success. Their first date
had been awkward and unnerving, both in awe of the other, desperate not to make
fools of themselves, and holding back in an unconscious way as to not suffer
too greatly if rejected. However, captivated by this young man’s enthusiastic
smile, Elizabeth had agreed to see Eugene again, a decision that in some
respects would eventually cost her her life.
A string of more successful
dates had slowly brought them closer, and in no time at all they had become Hollywood’s
B-list dream couple. Elizabeth continued to work on gritty, low budget cult
features, whilst Eugene made a number of successful defences. Fame and fortune
courted them both equally. They married in the late summer of 1959 under a sky
bluer than a tropical ocean.
In the 1960s, the film studios
started to shift away from the formulaic romantic-dramas/comedies and hired a
team of younger, more ambitious directors, eager to take the industry to new
heights and along uncharted paths.
Already established as a
serious actress, Elizabeth had landed the main role in a gritty movie about a
courageous single mother who found love with a black inner-city teacher. The
film opened to rave reviews and acclaim, and earned both Elizabeth and her
screen partner – a handsome black actor – Oscar nominations.
Awards night should have been
an evening of celebration. And had Eugene been there, it probably would have.
Yet the promise of even greater successes had
lured him away from the ceremony altogether. Instead of arriving at Elizabeth’s
side, ready to share in her moment of splendour, he’d been almost 3000 miles
away, stepping into the ring to the chant of ‘Champ! Champ! Champ!’
Old Mad Dog had returned,
unwilling to let either time or defeat get the better of him. A string of
recent wins had pushed him back within contention. Eugene had brushed the
contest aside at first, with no wish to entertain the aging fighter. A
succession of publicised comments, regarding his only career knockdown, and the
promise of more lucrative financial endorsements, had worked its way inside his
gut. Eventually, pride and desire won out, and Eugene finally agreed to take on
the ex-champ again, ready to prove once and for all that he was now the best
fighter of his generation. The fight had been a farce. Profit stopped his man
within two rounds, before even breaking into a sweat. Only ten minutes after
stepping into the ring, he was back in the changing rooms, feverishly searching
for a spare dime. By the time he’d been connected to the hotel that was hosting
the awards, Elizabeth had left – the ceremony drawing to a close – and had
already begun to make her way to the after-party.
She never made it.
Her producer, a ruddy-faced middle-aged gentleman with a
passion for film, liquor and fast cars, had escorted her to the after-party. Amazingly, even after downing
over a quart of scotch, he almost made it. Yet somewhere high up in the Hollywood Hills, the vehicle had lost control ,
smashed through the side barrier, before plummeting
to ground, killing the producer instantly and critically injuring Elizabeth.
Grief-stricken, Profit rushed
back home, catching the first flight available – but arrived too late. His
wife, the newly crowned queen of Hollywood, died an hour before he reached her.
Torn apart by both grief and
guilt, Profit turned his back on the life he had, blaming himself for Elizabeth’s
death, and had shunned the world, drawing the curtains of life closed. Until,
that is, being discovered by a gangly young black kid named Joseph Ruebins.
Joseph, then just a lanky
shadow of what he would become, had found the old fighter in the hope he could
convince Profit to return to the world as his coach. It had been a very hard
task. At first, the aging ex-pro had flatly refused to answer his door, never
mind speak to anyone, particularly this annoying black kid. Still, Joseph had
returned first weekly, then daily, before eventually drawing
had been awkward and unnerving, both in awe of the other, desperate not to make
fools of themselves, and holding back in an unconscious way as to not suffer
too greatly if rejected. However, captivated by this young man’s enthusiastic
smile, Elizabeth had agreed to see Eugene again, a decision that in some
respects would eventually cost her her life.
A string of more successful
dates had slowly brought them closer, and in no time at all they had become Hollywood’s
B-list dream couple. Elizabeth continued to work on gritty, low budget cult
features, whilst Eugene made a number of successful defences. Fame and fortune
courted them both equally. They married in the late summer of 1959 under a sky
bluer than a tropical ocean.
In the 1960s, the film studios
started to shift away from the formulaic romantic-dramas/comedies and hired a
team of younger, more ambitious directors, eager to take the industry to new
heights and along uncharted paths.
Already established as a
serious actress, Elizabeth had landed the main role in a gritty movie about a
courageous single mother who found love with a black inner-city teacher. The
film opened to rave reviews and acclaim, and earned both Elizabeth and her
screen partner – a handsome black actor – Oscar nominations.
Awards night should have been
an evening of celebration. And had Eugene been there, it probably would have.
Yet the promise of even greater successes had
lured him away from the ceremony altogether. Instead of arriving at Elizabeth’s
side, ready to share in her moment of splendour, he’d been almost 3000 miles
away, stepping into the ring to the chant of ‘Champ! Champ! Champ!’
Old Mad Dog had returned,
unwilling to let either time or defeat get the better of him. A string of
recent wins had pushed him back within contention. Eugene had brushed the
contest aside at first, with no wish to entertain the aging fighter. A
succession of publicised comments, regarding his only career knockdown, and the
promise of more lucrative financial endorsements, had worked its way inside his
gut. Eventually, pride and desire won out, and Eugene finally agreed to take on
the ex-champ again, ready to prove once and for all that he was now the best
fighter of his generation. The fight had been a farce. Profit stopped his man
within two rounds, before even breaking into a sweat. Only ten minutes after
stepping into the ring, he was back in the changing rooms, feverishly searching
for a spare dime. By the time he’d been connected to the hotel that was hosting
the awards, Elizabeth had left – the ceremony drawing to a close – and had
already begun to make her way to the after-party.
She never made it.
Her producer, a ruddy-faced middle-aged gentleman with a
passion for film, liquor and fast cars, had escorted her to the after-party. Amazingly, even after downing
over a quart of scotch, he almost made it. Yet somewhere high up in the Hollywood Hills, the vehicle had lost control ,
smashed through the side barrier, before plummeting
to ground, killing the producer instantly and critically injuring Elizabeth.
Grief-stricken, Profit rushed
back home, catching the first flight available – but arrived too late. His
wife, the newly crowned queen of Hollywood, died an hour before he reached her.
Torn apart by both grief and
guilt, Profit turned his back on the life he had, blaming himself for Elizabeth’s
death, and had shunned the world, drawing the curtains of life closed. Until,
that is, being discovered by a gangly young black kid named Joseph Ruebins.
Joseph, then just a lanky
shadow of what he would become, had found the old fighter in the hope he could
convince Profit to return to the world as his coach. It had been a very hard
task. At first, the aging ex-pro had flatly refused to answer his door, never
mind speak to anyone, particularly this annoying black kid. Still, Joseph had
returned first weekly, then daily, before eventually drawing
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