Requiem For A Writer Pt 3 - “No-one said it would be easy…” by Matt Howorth Nov 17th 2004

Like so many things we dream about doing, there is only so much talk that will be tolerated before the impatient wait for action starts. As Def Leppard sang, ‘Action, not words!' and although I may be showing my age, as well as a pre-pubescent toleration for heavy metal, Joe Elliott certainly had a point. Too much talk combined with an absence of action can only fool a fool, I suppose. But I sure tried! However, the internal ‘blah-blah' clock inside myself went off and I knew it was time to substantiate my bold plans with evidence that I was making some sort of progress. Only a madman would enter the hitherto alien arena of the boxing ring with no training, although it is only a slightly less madman that would do what I am planning to do anyway! But the first step was always going to be tough, as a combination of age, apathy and alcohol has managed to affect my fitness and, occasionally, shape. Now, don't get me wrong, I still take some pride in my appearance – I still genuinely recoil in horror whenever I feel and see even the slightest overhang past my belt, and although dim lighting can often reassure me, my conscience demands an immediate remedy. This is generally achieved by doing varying amounts of press-ups, with an old back injury rendering sit-ups to the past. But part of moving to London was to immerse myself in the boxing scene and, having trained at a number of gyms in the past, I was excited at visiting new venues. A search on the Internet proved surprisingly frustrating – there were plenty of boxing gyms, but none of them (that I could find) were particularly near where I lived! Having read stories of boxers travelling hours each day to train, I reassured myself that it was a necessary obstacle and one that give me an excuse to catch up on all the literature I had shamefully neglected recently whilst sitting on a seemingly endless tube journey. The first gym that I decided to check out wasn't too far away – ‘All Stars Gym' on Harrow Road. A mere tube and bus ride away! Accompanying me on my initial expedition was a mate from work, sold on fanciful promises of imminent fitness, confidence and proficiency in the Noble Art. Having encouraged a small army of individuals to take up boxing training over the last eight years, I have often seen them visibly inflate with the knowledge and realisation that they partake in boxing, at any level. Not boasting as such, but a certain pride that they have done some training, which whilst not quite putting them on a pedestal with their fistic heroes, at least elevates them to the same stratosphere, the same sport, like part of a secret club that others are blissfully ignorant of. Dan effortlessly displayed this attitude and theory, before we even got to the gym. Having jumped on a bus to complete the last leg of our journey, we pressed the buzzer to stop at the next stop. The bus driver inadvertently carried on past our destination, to which Dan shouted out, “Hey, you've just gone past the stop!” Then, turning to me, incredulous at what had happened, “Doesn't he know I box?” Welcome to our world. The first training session was a real eye opener. I was unfit. Ashen-faced, dehydrated and thoroughly exhausted, I wondered how it could have happened – it wasn't supposed to be like this! After all the warm-ups and shadow boxing, it was onto the heavy bags to wreak havoc with rapid combinations that I naturally presumed had defied Father Time and would still be fired as rapidly in the last minute as they were in the first. The late, great Joe Louis once remarked that, ‘they can run, but they can't hide', and whilst he was referring to fleet-footed opponents in the ring, I knew what he meant. There was also no place for me to hide as my hands got heavier by the second, with each progressively more cuffing punch. As I tried to buy some precious time by leaning into the bag to pretend I was in a clinch with my imaginary opponent, I jockeyed for position, ready to punch once the batteries had partially recharged. Looking up, I saw the BBC documentary crew, who had followed me down to the gym, merrily shooting away. I kept spinning out of their line of view, but like a prime Julio Cesar Chavez, they merely stepped to the side and once again cut off my escape route, and I was locked in their sights. Looking back on that first step back to what I hope will be the road to fitness, it was perhaps too intense a session for someone unaccustomed to anything more strenuous than running to get out of the rain. However, it was still wonderful to hit the bags again, thinking about combinations my favourite boxers have delivered over the years, and then mimicking them on a hapless opponent who didn't hit back! Even though there would have been almost no physical change after the first session, in my mind I was walking a little taller, with a bounce in my step and my shoulders, arms and chest the proud recipient of some new muscle definition. Psychologically, it was second to none. Apart from Michael. (Get it? An old buddy of Mr T. Answer next instalment) However, subsequent trips in the afternoon proved less fruitful, as I was greeted by a locked door. Either they saw me coming, or I had got the opening times hopelessly wrong. With some time off work, I was determined to keep what little momentum I had going, so I returned to my list of addresses and there was one name that leapt out at me. Now, the gym in question was the other side of our sprawling metropolis, but armed with an appropriate book, (‘The Long Round, by Dominic Calder-Smith – thoroughly recommended), I jumped on the tube and headed east. Now I know the phrase is ‘Go West, young man', but I am a spring chicken no longer. Besides, my destination was synonymous with East End boxing, soaked in fistic history and on top of that, home to my prospective opponent. Into the lion's den. Next instalment: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer… If you have missed parts 1 or 2 they can be found below Part One Part Two

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