The noble art of not getting thumped

Mark Steel On Location

WALKING UP the metal stairs that lead to Croydon Amateur Boxing Club, I remembered the vital public service once provided by places like this, as the main source of information for Regan and Carter from The Sweeney. The trainer, towel round neck, would say: "All I know, Jack, is Billy Nodsworth holds a grudge against Nobby Arkwright - jab, Terry, JAB! - who he thinks grassed him up over that diamonds blag that landed him in Wandsworth - use yer left, Terry - so Billy's planning a scenario which can only end up in a shoot-out in a deserted industrial warehouse - stop crying, Terry."

It's been hard for this traditional working-class institution to survive the Nineties. Perhaps because boxing clubs can't be reinvented in a post-modern sense, like pie-and-mash shops and Are You Being Served. When a right hook lands on your nose it hurts, even if it's done with irony.

But this club, above a pub in Thornton Heath, is full of enthusiasm, and not just for thumping people. John Chambers, who helps to run it, bursts with pride as he shows you round the room, which he rebuilt with a team of volunteers. "Look at these showers," he says with a contagious beam of delight. "Solid. Work perfectly, they do."

Putting the emphasis on plumbing could be the way to make boxing more endearing to the public. Imagine if every time Frank Bruno had taken a hiding, he'd said "Tonight, Britain can feel proud. Because I might have had my face punched in, but when I get home I can wash the blood off in the most dependable shower in the world."

Watching John and his partner, Ray, put their lads through two hours of training, you realise how misguided is the image of amateur boxing as a haven for Cockney villains with a market-stall and a broken nose. The emphasis is hardly on fighting at all, and almost entirely on fitness. They talk to the boxers as mates, with great affection and not a hint of PE teacher aggression or condescension. Which is not to say it isn't gruelling.

It starts with 10 minutes of skipping. Then shadow-boxing, in which the boxers, in full regalia, dance round the ring fighting an imaginary opponent. It must be tempting, during this exercise, to relax a little as you decide that today's imaginary opponent is a four foot squirt like Ashley from Coronation Street. Then there's a session on the punch-bags, followed by an endless rounds of jumps, press-ups, and sit-ups. Watching this activity, you realise how ridiculous is the booming hobby of pretending you can get fit with no effort. These machines, advertised by smiling models who say "Just five minutes a day of gently pushing this isometrically designed sheet of tin-foil backwards and forwards is all I need for a perfect figure," are rubbish. The truth is that fitness hurts.

So, the club counts among its members a karate champion and a competitor in the European swimming finals, and has helped train two professional footballers. Whereas it's unlikely that the winner of the European 200 metres breaststroke final will have done their training on a bendy thing called a "muscle-building compendium" they bought off the Shopping Channel.

In between the exercises, Ray, a 64-year-old Jamaican who looks 50, teaches the technique of dodging punches. Holding pads which the boxers aim at, he ducks and bobs like an actor in a rap video. Occasionally, with alarming ease, he'll pat the boxer on the stomach or chin, as a way of informing him he's dropped his guard. It's all done with so much more panache than I remember, when friends of my Dad's would square up to me, growling "Let's see your guard son," apparently unaware that I was six.

Even the technical side of amateur boxing seems to concentrate on avoiding being hit, rather than on walloping your opponent. Partly this is as a response to the attacks made on the sport, which has led to stricter regulations. No one can fight wearing contact lenses; gumshields must be white so that the referee can detect the faintest trace of blood; and Shola, a boxing travel consultant, discovered yet another rule.

"It was my first competitive fight, at the Cafe Royal. The bell was just about to go for the start when the referee told me I couldn't fight. He said I had too much stubble." It seemed that this could do some damage if it rubbed against the opponent's chin. As if a bloke who was prepared for a right hook in the eyeball was likely to think "Oo that's not fair, it's scratchy."

At this point John intervened, and the referee agreed that Shola could fight, as long as he had a shave inside one minute. So he dived into the changing room, rapidly slid a razor across his face (which was probably far more dangerous than any potential stubble-related violence), returned to the ring and won on points.

The pacifist trend in modern boxing was demonstrated towards the end of the training session, when Shola fought a three-round bout with Richard. He took a punch in the stomach which clearly hurt, at which point the fight stopped, and Richard helped him, saying how sorry he was. Therein lies the dilemma of amateur boxing.

Most sports can respond to accusations of danger by tightening up rules against violent conduct, and increasing the penalties for those who commit it. But what do you do when the sport is violent conduct? You could bring in a rule that after each punch, the opponents have to exchange gifts and make each other a pot of tea. But you can't escape the crucial role played in boxing by punching. So councils have been reticent about funding the clubs, and many have folded up.

Boxing suffers even more than other sports from the confusion about what motivates people to participate. At professional level, it can revolve around nationalism, greed and treachery, as proved by its shady managers, squillion-dollar deals, mis-matches and fatalities.

But at local level, most participants wish only to be fitter and improve their performance. John and Ray dedicate several nights a week to their hobby of training people, with no reward other than their pupils' satisfaction and progress.

The pernicious side of amateur boxing comes not from the trainers, or from the boxers, who all seemed humble, amiable and far from violent. It comes from the wealthy ghouls, armed with bow-ties and cigars, who parade their status in ringside seats at venues like the Cafe Royal, to watch working-class lads thump each other.

As for the boxers, John says: "After these lads have been through a session here, they're too knackered to get in a fight in a pub." And you certainly couldn't find anything in the boxing club to encourage a street brawler. When have you ever heard of a fight outside a nightclub starting: "Right, you slag, you're dead! Unless I can't find my gumshield. Or you're wearing contact lenses. Now, has anyone got a razor and some shaving foam?"