Viva Max!

Sunday lunch time and I’m in the gym. A proper gym. An inner city gym. The only real kind of gym. It’s standing room only as me and a couple of hundred other fight fans wait for the fists, knees and shins to start flying.

Like all good fight gyms- the place is falling apart. The takings from today’s show will go towards funding some heating. If there’s anything left over- they may think about fixing the shower. The cream of the gym’s novices will be on show today, taking on their equivalents from across the country. All of them harbouring a dream of one day strapping a gaudy, ill fitting belt round their midriff. The first baby step on the road to glory.

Testosterone, nerves and pure fear are so thick in the air you can almost taste them. Most of the crowd gulp it in with glee. These are fight people. Strutting ‘away’ fans proudly wearing their club hoodies and accents in support of their boys. Fortysomethings with number two crops and a swagger. Pretty girls, with slightly shorter than average hair, who mingle with the ease and confidence that only having a sharp right cross in your locker can provide.

One small slice of the crowd are barely nibbling at the atmosphere. Their minds are fed up with questions. Why didn’t I take her to ballet instead of Thai boxing? What if it all goes wrong? Will they stop it quickly? Will I cry? What should I say after? Why?

I’m here on a Sunday, hoping to have my faith restored. So far, it’s been a bad day for the hurt business. I’d been up till past 4 am having my time (and a few quid) wasted by a Russian. I’d bought into the idea that Sultan Ibragimov v Wladimir Klitschko was significant. That having someone who the world can look on as a genuine Heavyweight champ is important and (remember, hindsight is a beautiful thing) that this had the potential to be a great fight.

On paper- Klitschko had the technique and the reach to shut the chunky southpaw out, but that means nothing in the hurt business. Ibragimov’s trainer, Jeff Mayweather had a plan. Not one plan- he said he had plans B, C and D to switch up to if need be. I mean- come on. Sultan had spent his whole life taking on bigger guys. Technique- the dude is an Olympic Silver Medallist. A World Champion.

There’s also that unquantifiable quality to have to consider in the combat sports. Call it heart, courage, the ability to dig deep, whatever. It applies in every sport- but to a much higher factor in the ones that involve taking repeated heavy blows to the head and guts. I got the feeling that Klitschko had had some of it knocked out of him. He’d go safety first. If Sultan was willing to take a few- he could drag Wlad into the trenches and out game him. This was going to be great…

If you didn’t see the fight live- you probably didn’t seek out a video of it after reading the reports. Wlad kept Ibragimov at range with his left hand and nonchalantly pawed down any jabs thrown in response. Once in a while, Sultan would throw a left from out of range and clumsily fail to follow it in.

And that was it. There wasn’t even a Plan A. Wladimir Klitschko was going to plod through twelve rounds to unify two alphabet soup titles. There were a couple of times when he could have stepped it up and put the little guy out of his misery- but the ghosts of Sanders and Brewster kept him shackled in his comfort zone. Sultan quit. Sure, he went through the motions, but he didn’t have it in him to gamble.

Fight fans are like little kids watching the Road Runner cartoons. Wile E. Coyote is totally out classed. From past experience we know that the Road Runner is too smart and has the skillset to out do him every time. Despite this, we stay glued every time the bell rings because…this may just be the one time he pulls it off.

Wladimir Klitschko pitched a virtual shut out to confirm his position as the number one Heavy in boxing. He executed a game plan to perfection and never looked in trouble. Unless the ACME corporation delivered a large, heart shaped container to Madison Square Garden after the fight- I won’t be expecting much from Sultan Ibragimov or Wladimir Klitschko fights in future.

So here I am, eight hours later, waiting. Waiting to be excited. Waiting for blood and glory. The novices will go all out. For many of them, this is it. Even the lowliest amateur boxer has had his mind polluted by the garish trimmings of the pro game. In UK Muay Thai, it’s all about training and fighting. When you’re brought up in a post-industrial Northern city, you don’t have a nagging dream of being crowned stadium champ at Rajadamnern or Lumpini. Even if you go on to win one of the “world titles”, you’re never going to get to the Garden. Wolverhampton Civic Hall or the Altrincham Leisure Centre are about as good as it gets after all the years of self imposed gloved slavery.

Forget about the bright lights at the end of the rainbow. From here, it’s hard to even see the start of the rainbow. Most pro fights take place in foreign territory like sports halls or nightclubs. The purveyors of violence set up their ring and unleash mayhem on boards usually reserved for weekend badminton players and Sinatra impersonators. Fans often get the feeling that they don’t quite belong. Not today. The ring is a permanent fixture a the far end of the gym. Every day, people sweat and bleed in this place. The walls are covered in fight posters and gym maxims. PAIN IS WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY. TRAIN HARD, FIGHT EASY. ANYONE CAN COME THE FIRST DAY-A CHAMPION KEEPS COMING BACK. From every flaking beam, a Thai flag is hung in honour of the sport’s birthplace. This is a place dedicated to the science of hurt. Fight time.

If you’ve ever seen top level Muay Thai- you’ll know that the first round is generally a time for sussing out your opponent. The two boxers will feel each other out- probing for weaknesses to be exploited later. Stadium level fighters from Thailand take this process to a whole other level. After training away at camps from as young as six years old- they are more at ease in the ring than most people are driving a car in the rain or ordering Chinese food. The Nak Muay nonchalantly pose, hands down- occasionally unleashing a rib cracking bandai.

The home camp and the various visitors are schooled in the lore of Muay Thai. None of the fighters will have less than two years training under their belt. Some will have up to a decade to draw on. Each fighter appears draped in garlands and sporting a Mongkon head band. All the hours of bags, pads, skipping and sparring for this.

The bell sounds, the trad woodwind music comes out of the speakers and the games begin. The contrast with last night at the Garden could not be greater. Not a gameplan in sight- unless the learned cornermen each took their charges to one side, look into their eyes and said:

“You know all the combinations we’ve worked on. All the months of sparring when we’ve perfected the skill of drawing leads and countering. I want you to forget about all that nonsense. Get out there and give it some crash, bang wallop. Screw Muay Thai- I want to see a Tom and Jerry cartoon.”

Youth is wrongly hyped as a time when lives are carefree and enjoyed with gay abandon. This is a filthy rumour put about by bitter oldsters. A young man’s existence is nasty, brutish and revolves entirely around the notion of never losing face. The idea that everyone is watching your every move and will exploit any weakness to question your right to be called a man. Today, two hundred pairs of eyes are burning into you as you seek to show that you are a warrior and not the worthless sack of crap mentioned in imagined late night whispers.

Pump, pump, pump- Ding Dong: CHARGE.

The fights were the perfect antidote to the robotics of the night before. Raw in every sense of the word, yet with promising signs. Each began with a Light Brigade shaming opening minute, but green shoots became visible amid the chaos. Contests settled and developed as the countless hours of repetition ingrained in the novices began to overpower the adrenaline rush.

There is little more pleasing than seeing someone find their way in the world. In the hyper-sensitive arena of the hurt business- huge Bollywood worthy dramas are played out in a matter of seconds.

Boy is all at sea in a hostile world which threatens to destroy him. Boy meets long lost uppercut. Boy throws perfect uppercut. The world becomes a joyful oasis of cheers. Boy throws uppercut again. He is the belle of the ball. Boy falls in love with uppercut. Boy forsakes all else that is precious to him to be with his uppercut. Predictable boy starts getting a pasting at range from a rival jealous of his acclaim. Pain and suffering engulf boy’s world as he realises that his love for the uppercut was misplaced. Boy parries jab and follows in with a crushing top knee to the solar plexus of his rival. Boy sees a face distorted from agony. Once more the cheers ring out and the boy feels the warm glow of love again.

Over and over, fight crowd veterans quietly enjoyed the ritual. While supporters yelled appeals to double up and step in, the vet’s sagely held their counsel. They can’t hear you. Some things can only be learned from experience.

The bouts rolled on, and there was much to admire, with some genuinely classy shots being thrown and taken. There was an overwhelming wave of honesty and purity coming from the ring. They were giving it their all. If that’s not enough for you- then it’s you who’s got the problem.

The most honest display came in a female bout. Two girls in their late teens. One fair and blonde- the other dark and brunette. Both would be described as pretty in a more frivolous environment. The blonde was slightly taller and visibly more relaxed in the preliminaries. The darker girl looked keyed up and stiff. The bell rang and the anxiety levels switched bodies. A furious onslaught was unleashed and blondie was on the ropes taking a series of thudding kicks and punches. Nothing was coming back. The ref dived in and delivered a standing eight count. He looked into her eyes, saw clarity, then asked her:
“Do you want to carry on?”
She gave it a second- then gave her considered response.
“No”.
The ref didn’t understand. She was OK. No one ever says no. He looked to the corner. They gave a roar of encouragement. She could turn it round. Blondie shrugged:
“I don’t want to do this”.
With that- she walked back to her corner and the fight was waved off. They were stunned, but what can you do. No amount of gym time can prepare you fully for malicious blows intended to disable you. Blondie realised this wasn’t for her and got out. If Ibragimov had been this honest and admitted he was out of his depth thirty seconds in, I would have had a decent night’s sleep. Maybe in this case- no cojones means more grey matter. Although, thinking about it- maybe it takes more balls to straight up admit you’re out of your league than to clam up and go the distance.

After a short interval- the big guys came out to play. Bigger in stature, but not in experience. These boys were the ones with most to lose in terms of street respect. Despite this- the extra couple of years lent them some poise. One local favourite systematically lamed his adversary with metronomic leg kicks. Clinches became a tactical struggle for balance and scoring chances rather than a desperate breather.

The rising class levels drew knowing nods from the cognoscenti. The next fighter was called. A tall light heavy from Glasgow. The guy looked serious. Let’s face it- you don’t drive five hours to a grotty gym show on a Sunday unless you fancy your chances.

I usually make it my policy not to name novices in reports. As we’ve established they are only learning the game, so I feel they should be spared the criticism (and occasional vilification) suffered by fully fledged pro’s. I’m going to make an exception in the case of Max, the Scot’s home town opponent. Max entered to applause, guided in traditional style by his trainer. A group of Pakistani lads stood at ringside for extra backing. For all the well meaning propaganda we hear daily- fight sports are the only area of British society where I get the feeling that people are truly colour blind. The gym we’re in draws evenly between the white, black, South Asian and growing Eastern European communities roundabout. It’s a place where men are stripped down to their lowest and boosted to truly be all they can be. A place where we’re all sure we bleed the same blood.

It was hard to hang an age on Max. He wore a long beard in the South Asian style and had features that meant he could pass for eighteen or thirty eight. He took off his robe. The audience gasped. Muay Thai demands discipline. All day, we had seen a succession of hard six packs straight off the cover of Men’s Health. Max was fat. Not fat to the American golf fan level, but distinctly overweight. A roll of blubber hung over the top of his shorts. The contrast with the Adonis from North of the border was huge. I know for a fact that Max’s gym pride themselves on the conditioning of their fighters. After each punishing session- they finish with 100 sets each of push ups, sit ups, squats and burpees. Either Max must have note to leave early or he struggles with figures. The uncertain muttering spread. Knowing the gym- I was certain there must be more to Max than meets the eye. Appearances can be deceptive. Max must have a secret weapon.

The fight opened with a demonstration of blistering Thai boxing. Lethal looking strikes, aimed with precision in slick combinations. All one way. Max got twatted. He took the role of easier to hit than normal heavy bag as the classy Scot reeled off his repertoire. Inevitably, Max was forced to turtle up. As he took an eight count, his corner screamed advice. Max turned from the ref and started to stroll to his handlers, seemingly unaware of what was going on. The ref grasped his forearms and brought him back to the job. The “fight” continued. The battering continued. Max tried to get on his bike, but he had lead in his boots. He stumbled away from the relentless punching, turning his back in desperation. It was horrible. During the second eight count, I scanned the room through my fingers. His corner looked to be on the verge of pulling Max out. I willed them to act on the impulse. Max’s boys down the front were regretting their decision to stand.

Somehow, Max survived the round. In the second, his secret weapon remained well stashed. I began to suspect it may be of the Iraqi variety. Max was getting bombed back to the Stone Age. I started hoping that the Scot would land one, big clean shot to finish it. It never came. Thud, thud, Thud. With seconds remaining, the Scot stood off; visibly tiring. Was this the chance. Max collected himself and took a forward step. Crack. Max long range kick to the head. Even taking a breather on the back foot, the dominance continued.

Amazingly, Max had made it to the final round. I clocked the blonde girl, now changed and in the crowd. What was the big deal about going the distance? What would Max get out of this that she hadn’t?

The fighters touched them up in the centre of the ring. The boys at the front half heartedly urged their guy on, but even these hawks had accepted that Max’s possession of WMDs was probably a myth. Max walked forward purposefully, straight into another flurry of punches. Again he slumped against the ropes and the home fans again squinted at the action in car crash mode. The ref separated them and stared long and hard at Max. He glanced at the corner- but they weren’t going to pull their boy. It was going on.

On exactly what happened next, I can only speculate. Something happened within Max. He made the decision.
I will not allow myself to be beaten any more.
Desperation leads the oppressed to make this decision all the time. As a million battered wives and the people of Zimbabwe will testify- the bully with the superior arsenal will usually continue beating the Hell out of you.

Max marched forward and let go a huge haymaker. The kind of wild punch that would be more at home in kebab shop than a Thai gym. It landed. The Scot was staggered. The crowd erupted. Max advanced. A big left. Another direct hit. In the corner, a hand furiously slams the canvas to urge him on. His boys at ringside stop checking their text messages and call for a KO. The tiring Scot back pedals. Max is wide open, but he won’t go near him. Max shoots from the hip- he scores again. Left. Right. Left. Man down. The crowd go wild. Pure joy engulfs the gym. He’s going to do it. He’s going to pull it off.

The ref gives the Scot an eight count. He’s shaken, but OK. Max plods forward. He throws a monster right. The Scot sways back. Leather tickles his chin but does not connect. The momentum carries Max forward and he crashes, face first onto the canvas. Max struggles to his feet. It dawns on us that Max is still vulnerable. His lack of condition and the rounds he spent catching smacks mean he could go at anytime. The Scot is breathing heavy against the ropes. Sold out.

Either of them could be out cold at any second. Both are all out to win at any cost. This is why fight sports are the only sports.

The ref wipes off Max’s gloves on his shirt. The exhausted fighter tries to push him out of the way in his haste to nail the Scot. The official tries to admonish Max, but the sight of the sweating hulk of determination in front of him causes him to crack a smile. He chuckles, holds up his hands and lets the boys get on with it.

Laughter spreads around the crowd. Joyful laughter. The laughs of people who are enjoying life. Everyone is with the underdog. Max swings. Once again- the Scot feels the waft of air as he steps back just in time. A synchronised sharp intake of breath rings out. Then more laughter as the crowd share their experience.
Two minutes last a lifetime. Max hunts down his prey, throwing haymakers. Some hit. Massive cheers. Some miss. Whhooooaah. Max’s corner jump up and down with excitement. They are all smiles. Their boy has come good. They were right to leave him in. They can’t stop laughing. The Scottish corner hold their heads in terror as leather flies close to their boy’s chin. They mug to each other and laugh nervously. Max throws the mother of all right hands. The Scot ducks. Max lurches forward and falls over his opponent, taking him down with him.

The ref stands them up and wipes them off. He signals to the timekeeper that he won’t be able hear the bell because of the noise. This lifts the volume level even more. The lads in the ring having been eyeing each other up in the impasse. They know this is the last throw. The crowd are standing. The corners are jumping. The ref is laughing. Everyone is smiling.

They’re off. The Scot backs up Max with a one two. As he bounces off the ropes he lets a huge right go. The crowd roar as it lands. For the final seconds, the two exhausted warriors slug it out in slow motion. Everyone is screaming. The timekeeper is furiously waving to the ref. Max and the Scot fall into each other’s arms. They have to be held up to stay on their feet. The crowd cheer them to the rafters.

The result is the only one possible. Both hands are raised- a draw.

On his way out- Max gets another rousing cheer. Everyone is beaming. We can all admire skill and technique, but we love guts. To be generous, Max did not get much opportunity to display his Muay Thai against a superior opponent. What he showed us was so much more. Max was up against the wall with nowhere to run. He decided to fight. We all hope that we’d do the same in that situation. Time after time we see guys stay down. Settle for playing second fiddle in life. We suspect we may do the same. We know we already do it most days. When we see a Max, it makes us believe. It makes us want to have that kind of guts in our own lives.

Wladimir Klitschko put in polished performance against a world class boxer to establish himself as the number one Heavyweight of the current crop. I probably won’t bother staying up for his next fight.

Max is an out of shape novice who has yet to demonstrate much in the way of ring skills. I would walk barefoot in the snow to watch his next fight.
 

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