I don’t get to the fights like I used to. Understanding a fight fully, by relating to it on a sensory level, as a lived experience, is lost as a result. The atmosphere is a vital part of the story. Whether rousing a fallen hero or setting the tone as a villain walks to the apron, a crowd, large, or small, may not be able to win a fight, but it can draw back a boxer on the brink of defeat and it can even the odds for an underdog. As such, a ring side press seat offers a perspective for reporting that cannot be mimicked on a sofa. Despite the improved impartiality and the clearer view this affords.
Opting out of the ringside experience, or not being asked a wag at the back may suggest, has also removed the opportunity to observe many of the vignettes available for those minded to stay abreast of those people stories that exist on the periphery of a boxing match.
Be they the fist fights that break out in the crowd, one at the Copperbox as the undercard to Billy Joe Saunders versus Willie Munroe the most humourous in the history department of my mind.
A man of indeterminate age but, one could assume, familiar with the exuberance afforded by exotic snuff, getting wet in a storm of punches from three assailants catapulted himself into the VIP section in pursuit of sanctuary. In a surprising twist, he was promptly returned to the fray by a different trio of men in matching polo shirts all called Security without concern for the outcome for the interloper.
It is hard to suggest any of the magnificent seven were merely over excited about the main event yet to come. The same wag from earlier could suggest, with Compubox as an advocate, that Saunders and Munroe would land fewer punches in 12 rounds than those swinging for free managed in a dozen seconds. I lost a small part of my soul at that card. Munroe made Saunders look like Jake LaMotta.
Of all those moments on the sideline, aside perhaps from feeling the hairs on my neck stand up when Richard Williams walked to the ring behind a Gospel Choir singing ‘What have you done today to make you feel proud’ at York Hall, bearing witness to Katie Taylor‘s debut a decade ago at Wembley Arena is one of the most memorable. Not because of the opponent or the battle that ensued, or because I was perfectly placed to appreciate the full trajectory of the bottles of beer that sailed from the balcony to the ring when it was announced Scottish maverick Ronnie Clark had lost on points to Martin Ward for the British title, but for something much purer.
Those same hairs stood up, as did most of press row, except Lloyd Honeyghan who I seem to remember took up a pew in front of me and nobody tells Lloyd to move, or even take off his hat for that matter, but I digress, back to the moment Katie Taylor entered stage left. Her stoney expression, the story of her career, well told in the prelude – her battle simply for permission to compete, energised all, even the apathetic old timers recognised they were present for the beginning of a special story.
At fight’s finish, and as new asset for Eddie Hearn’s stable, she was guided toward press row where, by the happenstance of the day, she stood right in front of me, the Ragamuffin man having wandered from his seat. She was the killer with a shy smile. More confident colleagues dived in with questions and I was a bystander once more.
To consider she will leave the ring on Saturday for the final time, at Croke Park in front of 80,000 devotees is both a sadness – for boxing will miss her – but also a perfect zenith on which to depart. However, the future dissects her trio of fights with Amanda Serrano, or the win and loss with Chantelle Cameron, Taylor has always entertained, always chased the best fights and platformed women’s boxing across the globe. She has grown more comfortable with the camera, but remained utterly devoted to her craft.
10 years ago, her aura was evident from the moment she emerged in front of that first London crowd. She has preserved that and battled the slow erosion of her tools to remain, essentially, dominant in the weight classes she has graced. But age creeps up on all of us. Katie has defied almost everything to achieve what she has, but as the cliche insists, Old Father Time is undefeated.
Nevertheless, the opposite corner will be no place for shrinking violets on Saturday night.
Flora Pili has the unenviable task of competing first with Taylor, and then the occasion.
Two unprecedented foes in women’s boxing.
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