Life is the greatest left hooker so far, though many say it is Charley White of Chicago.
– Ernest Hemingway.

It's not simple to explain what it means to be a left hooker. The left hook is a power shot, a decisive blow, that regularly results in a knock-out if landed cleanly. The thing about the left hook is that it's a two-part motion, you turn away from your opponent to charge it up, and back towards him to land it. This delay, this complexity means that your left hook had better really be something or unleashing it will be like using a rattlesnake as a weapon, you'll more likely be the victim.



I have only ever been in the ring with one genuine left hooker, a man whose given name was Peter Hooks. This picture tells the story. I have jabbed, brushing the top of Peter Hooks' head, he has slipped the punch, got himself in position, coiled like a spring and is about to smash his left hand into the right side of my jaw. The mention of his name still makes my jaw ache.

When I first took up boxing I used to spar with Hooks every week. He would spar with anyone, but he was gruff. We'd just touch gloves, box, and leave. He's quite an intimidating looking guy, and I never exchanged more than a few words with him. My dad came to the gym once. Dad said he liked the coach, and I thought he meant George. Turned out he meant Hooks. I was very surprised, so when I went down the next week, before sparring, I asked Hooks if he'd spoken to my dad.
"Nice geezer, your dad."
I think this is the first time he had spoken four words at the gym, to anyone. Over the following months Hooks went from the gruff guy in the corner to the life and soul of the party. We all found out what a joker he was, his wicked sense of humour, his love of fishing, his extremely unlikely occupation (making handbags), his broad taste in music (big Cat Stevens fan) all of it while he made our jaws ache with his beautiful left hook. He even came to the pub with us one time even though he didn't drink or smoke. He had an apple juice and told us about the time he stopped (boxing for knocked-out) Michael Moorer, the world heavyweight champ at the time. Hooks was working on the door of a night club, and stopped Moorer with an ‘Excuse me', before politely letting him enter.

When I decided to have an amateur bout, Hooks was very concerned about the skill of my trainer. He wanted to vet him personally, go and see him. I asked him not to, I thought CJ would resent it. Hooks took me aside and gave me a stern paternal talking to. Well, he was exactly the same age as my dad, as he often told me, and he liked the fact that no matter how old he got, I'd never be able to chin him.

When Dad got lung cancer, I told Hooks, he sucked in air, like the air was precious and he knew it. A strange, memorable gesture. He looked at the ground, and said what a nice geezer my dad was. We tapped gloves, and he squatted down and sprang up at me unleashing the hook, invulnerable, indomitable.

Dad died a few months later, and Hooks heard about it. He got my number and rang me up to tell me what a nice geezer my dad was, which was the most touching thing anyone did at that time.

One of my old sparring partners from Hooks' gym drives a London Underground train. Once in a while, when I'm on his line, I see him pull into the station. I walk to the front, and step into the nicely air-conditioned cabin and travel on the tube with headlights up, see everything in the tunnel, chatting away about old times. It's really strange. I've even made an announcement, once. Sorry, London. So I stepped into the cabin, and immediately, my friend asked, “You hear about Hooks? Lung cancer. Died a couple of years ago”.

It's just so hard to comprehend that there's something out there that can just batter someone as hard as Peter Hooks, chop him down and make an end of him for ever. Dancing around the ring in his fifties, beating up fit young guys, then dead at 60. Charley White's not in it, it's definitely Life, the greatest left hooker. But I knew a good left hooker, and he was a nice geezer.