Ian Probert - Dangerous: An Intimate Journey to the Heart of Boxing

First published by Pitch Publishing, 2016

Pitch Publishing

A2 Yeoman Gate

Yeoman Way

Durrington

BN13 3QZ

www.pitchpublishing.co.uk

Ian Probert, 2016

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A CIP catalogue record is available for this book from the British Library

Print ISBN 978-1-78531-199-4

eBook ISBN 978-1-78531-256-4

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For Laura and Sofia, how lucky I am.

I TS safe to say that this is the first time that Ive ever even considered writing acknowledgements for any of my books. But in this case I really do not have a choice.

During the past eight or so months I have been completely overwhelmed by the kindness and dare I say it love that has been extended towards me from the boxing community. As such I have to thank, from the very bottom of my wallet, all those people who gave their time to me in what was very much a selfish, self-indulgent project. Legends all of them:

Ben Doughty, for giving me the confidence to write about boxing again.

Herol Graham, for unorthodoxy.

Karen Neville, for being wise and beautiful and changing my perspective on life.

Michael Watson, for allowing me to begin to make amends for past mistakes.

Lennard Ballack, for being a true friend to Michael Watson and making things happen.

Frank Buglioni, for giving me back my appetite.

Clinton McKenzie, kindness and gentleness personified.

Leon McKenzie, for making me realise what I had to do next.

Alan Minter, for being there at the beginning and at the end.

Ross Minter, for laughter and love.

Mark Prince, for opening up his giant heart.

Glenn McCrory, for opening up his even bigger heart.

Ed Robinson, for his kindness and generosity.

Colin McMillan, for his innate decency.

Kellie Maloney, for allowing me to witness her bravery at first-hand.

Ambrose Mendy, for leading me a merry dance.

Derek Williams, for proving that its always better late than never.

John Wharton, for asking me.

Steve Collins, for advising me to cry it out.

Anthony Leaver, for letting me come back to play.

Richard Maynard, for a ticket to the circus.

Steve Lillis, for that good word.

Sabrina and Tayla.

Sedat Sag, for loyalty.

Natasha Graham, a force to be reckoned with.

To Glyn Leach, dearly wish wed had that drink.

All the staff of the Whittington Hospital, for saving my daughters life.

And to an unnamed Chinese therapist, for sitting and listening to me witter on about myself.

F OR anyone out there who is interested (and Im not entirely sure that even Im that interested) I visited my therapist for the second time this week (although I dont know why Im calling her my therapist; she certainly doesnt belong to me).

Once again I didnt learn very much from her (does one go to therapists to learn stuff?) except for one very small, minor thing: Im really not very good at going to therapists.

Being someone who is pathologically punctual (she said wed address this issue at some point in the future if we had time), I was early. She was late. And all of this set my mind off, not necessarily into a panic, but it got me to thinking as I sat there in a shabby NHS waiting room next to real sick people. Why was she late? Was it my fault or was it hers? Last time I saw her she had told me to wait in a specific location at 10.00am sharp and she would be there to meet me. Had she not shown up yet because I hadnt announced my arrival at reception? Yes, that was probably it.

My knuckles began to sweat. I waited until 10.05am and with still no sign of her I decided to be proactive. I would go and look for her.

I had only been there once before but somehow my radar managed to locate her office in the subterranean rabbit warren of identical rooms. But as I went to tentatively knock on her door it suddenly sprang open leaving us standing face to face. If I hadnt been paying attention and able to stop myself its highly likely that I could have ended up punching her on the nose three times. I dont know what Freud says about hitting therapists. He probably wouldnt encourage it.

There was a shocked silence. It was as if by coming to look for my tardy therapist (shes not mine, by the way) I had broken some kind of fundamental brain-malaise house rule. She looked at me for several long moments, like a granny eyeballing a mugger, and then she sort of said something like, Oh... I couldnt be sure. Shes got a very strong Chinese accent.

I broke the silence by apologising for being early and for her being late. I told that there was nothing suspicious about my coming to look for her. Really there wasnt. I was quite normal actually and I was going to try and prove it. Then she asked me to go away and sit back in the waiting room which I said I would but didnt because lets face it who likes waiting in waiting rooms? Instead I loitered on the stairs outside her office. If I was still smoking I would have lit up a fag.

All of this meant that a few minutes later when she came to collect me from the waiting room I wasnt there, I was standing on the stairs. And once again there was an awkward silence as she blundered into me, almost falling over in the process, and gave me another shocked look followed by another oh.

It wasnt going well.

We went into her office and I politely asked if I could take a seat. She gave me a shrug, which I quickly translated as meaning, Why are you asking me if you can sit down you moron? What a ridiculous question... Or perhaps she thought I was actually going to take a seat, pick it up and exit the building with it under my arm. I apologised for being polite and her lack of response seemed to indicate that there was obviously something uniquely absurd about somebody being polite. I told her I was always polite on account of being well brought up. And as the words left my lips I couldnt help but wonder that if I was so well brought up why, at the age of 53, was I seeing a therapist about my nasty and abusive recently deceased father? Then I apologised for apologising.

There was a silence. Then another silence. And then, finally, the silence was broken by a further period of silence.

We stared into each others eyes. It was very intimate. One of those occasions when you know that if you break the stare the other person has won.

She won. I looked down at my feet and then gathered my senses for another bout of protracted staring. Id get the bitch this time. Then she finally spoke. What would you like to talk about? she asked.

What would I like to talk about? Nothing, I replied.

Of course I dont want to talk about anything, I explained. Why would I? Ive only met you once before and youre expecting me to launch into when-I-was-a-kid-my-dad-was-horrid-to-me