Keeping secrets was something John Nice detested.
He instructed his three sons to be truthful when they were growing up, for in his eyes, it was the most important trait for a man to have.
Yet John kept his own secret, and it had remained so for almost twenty years. He was an amateur boxer, and no one in the family knew.
John had taught himself how to punch after years of practicing on bags of grain in his few spare moments on the family farm in Wodonga. As his skill developed, he found himself competing in amateur leagues around the region, and he soon became a cult figure.
Despite this, John didn’t necessarily look the part of a feared boxer. His hair was immaculately slicked back, only a solitary lock which dangled across his forehead was the only thing out of place. His reserved smile was more so that of a librarian rather than a fighter. But most importantly, all his teeth were all still intact.
But come into the ring, the mild-mannered country boy was gone. He was known as ‘Nasty’ in the ring, and although a play on his surname, it was also for his unforgiving left uppercut, which often ended of many rounds.
The word ‘NICE’ was embroidered on his right glove – the less dominant hand – but his left was what his opponents feared the most. Chins would often connect with the left glove, with a fitting ‘NAUGHTY’ stitched just below the strap. It was this hand you’d want to avoid at all costs.
After amassing 22 knockouts over his career, the gloves were momentarily hung up after meeting his future wife, Glenice in the neighbouring town of Albury.
The two moved to Melbourne in 1953, residing in the suburb of Lower Plenty. Now married, Glenice had told John to put the past behind him and focus on his career as a hospital receptionist – a job they both shared.
“But maybe one last round”, he had mused to himself before he would reluctantly retire.
Eighteen years later, John found himself skirting between amateur leagues across
Melbourne. An odd round here and there, all conveniently scheduled when he was set to head down to the golf club for the day.
John reckoned he’d kept it hidden so long because there were no physical marks of fighting on his body. He rarely lost.
It was all perfect in his mind, until one fateful day in 1971.
Squeezing his boxing gloves inside his golf bag, John drove off as if it were any other day down at the golf club. Now in Collingwood, he was ready to face his latest opponent in the ring.
The behemoth John had to face, he claimed years later to his friends and family, was 6”8 (but he seemed to grow an inch time he told the story, and in reality, he was only 6”3). John was only 5”9.
After six rounds of blood and sweat (no tears), John’s left fist cannoned into his opponent’s blotchy cheek, calling an end to the match through a technical knockout.
Back at work the next day alongside his wife, John’s secret unravelled after the man he defeated the day before came to reception to find out which room his pregnant wife was in.
Despite his best efforts to hide from the man – or distract his wife – he was caught out.
Both men subsequently became close friends, sharing a bond of not only boxing, but keeping that part of their lives hidden from their wives for so long.
The two iconic boxing gloves remained in the family living room on the mantlepiece from that day on. A sign of the past, but more so in the eyes of Glenice, as a sure way to see he wasn’t falling back into old habits.
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