what the fellow had said, which is why I had beaten him up. The mother asked me to repeat it again, more or less making me swear that it had happened exactly like that and not otherwise. Then she called her husband, the ambassador, and consulted with him. The director had meanwhile been alerted and now joined our small group. The teacher breathlessly described everything to him from the perspective of the shattered door, bloody shaving foam, and adhesive bandages—the headmaster must have initially assumed I had attacked the teacher with the razor. He only realized much later that I hadn't beaten the teacher, but the fellow, trying to defend my honor—in any case, the headmaster loudly interrupted any further discussion and decreed that the offender (meaning me) would be expelled from the school immediately!

God must be a woman, for now she intervened in the guise of a mother. She believed me more than her own son, she said coolly and resolutely. She had spoken with me at length, and everything I had said seemed credible and honest. We all knew that violence was fundamentally wrong, and he (meaning me) had surely understood that by now. Her son had made a grave mistake and should actually be apologizing to me, not the other way around! The ambassador and she insisted that the whole matter be dropped and vehemently demanded that I remain at the school. The ambassador (or was he the consul?) would be returning to Austria in a few days and would personally speak with the headmaster once more; he insisted explicitly that I not be punished. Explicitly—I will never forget that.

Although the situation escalated for days, and I, along with my buddy, had to serve several hours of potato peeling and kitchen cleaning to improve communication and instill humility, the ambassador's decision stood. Only Michael K. was very disappointed, because the director had immediately called the boxing club and given them a piece of his mind: surely such a brutal thug as myself didn't align with their understanding of boxing, did it?!

Ah yes, once the whole thing had died down and things had seemingly quieted down after that stupid fight, the headmaster called me into his office a few days later and accused me of cowardly betraying the trust he had placed in me and calling me a real nasty little bully, yes indeed! And he was doubly upset that I had taken boxing lessons, because now he wasn't surprised that I had beaten up the guy who was easily 20 cm taller than me. He solemnly promised me he'd get me yet, just you wait!

The opportunity arose when I called the math teacher, who was a Nazi, a Nazi in the schoolyard. Only now, in the course of his rather sordid, albeit legally compliant, examination orgy, did a classmate discover that the math teacher was supposed to have served under the headmaster during the war, who, of course, had not been a Nazi since 1945, but rather a thoroughly Christian, honorable member of the church community.

It was no use that the entire class, despite my protests, went en masse to the headmaster's office and demanded, in essence, that one should be allowed to call a Nazi a Nazi. Even today, I can still imagine those scoundrels patting each other on the back and laughing until they cried, after we naive fools had been ushered out empty-handed!

While 75% of my classmates were pondering what to do with their lives after graduation, Evelyne and Eva, Christian, Billy, and I were considering what essential things we could learn over the summer to excel in the resit exams in the fall. Christian—who would later become a prominent businessman in the civil service—had his connections and discovered that there was a regulation dating back to the Kaiser's time stipulating that those who volunteered for military service and arrived at the exams in uniform were to be judged leniently by the examination board—which essentially meant that everyone in uniform was expected to pass, period.

Christian, Billy, and I naturally showed up in uniform for the final exams, which started late because the bewildered headmaster first had to consult with the teachers about what this meant and whether everything was above board. It was all right, all right! — But I don't want to get ahead of myself.

Billy and I decided to work and study together at his father's hotel over the summer. Billy, not yet a Commercial Councilor at the time, decided at the last minute that the little bit of work wasn't enough for two and that he'd rather spend the summer on the Italian Riviera; as the son of a capitalist, he couldn't possibly take that little bit of work away from me, the working-class boy! His father grinned and agreed; I agreed too, though I couldn't quite manage the grinning part.

The small, once elegant hotel on a Carinthian lake was suffering from poor marketing and the less-than-rosy times in the tourism industry. There were days when three or four people could barely manage the workload, but often the hotel stood empty for days on end. Since I earned no money on these empty days, I increasingly focused on finding ways to attract guests. I called everyone I knew, asking if they could send us guests.

So, foolishly, I ended up calling Michael in Salzburg; Michael, the one who had dragged me into boxing and hoped we'd achieve something together at the Salzburg Bull tournament. Well, Michael was working at a travel agency over the summer and got back in touch shortly after: yes, he'd been in talks with the Austrian Amateur Boxing Club, and they were keen to hold a training camp in Carinthia with some of their athletes; after a few phone calls, everything was satisfactorily arranged. They were preparing for the Olympics, and Austria had high hopes, especially in boxing, so it came to pass that Olympians Rainer Salzburger, Franz and Hermann Frauenlob, and the national team coach, Jo Kaspar, ended up at our hotel.

At the same time—if it wasn't a coincidence, it must have been Michael—a group of freestyle wrestlers checked into the hotel, preparing for the Catch-as-Catch-Can tour that was starting in a few weeks (back then, this form of exhibition wrestling wasn't yet called wrestling). Among this handful of incredibly strong wrestlers, I still remember (hopefully correctly) the names of the Austrians Otto Wanz and Ferdl Weiß; the other wrestlers were athletes from Eastern Europe, like Mr. Dimitroff (or was his name Domitscheff?), the mysterious "Black Mask."

At check-in, one thing led to another; Michael must have told them some tall tales about me, anyway, Jo Kaspar casually mentioned that I should join them for a run in the morning.

It starts at 5 a.m. Monika, the attractive waitress I'm working with today, gives me a sideways glance. Before I can even utter a peep or consider an honorable exit that wouldn't damage my standing with Monika, Jo Kaspar goes to his room, and that's that.

My God! Five o'clock in the morning! No amount of crying or gnashing of teeth will help; my honor is at stake, and—much more importantly, because it's more tangible—my chances with Monika, so I get up! While I wait in the parking lot in borrowed gym shorts and a vest, I catch a glimpse of her face behind the curtains. Okay, one point for me, even if it is at 5 a.m. The fun that followed is called a cross-country run.

Minutes later, I regret every single Marlboro I've ever smoked; a few minutes after that, the beers and then the roast pork become the next things to be regretted. Less than twenty minutes later, I regret my entire cosmic existence. The athletes, in a spirit of camaraderie, help the waiter who's in trouble. At six o'clock, we're back at the hotel. I've sweated out at least a dozen liters, and now everyone is sitting expectantly in the breakfast room. Not me, though, because I run up to my room, take a shower, and minutes later I'm downstairs in black trousers and a white shirt with a bow tie, ready to serve breakfast. Limping, panting, and with excruciating muscle soreness.

Gentlemen, what a stressful experience! However, on the following days, I only managed half the distance, if that, and then trotted back to the hotel on a shortcut to greet the athletes with a ready-made breakfast. But don't think that was all. Things got even more intense after all the other hotel guests had left and our hotel transformed into a dedicated sports hotel.

Jo Kaspar smiled kindly when, after breakfast, he suggested I join him at the wrestling tent, where the boxers were also training. I was very curious, especially wanting to see the famous wrestlers, and immediately said yes, gladly. So, I quickly cleared the tables and put away the dishes, then headed to the bus.

The first half hour was just as I'd expected. The wrestlers were practicing catch wrestling, and I watched in amazement as the men trained hold after hold, throw after throw. It was all carefully choreographed. Of course, they had to learn how to fall and throw themselves properly so it looked bad; it probably hurt a bit, too, but the main goal was to avoid seriously injuring themselves or each other. Even so, it had to look martial. I was fascinated when a combination was practiced slowly at first, then faster and faster, until at the end you got the impression that the guys were really going at it. Of course, they weren't. Or maybe a little, if it was Dimitrov.

Then Jo Kaspar strolled over, stood silently beside me, and watched the wrestling. He was already around sixty at the time, about my size, but very athletic and tough, and had an iron grip that brought tears to my eyes every time he shook my hand. Rainer Salzburger, on the other hand, was tall and so slender that hardly anyone would have guessed he was the best boxer in Austria. The two Frauenlob brothers were broad and muscular, both blacksmiths by trade, who ran an artistic forge in Salzburg. Franz's forearm was as wide as my thigh; Hermann was somewhat slimmer than his brother.

So Jo Kaspar leaned against me and said with a serious face (only a faint grin flickered beneath his wrinkles), he needed me, his lads needed a sparring partner. Of course, I didn't notice the glint of a grin (or that it was a bit of a joke) and was perplexed, because I knew exactly what sparring was: one punch to the nose, and I was flat on the mat. And that's exactly what happened, or almost exactly.

Here I must add that I must have misunderstood something during a conversation and from then on believed Jo Kaspar was a former European boxing champion, which filled me with great respect and awe. — Only thirty years later was the error cleared up; but I certainly don't want to suggest that the good man deceived me!

"Michael K. said," said Jo Kaspar, "that you're quite quick on your feet and throw a cheeky left. I want to see that for myself!" (Michael probably actually said: lazy left, but that's not a boxing term; he probably meant to imply that I sometimes fouled him.) Jo handed me a pair of gloves and put some on himself. I was still paralyzed with fear and vaguely registered Hermann putting the gloves on me and then tightening them quite firmly. Before I could even say a word, I was standing in the ring facing Jo Kaspar. I, who had never fought a real boxer before, was now facing a former European champion and was about to get a terrible beating. All because Michael had to ramble on about my legendary speed! Where was it now, huh?! My knees were weak, and my pulse was racing at 180, I swear!

"Come on!" said Jo Kaspar, waving his arms a few times in front of my face. I recoiled in shock, because no one had ever waved their arms around so quickly in training; things were done slowly and deliberately there. Jo grinned (because someone who's already sent several other champions to the mat is prone to grinning) and landed hit after hit on my face and body. No matter how much I ducked and jumped, he had me right in his sights and hit me every time. Not hard, always just lightly. In the midst of this flurry of blows, I heard his instructions: that I should dive left or right, raise my guard to the right or left, and, damn it, who taught you to hunch over like Quasimodo? I followed as best I could, but he kept hitting, and I knew my performance wasn't up to par; at best, I could only make a career as a punching bag.

Disappointment. He hit every time. I never did. I stood there like a statue, rooted to the spot. It slowly dawned on me that I had to move, and fast. So I moved as fast as I could, and now only 99 out of 100 punches were landing. Jo took a short breather and commented that he (I) knew a thing or two about footwork, then all I saw was a big, round, brown leather thing hurtling towards me. I almost sat down, because I wasn't expecting it; we were taking a break, weren't we? Rainer was standing behind me, cheering me on. Franz and Hermann interrupted their training and came closer. Rainer urged me to duck faster, strike, and then immediately raise my guard again. At one point I jumped back, let my arms hang down, and said through tears of anger that I simply couldn't beat someone so much older than me!

I shouldn't have said that; I know that now. Back then, I knew it right away, too, because Jo Kaspar immediately punched me right in the nose, sending sparks flying, and said he didn't feel that old at all, that I should go ahead and hit him if I could, and the others laughed uproariously. I got angry, which didn't help much, because it only made my intentions more predictable. Since I'm a southpaw, I always start my attack from the right, and of course, you can see that coming ages in advance, because the right shoulder moves forward long before the fist. You can see an angry shoulder even two ages in advance.

Franz commented on this and said to his brother Hermann that all beginners were like that, and it was pointless. Hermann said that only deception could help him (me), deception in such-and-such a way, and he did it, slashing—wham!—into the air. I somehow caught on and copied him. I turned half-heartedly and struck with the "wrong" fist, hitting Jo hard for the first time, and said, astonished, "Sorry!"

Of course, my hard punch hit Jo as if he'd been brushed by a butterfly's wings; he laughed and told me to try again. Most of the time I didn't manage it anymore; the trick had become transparent and predictable. Once or twice, though, I did pull off the quick double spin and landed, or at least grazed the master's chest or shoulder. Unlike Michael, he didn't complain about my "lazy left," didn't even flinch, and soon let my attack miss. Again, I feinted a double to the right, let my left flash forward, and slashed hard into the air, because he was already way off his game. What I, in my overconfident arrogance, thought was a brilliant feint turned out to be an easily seen-through routine for the pro. The realization that I looked like a lame duck compared to the old man almost brought tears to my eyes. I lashed out like a berserker, hitting the ropes of the ring, the corner post and probably also uninvolved spectators, but I never hit Jo Kaspar again.

Heaven eventually took pity on me and allowed Jo to realize that I was probably never going to be cut out for boxing, at least not yet. He stepped back and told me to stop this nonsense, and I did, grateful and completely out of breath. Michael was right, Jo said mockingly, I really could pull off a feint. Had I been a little less naive, I probably would have noticed that not all the athletes were happy with their coach's antics. Later, Hermann took me aside a few times and showed me some basics of proper boxing; first of all, how a boxer should stand and not look like a waiter who'd accidentally wandered into the ring. But my promising boxing career came to an abrupt end that week when the athletes left.

We must have gotten along quite well, because when I had to go back to Salzburg in the fall to prepare for my final exams, I was allowed to stay with the Frauenlobs. I survived the exams, as well as the obligatory post-exam drinking session, quite well. A little later, I was glued to the TV to watch Rainer, Franz, and Hermann fight at the Olympics. But by then I was already serving in the Austrian Armed Forces, and I had to learn to fight more and in a different way.

I have marked some things with * to add some facts that could not be included in the flow of the text:

The "boxing professor" Mag. Dr. Rainer Salzburger was five times Austrian champion in amateur boxing and an Olympian in Mexico 1968; in his civilian profession he taught physical education (sports) and geography at secondary schools and is president of the Austrian Amateur Boxing Association ÖABV.

The brothers Franz and Hermann Frauenlob from Salzburg were also multiple Austrian champions in amateur boxing and Olympic participants in Mexico 1968.

Josef "Jo" Kaspar from Linz was the national coach of the boxing association for about 20 years.

Besides the aforementioned cabaret prize, the "Salzburg Bull" is also the namesake for a weightlifting competition, a darts festival, and a diving competition; to my knowledge, there has never been a boxing club called 'Salzburg Bull'.

Disharmonies with Michael K. (who is not his real name) prompted me to change both his name and the club's name.

For those interested in history, it should be noted that the "Salzburg Bull" is indeed a unique musical instrument: commissioned in 1502 by the then Archbishop Leonhard von Kettschach (1495-1519), this late Gothic barrel organ with hornwork (200 tin pipes) served as the acoustic timekeeper for the city of Salzburg. For 500 years, it was housed in a small wooden structure next to the material ropeway (the "Reißzug" of 1504). The 1.7-meter-long maple barrels were initially driven manually by a wooden gear system, later by an iron one. Several works by Leopold Mozart, still preserved today, are particularly noteworthy. The Salzburg Bull was decommissioned in 1994 and underwent restoration between 1999 and 2002. — I was unable to ascertain whether it was ever used as an alarm signal.