‘My brother David’s really good at beating people up’
Sunday Star-Times journalist Ruby Nyika is now the proud sister of a double gold medallist in boxing – but she wanted to cover her eyes.
It’s been a two-day diet of Glo Hart lollies and venue wine. Pre-fight nerves have been rampant. And that’s just me. It’s the boxing final at the Commonwealth Games where David Nyika – my younger brother – has set his sights on becoming the first doublegold-bearing New Zealand boxer. I can’t imagine how his nerves are.
He’s about to fight a 91kg Australian in his backyard. We know the crowd will be brutal.
So, when David comes to meet us for his routine pre-fight hug outside the venue we’re practising te reo songs to bleat amid the bullish chants of ‘‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi’’.
Chuffed, he envelopes us in a cuddle before departing to the changing room to gear up.
The bell rings and the familiar compulsion to cover my eyes is strong.
Dad’s family escaped Uganda during the dictatorship of Idi Amin, a man known as the Butcher of Uganda. The president who rose to power on his charm and charisma went on to torture, mutilate and eat his victims.
For my two brothers, my sister and I, New Zealand has always been our home – and for David, that means representing New Zealand at boxing.
It’s been more than eight years since my spindly-limbed brother slogged it out in the ring for the first time. But I suspect I’ll never get used to watching him get punched in the face. Especially in front of thousands.
For years
Mum has clung to the faint hope that
David would hang up the gloves and play a ‘‘nice, normal’’ sport. The problem is, he’s really good at beating people up.
But today Mum – usually racked with nerves – is OK as we head inside to watch him fight a boxer ranked fifth in the world. ‘‘I’m actually not too nervous for once. I feel strangely calm. But, then, it might be the wine.’’
It’s the last bout of the afternoon and the 3000-seat venue is crammed with bloodthirsty spectators dying for a knockout to cap off the day.
Punches fly thick and fast and I resist the urge to crawl under my seat and block my ears.
e’re just halfway into the first round of the final against Australian golden boy Jason Whateley.
There are a couple of desultory chants from the Australians, but their cheers trickle away as David’s opponent cops a few of sharp jabs to the chin.
‘‘That’s the best way to shut them up,’’ Dad mutters.
We roar our tuneless (but oh-soheartfelt) rendition of Tutira mai nga iwi and watch as David turns a gold medal bout into a sparring session.
After every round Mum turns and mouths, ‘‘are we OK?’’ My brother, Josh, flicks her a thumbs up.
‘‘Tutira mai nga iwi – aue! tatou tatou e ...’’ he final bell sounds and he’s done it.
He’s made New Zealand history. And he’s done it in his opponent’s backyard after almost a year without a coach.
It’s been rough since Rik Ellis – a coach and father-like figure of eight years – called it quits on him.
There’s something in my eye. For a few of us, actually.
‘‘You guys were crazy, eh,’’ David says after the fight as he runs over for sweat-drenched hugs.
He’s straight back to that familiar cuddly big kid.
But here is is. He’s on the podium again, fresh-faced and grinning, clutching that chunky gold medal.
When you dye your hair a tacky, artificial gold it’s only polite to sport a matching medal.