Week 8, and we come to the end of my boxing journey, last Friday
night at Bethnal Green's York Hall.
Over the last 60 days I'd been punching, sprinting and
weight-lifting as if my life depended on it and finally, here I
was, the first of the evening's 15 boxing bouts; I heard my name
called over the microphone, the tune I'd carefully selected to
arrive to was booming as I walked through the crowds and up, into
the ring. Headguard on, mouthguard on. My opponent, 25-year-old
Nicola Hudson also took her corner. I had been told that she had
fought before and would be vaguely matched to me in terms of height
and weight, but knew nothing else. My heart pumped inside my chest,
my stomach full of what felt more like cockroaches than
butterflies.
Luckily, I was no longer afraid of getting hit in the stomach,
smashed on the nose or walloped across the side of the head. My
primary concern was performance. That's how I know I've changed
from a egotistical fitness fanatic (worried more about how my body
looks in the mirror than with any genuine athletic ability) to a
sportswoman: now I was thinking almost wholly about whether I would
be able, under pressure, to put into practice all that I'd worked
on. I wanted only one thing, to go home knowing I'd given my very
best and nothing less, not just for me but also for my coach (the
woman who has pushed and protected me in equal measure over the
last 8 weeks), Cathy Brown (www.cathybrown.co.uk).
'It's a no contest fight,' the Referee told Hudson and me as we
stepped forward, to touch gloves. 'Nobody's trying to knock anybody
out, let's just see some boxing, ladies, please.'
A few weeks ago, this would have been sweet music to my ears.
How sports(wo)manly, how gracious, how decent! Nobody goes home the
loser and everybody takes a trophy that declares them a winner! But
I am furious. I have trained, either to win, triumphant, or to
lose, fair and square; I recognise that the result is immaterial in
the grand scheme of things and that my journey through the last 60
days of blood, sweat and tears is what matters here. But still. I
can't help feeling exceptionally patronised by this 'no decision'
decision.
It is a fleeting thought though - there is no time for preening
my feathers right now - the bell has gone and the fight is on. I
get straight in there with a jab and slip, just as I've been
trained, but from then until the end of the third round, I can
recall only snapshots; the moment I hear my Irish friend, scream
'FRY' in a thick, Belfast accent; the moment my cornerman, Richie
Kyle (personal trainer at The Third Space: www.thethirdspace.com),
tells me to try some body shots; the all-important hand gestures
from my coach, meaning slow down, relax, breathe…
'Once the adrenalin hits, you'll forget everything.'
It's something I had heard a lot from those in the know,
particularly in relation to first fights and they were right, in
one way: some of the moves I had worked on over and over in
training were lost to me from the moment it begun. But in another
way, a strange sense of immediacy and clarity hung over my head for
those 6 minutes. I was aware of everything - I knew where I was and
understood the personal importance of this moment - and even
managed to think about the odd punch before I threw it (although
most seemed to come from my body as if it belonged to someone
else). Imagine the longest split-second ever, one that defies time
itself yet somehow still operates within it. That's how long it was
between the first and last bell.
The experience of fighting is so intense that it's virtually
impossible to relax and appreciate it for all it is, whilst also
doing the job in hand of trying to look the slicker, more skillful
boxer. It was, just like Brown had warned me, over all too soon
and, as I stood, hand raised (see pic) at the end, I felt
overwhelmed to the point of numbness: I'd just finished my first
ever fight. I'd never have this moment again. I looked around at
all my friends and family cheering and felt a huge surge of pride.
It was done, finished, but was Lucy - Firework - Fry also done with
this complex, contradictory, confrontational sport? I don't know
yet. Let me have another bit of sticky toffee pudding and think it
over…
