Blood, guts and half a million bucks

By MICHELE HEWITSON

They fought on the ropes, they swung at the ref, most of them could barely land a punch in the right direction - and the crowd loved it.

The Fight for Life charity boxing event on Thursday night, pitching mate against mate, code against code, had it all - except finesse.

You could have been forgiven for thinking that this fundraiser, which earned $500,000 for youth suicide prevention, was going to turn into a clash of clown against clown. All feint and mateship.

But the thing about boxing is this: once you get those gloves on and climb into the ring, you are going to have to hit somebody. You could see it in their eyes, that wild staring look of an animal caught in the headlights, at the moment they realised that it's fight or flight.

Then the thrill of glove against flesh takes over. In the pre-match publicity shots the boys had their fists up; they wouldn't have scared a kitten. Glove them up, though, let them throw the first punch (it just might land) and the testosterone kicks in. Buck Shelford, in the ring, has that glint in his eye.

Funny stuff, that testosterone. It gets into the air and, by some peculiar process of osmosis, into the chardonnay. It can be the only explanation for the fact that, if you place 35 women in a room with 3465 men and a boxing ring, one of those women will feel an overwhelming urge to flash her breasts. And give way to it.

Nothing like a bit of blood, either, to get the crowd roaring for more. Fight one, the Brent Todd/Graham Purvis bout, put paid to the notion that anyone had come to watch a dance recital. A bloodied nose is difficult to choreograph. That's nothing, shrugs a punter who has paid $500 for his ringside seat. "They know what pain is all about." The crowd knows what it's all about: they've paid to see pain, not pussyfooting.



What were we all here for, all 3500 of us? For a good cause, parroted most people. A couple of women expressed reservations about whether having two blokes in a boxing ring pummelling each other in the name of fundraising for awareness of issues surrounding youth suicide was quite the thing.

Mostly, though, the thing was that a good cause provided a good excuse to encourage men to hit each other harder. That's the real fun of boxing. It's guilt-free violence.

And if you really couldn't stomach the thumping, you could watch other people watching the thumping. From the cheap seats you got the best view. A sea of men in tuxedos. Women in sequins and cleavage. A stream of waiters in bowties. A duo of sequined drag queens. At the corporate tables they're dining on chicken breast in prosciutto on a garlic-crusted polenta and rocket mash with field mushrooms, vine-ripened tomatoes and grilled capsicum drizzled with a tarragon infused jus. Down in the foyer you could buy a meat pie.

The glitterati have their own portaloos: faux marble panels and brass fittings and a Monet print above the cistern. Those who have paid to sit in the stands have queues.

By the end of the night Jack Wright is dancing with jubilation, holding his Buck is Back poster aloft. His man has won, has beaten Mark Graham in a 2-1 split-points decision.

The winner on the night? Well, the Yellow Ribbon Campaign by half a million dollars.

* Fight for Life will be rescreened on TV3 today at 3.40 pm.