My pugilism career began and ended at a primary school sleepover in Chislehurst. Awake scandalously late (probably about quarter to nine), someone suggested we put on some boxing gloves which were lying in a corner, like a Bromley pre-teen version of Chekhov’s gun.
Only two were available so each bout was contested with one boy wearing a glove each. When my time came I misjudged the mood, which was mostly bobbing up and down, ducking, weaving and pretending, and connected rather too well on my young friend’s forehead. No children were harmed, but he certainly seemed dazed. I do not remember him crying but think I probably did.
Adolescence was navigated with only one hint of a scrap, again in Bromley. Walking with pals down an alley behind a supermarket car park, some marginally bigger boys came and took exception to my T-shirt, decorated with the cover of Let It Be. In fairness, the flawed final Beatles album was an odd choice for a 14-year-old. I was walloped and probably had it coming, I didn’t even own a copy.
My most recent brush with violence must have been 15 years ago now, on the razz in Chichester after a day of racing at Goodwood. Once again, some bigger boys came, this time to steal my glasses. Feeling like the pipsqueak on a beach who has sand kicked in his face by a cartoon bodybuilder, I asked, somewhat forcefully, to have them back. Once again, I was walloped.
My friend said later, “You took it well”, not that he got a great view. He saw the confrontation from 100 yards away, came running towards me to help, then caught sight of the size of my aggressor and kept on running. Cheers, Ben.
So, with no meaningful punches thrown since about 1993, I had little idea what to do when a boxing expert asked me to demonstrate what a straight right should look like. That expert’s name is Mohammed Ali, and he told me that in years to come he wants people to hear it and ask: “Which one do you mean? The boxer or the boxing coach?”