By Elliot Worsell
BY getting there early and before anyone else he was setting the tone, that’s all. He need not be reminded he was methodical by nature, nor be told the importance of being first and gaining a head start.
Ask John Watson, in fact, and he would say that the appeal of entering Prizefighter was not the format itself, which in many ways challenged his every tendency, but instead the reward: £32,000.
For that Watson, a 28-year-old Liverpudlian, was prepared to amend his style, increase his work rate, and arrive at a changing room inside Wolverhampton’s Civic Hall earlier than he would have preferred.
“This three-round format goes back to the amateur days, doesn’t it, John?” said Watson’s trainer Oliver Harrison, who, along with Johnney Roye, had arrived with Watson before six o’clock. “Nice to be able to go straight into the quarter-finals, though. Normally you have to fight loads to get there.”
“I haven’t lost a quarter-final yet,” replied Watson. “Never lost one ever.”
The fighter’s reward for being the first in the room was to receive his fight shorts before the rest. These shorts were red and white, the colours of Liverpool Football Club, with “Watto” printed along the waistband, and were plucked from a Sports Direct bag by the inimitable Sandy Risley, Matchroom’s whip. Kitted out that night in a silk waistcoat, and wearing shiny winklepicker shoes, Risley ran a tight ship and let everybody know. He had recently fallen victim to cancer and, although the disease never got him down, incompetence did, he said, and so he was grateful for Watson being on time.
“How are you feeling today, John Watson?” asked Harrison, now wrapping his fighter’s hands.
“Good,” said Watson. “Ready.”
Convinced, Harrison began to apply tape to Watson’s hand and the fighter closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Don’t do anything different from what you’ve done in other fights, okay?” said Harrison. “What are you?”
“What am I?” said Watson, confused by the question.
“Yes. What are you in fights?”
“I’m a slow starter.”
“Exactly!” said Harrison, eyes large. “So you’ve got to keep yourself warm at all times.”
Initially of the belief Watson’s early arrival could be attributed to expert timekeeping, it now became clear it was a move more strategic, one deemed key to combatting his propensity to start slow in fights. Indeed, by the time the various other light-welterweights had arrived Watson was almost fully wrapped, with both boots on his feet. He was ready, in other words, and had stolen a march on those just entering the room, like former British champion Barry Morrison, southpaw puncher Dale Miles, and young Tyrone Nurse, a slickster from Huddersfield and one of the favourites to win the prize. Each light-welterweight arrived with a smile and offered a hand as they shuffled past Watson and Harrison on their way in. Few words were exchanged, mind, and not everybody who arrived was smiling for that matter. Yorkshireman Jerome Wilson, for example, there as the 10th man and one of two stand-in boxers that night, was soon enraged to discover there was an issue with his fight attire. “There’s a f**king rip down the middle!” he made clear, holding up a pair of leopard-print shorts.
“Where?” said Risley, having just removed the shorts from his bag. “Don’t be f**king stupid.”
Wilson offered the shorts as proof and there it was, a rip located around the back. “I can’t wear these, can I?” he said, his eyes welling up. “For f**k’s sake, why did this have to happen to me?”
“Well, don’t f**king blame me,” said Risley. “I’m just the guy giving the shorts back. It’s not my fault.”
The shorts, plus a matching leopard print robe, had cost over £400, Wilson claimed, yet it was now all for nothing. “You’ve got to get that out of your head,” said Wilson’s trainer, Dave Coldwell, placing a consolatory arm around his boxer’s shoulder. “This is no good. If you get worked up, you’ve lost already.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Wilson. “I’m not getting on anyway. What’s the point? Even if I do, I can’t fight.”
“Of course you will get on,” said Coldwell. “Stay positive. This is just a minor problem. We’ll sort it.”
Reluctant to be embroiled in the dramas of others, Watson proceeded to now shadowbox, doing so with Dale Miles sitting just metres from him. As he began to find his flow, Risley then re-entered the room and this time brought with him a bag of gold eight-ounce Lonsdale boxing gloves. “Right,” he said, “listen carefully, you lot. I take the first four losers’ gloves back; the rest can keep them if they want. We don’t give a s**t after that.”
Looking at the gloves just handed to him, Harrison said to Watson, “These aren’t ‘knockout’ gloves, so if you get hit by something and feel it, don’t panic. Don’t try to look for the KO with these. Keep it nice and clean and correct. Get points and get out.”
This style, the old in and out, was now rehearsed on the pads. “Don’t wait, John, that’s no good,” said Harrison. “I need it snappy, instinctive. Don’t think about throwing, just throw. Stretch those shoulders out and relax. It’s all about belief tonight, John. You’ve got more than enough ability to beat all the kids here.”
Nodding along with the sentiment, Watson nevertheless appeared embarrassed to have been admonished in view of everyone else; all the “kids” he supposedly had the ability to beat. He next vanished to the toilet, if just to escape, and this then left Harrison free to observe Dale Miles and his trainer, Jason Shinfield, go through a similar routine on the pads: jabs, double jabs, big left crosses, and wild hooks. “I love that right hook,” Harrison told Shinfield at one point. “Love the way he turns it over like that. I tell all the boys in the gym not to come back on themselves after throwing that hook and you do it perfectly, Dale. It’s really good.”
The opposition, both fighter and coach, thanked Harrison for the compliment, then shifted their feet slightly to change the angle of their work, as though now wary of a Peeping Tom. They stopped completely a minute or so later when 10 black T-shirts were suddenly delivered to the room, each of them numbered from 1 to 10. These T-shirts, including one without a number (Watson’s as it turned out), were to be worn during the televised draw for the quarter-final, after which the boxers would return to one of two changing rooms to keep opponents separate.
Wilson, meanwhile, the substitute, could only sit and watch, praying that on their way to the ring, where the draw would take place, one of the eight boxers tripped on the stairs. “I’ve got no chance,” he moaned. “I’m just hoping for some kind of luck; some kind of break. I know that if I get that, it’s meant to be and I’ll probably go on and win the whole thing. To be honest, I’ve trained even harder for this than I would a normal fight because everybody here is a step up in class for me.”
The room then emptied and Wilson was all alone, his pair of torn, leopard-print shorts beside him on a chair, representing in that moment his only friend.
“I knew I’d be last,” said Watson on his return to the room. “Still, I fought Harrison in the amateurs, so that’s good. Beat him 17-2 in the Junior ABAs semi-final, I think.”
Though he had been made to wait, Watson had in the end got the draw he wanted, paired with Dean Harrison, a brawler with whom he was familiar. Stylistically, in fact, this marked the ideal opening bout for Watson, and the only downside, a minor one, was that Watson would now be forced to move into a new changing room, where he would find Tyrone Nurse and his father, Chris Aston, as well as Mark Lloyd, already on his way to compete in fight number one.
“Who have you got?” asked Oliver Harrison upon entering.
“Miles,” replied Aston.
“Tough kid,” said Harrison, “but speed should do it.”
“That’s what I reckon.”
Sometime later, Mark Lloyd returned to the changing room having just lost a three-round decision against Young Mutley. He was followed into the room by a doctor who, eager to stem the bleeding around his eye, kneeled beside Lloyd and took a closer look at the injury. “Right,” he said, “anaesthetic or straight stitches?”
“Anaesthetic,” replied Lloyd, who had no sooner closed his eyes for a moment’s peace than Sandy Risley arrived in the room in search of a pair of gold gloves. “Come on,” he said. “I’m sorry you lost and all that, but I need your gloves. Where are they?”
Lloyd, the beaten man, directed Risley towards the gloves before asking, “Can I not keep them?”
“No way,” barked Risley in response. “Four losers lose their gloves. Not my rules, so don’t take it out on me.”
“F**k’s sake,” said Lloyd, as much in frustration at his performance as the loss of gloves. “How did they score that fight 30-27?”
“What’s it like in the ring?” asked Watson.
“Red hot, mate. It’s like a f**king oven.”
The second fight of the night came and went, and again an unfortunate cut influenced the outcome. This time a slice above the eye of Dale Miles wrecked his attempt to upset Tyrone Nurse and he was stopped in the third round. Suddenly Jerome Wilson, still looking for signs, had found some light. He darted into the room to inform Watson, “Two fights and two cuts, that’s all I’m saying.”
“It’s looking good for you, isn’t it?” said Watson, watching as the sweat on Nurse’s forehead was wiped by the towel in his father’s hand, both relieved by the outcome of their quarter-final. Nurse, after all, had been pushed hard by Miles and, had it not been for the cut, may have been pushed even harder in the final stages. “In and out against Mutley,” said Aston as Nurse used a mirror to inspect the damage to his face. “Stay really sharp. Don’t f**king trade with him whatever you do. You can’t afford to do that again. If you land five jabs and he don’t land nothing back, you win the round. Run around the f**king ring if you want.”
“Glad I got that f**king southpaw out the way first,” said Nurse. “I haven’t had any southpaw sparring whatsoever for this. I knew I’d end up with the bloody lefty.”
“Always the way,” muttered Watson. “You never get what you want in this thing.”
Indeed, while Watson himself may have got exactly what he wanted in the quarter-final (that is, a fight against Dean Harrison), he knew that victory would ultimately lead to a semi-final against Adil Anwar, the tournament favourite.
“His hands are too low,” said Watson, watching on a TV monitor as Anwar was nailed by a Barry Morrison right hand. “We think Morrison might have this.”
“He doesn’t like it to the body,” added Nurse. “He always moves left as well. You need to cut off the ring and then punch. He’ll walk into it every time.”
Watson, the man with no number, was up next, heading from the changing room to the ring at exactly 9.15 pm. Before leaving, Anwar, upon his return, wished him good luck, and so too did Nurse. Yet, aware Watson was a potential dark horse, you can be certain both secretly hoped he was about to come unstuck.
Mutley beats Lloyd to advance (Lawrence Lustig)
Just 100 seconds after the fight had started Adil Anwar packed his bags and prepared to leave the changing room. He did so because it was clear now that he and Watson, victorious in the latest quarter-final, were to meet in the semi and therefore it made sense to avoid the uncomfortable crossing of paths when a joyous Watson soon returned.
“They reckon loads of money has just gone on you, John,” said Harrison, with both back in the changing room. “You’ve overtaken Adil and Tyrone now and are the favourite to win it.”
Sitting on a chair, towel draped over his shoulders and Johnny Rowe beside him working the enswell on his swollen nose, the triumphant boxer shut his eyes and did one of two things. He either cherished the feeling of victory or he tilted his head back and attempted to release from it the sudden pressure that came as a byproduct of both victory and expectation.
Whatever the feeling, there was no evading the scrutiny, that’s for sure. In fact, graphics on a nearby television monitor would inform Watson and the rest that it was true; he had been installed as a 6/4 favourite to lift the trophy, with previous favourite Anwar, less impressive in his own quarter-final, now at 2/1.
“This kid (Anwar) is long and can box,” said Harrison, perching next to his boxer. “He thinks he’s smooth, but you can hit him. He doesn’t like body shots, but don’t go looking. Don’t get greedy. Remember, if you’re tired, he’ll be feeling more tired than you.”
Watson nodded, then shook his legs out. “I never did actually fight on the same day as an amateur,” he said. “I did Friday, Saturday and Sunday, but that was it.”
“Well, what would you be doing now in the amateurs?” asked Harrison.
“Exactly what I’m doing now,” Watson said. “Sitting around waiting. The waiting is the worst part.”
Watson turned to face the television monitor; his two eyes followed by Harrison’s. “We don’t mind who wins this semi,” said the trainer, ignoring Nurse and Mutley trade punches on screen. “John will beat both these guys. Anwar is our final.”
Watson, in agreement, rose from his seat and walked around the room, stopping briefly to hawk and spit in the sink. He then started to hit Harrison’s pads, slowly to begin with only to eventually gather pace. “All about that speed, John,” said Harrison. “Let it all flow fast.”
In between combinations, Harrison’s brother, Humphrey, would now and again appear to prod at the swelling on Watson’s nose, hoping the colour would fade. “You look like Rudolph,” he said. “How the hell did this happen in just two minutes of a fight?”
“I don’t know,” said Watson. “I’m a pasty bastard, so I mark up if somebody just nudges past me.”
For privacy Harrison now took Watson by the arm and led him to the orange sofa at the back of the room. “One final sit down and relax,” he said, sitting in front of Watson and massaging his calves and thighs. “If you can’t hit him because he’s too tall, make sure you hit his chest, but sink it in deep. Believe in yourself, John Watson. You can outbox this kid. Don’t leave nothing to chance. We don’t want you coming back in here saying you should have done this and should have done that. This is it. One chance. I’ll give you eight grand now if you want it.”
“No, I want 32 grand,” said Watson, adamant.
“Final offer,” said Harrison. “I’ll give you the eight grand now.”
‘No!” cried Watson. “I want that f**king trophy!’
With that he got up from the sofa, whacked himself in the face a couple of times and, at 9.58 pm, made his second walk of the evening. Two minutes later, meanwhile, a tired Tyrone Nurse entered the very same changing room and punched the air in delight. He had just secured his spot in the final with a comfortable decision win over Young Mutley.
Watson returned to a now-empty changing room and the first thing he did was kick an empty water bottle at the wall. He was soon joined by Oliver Harrison, who sat down by the television monitor and shook his head. “You can see how to beat him, John, but you just couldn’t do it,” the trainer said, noticing how the removal of Watson’s gloves had set free a sore thumb. There was for the boxer, however, no such escape; no release from pain.
“I hope you go on and win it, mate,” Watson said the moment Anwar, the man who had outpointed him, walked back into the room.
“Thanks,” said Anwar. “Good effort, that.”
It was a kind thing for Anwar to say, yet Watson in the end could think of no worse review of his own performance than the one he had just been offered by the victor. Only Barry Hearn, the event’s promoter, was able to undo this feeling when he emerged not long after. “What an awkward bastard,” he said with a whisper. “He does everything wrong, but it works for him, doesn’t it?”
“I just couldn’t get to grips with him, Barry,” said Watson, sighing. “Too long and too awkward. I haven’t come up against anybody like that before, whether in sparring or in a fight, amateur or pro.”
“Listen,” said Barry, “no need to get yourself down. You did well out there tonight.”
Five minutes later and Anwar, crowded by Sky Sports cameras, could be seen slipping on a pair of fresh shorts and preparing to leave the changing room en route to either £16,000 or the full £32,000. Whichever of those prizes he won, it would end up being significantly more than the £8,000 with which John Watson was now going home.
“An intelligent fighter like you, at this stage of your career, should know to pressure a kid when he’s backing off with no power in his shots,” said Harrison, huddled by the television monitor in anticipation of the final. “That’s when you explode on them.”
Listening but still wanting to escape, to that Watson said nothing. He simply watched Anwar and Nurse walk to the ring and became distracted only by the presence of his mum and sister, who had since entered the room. “Bit elusive, wasn’t he?” his mum said before kissing and hugging her forlorn son. “You’re all marked up, John. Strong lad, isn’t he?”
Watson shrugged it off. “He’s just f**king awkward, that’s all,” he said.
“I don’t think that Nurse has much of a chance here. Anwar is just too big for the lot of you.”
Chances are Watson had now never felt smaller. “Watch this, John,” said Harrison, eyes glued to the screen. “Tyrone will do all the things you should have done. All the in-between things. Watch him.”
Anwar nails Nurse with a right in the final (Lawrence Lustig)
For once Watson disobeyed. He packed his sports bag, collecting all the paraphernalia at his feet, and prepared to go home. “I thought you were going to chin him, John,” said his mum.
“Yes, that was the plan,” he confirmed.
“You can’t keep doing this to your mum, John,” said Harrison, laughing.
“I’ve always said he should go play badminton or ping pong,” joked Watson’s mum, with her son now likely contemplating the feasibility of climbing into his bag and zipping it from the inside. “See that? That’s the shot you should’ve let go, John,” said Harrison. “When he backs off, that’s when you go get him.”
“I don’t think he’s all that,” mumbled Watson.
“Who? Tyrone?”
“Yeah. When I sparred him, he came to have a fight and impress everybody, but I found him easy to hit and picked him off with ease.”
“Listen, Tyrone has been boxing with his dad since he was a kid. He knows his way around that ring. He’ll figure out Anwar, no problem.”
Watson raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “We shall see,” and then resumed packing. This he would continue to do, as a form of distraction, until finally Oliver’s brother, Humphrey, entered the room and said, “Anwar’s got that,” having just watched the fight out in the hall. “Too big and awkward. Very deceptive.”
“Never!” shouted Oliver in disagreement. “What fight were you watching? Tyrone’s done him here.”
Vindication for John Watson would arrive when Adil Anwar was indeed awarded a unanimous decision victory and therefore the Prizefighter trophy. Harrison, of course, stuck to his guns and swore Nurse had been robbed, yet on the face of Watson was the first smile I had seen for some time. It was wry and it was smug and it would straighten only when he realised Anwar would soon return to the changing room, trophy in hand. It was at that point the prizefighter picked up his bag, sans prize, and fled.
Adil Anwar with the trophy (Lawrence Lustig)
