2010 Royal Queensbury Corporate Challenge ... - Box Magazine

feature White - collar boxing
Take a group of office workers, train them
hard six days a week for eight weeks and then
throw their exhausted bodies into the boxing
ring for a three round charity fight. Just reading
Andrew Shipp’s account makes you tired
and hurt: and it was a lot worse for him.
feature White - collar boxing
Top to bottom
Shipp, left, starts training
with former Australian
champion Riccardo
Monteleone at the Kronk
Australia boxing gym in
North Perth.
Picture: Astrid Volzke
Shipp with Australia’s
top female fighter
Erin McGowan at
the boxing gym.
Picture: Astrid Volzke
Shipp, right, and the
Sunday Times’ Jay Clark
on fight night at Burswood
Entertainment Complex’s
grand ballroom.
Picture: Greg Burke
Shipp moments after
being defeated by Clark.
Picture: Rob Duncan
After another two minutes and 45 seconds I’m spent.
Blood streams from my nose and I struggle through the
ropes. I wear the blood proudly, knowing I landed a few
good blows. Muslovich congratulates me after I step from
the ring. I know he’s impressed by the guts and dedication
we’re all showing, but it’s still a long way from the
standard he’s used to. Just before leaving Muslovich looks
at me and again says I did well, adding: “You stopped a lot
of Mal’s good punches today — with your head.”
I’d laugh a lot harder if my ribs didn’t feel like they’d
been hit with a hammer.
At work I proudly display my bruised and battered
face, feeling superior because I’m a fighter. the weeks to
the fight are slowly whittled away by tough fitness sessions
and sparring, my body getting harder, muscles growing
and technique improving. the layers of easy living are
slowly disappearing and it’s easier to imagine myself as a
boxer, even if I’m just an unaccomplished novice.
With barely a week before the main event I spar with
my opponent, sunday times journalist Jay Clark, and
after three hard rounds we’re both exhausted. Both of us
are sore, my nose trickling blood, my jaw sore.
We look at each other and there’s no animosity,
no ill feeling at all. We check we’re both ok and
pack up for the day.
Muslovich looks at us both and claps his
hands together. “this is going to be a great fight,”
he sniggers turning his attention to the next pair.
With the weigh-in a week before fight
night and a couple more hard sessions we start
to ease back. A few of us breathe a sigh, the
daily toil imposing its toll on our bodies. small
niggles are becoming annoying and I find the
need for rest becomes crucial.
It’s all come down to this. It’s fight
night and in the warm-up room I finally
release some pent-up energy, striking the
focus pads with ferocity and taking in last
minute instructions from team shipp. I’m
confident but not overly.
I can see the bout playing out in my head and I
rehearse what I need to do. I’m trying to enjoy the
atmosphere and breathe it all in and find a quiet space
inside my head. I’m ready, I feel good, the time has come.
It happened quickly. I walked from the warm-up
room to the “backstage” holding area at the top of a
makeshift set of stairs in Burswood’s grand ballroom.
Music blared. Lights flashed. smoke billowed from smoke
machines. the announcer blared, “For. the. red.
teAM. AndreeeeeW . . . the BAttLe . . . shIPP! he
screamed this last bit. not that I remembered any of it. I
was deep inside myself at this point.
I managed to remember a bit of showmanship,
sheepishly raising my fists, making like a real boxer
waving before an adoring crowd.
round 1: sugar Jay Clark literally bounds across the
ring attacking me with a ferocity which puts me straight
on the defensive. I fail to move and instantly become a
target for his blows. I’m sure Muslovich’s yelling at me
to jab and move but I’m stuck. I think I land a blow or
two but then I’m down on the canvas. I call it “liquid”.
Whatever you call it, it’s surreal. You know what’s
happening but you have no control. It’s only seconds but
it seems longer. slowly sound and vision rush back into
the weird vacuum of silence that being knocked to your
knees creates. It’s now become a matter of survival.
“Just get to the bell, make it to the bell,” I’m chanting
to myself. the seconds seem like minutes. Finally it’s
over. I stagger back to the corner.
Muslovich sits me down, takes out my mouthguard.
“What are you doing?” he asks rhetorically. “don’t brawl.
Use your jab and move. Jab and move, left, left, right.”
the respite in the corner is over in a blink.
round 2: the bell goes and for the first seconds I’m
floundering again. But then I see an opening and I land
two jabs in quick succession. My confidence grows and I
begin to move a bit. I can feel my right coming in to play
and slowly, like waking from a fog, I see what I need to do.
I can feel Clark landing blows but they don’t hurt and
I’m holding my own. his hands slip down, exposing his head
and I’m in again but he’s quick and dodges a hard right. the
bell rings again and it’s a toss-up who took the round. More
water, more instruction and I’m out for the last.
round 3: We touch gloves for the last time and the
ref calls “Box”. I know I’ve got only one chance, I need
to knock him down. My big right lands a few time but
I’m tiring. not as quickly as my younger rival but it’s
getting harder. he moves in close and holds on, stifling
my punches and my frustration builds. I need to free
my right and punish him but I’m wrapped up again and
again as he huddles in to smother my blows before they
can be launched. And then it begins to go wrong again.
Instead of using footwork to put distance between us I
fall into his trap.
Again and again I’m caught and before I can land the
one blow I need the final bells rings and we embrace. I’m
spent, saturated in my own sweat and know I didn’t do
enough to take the bout.
the unanimous verdict comes back and the spoils
go to sugar Jay Clark. I’m proud of his efforts, his
sportsmanship, and happy when again he comes across
and holds my hand aloft.
the first feeling on stepping out of the ring is
disappointment. I feel like I let myself down and those
who have come to see me. strangely, I find myself
apologising to them. “I know I didn’t box as well as I
could,” I say. “I didn’t move like I should have. I didn’t
fight my own way.”
People tell me how well I did, how they thought
I’d snatched it, how good I was looking at the end, how
proud they are. But it means nothing then. I am having
difficulty holding my emotions in check and I return to
the warm-up room to collect my things, feeling petulant.
Pictured
Andrew Shipp, left, fights
Jay Clark at the White
Collar Charity Boxing
tournament at Burswood
Entertainment Complex.
Picture: Rob Duncan
As I get more distance between the fighting
and writing about it, and after looking at the video of
the bout, there’s a growing feeling of pride. It could
have ended in humiliation but I dragged myself back
into the contest with enough ferocity to come close to
an upset.
I lost the fight but I won respect from a lot of people
and it’s the respect of the trainers and my fellow boxers
which I value most. It’s a respect earned through hard
work, hours of sweat, knee-buckling blows and dogged
persistence. I pushed myself beyond my comfort zone
and challenged myself physically and mentally.
I learnt new skills and discovered a hidden body
underneath the layers of middle-aged indifference. I
don’t know if I’m going to hang up the gloves just yet.
something has been stirred deep inside me and I’m
not willing to let it go. It’s exhilarating, frightening,
satisfying and primal.
I’m a white-collar boxer and I’m proud.
I
I dIdn’t see the rIght hook and didn’t really
feel it. What I do remember is a strange feeling where
everything for a split second went silent and “liquid”. I
could feel my body sliding down to the right, but was
powerless to move my legs and then I was on the canvas.
It’s not the place I’d planned to be or wanted to be,
and I used every ounce of willpower to haul myself off
the floor of the ring.
the referee stepped between my opponent and me
and looked me in the eyes. I think he asked if I was ok,
or maybe I just imagined it, but he took me by the gloves,
gave me a mandatory eight count and sent me back into
the fray.
What seemed like a few seconds later, I was back on
the canvas and my boxing dreams were fast evaporating
like my ability to get out of the way of “sugar” Jay Clark’s
punches. I had to make it to the end of the round. If I
went down again, it was over and I wouldn’t allow
myself to go out like a chump. I was so tired.
Eight weeks before I’d agreed to join 19 others
in an attempt to turn myself from a journalist for
The West Australian into a boxer in the corporate
White Collar Charity Boxing series to raise money for
Variety WA.
WCCB is the idea of former english rugby union
player Phil greening. It’s a big hit in London and
singapore, with people on a waiting list to fight.
With fellow Amici group director John spence,
and greg erskine from gem sports, he brought the
idea to Perth and already has bouts planned for
sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane and another early
next year in Perth.
stepping into the kronk Australia boxing gym
in north Perth for the first time, it was apparent
the place was well chosen — a boxer’s gym
from central casting, with wooden floorboards
patinated with years of sweat and shuffling feet.
the walls were hung with the classic pictures
of Ali, the ring was standing silent and imposing,
the bags ready to take our punches.
For eight weeks I pushed, punished and
persuaded myself to become a boxer, climbing out
of a warm bed just after 6 o’clock each morning six
days a week, telling myself that each session made
me stronger, fitter, faster and more likely to cope
with the three two-minute rounds I’d was to face.
Friends asked if I knew what I’d got myself
into or if I regretted putting my hand up in the
first place. I didn’t have any readers’ answers
for them. My motivation, though, was driven
in part by the sight of my fitness receding into
the distance. For too many years I’d languished
behind a desk, my upper body strength slowly
ebbing away; the early signs of a middle-aged
paunch were developing. At almost 42, the
chance to challenge myself both physically and
mentally had become more important than at
any stage of my life. I needed to see how far I
could push myself, what I could endure and
how I’d react in demanding situations.
I had always thought I gave up football too
early and failed to find a sport which catered
for the physical clash and the mental toughness
which I’d always loved about the game.
so I grasped the opportunity to join the
WCCB, knowing that if I went down like a
sack of spuds in the first round, at least I’d be a fit loser.
Whatever happened in the ring on fight night, one thing I
did know from the start: I would cop a beating.
The first week is a killer. Five straight mornings
and muscles across the back of my shoulders scream from
being stretched, pulled and pummelled like never before.
Just the merest hint of pressure induces a wince.
It’s that feeling you get when you have the flu, a dull
ache and that painful tingling when something is drawn
across the skin. sweat pours from me during each session
and I realise I need to learn to relax. everything is tense,
even when I’m relaxed, and it takes enormous mental
strength to switch off.
For eight weeks I pushed,
punished and persuaded
myself to become a
boxer, climbing out
of a warm bed just after
6 o’clock each morning
six days a week . . .
our band of 20 white-collar heroes are from varied
backgrounds: a scientist, chief executive, lawyers
(gonna love giving the lawyers a thumping, I thought),
marketing men and graphic designers. Most of us have
never thrown a real punch before.
our trainers, shaun eaton, rob Muslovich and
Australia’s top female fighter erin Mcgowan, drill into
us the importance of footwork. It’s a mantra which is
repeated over and over. “step and punch. don’t stand
flat-footed. Move about the ring. Punch and move. throw
your punches and move out of the way.”
After just a few days the effort of keeping the 16oz
gloves raised and your fists and elbow in a defensive
position tells on that group of muscles which define the
upper body — the biceps, triceps, pectoralis, deltoid,
latissimus dorsi and trapezius. they all hurt, a reminder of
their years-long dormancy from my too-comfortable life.
By day four I begin to feel better and can’t tell if I
just became numb to it or if my body was adapting to the
punishment. that first weekend, I just want to sleep.
Muslovich says it takes about four to five years for
someone to become adept at boxing. We’ve got just two
months and there are times when the frustration tells on
the trainers’ faces and our own as we struggle to come to
terms with the techniques.
By the second week things begin to fall into place.
My body begins to adapt to the early morning regime and
my movements become more co-ordinated. I find myself
punching and moving my feet in the right sequence.
I throw punches at the urinal, in the car, at work and
at work colleagues. Left foot, straight left. right foot,
straight right. Left foot, left hook.
the mirror becomes my opponent and is knocked out
after a flurry of punches as I retreat to a neutral corner
and tell myself how good I am, despite the thinning grey
hair and sunspots on my skin which are the creeping
signs of age. Boxing is as much mental as it is physical.
And it’s the next stage of training which pushes me to
places I’ve never been, into an uncomfortable zone which
challenges my upbringing and unleashes deep fears.
At 41, the only fights I’ve had are a distant and fading
memory. I think there was one at school which involved
grabbing and pushing. there were a few on the footy
field where all I did was play a support role. I’ve always
been a believer in diplomatic athleticism. If talk doesn’t
work, run like buggery in the opposite direction.
For someone who has spent his life not being hit, the
realisation comes that this is about punching and being
punched and I’m going to get punched more in the next
few weeks than I’ve ever been in my life. Later that day
I stop and think about it and become both exhilarated
and anxious. there’s a fear lurking within me and it
takes a couple of days to understand it’s not just being
hit which is making me anxious. It’s the thought of
consciously laying a fist on someone with the intent to
hurt them which has me troubled. I quite like the people
I’m training with, and the prospect of going the biff with
them is strange. After all, you don’t hit people you like.
I try to rationalise with the fact that this is boxing
and boxing is a sport. sport is fun and at the end of it all
we’re here to have fun.
A few weeks later I hear retired boxer danny green
talk on radio about how he would always ring his
opponents a day after a fight, sometimes taking them
to lunch. he reminds listeners that all boxers share the
same fears and when the fighting’s done they are just
sportsmen doing something they love. still, it’s hard to
keep that clear in your head when you step through the
ropes for the first time and your sparring partner lands a
jab square on your nose. At first I’m taken aback. not only
does it hurt but I’m frustrated that I can’t get through his
defences. Being bigger, stronger and heavier than I am,
my opponent, nick, allows me a few charity punches. By
the end of the one round of sparring I’m exhausted and
disconsolate. I begin to doubt if I’ve got the physical and
mental strength to follow this through to its conclusion.
I return to the bags and hammer away, determined
to do better, determined to overcome the fear of being
hit and also hitting in return. As the weeks slide by the
sparring becomes more natural, and the fear subsides
into something which I can parcel up and put away
during each session. the fear is good. It reminds me to
keep concentrating and working on my technique and
not become complacent.
During week five training steps up a notch, and
the three sparring sessions a week give the trainers a good
idea how we’re tracking and the possible match-ups start.
riccardo Monteleone, a former Australian champion,
has become a regular sparring partner, working us round
the ring, soaking up our clumsy punches and dishing out
a few harsh lessons as Muslovich barks from ringside:
“keep your right hand up”, “Jab, Andrew, jab”, “don’t
just step in without throwing a punch — move in, throw
punches, move out — bam, bam, bam”.
the importance of keeping my left hand up comes
clear after Monteleone lands some hard rights, shaking
my legs and forcing me to retreat.
Another session sees me face Adultshop boss
Malcolm day, a fit and accomplished fighter who rips me
so hard it feels like my right lung has taken up residence
on the left side of my body. Following two rounds with
day, I’m exhausted and battered but have to face another
white-collar boxer, tim Caporn, a man with a hard punch
and an awkward style.
5 July 2008 weSt weeKeND mAgAziNe 17