The Charity Boxing Match

BY ERIC GARNETT ARPS CPAGB

Just recently, I, along with Steve May, was given the dubious honour of photographing a charity boxing contest. The request came from none other than our own Ian Kemp who somehow had talked himself into fighting and representing Tarmac. The tantalising prospect of seeing Ian pulverised to a pulp and silencing that minuscule, cocky, little ****** person was just too good to miss. However, being two of the few who will buy him a drink and call him a friend, we felt that we should support him in some sort of way, however small. So Steve and I agreed a sponsorship deal. We considered where we may get the greatest media exposure. Initially, his gum shield was our first choice, such a large area that would be in constant view, but after a careful re-think, we settled on the obvious choice; the soles of his boots with a suitable slogan along the lines of “walk this way for all your photographic needs”.

Joking aside, Ian is a proud man and took his promise seriously. He plucked up all his courage and joined a local boxing gym. This was not a place for the faint hearted. It had many hard men who trained there, as Ian found out. Ian trained hard in the proceeding weeks leading up to the fight, loosing approximately two stone in weight; this I know from the twice-daily updates I received. There where twelve fights planned for the evening comprising of three two-minute rounds with the intention of raising funds for leukemia research on behalf of the Robbie Ryan appeal. This is a plight which people we all, I’m sure, have known at some time have had to deal with and battle against with such dignity that it leaves you full of emotion and admiration.

As the fight drew ever closer, so increased the calls from Ian. The conversation ranged from the colour of his trunks and vest (I recommended red to disguise any possible blood stains, however remote the chance may be, you understand) to the song he wanted playing whilst he made his way to the ring (my suggestion of “Tip Toe Through the Tulips” was met with a flurry of unrepeatable expletives. So touchy these sportsmen). He finally settled on One Step Beyond by Madness. I was also starting to feel the pressure and Ian kindly pointed out that they were only expecting a couple of hundred spectators who were there to support their mates and loved ones. Steve “the professional” May insisted on recalling previous instances of photographers who had failed to deliver the goods for similar gentile hard-as-nails promoters. The thought of using flash sent shivers down my spine since what I know about flash could easily be fitted upon a pin head. All the while Steve’s smug grin grew ever wider, his consoling comments of “You can only do your best, mate”, had surprisingly little reassurance. Days before the fight, Ian sustained an injury that required physio resulting in the chance that the fight may be cancelled. This filled me with some relief and the thought that I may still get the chance to see my children grow up. Alas, as I indicated before, Ian is a fiercely proud man and refused to retire. His resolve grew ever stronger no doubt due to all the predictions he had dished out over the previous weeks. One confident boast too far, I felt.

The fateful night had arrived and it did not start too well. Steve “Colonel Sanders” May had refused to go for a KFC, which was shattering. This simple meal, to me, had taken on a similar significance as the Last Super. I digress. When we arrived at the Adelphi Hotel we met Ian who, as you might expect, was looking a little nervous and apprehensive but was pleased and reassured to see two friendly faces. Unfortunately, they soon went and he was left with us brimming with confidence. He nonetheless took us into where the ring was and Steve and I checked out the route the fighters were to take and agreed on our positions at the ring side. We also agreed that Steve would shoot the fighters as they entered the ballroom and I would get them as they climbed into ring. This would then give Steve time to join me and cover the fights together.

Ian then invited us up to his room. Steve seemed surprisingly eager and could barley contain his excitement, which worried me a little. However, on arrival Ian confessed that he had already emptied the mini bar of its contents, perhaps this was due to the pre-fight comments in the programme, which described Ian “Pretty Boy” Kemp as looking more like a fighter than the rest. We could both recognise his concerns but could barely hide our glee at the impending bloodbath; I knew red was a sensible choice for his vest.

It was time for Ian to go down and have his hands taped and face the music. We gave Ian numerous pats on the back, which only aggravated his injury further, and reassured him with plenty of positive supporting comments. At the end of the day, he was our mate and we did not want to see him hurt….not until the 3rd anyway, which we had good odds on and stood to make a tidy profit.

The atmosphere was building. The ballroom began to fill and all the tables were taken. The fight regulation were met by two first-aiders and a qualified doctor at ring side who were still at this late hour giving me advice about various ailments which are far too embarrassing to reveal. The announcer made his introductions and the first boxer appeared through the back lit smoke, paused whilst his music pounded out and then made his way down to the ring. People were cheering, clapping and banging tables and then the fights began. Brutal and tense would best describe many of the fights. A lot of pride and bragging rights were at stake and lots of blood and sweat was spilt as each boxer desperately tried to land a telling blow. Everyone was hoping to see a clean knock-out punch and Steve and I were no exception, both wanting to capture a couple of frames of the decisive moment. I made a conscious effort to take a couple of shots which showed each boxer at least upright and looking good because you never knew how long the fights would last. All the fighters, whether they won, lost or drew, showed exemplary courage by simply stepping into the ring; guts that would be beyond most of us. They all gave a good account of themselves.

The moment had arrived and Ian’s name was called out. By the time he entered the ring there was a steely determination and a focused look in his eyes. The will to win was clearly etched upon his face. Head to head, each boxer gave the other the infamous stare whilst the referee gave them there instructions. The bell rang and at it they went.

It was clear from the start that Ian had come to box, trying to put into practice what he had learnt in the gym. Ian had boxed when he was younger and it became apparent that his opponent was not as accomplished and seemed to want to end it early. He came forward swinging with little technique and what landed had little effect. Ian boxed well and landed much cleaner punches and they were starting to tell on his opponent. Ian won the first but it was close.

The second followed a similar pattern. A slip on the wet canvas had some believing that Ian was down, but a slip was all it was. Ian finished the round with a couple of good body hooks and, by this time, I was hammering the canvas, bellowing encouragement in a non-biased way, of course, shouting “Uppercut!” as if I knew what I was talking about.

The third and final round and all was still in the balance. Ian, although tired, was not as tired as his opponent who appeared to be begging for a respirator as he tossed aside his fag. But like all before them, they summoned the reaming ounces of energy that only pride can do and battled on. Mid-way through the round, the moment came that Ian had dreaded; that resounding bell echoed in my mind. Just like in Rocky, you watched helplessly as a blow aggravated his injury, a pain shot down his arm, and up against the rope he instinctively hung on. Was the fight to slip away? Smothering his opponent, he gained the vital seconds he required to regain his composure and the adrenaline kept him upright. Perhaps his opponent was exhausted or simply unaware of Ian’s problem but he could not exploit the situation. They both made it to the end and waited for the referee’s decision. He held both boxers’ hands then raised the victor’s arm aloft--Ian had won! Relief, exhaustion and joy, all from that simple gesture, brought Ian to his knees with the broadest of smiles.

Steve and I had lost our money but our mate had won. We, however, would have preferred our money, then the realisation struck home. I would hear about this over and over again for the next eight weeks! It became unbearable and in my heightened state I broke down and openly wept for me and Steve. The night was only young we still had at least eight or nine fights to cover. However, there was the gorgeous girl who carried the round board around; a photo duty Steve took commendably serious, embarrassingly so at times. It had been a long, hot, smoky night but we both enjoyed it. Each boxer was awarded a trophy and a substantial amount was raised for a worthy cause. Did Ian buy us a drink afterwards? Unfortunately, the bar was closed by the time he got there. Nothing new there, then.

Please send any comments to Eric