Saturday night’s alright for fighting - 15/10/12
This Saturday evening I had a new experience – for the first time in my life, I went to a boxing match. It wasn’t just any boxing match; it was the David Price Vs Audley Harrison fight at the Liverpool Echo arena. I didn’t just go on a normal ticket either; I went with the brand supremo for B.B.E. and enjoyed a ringside seat with representatives from the media all around me. The tickets were provided by none other than the legendary boxing promoter, Frank Maloney, and I sat no more than twelve feet from the action. At one point Ricky Tomlinson was being interviewed just a few feet in front of me to add celebrity into the mix. In all honesty, there was no better way to lose my boxing virginity.
After arriving at around 7:15pm, the evening consisted of four bouts of which three were title fights and the headline was the Price/Harrison duel.
I am not a boxing journalist so I’ll leave the technical fighting commentary to those that know their stuff. For me, the night was genuinely thought provoking and my angles will instead reflect upon the overall experience and the thoughts and feelings that went through my head.
On the car journey up, I thought about how little boxing I had actually seen in the last decade. Aside from the Olympics, it’s hard to see boxing on the telly if you don’t subscribe to a decent satellite sports package, and I don’t. I still think of boxing in terms of Frank Bruno, John Conteh, Barry McGuigan, Michael Watson, Chris Eubank, Nigel Benn and Lennox Lewis.
Next, I contemplated how alien the concept is of earning a living by going out to punch someone in the face until they fall over. I am no pacifist and even do karate with my son but throughout my life the conditioning has always been, avoid the situations that end up in punch-ups, negotiation is always better, if that fails get away if you can and finally fight if you don’t really have any other choice. The karate code suits that conditioning too and I guess that’s why it works for me.
The idea of getting into the ring to hit someone I don’t know just feels all wrong. If you’d stuck me in the ring with Chris Edwards or John Lewis Dickinson, my first thought would have been to pull up the stools and have a chat over a coffee. That wouldn’t make for good TV viewing, I appreciate.
The fighters obviously have a very different perspective to my own. They fight hard and then hug afterwards. The boxers in three of the four bouts were amiably chatting to each other after the final bell as if nothing had happened.
The first bout I watched was a flyweight title fight between local lad Kevin Satchell and Chris Edwards. The latter is an older and more experienced boxer and the former a young fellow who was only in his ninth fight. Chris Edwards looked pretty scary, ripped and covered in tattoos (including his neck for God’s sake – why do people do that!) and Kevin Satchell looked like an eight stone school kid. Seriously he looked so young, and spindly that I wanted to climb in the ring and ask the bad man to leave him alone. He won in the sixth though much to the appreciation of the crowd. He’s now the British and Commonwealth flyweight titleholder.
My next observation; when the undercard British cruiserweight title bout between John Lewis Dickinson and Shane McPhilbin was underway, a punch-up broke out in the stalls up and to my left. The action was such that the media types around me (who truth be told hadn’t lifted their collective arses off their seats to that point), and many others beside, were immediately standing up and watching the crowd fighting instead of the boxers in the ring. The police had to pile into the melee to break it up.
The fight going on at the time was fairly dull, it went all twelve rounds and ended in a points-decision, but nonetheless the protagonists must have been pretty annoyed that they were being ignored in favour of an unregulated brawl amongst the punters.
The final fight of the evening was the showcase showdown between Audley Harrison and David Price. Harrison came into the arena first and was jeered for his entire walk to the ring and then like a football terrace, the crowds burst into song with a rendition of ‘who the fuck are you?’. Bloody impolite I thought and I was cross on his behalf.
Price’s arrival though was a very different matter; the audience’s praise for the local lad was loud, very loud! The entrance to ‘You’ll never walk alone’, which even the Beatles would struggle to out-scouse, saw the arena in full song. Price must have felt every bit the hero to Harrison’s villain as he strolled towards the ring.
With the robes off, I noticed that neither Price nor Harrison sported tattoos and I think both of them looked better for it. Both chaps looked impressive, no doubting the strength of these guys. Some of the earlier pugilists had looked a bit flabby – not these two, all muscle and in Price’s case significant height too. The fight was due to start and the anticipation was high.
The fight was as brutal as it was short.
Price hit Harrison hard and he went down in the first round after just one minute and 22 seconds and he didn’t get back up again. Harrison hit the deck just feet from me and I winced at the sight/sound. The medical and other support teams were around him in seconds and it took a while, and some oxygen, to get him up onto a seat. It was a while longer before they got him to his feet. I felt real concern for him whilst the rest of the auditorium just carried on booing. The abuse continued even when he was back on his feet.
I’ll admit I didn’t spend a lot of money on a ticket to a one minute fight but I felt that Harrison deserved more respect than that – he was a brave man just to be in that ring. He didn’t even get into the fight before he was out but blimey he earned his money on Saturday night, admittedly the hard way. I had enjoyed the evening but there was no pleasure in watching Harrison get hurt or in listening to him getting abused by the crowd.
After Harrison’s dismissal, it was time to go home and reflect upon the spectacle. What have I taken away from the experience – well, on Saturday afternoon I had gone from standing at the ironing board in Daventry with a pile of shirts in front of me (dull, dull, dull) to driving to Liverpool to experience something that really was rather exciting! I’d happily do it again and again (and I don’t mean the ironing, although I am much more likely to do that again and again).
Secondly, I am glad that my job doesn’t involve administering or receiving a physical beating in order to pay the mortgage. I respect those that are brave enough to do it but, all things considered, the power of the written word has more resonance for me than the power of a right hook. I guess that made the ‘press’ identifying band I was wearing on the evening all the more appropriate.
Finally, I wish that some of the womenfolk accompanying their menfolk to the boxing would wear less makeup, more substantial clothing and appreciate that bright, tight fitting, short clothing, high heels and fishnets on more rounded figures are not perfect – Gok Wan would surely agree with me! Frank’s Angels, the girls walking around the ring with the round cards and enjoying the wolf whistles, were young enough to get away with skimpy outfits, some of the audience though were clearly less qualified. Now that’s fighting talk.
Thanks go to Jez Hart, an excellent chap that knows his boxing inside out, is well-known and liked in the boxing fraternity, represents a respected and long established boxing brand, and who was the perfect host - he even provided the wine gums! Thanks also to Frank Maloney who provided the ticket and a chance to tear myself away from the household chores.
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After arriving at around 7:15pm, the evening consisted of four bouts of which three were title fights and the headline was the Price/Harrison duel.
I am not a boxing journalist so I’ll leave the technical fighting commentary to those that know their stuff. For me, the night was genuinely thought provoking and my angles will instead reflect upon the overall experience and the thoughts and feelings that went through my head.
On the car journey up, I thought about how little boxing I had actually seen in the last decade. Aside from the Olympics, it’s hard to see boxing on the telly if you don’t subscribe to a decent satellite sports package, and I don’t. I still think of boxing in terms of Frank Bruno, John Conteh, Barry McGuigan, Michael Watson, Chris Eubank, Nigel Benn and Lennox Lewis.
Next, I contemplated how alien the concept is of earning a living by going out to punch someone in the face until they fall over. I am no pacifist and even do karate with my son but throughout my life the conditioning has always been, avoid the situations that end up in punch-ups, negotiation is always better, if that fails get away if you can and finally fight if you don’t really have any other choice. The karate code suits that conditioning too and I guess that’s why it works for me.
The idea of getting into the ring to hit someone I don’t know just feels all wrong. If you’d stuck me in the ring with Chris Edwards or John Lewis Dickinson, my first thought would have been to pull up the stools and have a chat over a coffee. That wouldn’t make for good TV viewing, I appreciate.
The fighters obviously have a very different perspective to my own. They fight hard and then hug afterwards. The boxers in three of the four bouts were amiably chatting to each other after the final bell as if nothing had happened.
The first bout I watched was a flyweight title fight between local lad Kevin Satchell and Chris Edwards. The latter is an older and more experienced boxer and the former a young fellow who was only in his ninth fight. Chris Edwards looked pretty scary, ripped and covered in tattoos (including his neck for God’s sake – why do people do that!) and Kevin Satchell looked like an eight stone school kid. Seriously he looked so young, and spindly that I wanted to climb in the ring and ask the bad man to leave him alone. He won in the sixth though much to the appreciation of the crowd. He’s now the British and Commonwealth flyweight titleholder.
My next observation; when the undercard British cruiserweight title bout between John Lewis Dickinson and Shane McPhilbin was underway, a punch-up broke out in the stalls up and to my left. The action was such that the media types around me (who truth be told hadn’t lifted their collective arses off their seats to that point), and many others beside, were immediately standing up and watching the crowd fighting instead of the boxers in the ring. The police had to pile into the melee to break it up.
The fight going on at the time was fairly dull, it went all twelve rounds and ended in a points-decision, but nonetheless the protagonists must have been pretty annoyed that they were being ignored in favour of an unregulated brawl amongst the punters.
The final fight of the evening was the showcase showdown between Audley Harrison and David Price. Harrison came into the arena first and was jeered for his entire walk to the ring and then like a football terrace, the crowds burst into song with a rendition of ‘who the fuck are you?’. Bloody impolite I thought and I was cross on his behalf.
Price’s arrival though was a very different matter; the audience’s praise for the local lad was loud, very loud! The entrance to ‘You’ll never walk alone’, which even the Beatles would struggle to out-scouse, saw the arena in full song. Price must have felt every bit the hero to Harrison’s villain as he strolled towards the ring.
With the robes off, I noticed that neither Price nor Harrison sported tattoos and I think both of them looked better for it. Both chaps looked impressive, no doubting the strength of these guys. Some of the earlier pugilists had looked a bit flabby – not these two, all muscle and in Price’s case significant height too. The fight was due to start and the anticipation was high.
The fight was as brutal as it was short.
Price hit Harrison hard and he went down in the first round after just one minute and 22 seconds and he didn’t get back up again. Harrison hit the deck just feet from me and I winced at the sight/sound. The medical and other support teams were around him in seconds and it took a while, and some oxygen, to get him up onto a seat. It was a while longer before they got him to his feet. I felt real concern for him whilst the rest of the auditorium just carried on booing. The abuse continued even when he was back on his feet.
I’ll admit I didn’t spend a lot of money on a ticket to a one minute fight but I felt that Harrison deserved more respect than that – he was a brave man just to be in that ring. He didn’t even get into the fight before he was out but blimey he earned his money on Saturday night, admittedly the hard way. I had enjoyed the evening but there was no pleasure in watching Harrison get hurt or in listening to him getting abused by the crowd.
After Harrison’s dismissal, it was time to go home and reflect upon the spectacle. What have I taken away from the experience – well, on Saturday afternoon I had gone from standing at the ironing board in Daventry with a pile of shirts in front of me (dull, dull, dull) to driving to Liverpool to experience something that really was rather exciting! I’d happily do it again and again (and I don’t mean the ironing, although I am much more likely to do that again and again).
Secondly, I am glad that my job doesn’t involve administering or receiving a physical beating in order to pay the mortgage. I respect those that are brave enough to do it but, all things considered, the power of the written word has more resonance for me than the power of a right hook. I guess that made the ‘press’ identifying band I was wearing on the evening all the more appropriate.
Finally, I wish that some of the womenfolk accompanying their menfolk to the boxing would wear less makeup, more substantial clothing and appreciate that bright, tight fitting, short clothing, high heels and fishnets on more rounded figures are not perfect – Gok Wan would surely agree with me! Frank’s Angels, the girls walking around the ring with the round cards and enjoying the wolf whistles, were young enough to get away with skimpy outfits, some of the audience though were clearly less qualified. Now that’s fighting talk.
Thanks go to Jez Hart, an excellent chap that knows his boxing inside out, is well-known and liked in the boxing fraternity, represents a respected and long established boxing brand, and who was the perfect host - he even provided the wine gums! Thanks also to Frank Maloney who provided the ticket and a chance to tear myself away from the household chores.
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