Andrew Mathieson
TWO pairs of boxing gloves hang over a bookshelf corner, standing out from rows of books stacked behind in John Hare’s converted study.
One belonged to Lester Ellis, the other to Barry Michael, in their epic world title fight that gripped a nation in 1985.
They are just a small memento when compared to inside his South Geelong garage
He points to a picture wall of fame, quickly singling out seven of the greatest world heavyweight champions – not to mention others in lower weight divisions – all captured alongside John in photographs.
The names are a who’s who of world boxing: Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, Mike Tyson, Evander Holyfield, Michael Spinks, Larry Holmes, Joe Bugner.
“I’m the good looking one right there,” 77-year-old John grins.
Then he looks intensely at Ali’s self-described pretty face before choosing his words wisely.
“I met Ali twice and to get a photo like that, well, there were crowds of people when he came in the room. He walked in with Tyson, that was back in ’88 when we were staying at the same hotel.”
Tyson was bunking only a couple of doors down in Las Vegas at a boxing conference.
When John was anointed the second Australian official to the World Boxing Council, the position opened up doors – including the door to Tyson’s room one morning.
John wanted to show the acknowledged baddest man on the planet a photo of him wearing the world title with muscles bulging and a rippling body but John’s head superimposed on top.
“This is the photo I wanted to show you,” John told Tyson.
“Great body, man,” he shot back.
“Yeah, that’s yours,” John smirked.
John also has a picture of legendary Julio Cesar Chavez, whom he showers with special praise.
Rated the world’s greatest fighter pound for pound, the Mexican lightweight epitomised how a boxer should finish their career.
“I looked at him very closely,” John says, “he’d had 130 fights and there was not a mark on him.”
Some photos on John’s glory wall are blurry, others out of frame, but they at least capture the moment.
Some show controversial boxing official Arthur Tunstall who famously had a bust-up over Cathy Freeman flying the Aboriginal flag at the 1990 Commonwealth Games.
“There’s one of Arthur and me,” John says, “I should have cut his head off.”
Their history goes further back to the 1972 Munich Olympics.
John tells how Tunstall overlooked him to be in charge of the Australian team despite holding the post two years earlier at the Commonwealth Games in Edinburgh.
“He put somebody in as coach of the Olympics and he’d never trained a boxer in his life,” John shudders.
But John acknowledges that boxing’s tough like that, mimicking a Hollywood script.
And just like Rocky, John’s wife’s Adrienne runs a tight house.
“I had a lovely wall on the room but my wife wouldn’t let me have them all inside,” he says.
John learned to fight when after coming home as a child with a busted eye.
The seven-year-old had been sent from England in 1940 for the duration of the war.
“In five years, I had nine homes and went to eight schools, so we were shuffled around a bit,” John recalls.
“I was getting into some fights at school and getting beaten up because the kids thought I ran away from the war.”
Dad later took John around London’s town halls to watch the pros slug it out.
Boxing took precedence when he returned to Australia to fight in the ring two years later in 1951 during national service.
But one loss in 15 amateur bouts hurt badly.
“I got a hiding,” John sheepishly recalls.
“I got stopped in the first round.”
Despite his ageing body, John still has quick hands.
He pulls into a stance, feet positioned ready to move, left hand leading out ready to jab.
When a Geelong Masters Games official approached the part-time table tennis paddler about what sport he wanted to play, John replied boxing.
“How old are you?” the man asked.
“I’m 72,” John answered.
The official was dumbfounded.
“Oh, I think we’ll find it difficult to get another 72-year-old in the ring to fight.”