In his LockerRoom column, TOM HUMPHRIESreflected on the dark attraction of boxing and the essential dignity of fighters in the ring
THERE IS something pornographic about boxing. Something furtive and guilty which belittles all of us except the two men in the ring. Sitting just feet away from Collins and Eubank on Saturday night, near enough to get droplets of their sweat on the empty notebook, it was strange to hear the dull thumping noise gloves make when they make violent contact with flesh. Frightening to hear the gasp of exhaled breath escaping from the stricken boxer. Frightening but a guilty thrill to it also.
The irony of boxing is the essential dignity of the participants and the unremitting tawdriness of the trappings of their sport. I have never met a boxer I didn't like.
Never met a boxing promoter I liked. There is a brotherhood among boxers. On Saturday night it was possible to see Collins and Eubank sending each other messages with their eyes. Two men under the bright lights, hitting each other in a desert of darkness and noise. One would stumble and the other would look inquiringly. Alright? And then they'd set at it again. Hitting each other for money. Doing that which their incredible hunger and discipline has conditioned them to do. They are brothers beyond the hype.
The rest of us were guilty onlookers.
Outside the ring on Saturday night it was SpivoRama. Security men with inexpensively tattooed biceps barked into mobile phones. Women wearing clothes which just weren't sensible for winter teetered on spiky heels and urged grown men to use their jab. Men in monkey suits ran the show. We were urged to shout and holler because we were in the same locality as a series of "personalities". We shouted and hollered.
Two young women, picked because they are extraordinarily numerate, kindly helped us keep track of the rounds. Boxing rounds take place sequentially. Round two follows round one. Round three comes after round two with round four coming next. It's complicated, so the two young women help us out by carrying boards around the canvas before each round. The board tells us which round is next. For their thoughtfulness the women get little thanks. Catcalls. Wolf whistles. "Show us your jugs for God's sake." "Get them off."
We are invited to applaud Gert and Daisy, the two women who sweep out the ring. Nobody asks Gert and Daisy to get them off. We are too worried about what it is they have to sweep out of the ring. Cigarette butts? Broken glass? Old magazines?
The hype, the stuff that boxers have to do to sell tickets, is an art form. Eubank rose above us on his Harley Davidson, his ascension bathed in a wash of dazzling light.
Collins countered by lying in a dark brooding heap in his corner. Brothers in boxing have to turn some strange speciality tricks to keep us punters aroused.
When at last they fell to fight, great explosions of sweat burst from each man as the punches landed. Pumph! Droplets of perspiration fly off the tolling bodies. At the top of their arc the light catches them and they hang iridescent and beautiful for a moment, like fireworks about to fall to earth.
"Go on," we shout. "Kill him."
There is a small guilty thrill from watching a man hitting another man. Sober men. Strong men. Hard men. It's a border us soft folk never cross. A man hitting another man on the nose. Nobody calling the police. Nobody holding anybody back.
We become instant connoisseurs, grading each punch according to impact. Body blows bore us unless they are spectacular enough to make the victim piss blood for a week. We want the head shots which snap the victim's head backwards and send him reeling. We want to see one man fall backwards onto the ropes, take the follow up shots and maybe slump to the canvas. The drama in this great sweaty hall demands it. The noise, the bedlam, the frenzy. It demands a sharply punctuated ending. A victor standing with his foot on the chest of the vanquished.
