| 16 May 2010
London is a sprawling mess of missed connections. The fight taking place in the East End of the city tonight, however, should feature more correlation and interaction than can be found in its surroundings. Lightweights Kevin Mitchell and Michael Katsidis are the type of men who’ll go out of their way to introduce themselves to one another once the bell rings, and I’m keen to observe the dialogue, so much so that I’ve journeyed over 200 miles to be here.
We take the tube into Upton Park at around 6 p,m. Chelsea became FA Cup champions earlier in the day and their supporters are sheepish as they make their way home alongside us, pensively hoping they can avoid a rival tribe en route. Their enforced composure only adds to my big city blues and as we alight, we’re engulfed by fight fans descending from all directions. The ticket touts are out in force. I have a couple of spares but quickly realise it’s a buyer’s market; nobody is purchasing from the touts, which figures to be gloomy news for the promotion.
My fears are confirmed when we enter the ground, only half of it is in use and there are plenty of empty seats. Nevertheless, it looks fantastic. The ring is clearly visible and they’ve plugged in huge screens in adjacent corners of the stands. The only one visible, due to the fact half of the pitch is closed off, sits right alongside a draped canvas tribute to the legendary Bobby Moore. I reconvene with my compadre who’s been on a wander, and we head to our seats. We’re on the floor, a touch behind ringside and just beneath Sky Sport’s production gantry where Johnny Nelson is signing autographs and enjoying banter with fans in the sunshine.
We sit next to a nervous looking fellow with a huge placard turned face down. As the theme tune to British comedy institution Only Fools & Horses begins filtering through the airwaves around us, signifying the approach of Finchley’s Derek Chisora, our neighbour is up on his feet and unveils his home made sign. It reads: “Thankyou For The Memories Danny,” in tribute to Mr. Williams, the British heavyweight champ who’s also out of the dressing rooms and heading toward the ring in pursuit of “Del Boy.”
One leering punter in front of us turns to sneer at this very public show of support and makes a real effort to be condescending by pointing out a grammatical faux pas. I drift off for a split second and imagine I’m feeding the thing to our smarmy friend sideways, only to have my daydream bubble pierced once the bell sounds.
I’m more interested in Danny’s superfan than I am the fight; I’ve never seen anyone so clearly taken with a sportsman and find it rather endearing. The chap is trembling as his hero, who is clearly at the end of his road, is taken apart, nudged into retirement by the new kid on the block. As the fight blows over, early into the second session, he’s off, placard held high and marching through the throng. Brilliant.
The career of the man who once beat Mike Tyson ends amid a barely audible ripple of applause. I’m left hoping that he saw the kid with the sign at least.
With no sign of junior welterweight Frankie Gavin, we head off to seek nourishment, yet return pretty sharpish after our two pints of alcoholic dish water fail to hit the mark. Junior lightweight Ricky Burns is doing his thing due to the heavyweights’ quick finish, which means we start fidgeting; it’s unexciting to put it kindly. There’s also a distinct lack of atmosphere -- maybe it’s the outdoor setting, maybe it’s the lack of action, but whatever, it’s disappointing.
We exploit our proximity to ringside to mingle with a few faces from the domestic fight scene. Cruiserweight Enzo Maccarinelli chats happily to reporter Matthew Bozeat as fellow scribe Steve Bunce and super middleweight prospect prospect Billy Joe Saunders (who we’ve missed apparently) pose for snaps. Welterweight Takaloo (Iranian by way of Margate and a former attraction domestically) looks anxiously towards the inner sanctum, hoping to catch someone’s attention, but he’s out of luck (and winds up sitting by us for the main event).
Welterweight Kell Brook wanders past and takes up his seat alongside Warren. The Sheffield man is tomorrow’s man, unlike poor Tak; how soon they forget, hey? Former head coach of the British amateur team Terry Edwards looks chirpy. Light heavyweight Tony Bellew cuts a dash, all suited and booted, and Chelsea man Joe Cole is around. The man I’m really scouting for however, the illustrious actor Ray Winstone, isn’t unfortunately, so we head back to our seats in time for super middleweight James DeGale.
Team “Chunky” arrive decked in pink, which is brave considering the clientele he’s performing before, and he dismembers Sam Horton. He needs to shorten his punches, we deduce, and he appears to slap at times, but if he keeps winning he’ll bowl over the naysayers, of which there are a good few already.
It’s too early for the main event so we’re tossed a four rounder to keep us amused, and it’s local welterweight prospect Freddie Turner against professional loser Duncan Cottier (who boasts a record of 3-60-3). Turner is popular and has evidently sold a few tickets for this, only his second outing. He wins a four round decision to huge aplomb, handing Cottier his 61st defeat in the process and we’re off on a wander again. Somehow, we wind up parked next to where the fighters will emerge, standing alongside a former Lennox Lewis victim, the Angelo Dundee-trained Derek “Sweet D” Williams. I try to think of something kind yet witty to offer him, but all that comes to mind is him lying prostrate, smiling after catching a Lewis uppercut, and I don’t think he’d appreciate me reminding him of that. Frank Warren is, rather incredibly, being mobbed by fans (whatever next?) and he’s pulled out all the stops for Mitchell’s entrance. We have cheerleaders, balloons and 70’s punk band, Cockney Rejects standing on cue -- anything Germany can do...
The first whiff we receive that the script may have changed comes when eavesdropping into conversation between an official and a kid we gather to be trainer Jim McDonnell’s boy. Katsidis apparently looks pumped in the dressing room, powerful, strong and raring to go as the band chugs into life and the balloons (symbolising bubbles) are released into the ether.
A punked up rendition of West Ham United’s anthem, “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles” cranks out, which wrong foots the crowd who are busy booing the announcement that the challenger is on his way (there’s a bogus title on the line, apparently, and Mitchell’s fans have assumed he’s the champ). Mitchell surfaces and stands within earshot of us, sporting a million-yard stare. My pal hollers for him to “concentrate,” and a glance of acknowledgement from trainer Jimmy Tibbs represents a nail being hit on the head.
Off they march and the Australian hellraiser emerges from the bowels of the stadium to a hostile reception. Decked out in his familiar Spartan warrior garb, he cuts a menacing figure and as he charges past us, we high tail it back to our seats. Mitchell is very definitely nervous and Katsidis can smell it. He begins to intimidate Dagenham’s finest, aggressively leaping up and down, bouncing off the ropes and flexing his jaw in an exaggerated manner. He looks like a force of nature.
One of Simon Cowell’s talent show rejects mauls the National anthem. The poor girl’s an upgrade on convicted abuser Chris Brown at least, but I wonder why we persist with such pomp. Before I’ve even considered my own query, we’re underway.
It’s a respectful opening from both fighters, who size each other up without committing overly. Katsidis looks the bigger man and when he flies at Mitchell towards the end of the round, all guns blazing, he bristles with power and energy.
Mitchell begins to get into his groove in the 2nd. He’s controlling the Aussie marauder with his jab and moving effectively. After the scare in the opener, it appears that the real pattern of the bout has now been established. Kevin is so much in control, he rather amazingly puts his rampaging foe on the back foot. Suddenly, Katsidis moves on him, trapping him in a corner and against the ropes before unloading howitzers. It’s an ambush. We give Mitchell the round but the warning lights are flashing brightly amid the dusk.
Katsidis unloads in the 3rd, badly hurting the home fighter with left hooks, and a shocking finish begins to rear its head. Mitchell, fighting through a fog, goes right back at his assailant and appears to trouble him with right hands. He moves and goes back to the jab and I’m shouting that he’s ridden out the worst crises of his career when Katsidis extends his claws again.
He savages Mitchell against the ropes, whose knees dip as he turns away, looking out over the ropes at his throng of supporters, only he doesn’t see them. Referee Dave Parris waves it off before Mitchell is decapitated and an audible groan reverberates throughout the crowd. Time stands still as the twist in the script is rejected and then kicks back into motion as every man and his dog bemoan that they’ve been sold short. The fighters pass by us as they depart. One of Michael’s corner men stands in front of me holding his head dress; it’s the perfect picture opportunity, but I’m thwarted as the crowd turns ugly. Vitriol and abuse are hurled at the winner as he leaves, a huge grin across his face. The moron next to me calls him “sick” amongst other things and I’m looking for that kid’s sign again to muffle him, when Mitchell staggers past. “Sorry lads,” he says, and he means it. His brother Vinny looks crestfallen as he passes a scattered collection of errant balloons, the rest of which are sailing away, high above the East London skyline.
Mitchell’s balloon burst this evening, barbarised by an antipodean nightmare, a real life East End gangster, who performed a stick up job that will live long in the memory.
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