How an unlikely friendship grew from rocky beginnings
I drove past Nick Durandt’s tattoo shop in Norwood on my way to Kempton Park on March 31.
I saw Durandt’s top-of-the-range bike parked outside, so I stopped by to greet.
I took the opportunity to remind him about a meeting he was to have with his former assistant trainer Elias Tshabalala, who wanted them to team up again.
“Mother ****** !” said this prolific swearer.
Durandt then told me: “Tell Elias that if he is serious then we must have a meeting. The game is in trouble, Bongz. Some promoters bring taxi drivers from outside SA to fight our boys and then expect us to sing praises of the boys. These promoters are short-changing the paying public. When I come back, I will start from right from the bottom up and this time I want to be allowed to train amateurs because I intend to produce an amateur gold medallist.”
I realised that if I allowed him to continue, I may not make it to the Indoor Sports Arena where Tshabalala’s charge Gideon Buthelezi was to defend his IBO junior bantamweight strap against Angel Aviles.
“Have yourself a f **** n great evening, my bro,” was Durandt’s goodbye.
Little did I know that it was to be my last time seeing and talking to the man I have known for over two decades.
It all began in 1995 at FNB Stadium when his charge Ginger Tshabalala, Elias’s elder brother, had won the SA light heavyweight title.
My cardinal sin was to interview Tshabalala without asking permission from Durandt. Hell broke loose.
“Who do you think you are to interview my boxer without asking me for permission?” he asked in a rage.
I was still a cub journalist, young but fearless.
“To hell with you! I already got what I wanted from Ginger,” I said and then walked away.
I related the incident to my senior at wire news agency Sapa, Mark Beer. He calmly said: “For peace sake you should have apologised because you are still going to work with Nick.”
I then decided to walk up to Durand’s Gym in Bree Street, Jozi. There was the deafening sound of music. I slowly opened the door and there he was, barking instructions to about 20 boxers.
“How the hell can I help you?” he asked with fire in his eyes. I introduced myself and I apologised for what had happened at FNB.
“You are such a brave bastard to tell me to go to hell,” he said, shaking my hand.
That was the beginning of a cordial relationship that developed into a brotherhood.