Get Her Off the Pitch! Read Online Free PDF

The Lewis entrance (first) was a shambles, with his ragged entourage having to shove its way through a crowd that appeared to be shoving back. Laid-back reggae was the incongruous accompaniment to this disgraceful near-riot, involving Garden security staff, fans, bodyguards, and a chap with a flag, and it would have been quite funny if it hadn’t been so dreadful. ‘Whose fault is this?’ I wanted to know - but then I’ve already established how I feel about things being badly organised. Still, Lennox looked focused and unfazed by the turmoil holding up his progress, possibly because the mellow music was working so well for him, but also possibly because he towered literally head and shoulders above everyone else, and all the aggro was taking placeabout a foot below his eye-line. I ought to mention that in the thick of the mêlée was the tiny figure of Frank Maloney, Lewis’s boxing manager, tastefully dressed up as a parody of the Artful Dodger in a Union Jack suit with a Union Jack cap. This fact alone, perhaps, kept Lewis’s eyes fixed resolutely on the middle distance.
    Holyfield entered - with considerably more ease - to a warm gospel song that was probably about how incredibly big his heart was, but I couldn’t tell, there was so much cheering. And then, with just enough time for me to get used to the almighty size of the shorts they were both wearing (‘What enormous shorts!’), there was the announcement of the two men, the belts they already held, the three ringside judges (one from South Africa, one from Atlantic City, and one from London), mention of the referee being the son of another referee, twelve rounds of three minutes, and ding-ding, blimey, before I could worry too much about how many synonyms for ‘horrified’ I was going to require before the night was out, it had started, amid roars from the crowd, and thousands of cameras flashing at once. Lewis came out very positively, left arm horizontal, left fist level with Holyfield’s face, delivering smart, straight-arm jabs every few seconds, with Holyfield largely back-pedalling and evidently trying to figure out some way of getting to the ‘inside’. Lewis was clearly in control, as Rob and I sagely agreed. We had decided to keep personal point scores according to the proper system - i.e., 10 points to the winner of a round and nine to the loser, unless there’s a knock-down (then it’s 10-8), or a draw (10-10). In the event of a knockout, it’s still technically a win on points, apparently, but I never quite masteredthe maths of that. I merely knew, as everyone does, that a knockout means it’s all over. Meanwhile marks out of six for artistic interpretation and technical merit don’t come into it at all, which was a shame because, by my calculations, Lennox was doing quite well on those counts as well.
    At the end of round one, I felt pretty good. True, I needed a spongeful of water on the back of my neck, and a respite from the gum-shield, but I wasn’t out for the count. Lennox also looked as if he felt ok. Holyfield was mainly looking a bit thoughtful, like someone who’s been punched in the face non-stop for three minutes while concentrating on walking backwards. At the end of the round he had suddenly lowered his head between Lewis’s legs and, bizarrely, lifted him off his feet rather in the manner of a trainee fireman - an unconventional, not to say desperate-looking and ungainly move that had earned them both a reminder from the ref about keeping it clean. In the second round, Lewis again efficiently kept Holyfield at arm’s length, but also landed a couple of classy blows with his right. But Holyfield’s prediction that he would knock out Lewis in the third was probably uppermost in both their minds during those first two rounds; it was certainly uppermost in mine. The fight would be won or lost, surely, in that third round - and if the drama were