Requiem For A Writer Pt 1 - From Hemingway to Howorth
by
Oct 5th 2004
What initially started as an idle daydream eventually managed to lodge itself into the very fibre of my being, until it could be ignored for no longer - I had to stare across the ring at another fighter, waiting for the opening bell that could, and most probably would, have some serious consequences on my health, not to mention question my sanity.
Having been a fight fan for over twenty years, I had often wished I could emulate my heroes in the ring, and this used to lead to the big fights being re-enacted in the (relative) safety of the lounge. Trouble was, my opponent was my brother, who was older, faster, hit harder and was much bigger than me. This generally led to pretty one-sided affairs, which would either end in tears (always mine!) or result in me launching myself at him in a hysterical rage when the punishment became too much to endure. Either way, I would go off to lick my wounds, waiting for the day when I could do what little brothers have dreamed of all their lives - beat their big brother. It never came, and as I grew older, I found myself drawn to the almost hypnotic attraction of the boxing gym.
We seem to be plagued by an plethora of 'what ifs?' as we get older, and if one thing is certain, it is that time puts paid to plans that wait too long to get realised. It 'marches on without us all', to quote an old song, and although I often try to cling to my youth, nothing can fully disguise the fact that I am getting older, and things I put off until tomorrow might as well get consigned to the 'things to do in the next life' pile.
Perhaps inspired by Ernest Hemingway, and more recently Robert Cassidy Jr and Ian Stafford, I decided there was only one thing to do- get into the ring and face my dreams and fears at the same time. Hemingway used to spar with former heavyweight champ and ring immortal Gene Tunney in a bygone era, and lived the kind of life that you can only read about nowadays, or watch in black and white films.
Cassidy, (son of the former pro fighter of the same name), trained and sparred over a period of time for a feature piece in 'KO Magazine' over ten years ago. Ian Stafford spent a year travelling the globe, competing with world-class athletes in their chosen profession, and managed to find himself opposite Roy Jones Jr with some gloves on. Regardless of what may have happened to Jones just over a week ago, it would require, at least, the guarantee of a best-selling book detailing my various exploits to even make me consider taking on one of the best fighters of modern times, be as it may in an exhibition. Judging by the photos and detailed prose that made up the final chapter of his book, I have often questioned my sanity for trying an even vaguely similar exercise. ('Playground of the Gods' is the book in question, well worth a read).
Although Stafford faced Jones after weeks of sparring and training, thus getting accustomed to being in the ring and facing an opponent, (and getting punched!), my intention was always to document what it was like to face a quality professional the very first time I ducked under the ropes. But who would be the lucky fighter to realise many a sportsman's dream, and actually get to punch a journalist?
Before this itch ever began, I used to train at a gym run by ex-pro Nigel Fairbairn in Peterborough. Along with 'Mini', (who was anything but!), they would put me (and whichever mates I had dragged along to the session) through an exhausting, but thoroughly invigorating workout. It was almost 'good cop/bad cop' - Nigel would take the pads, all encouragement and smiles, whilst Mini would stalk around the gym, barking orders like, 'push! push!', 'left! left!', and perhaps the most hated of all, 'work! work! work!', all the time sporting a big grin on his face!
In later years, as a qualified Boxercise Instructor, and someone who is someday hoping to acquire my seconds/trainers licence, I learned so much from them on running a fitness session - even now, coaching various sports at schools, I often use their warm-ups! Hitting the pads with Nigel was always the highlight, although when he started moving around, in order to present a moving target, it suddenly got a lot more tiring. And to think that nobody was even punching me back! Later on, it was at Ian Pauly's gym, and it was there that I thought I had met my nemesis, the man destined to stare at me across the ring apron.
He was a super-bantamweight, originally from Rwanda, and a fascinating individual who was a thoroughly pleasant and engaging human being. Frankie De Milo was the one that I often peered at out of the corner of my eye as he went through his routine. I marvelled at his timing, fluency, and venom as he strung together rapid and flowing combinations - whether it was on hand-pads or the body and head of a sparring partner, Frankie's fists seemed to be drawn to their target, resonating and creating a beautiful poetry that had me transfixed. We soon built up a rapport that led to playful bantering about what would happen if and when we finally faced each other.
"Hey, Frankie, this is you!" I yelled to him, motioning to the heavy-bag, as I peppered it with unanswered punches. This would be greeted with laughter, with Frankie retorting, "Hey, Matt, every time I see this, (an unfortunate sparring partner or occasionally pads), it's your face!" With this, he would deliver a fluent combination to the proposed target and grin at me.
Delivered from a distance, the reality of it never sunk in. And neither did Frankie's fists, as I relocated to the Midlands. It was there that I chanced upon Carl Gunns and his newly opened gym, and whilst I never managed to frequent it as much as I liked, it left an indelible mark on me.
Formerly the manager of Leicester's formidable middleweight Tony Sibson, (who had unsuccessfully challenged the legendary Marvelous Marvin Hagler), Gunns had opened a gym in Birstall. Bitten by the boxing bug from an early age and involved in the game all his life, Carl was keen to put something back into the community - he had certainly succeeded, judging by the number of people that crammed into his gym every session.
Approachable and honest, Carl radiated an energy and enthusiasm that was frighteningly contagious, and everyone that frequented the gym was soon hooked. I occasionally took some training sessions and recognised that this was an avenue I definitely wanted to explore in the future. On relocation to London later, it was whilst covering a Fight Night bill for BritishBoxing.net that I took this seemingly insane idea that bit closer to reality....
NEXT CHAPTER: Cruising for a bruising...(literally!)
