By Andrew Harrison, safesideoftheropes.com – Martin Rogan started it.
The unbridled passion displayed by Belfast’s popular heavyweight during a summer press conference with Sam Sexton brimming with froideur, had me convinced that ringside tickets were essential. Discussions with friends over the prospect of a boxing jaunt returned a mixed response, many grumbling at having to board a plane when there were cheaper, alternative scraps closer to home and it was at this point that things began to snowball. Maybe I could make more than one trip……maybe I could even make every major domestic fight card in October?
After successfully allocating travelling companions, lengthy negotiations with my better half and hours spent negotiating ticketing websites, I was set. Six destinations, three promoters, five weekends, fifty four fights and one hundred and three prize fighters.
My travels commence in Altrincham on the first Saturday of the month, for a Mick Hennessy bill topped by John Murray and Jon Thaxton. There’s confusion locating the venue after we’re directed us to the nearby ice rink by one baffled resident, however we eventually manage to dodge out of the driving wind and rain to be met with an undercard classic. Debutant Daniel Randell and unbeaten novice Abul Taher, recreate Balboa-Creed over four rounds, with main event participant Murray cheering Randell on to victory from ringside, sipping water and looking ebullient.
We’ve paid £30 for tickets yet are in close enough proximity to ringsiders to facilitate a grey hair count and I attempt to look magnanimous as I chat to one punter who’s less than happy that he’s paid more than double to have me peaking over his shoulder. Kid Galahad rolls smoothly off the Wincobank production line and I notice the Sheffield sage himself, Brendan Ingle, scouting heavyweight prospect Richard Towers from the shadows at the back of the hall.
The seating arrangement is conducive to noise, two ends of the hall are tiered, which helps bestow a raucous din upon the main event. The crowd are parochial yet humorous; their relentless appeals to ringside analyst Barry McGuigan for a Royal wave are at first shunned, yet eventually and amusingly acquiesced to.
Murray can’t miss Thaxton. He wins in four rounds to herald a domestic changing of the guard at lightweight and as the fans funnel out, there are murmurs that Manchester may well have found another world class fighter. They’re in festive mood and they call for Amir Khan as we head back to our hotel, where we’re cordially invited to join a wedding party (Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn eat your hearts out).
Six days later and we should be in Northern Ireland however the card is nixed after Rogan picks up an injury. We take a hit on non-refundable flights and cough up £50 to be ringside at the historic York Hall in Bethnal Green for Frank Warren’s rescheduled show. Nathan Cleverly versus Courtney Fry, a fight which was to have appeared on the Sexton-Rogan undercard, is now the headline act.
I balk at paying five pounds for a programme and choose instead to invest my pennies at the bar. Rough looking journeyman, light welterweight Johnny Greaves, is roaming around in his kit and appears to be looking for someone he knows or perhaps just some attention. The beer is undrinkable but we do what we can with the suds we’ve committed to and take our seats. Greaves later gives Vinny Mitchell a tough night’s work with the Dagenham prospect’s family, including big brother Kevin, looking on.
Norfolk’s fighting Walsh brothers (Liam, Michael and Ryan) all record stoppage wins to send their lively support home happy and after a quick but desultory Derek Chisora victory, there’s a lull as we wait for Sky’s live coverage to begin at 10pm. As the lights dim and the announcer readies his vocal chords, folk line up along the sides of the hall and the balconies fill. Fry has come to win but finds himself outgunned and he falls to the Welshman in eight, taking referee Victor Loughlin down to the mat with him.
As we push our way out past the smokers huddled in the doorway and into the London night, I shoot a glance over to the ambulance parked out front which has happily remained redundant.
One week on and it’s short haul to Sunderland’s Seaburn Centre for the first Frank Maloney show of the tour.
I glance down at my ticket (£35) whilst riding the metro. It’s printed in the colours of Sunderland’s football team and bears the initials of Maloney’s promotional outfit FTM, which is coincidently, a familiar acronym used by the club’s supporters in reference to their Newcastle brethren. As we alight at Seaburn and stroll along the seafront, I ponder if this can possibly be down to chance or if the diminutive cockney’s Sunderland venture is fated.
The preliminaries, as they were in the capital last week, are supplemented with undernourished looking men from Eastern Europe. Men with names like Noniashvili and Toklikishvili, Solomko and Jonkus, hailing from outposts such as Lithuania and Belarus, Georgia and Bulgaria, are now commonplace on domestic undercards. They are routinely thrashed by home-grown prospects for the short end of a purse, yet fit their role perfectly. Limited enough so as not to trouble our starlets unduly, these boys are plenty game and are as tough as nails.
The set up seems better here and the fighters are visible behind us upstairs, warming up and killing time. George Groves looks superb and before he even makes it back to the changing room after his bout, he turns to eye potential rival Travis Dickinson, who has a look of Jack Dempsey about him, scoring a super quick knockout.
Jason Booth’s domestic super bantamweight title defence against Hartlepool hellraiser Michael Hunter has top billing, however many are here to see local hero Tony Jeffries who’s on afterwards and they pass time by warbling about Niall Quinn, who’s ringside. Hunter snarls and gnashes his way past us to the ring, yet finds Booth far too good for him and succumbs in five. Jeffries struggles to impress and the crowd filter away, standing up aggrieved looking local heavyweight Dave Ferguson who’s positioned in the doorway, stripped for action and waiting to close the show.
Fast forward 24 hours and I’m in a Shane Meadows zombie flick. I’m trying to find a working toilet in Nottingham’s Trent FM Arena, scene of Carl Froch’s world title battle with American Andre Dirrell, but it’s messy. Doors opened at 7:15 pm and after passing through the most stringent and intimidating of security measures, punters have been drinking since.
The undercard is awful and seat numbers have been poorly marked. Fans have found solace in overpriced lager and are unable to locate where they should be sitting, leading to one argument after another, some of which result in fisticuffs and arrest.
Fighters in attendance include Jean Pascal, Tyson Fury and John Murray. Fury has to be the most approachable sportsman I’ve ever come across and the leviathan spends hours answering photo requests and chatting to fans. Arthur Abraham’s devastating knockout of Jermain Taylor plays out on the big screens overhead, which is a nice touch, however the delay leading up the main event is excruciating.
The appearance of Jimmy Lennon Jr at around 2 am is most welcome and we’re soon underway. Ring walks, intros and bell. Froch pursues Dirrell relentlessly whilst the challenger flees and tries to steal a decision, which rankles with the home crowd. We score Froch a close winner from just behind ringside (an absolute bargain for £30) and everyone seems happy as we trundle off at half past three through a fire exit. With a dreary 149 mile drive home to negotiate, we chug aimlessly around the city looking for our way out, accompanied by BBC radio, which reports a much closer fight than we recall.
October 23rd. We arrive early at the Bolton Arena, which nestles in the shade of Bolton FC’s Reebok Stadium. The ring is illuminated amid a largely desolate hall and there are hushed tones save for the squeaking of boots against canvas and the sound of leather slapping off the ultra tough trial horse, Alex Spitko. This will be one of three occasions I’ll witness Spitko take a hiding in the space of 21 days and this week it’s local lad Jack Arnfield’s turn to bash him up. Quite where the young Latvian draws his Sisyphean motivation from is beyond me, he refuses to submit easily and the pluck he exhibits has me shaking my head.
The facilities are a mixed bag. The foods good, the drink’s ok but the facilities (dreaded Portaloos) are most definitely a drawback. The undercard makes up for it though, our position means that the boxers pass by us to and from the ring (we’ve paid just £40 and there isn’t a bad seat in the house). Taher, the young lad I began my trip with, is knocked out and remains badly shaken as he meanders back to the changing rooms. Shinny Bayaar, a Mongolian immigrant recently afforded British citizenship, edges Stoke’s Chris Edwards in a nip and tuck affair and is euphoric as he departs, clutching his Lonsdale belt like a kid with a comfort blanket.
Like serene fishermen, we’re rewarded with a big catch in the feature bout as Ryan Rhodes and Jamie Moore engage in a barnburner. Sheffield veteran Rhodes upsets the odds in the seventh, a round of the year candidate which we almost lose as a brawl breaks out around us.
The residue of trouble lingers in the air so we decide to split and follow Ricky Hatton out into the reception area, where he’s inevitably mobbed. He’s far too polite to refuse photographs and handshakes however he eventually manages to escape, explaining that he has to check on his friend Jamie. As we loiter to eavesdrop into conversations between acquaintances of the beaten champion, which centre on weight problems, over our shoulders and through the double doors behind us, Jason Rushton is in the ring with Brian Rose and close to injury, which culminates in a drug induced coma. It’s a bitter pill to swallow when news breaks the following morning; it feels like we’ve disrespected him by leaving.
Whilst standing on the hard shoulder of the A1 with smoke billowing out of the front of our vehicle, the prospect of not making it to Liverpool for the final fixture is very real. It’s eventually ditched just outside Dewsbury and we scramble to the train station, limping into Lime Street extremely late and reasonably miserable.
We end up legging it along the Albert Dock, arriving at the shimmering Echo Arena both sober and ravenous, just in time to see Stephen Smith putting the finishing gloss on a decision win over Gavin Reid. The cheapest tickets are £30, which puts us up in tiered seats for the first time and the view is pretty good, however finding an opportunity to seek sustenance is proving problematic. Frank Warren’s bill is rammed with fighters I’m keen to see, despite the fact none of them are involved in anything remotely resembling a competitive match.
Michael Jennings keeps his hand in after Kell Brook’s late cancellation and is followed by Frankie Gavin, who looks the absolute business. As he hands over to Tony Bellew I can no longer fend off my hunger pangs and nip out to grab a ‘scouse pasty’, mars bar and bottle of lager which sets me back eight pounds. As we wolf down our hearty meals, a girl tries to peddle us a programme for six quid and after I’ve managed to stop choking, we head back to our seats in time for James DeGale.
He’s widely booed but impresses, indeed the dazzling knockout he scores drags attention away from a worryingly large crowd disturbance and back onto the ring. Local rivals Paul Smith and Tony Quigley duke it out in the main event, Smith nicking a close decision, which is popular with the fans.
The majority of the crowd evacuate quickly but we hang back to mill about and end up standing alongside Smith and Quigley who, away from the cameras, embrace and bury hatchets. It’s a fitting end to a pretty great month and as we march triumphantly along the Mersey, talk turns to the following weekend’s belated grudge match in Belfast.
I hark back to that press conference and wonder how much flights will be.
Postscript:
Jason Rushton, 26, was transferred to hospital in Doncaster from Salford last month. He is now having physiotherapy sessions twice a day which are helping to stimulate the connections between his brain and muscles. Brian Rose, the man who had been in the opposite corner from Rushton that fateful evening told The Blackpool Gazette: “Jason is still in hospital but is doing really well. I visited him in Doncaster and he still has some short-term memory loss, but the doctors say that will improve”.
*For more by the writer, visit his blog at safesideoftheropes.com.