Alfie Cleaving

by Ronnie Bray

I shall not look upon his like again

 

What can I say about Alfie Cleaving? Whatever I say will be inadequate to express the greatness of the man because my impressions of him, gained over many years, are but one subjective calculation of this interesting character. Blessed with profound sense and sensibility that exceeded his poor education, he intuitively knew more than his education and understanding permitted him to express. We met when I attended his "Health and Strength" club in Huddersfield, Yorkshire.

Like everything about Alfie, the club operated on absolute essentials. The ring was a makeshift constructed with ropes that had seen better days. The equipment was old and worn out, but it served the needs of the club. The boxing gloves smelt of generations of sweaty hands; the paintless weights were adorned with polished rust.

His catchment area was the world of need. He understood the imperatives of good health and the right mental attitude - Mens sanum in corpus sanum was his watchword. He advocated Positive Mental Attitude before it became a multi-million dollar business. All boys were welcomed, and each received Alfie's individual attention. He tutored with infinite patience and care, dispensing advice like a machine gun:

If a boy was injured, Alfie tended him with his bag of potions, lotions, and liniments. His gruff, soothing voice indicating the lad's condition and Alfie's prognosis. He healed everyone: persuaded them to adopt the better life of honesty and uprightness, if that was appropriate, and had cheerful words for all, although he never smiled. He was never jovial. His lugubrious elongated face looked no better after shaving because of his ineradicable blue-black stubble. His hair stood in a shock, untamed and unashamed. For Alfie, the measure of manhood was not outward appearance, but the character of the heart - what one was when unobserved and unaccountable.

Alfie's dour roughness and emotionless common sense hid the greatness of this good man. He probably never read a book, but he knew about health, strength, boxing, and character, and dedicated his life to these objectives.

Whatever measure of success Alfie enjoyed in his life came only through what he taught to his lads. He was short, stocky, ungainly, bow-legged with an ambling gait, and had the exaggerated features of a dwarf. He was not cultured except he that understood the need for 'please' and 'thank you' and while he was rough in manner and short on schooling, he was inoffensive. His gruffness hid a sweet, generous heart. He was a man that strangers would not approach, because he seemed an unattractive ruffian.

He had no children, no close friends, no support system but himself. I came to know him better than most because of my friendship with his stepson Eric. He married to provide a home for an unfortunate woman and her tragic son, to whom he was a reasonable stepfather. The marriage was not a love affair: he understood his limitations. His marriage was an opportunity to help someone in distress.

He lived in a front terrace house on Turnbridge Road without electricity. It was lit by gas and cooking was by gas stove. The kindest way to describe the house and its furnishings would be 'distressed.' His was a make-do world that recognised poverty as the normal state of things. Alfie's trousers never matched his jackets; he never wore a shirt or tie, preferring a jersey. Even when he was cycling (his other passion), he wore long trousers and a jersey as his short, powerful form propelled his cycle at amazing speeds.

Alfie's mission was not to make the world a better place to live in, but to make men better equipped to live in it. He expressed no political philosophy or agenda. He was a denizen of the real world at the point where you muster your wits to survive, or submit, and go under.

I never knew what Alfie did for a living, or whether he worked. His wife was a cinder sorter at the gas works near their home.

Her stepson, was a likeable, self-effacing lad who became schizophrenic. His mother came from a 'good' family that disowned her when she turned 'funny' then had a baby out of wedlock. Alfie volunteered to be their family.

The last time I saw Alfie we were both in a hurry. At something of a pace, I saw him at the same time he saw me. It had been many years since we last met, but recognition was instant and warm. He told me only that he was now living in Halifax, then continued to rush for his bus. I never saw or heard of him from that day.

How many lives he touched for good we may never know, but when the Great Timekeeper rings the bell for the final round, it will be surprising if Alfie is not among the highest ranked saints.

During my association with Alfie Cleaving, I passed from boyhood to ladhood. Although I had eagerly anticipated this part of the growing up process, it went by unmarked. Like a traveller who has slept past his stop and finds himself at another destination I discovered that I was older without the sense of so becoming. Being grown up was more difficult. I expected that when I grew up, the quality of my life would improve. It was disappointing to miss that rite of passage. I grew older but not wiser. Yet, my life is richer because it was touched by Alfie Cleaving.

Knowing Alfie Cleaving taught me a great lesson. Yet, it is only in my mature years that the lesson has found its full force. Each time I read the words that Jehovah spoke to the prophet Samuel, I remember Alfie Cleaving, and my heart is glad.

"Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; for the LORD seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the LORD looketh on the heart" (1 Samuel 16:7).

Alfie's heart will stand up to the Lord's scrutiny. Thank you, Alfie.