‘It’s my profession,” Clinton McKenzie says. “It’s what I was born to do. I boxed for England, won British and Euro titles, been everywhere, done everything, and I own the gym. I watched Ali when I was 10, on TV. Gobsmacked. That’s all it took.” McKenzie is now a trim 53, and his best punch remains his right hook. At half his age, Elly Sebaduka’s is the long upper cut.

These days, McKenzie’s gym is filled with both fighters and civilians: there’s a bride-to-be toning herself for the big day; a Polish cook working out the frustrations of a new country; a firefighter preparing for an amateur bout. There are more than 750 amateur clubs in the UK and, for the first time since 1962, the sport is being taught in schools. For proponents, it’s a deterrent to knife crime. Others see the potential for head injury – the British Medical Association has been trying to get it banned since the 80s, claiming that it causes “chronic brain damage”; 361 boxers were killed between 1945 and 1995.

“I got kicked out of school, so I’m focusing on my boxing,” says Isaac Ikondo, 14. “You look around and see all these gangs. I thought I should get into boxing to change things.” He trains at the gym every day.

The focus may have shifted from bruising to fitness, but there’s still that unique moment that separates boxing from, say, power yoga. Randal Millen, a prison services officer, sees blue stars when he fails to dodge a right hook. Angel McKenzie gets a white flash. “The first time is a bit strange,” she says. “Then you get used to it. Sometimes I don’t remember where I’ve put my keys, but then I’ve been doing it 10 years.” Her passion is palpable. “It kills aggression, makes you less moody. Life’s a big pain. Boxing takes it all out. We need to sweat. It’s like washing ourselves from the inside.”

“It was a Friday night the first time I got in a ring,” Alan John Fitzgerald says. That was five years ago. Now 57, he had been “a typical chartered accountant, overweight and sitting at a desk”. He’d never played football, hockey or anything else. “I got bashed up – black eye, bruised nose. The next time I knew what to do. It’s changed me. The guys I spar with” – he motions at the young muscle – “they’re not exactly 57.”

“When I grow up, I want to be Ricky Hatton,” says five-year-old Leonard Seferi. “My punches are hard. I’m strong. I punch with both hands.”

Tony Owen, 21, is fresh-faced and blushes when asked about himself. He’s embarking on a pro career having kickboxed since he was eight. Five months in, his only injuries are sore wrists. He’s steeling himself for the moment before the bell. “It sounds sick, but you want to do to him what he wants to do to you. It’s a lonely sport: there is no one else in the ring but you.”

Abdallah Harsi Karim, 34, fought professionally in Algeria. Now he trains others when he’s not working for the council. “There are no sisters, no brothers, no family in the ring. It’s just war. When you are professional, you have to win to live. Sport is business and your business is punching.”

Source: Read Full Article