Get Her Off the Pitch! How Sport Took Over My Life Read online

  I had mixed feelings. These fans were funny, but they were also incredibly depressing. They booed the ringside celebrities; they booed ‘The Star Spangled Banner’; they couldn’t pipe down even for the tribute to the just-deceased American hero Joe DiMaggio. All those old boxing movies had not prepared me for the reality of this particular fight crowd. True, I’d seen scenes of angry fight-goers jeering, whistling and throwing folded programmes, and sometimes even uprooting furniture and trampling defenceless well-dressed women underfoot - but that was usually after the fight, not before. Why such animus towards the inoffensive Paul Simon? Bridge Over Troubled Water was not only an enduring classic album, it included that sensitive song ‘The Boxer’ which we would surely all do well to remember this evening. ‘Why do they hate Donald Trump so much?’ I asked Rob. ‘Do they even know who he is?’ When the presence of Jack Nicholson was announced, however, they stopped booing and gave a big cheer. Perhaps they were scared of him. It was a mystery I never got to the bottom of.

  On the plus side, however, it’s a big arena, holding over 21,000 people, and there was plenty of salt popcorn. Rob and I had seats quite a long way back from the action, but we had taken our binoculars, and there were large screens suspended above the ring. I felt really, really bad about how I’d been planning to murder Rob and dispose of his body, but I won’t go on about it. I was now quite glad he was there. And I have to say, the build-up was horribly prolonged for someone already near to a state of hyperventilation, privately fretting about what might unfold within the next hour. Boxers have been known to die in the ring, you know. They have also died in hospital afterwards, without recovering consciousness. The crowd goes crazy, I was informed, at the first sight of blood. Holyfield was predicting a knockout in the third. Although Joyce Carol Oates insists in her book that boxing is statistically less dangerous than other mainstream sports such as horseracing, motor-racing and American football (and that therefore liberal middle-class hand-wringing about boxing is less straightforward than it looks), it’s still true that boxing is all about efficiently biffing someone on the head, which is the most violent thing you can do to another person without resorting to weaponry (or to crime).

  It’s all to do with how soft the brain is, and how little protection it has inside the brain box. If the boxing authorities could only find a way of packing the fighters’ cranial cavities with little polystyrene balls, or kapok, or feathers - just for the duration of a fight - a lot of squeamishpeople in the wider world would definitely relax more. But no one has ever come up with a suitable material (or indeed, even tried to), so the brain is left to slosh about inside a hard casing, which isn’t such a good idea when organised biffing is going on. Basically, if you carefully place a nice wobbly milk jelly inside a biscuit tin and then kick it against a wall for half an hour, you get a fair idea of what happens to the human brain during a heavyweight fight. A wellaimed blow from a professional heavyweight carries the equivalent force of 10,000 pounds, says Oates - and you can’t help wondering whether boxers themselves are deliberately cushioned from this kind of information.

  As an ersatz sports writer, I loved the drama of all occasions. I never felt it was my job to testify to greatness, as some sportswriters do; it was my job to see how an unwritten story ineluctably formed itself, in front of my very eyes, from quite unpromising basic ingredients - such as a flat rectangle of grass with lines on it and twenty-two men in shorts; or an undulating landscape with flags and sand pits at intervals, and dozens of individual men, dressed in natty knitwear, each with a small white ball and a bag of sticks. Waiting for the start of my first heavyweight fight was a moment of reckoning. The basic ingredients here were a spot-lit ring with ropes, and two very large men wearing padded gloves, with designs on each other’s sense of physical well-being. A heavyweight fight was completely different from all other sporting occasions I’d encountered because this ineluctable drama contained in it the potential for ineluctable tragedy, and this was the first time I’d ever had to address anything quite so serious. As Joyce Carol Oates kept reminding me, this was not a metaphor for something else.

  I still wished they would get on with it, though. Even when the fighters finally made their appearance in the arena the suspense was terrible, because it took them such a bloody long time to reach the ring. The Lewis entrance (first) was a shambles, with his ragged entourage having to shove its way through a crowd that appeared to be shoving back. Laid-back reggae was the incongruous accompaniment to this disgraceful near-riot, involving Garden security staff, fans, bodyguards, and a chap with a flag, and it would have been quite funny if it hadn’t been so dreadful. ‘Whose fault is this?’ I wanted to know - but then I’ve already established how I feel about things being badly organised. Still, Lennox looked focused and unfazed by the turmoil holding up his progress, possibly because the mellow music was working so well for him, but also possibly because he towered literally head and shoulders above everyone else, and all the aggro was taking place about a foot below his eye-line. I ought to mention that in the thick of the mêlée was the tiny figure of Frank Maloney, Lewis’s boxing manager, tastefully dressed up as a parody of the Artful Dodger in a Union Jack suit with a Union Jack cap. This fact alone, perhaps, kept Lewis’s eyes fixed resolutely on the middle distance.

  Holyfield entered - with considerably more ease - to a warm gospel song that was probably about how incredibly big his heart was, but I couldn’t tell, there was so much cheering. And then, with just enough time for me to get used to the almighty size of the shorts they were both wearing (‘What enormous shorts!’), there was the announcement of the two men, the belts they already held, the three ringside judges (one from South Africa, one from Atlantic City, and one from London), mention of the referee being the son of another referee, twelve rounds of three minutes, and ding-ding, blimey, before I could worry too much about how many synonyms for ‘horrified’ I was going to require before the night was out, it had started, amid roars from the crowd, and thousands of cameras flashing at once. Lewis came out very positively, left arm horizontal, left fist level with Holyfield’s face, delivering smart, straight-arm jabs every few seconds, with Holyfield largely back-pedalling and evidently trying to figure out some way of getting to the ‘inside’. Lewis was clearly in control, as Rob and I sagely agreed. We had decided to keep personal point scores according to the proper system - i.e., 10 points to the winner of a round and nine to the loser, unless there’s a knock-down (then it’s 10-8), or a draw (10-10). In the event of a knockout, it’s still technically a win on points, apparently, but I never quite mastered the maths of that. I merely knew, as everyone does, that a knockout means it’s all over. Meanwhile marks out of six for artistic interpretation and technical merit don’t come into it at all, which was a shame because, by my calculations, Lennox was doing quite well on those counts as well.

  At the end of round one, I felt pretty good. True, I needed a spongeful of water on the back of my neck, and a respite from the gum-shield, but I wasn’t out for the count. Lennox also looked as if he felt ok. Holyfield was mainly looking a bit thoughtful, like someone who’s been punched in the face non-stop for three minutes while concentrating on walking backwards. At the end of the round he had suddenly lowered his head between Lewis’s legs and, bizarrely, lifted him off his feet rather in the manner of a trainee fireman - an unconventional, not to say desperate-looking and ungainly move that had earned them both a reminder from the ref about keeping it clean. In the second round, Lewis again efficiently kept Holyfield at arm’s length, but also landed a couple of classy blows with his right. But Holyfield’s prediction that he would knock out Lewis in the third was probably uppermost in both their minds during those first two rounds; it was certainly uppermost in mine. The fight would be won or lost, surely, in that third round - and if the drama were to be cranked up a bit now, to be frank, most people wouldn’t complain.

  Although I felt guilty about it, I had begun to see what people moaned about in Lewis’s fig
hting style, and why his trainer got so short-tempered with that travelling chess set of his. Even when in control, you see, Lewis had the air of someone manifestly thinking, pondering his options, eyes narrowed, as if deliberating whether the Budapest Gambit would leave him too exposed, eight moves down the line, to the classic Schleswig-Holstein Defence. Holyfield, by contrast, with his head forward and sweat pouring off him, seemed to be simply more engaged in a bout of fisticuffs (as seemed fitting in the circumstances). Finding himself on the back foot in the more explosive third round, Lewis did stop calculating for a little while - Holyfield had charged out of his corner at the bell and started throwing serious blows, including two solid rights to the side of Lewis’s head. But a temporary shifting of Lewis’s rock-like centre of gravity was all that Holyfield had achieved by the end of a heroic and exhausting three minutes, and Holyfield walked back to his corner with his shoulders down, and his head down, too - or, at least, his head bent forward as far as it would go, given how firmly his prodigious neck muscles are attached like splints to the back of it. Was it all over for Holyfield? Lewis seemed to have been shaken, though, because the fourth was quite even. Only in the fifth did Lewis look back in control again.

  Obviously, I’ve watched this fight again recently. By an absolute fluke, while I was researching and making notes for this book, I ransacked the house for my video of Raging Bull, and found at the back of a drawer a forgotten tape with ‘Lewis fight’ written on it in small letters. I couldn’t believe my luck. It was in among my Jeff Bridges collection, behind such unforgettable classics as Tucker: The Man and His Dream (1988) and Thunderbolt and Lightfoot (1974). I turned it over in my hands, wiped off a layer of dust, and thought, this is exactly the sort of invaluable resource that usually turns up just after you’ve finished your book, or just after it’s gone to press. So what a miracle. The week after my return from New York, it turns out, Sky Sports had re-shown the fight, in full, with in-studio analysis, and I’d recorded it (and then, for whatever reason, hidden it to be found after my death by the house-clearers). If I had found this tape at any other moment in the intervening eight years, by the way, I would undoubtedly have recorded University Challenge, Pet Rescue or an even lesser-known Jeff Bridges film on top of it. I still can’t get over this domestic miracle, as you can tell.

  What I had remembered from the fateful night was that Lewis had a good fifth round and that thereafter he seemed to be coasting, confident of winning on points. What the tape showed was that the first half of the fifth round had some terrific boxing from Lewis, but that old fight hands (including Lewis’s animated trainer) were in despair that he didn’t finish off Holyfield there and then. Later, Don King would say, ‘When you have a man on the ropes, you’re supposed to finish him, not play chess with him.’ Lewis would reply, as always, that there was no sense in exposing himself unnecessarily to counter-attack, which is a perfectly defensible point of view. As far as Lewis was concerned, he was winning this fight and doing it his own way, by anticipating and frustrating Holyfield’s moves, while landing a huge number of blows. Holyfield was bruised, puffy and in manifest need of a long lie-down (with his trousers on). My own impression at the time was that, ‘While working Holyfield relentlessly with the famous left jab and openly dominating him, Lewis was like an angler teasing a fish on his line. Just because he didn’t bang the fish on the head with a mallet doesn’t mean he didn’t catch him.’

  But now I don’t know. The rest of the fight was, in reality, not so one-sided as it seemed on the night. Lewis landed vastly more punches than Holyfield, but he didn’t have a clearly brilliant winning round again until the last, while Holyfield rallied in the tenth. At the arena, however, we had stopped scoring quite a long time ago, and were convinced Lewis had won it comfortably, and won it in style. When the final bell sounded, Lewis raised his arms in triumph, and Holyfield just breathed heavily. It had been a thrilling fight, and the great thing for me was that there had been no excessive violence to be sickened by. The sense of relief was fabulous. The jellies were largely safe in their biscuit tins, after all - and at no point had I jumped up and screamed, ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’ (which was what I had secretly feared). Everyone in the ring congratulated Lewis on his brilliant fight. Rob and I congratulated each other on our outstanding professionalism in the face of this historic triumph. Because it was historic, by the way: not only because it temporarily united the titles, but because no British man had held the undisputed heavyweight championship of the world in the whole of the 20th century until this moment, in 1999, in the very last tickings of the millennium. From Lewis’s point of view, his wait was over, he had silenced his critics, and his question mark could be changed forthwith to an exclamation point. A transparently legitimate fight had been transparently won. Lastly, those world-weary boxing commentators could at last start reaching for synonyms for ‘hallelujah’ and ‘coming up smelling of roses’.

  But then the scores of the judges were announced, so we all listened carefully - with smiles turning quizzical, and eyes narrowing, and heads shaking, and (finally) hackles rising. Because this is the part of the proceedings that the night is actually famous for. The American judge (a woman called Eugenia Williams) had scored it 115 points to 113, apparently, which seemed a bit close, but never mind. Except, hang on, she had scored 115-113 in favour of Holyfield! Good heavens. Only in America, right? But she was only one judge, after all. The second judge, the South African (Stanley Christodoulou) had scored it 116-113 to Lewis, which was a bit more like it, although still surprisingly close. And finally, the British judge (Larry O’Connell) had scored it 115-115, a draw. Both fighters therefore retained their belts and the contest was announced to have no winner, thank you and good night, drive home safe everybody, see you next time, just be careful on the stairs. ‘What?’ we all said. ‘What?’ The place was full of bewilderment, disbelief and booing. We blinked, confused. Could they run that past us again? There must be some mistake. By most calculations, Holyfield had won three rounds at most. Such a decision was impossible, unless - unless, well, I mean, listen, buddy; do I need to spell it out for ya?

  As, one by one, we saw how Lewis had been robbed, the temptation was to burst into tears. How could we have been taken in? Didn’t they have us all fooled this time, eh? I found myself not bothering to think of synonyms for ‘stinks’. I was too upset. I had been completely wrung dry for a full week for this? ‘This stinks,’ I kept saying, as disbelief turned swiftly to disgust. ‘It stinks. It really stinks. Oh, poor Lennox. Someone should say to him, this absolutely stinks.’

  The astonishing thing was that the crowd didn’t riot. Footage of Lewis’s reaction in the ring shows him, vertiginously puzzled, looking around him and mouthing a short, one-word exclamation beginning with the letter ‘M’ (presumably ‘Man!’) and not beginning with ‘F’, which is remarkable in the circumstances. Then the fighters left the ring, and the crowd dispersed, and the next thing on this long, wearisome night was a rolling boil of a badlyorganised press conference full of seethingly indignant men - and not just the British press, either; the American press was livid as well. The most significant outcome of the draw decision was that the American press was so outraged on Lewis’s behalf that it forgot all about its previous assessment of him as a negligible fighter with a small squeaking hand-pump where his true boxer’s heart ought to be. In fact, on ESPN (the sports channel), the bearded pundit who had spent all week rubbishing Lewis picked up the judgement and tore it in half on screen. Next day, the New York Post wrote: ‘The fight plan may have been drawn up by the Lord, but the scorecards bore the mark of the devil. It was a night in which the glory and honour of boxing was supposed to return to its former home; instead, the stink returned to the air over the ring.’ ‘They robbed Lennox Lewis of the championship he won in the ring,’ wrote the Washington Post. ‘They damaged the sport they love. They called a fight a draw when it had been no such thing.’ Meanwhile the New York Times said the decision rese
mbled ‘a Brinks truck heist perpetrated in front of 21,284 fans’.

  We arrived at the post-fight press conference clutching the statistics, which had been released immediately, just to rub it in. Evidently these numbers had meant nothing to the judges, but they looked very persuasive to most of the people now assembled. Lewis had connected 348 punches (from 613 thrown) as against Holyfield’s 130 connected (out of 385). As for jabs, Lewis had connected with 187 (from 364 thrown); Holyfield had connected with 52 (from 171). When you consider that a fight of 12 three-minute rounds totals 36 minutes, these statistics meant that Holyfield had been successfully hit, on average, 10 times a minute, and had been jabbed in the face five times a minute as well. No wonder, when he turned up for the press conference, he looked puffy and pained and had to keep leaning on the table for support. Meanwhile Lennox, with just a couple of Elastoplasts on small cuts, stood tall in his sunshades and FCUK hat (he was sponsored by French Connection uk, with its charmless acronym), and looked - relatively - fresh as a daisy.

  The sense of let-down was almost unendurable. Had it all been a fix, after all? The bout that was supposed to settle everything had settled nothing - except, perhaps, that you can fool all of the people all of the time. Sensitive as ever, Don King tried to smooth the situation by summing up: ‘Some are BORN GREAT, some ACHIEVE GREATNESS, and some have greatness THRUST UPON THEM. Tonight, Lennox Lewis had greatness thrust upon him!’ - which was a characteristically perverse application of the Bard, I’d say, since Lennox’s greatness had been very much achieved on this occasion, and then blatantly stolen from him in full view of millions of people around the world, some of whom had been persuaded to suspend warfare for the privilege. When you consider the murderous mood of the assembled press, the almighty nerve of Don King on this occasion was breathtaking. He started to plan a re-match. ‘What this is, is MORE EXCITEMENT!’ he urged us, as if we were missing the bigger picture. ‘It ain’t over yet, this is so great! What do you do when you got a DISPUTE? You resolve it! So let’s do it again! Let’s do it AGAIN! Hey, judge NOT that YE be not JUDGED!’ Lewis’s camp walked out when they couldn’t stand it any more, with Frank Maloney stating that the ‘people’s champion’ was leaving the building. ‘NOT a smart move,’ King remarked.