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Over 12 rounds ropes on all sides of the ring sag under the mass of two heavyweights. The fight is a brawl. When it finishes Danny Williams sits on the edge of the floodlit mat with the golden belt over his shoulder, joking with reporters. His mother, stage right, keeps knocking the back of the head of his trainer, pointing at his nose, pointing at his ear. A drop of blood leaks from his right nostril but he inhales it back in before the cameras catch it in light.
His mom isn't paying any attention to what he is saying, just rubbing her hands together and licking her lips with post trauma nerves. Her mouth curls in a smile when the reporters laugh and she looks with pride to her son. A TV monitor in the foreground replays highlights of the fight but the sound of glove on body sounds so mute compared to the BOOM BOOM BOOM of real life just minutes before.
Boxing in Britain is a heartbeat of multicultural representation. When Takaloo enters the arena an Iranian beat shakes the speaker stands as the Margate, Kent fighter grooves his way through a gauntlet of fans. His trainers are garbed in the red and green of his native land. Later Amir Khan will showcase his fists of fury in his sixth professional fight and 9,000 fans will pay tribute to the rising star of the British boxing scene. Late in the first round, halfway through the Round 3 destruction of his opponent, Khan gets hit by an uppercut and his gaze drifts for a moment. You wonder if his life is flashing before his eyes and he sees himself in 10 years looking bloated and considering an ill-advised comeback like Prince Naseem Hamed sitting ringside.
But Prince Naseem is a real gentleman, like so many of the fighters we meet ringside. Time for the fans, always equipped with a quip or charming gesture. Maybe Amir Khan is just taking a moment to glance at a group of Muslim youths sitting in the front rows chanting his name. Later these bearded young men will go more Malcolm X than Muhammad Ali challenging British whites who complain to stewards that they weren't sitting in the right seats and were obstructing their view. Men from each group grab the ringleaders before any clash can occur but the simmering heat remains. Fight night all around. Nowhere in my experiences is the social context and struggles of post-London-bombings more evident. "WILLIAMS, BOMA-YE, WILLIAMS, BOMA-YE" starts behind us in an Ali-like tribute to a Muslim convert (Williams, Kill Him) and spreads to quarters of the crowd. SKELTON, SKELTON, SKELTON echoes in response. But nothing compares to the spine-tingling rhythm of the crowd in response and in unison chanting Khan's name with feet on metal stands proving the CRASH, CRASH, CRASH of goosebumps.
The ideas swirl in the air doing somersaults and occasionally crashing into each other with a sound louder than the BOOM, BOOM, BOOM of big men hitting each other. You just have to listen. Racism, Violence, Compassion, Entertainment, Multi-Bloody-Culturalism. In a matrix when you change your position you don't just change your perspective on a matrix, you change the whole matrix. Everything is different. This is true of any social interaction but boxing is one of the more demonstrative social pursuits.
At one point my friend and fight night companion Ilyas Mohammed turns to me as Khan shoots past the adoring crowd down the gauntlet with his hands on top of his head, bridged, and his path uncrowded by a posse of minders: "He's a pro." And my mind wanders to the Muslim boys, Williams' mother, the glory of Khan, the ring card girls, Takaloo's disarming charm, Williams climbing in the ring, and the crowd. Fight fans all looking different. Some of them drunk, some of them involved and a whole bunch of observers. Do we really have to listen that hard to hear the rumblings of the sweet science? Long live the fight game. Real Sociology Live.
Labels: london, photography, sport
