The intention was still there, harboured at the back of my mind, somewhere between finding the perfect woman and the perfect job – oh yeah, get in the ring.
It would happen. Course it would. It was something that I wanted to do, therefore, by that rationale alone, it was destined to happen. At some point. There is, as the saying goes, a fine line between insanity and genius, or as David St Hubbins immortalises in ‘Spinal Tap', “Its such a fine line between clever and stupid”.
And he was serious. And, perhaps more worryingly, right.
But on which side would my latest escapade land? The romantic side of me conjured up an image that harkened back to Hemingway's days; spar with a world-class boxer, exchange stories over a drink and leave with a beautiful woman on my arm. All shot in grainy black and white. Or should that be black and blue? The generally latent side of me, together with (worryingly) all my friends and family, sided with insanity and stupidity. There is one other factor involved, that could significantly influence the amount of damage done to me, but that will be revealed later.
But was this one of those idealistic yearnings, or should that be fantasies, that confront us at various stages in our lives? Things we always intend to do, but something that the act of living from day to day seems to consign to an afterthought. There might be some reminder that suddenly jolts you into remembering, but all too often, that little acorn is cast back down onto stony ground. Timing is everything, and I felt my time was running out if I was to ever do this. It was now or never, and damn the torpedoes!
Covering a Friday Fight Club show at the Britannia Hotel on the 24th September seemed an innocuous enough assignment, but fate has a habit of dealing its hand when you least expect it. Fortunate enough to snare a free meal, I sat on a table that was predominantly made up of boxers from the Peacock Gym, who were there to lend their support to stablemates Silence Saheed, Rocky Dean and John MacKay.
I pulled up a chair and introduced myself, and the Peacock fighters were very welcoming. Perhaps lulled by this, I chatted to cruiserweight Garry Delaney and, as they say, one thing led to another. Before I really knew it, (and I'm sure that miscreant ‘Al Cohol' played his part), I was discussing the finer points of my foray into the ring with Garry as my prospective opponent.
It is at this point that I should make you aware of the disparity in size we are talking about here. Garry is six feet four, and fights at 190lbs. Seeing as most fighters walk around at a higher weight than that which they fight at, and without wanting to give him any added incentive by incorrectly guessing his weight, lets just say chances are Garry was nearer 200lbs. I still kid myself that I may make 6 foot, but in reality I am 5'11'' on tip-toe and walk around at around 168 lbs.
Before you start saying, ‘oh, that's a super-middleweight versus a cruiserweight…hey, didn't Chris Eubank almost beat Carl Thompson?' I would like to shoot that down straight away. Eubank had bulked up considerably since his championship days, had an anvil for a chin, (and a heart to match), and was a world-class operator. I have none of those attributes.
Plus, 168 is my walking around weight. My ‘fighting weight', should such a thing exist, (and I am no fighter), would probably see me sweat my already slim frame nearer to middleweight or even less. The boxing historians may recollect middleweight Stanley Ketchel famously flooring despised heavyweight champ Jack Johnson with a mighty right hand. To which I would like to remind you what happened when Johnson got up – he promptly floored Ketchel with one mighty punch, which knocked the smaller fighter cold. Not only that, but some of Ketchel's teeth were found embedded in Johnson's glove later on in the dressing room. So we are looking at nearly 15 stone of muscle, primed and trained from an early age to inflict damage upon another human being with his fists, versus someone who is eleven stone, whose fingers were trained to play the Classical guitar, bred from an early age to inflict damage on a fret-board. The more I think and type this, the more worried I am becoming.
If that wasn't enough to put a rapid stop to proceedings, there is another twist to the plot. A BBC camera crew, who are making a documentary about people looking to change their lives, is currently following me for the good part of eight months. They have watched me move from Leicestershire to London, whilst I merrily tap a keyboard and strum a fret-board, chasing journalistic and musical nirvana.
Now this isn't the reason I am doing all this – friends of mine will attest that I have had this itch for many years, but the fact remains that now over 6 million people will soon be privy to what goes on in my life. And that means the good, the bad, and just plain ugly. It was a little unsettling to see their visible signs of glee when they realised that they would potentially get to film me sparring Garry. Now I would like to think that they would have shown such unreserved enthusiasm no matter who was in the opposing corner, but I cannot help feel that the size differential had something to do with their reaction.
Garry, perhaps sensing my growing unease, said that he often sparred with smaller boxers, and it was not his intention to wipe the floor with me. He said he would present me with a seemingly inviting target, then, like a latter day Ali, mock my feeble punches. We both stressed the beautiful symmetry that sparring could produce, one fighter working on defence, the other attack, then swapping over and finally both probing for openings. This left me feeling a little better, but I still cannot shake the niggling feeling that says, ‘How is a professional boxer, with pride and a reputation, going to react when faced with a journalist who wants to write about what it is like to face him?'
How would I react if the shoe, (or should that be glove!), was on the other foot (or hand)? Would I take it easy? Make it an educational, worthwhile experience? Just in case Garry is reading this, yes I would, but I'll never know until I'm in that situation. At many times in our lives, we wonder how people can act like they do, exclaiming, ‘I would never do that, why didn't they say/do such and such?'
Because they are not you. Because we are all different, and we don't truly know how we will react in any given situation until we actually experience it. Often I have laughed at people who win the lottery and say, ‘Oh, it won't change me, I'll still keep the job and house...' Then give the bloody money to me! But what would I do with it? Would I be sensible, build for the future, invest in property and make sound business decisions? Or would I go travelling, buy fast cars and live the life that only money can buy? I actually have no idea, but I would love to see!
What I'm trying to say is that we don't know how we will react to events until we go through them. And I am worried about what will happen when I stare across the ring at a fighter, be it Garry or another boxer, and how they will react, given the circumstance. They can make the right noises, assure me of my (relative) safety, and besides, I can dive out the ring if it gets too hairy, but the image I have in my head is probably much different to what will happen. I'm not talking about standing victoriously over a prone fighter, in an Ali vs Liston II pose, but a controlled spar that I can learn something from. But what image does my opponent have in their head?
