A Night At The Fights

25.02.04 – By Matthew Hurley: It begins at around four o’clock in the afternoon. It’s usually on a Saturday so I sleep late that morning and then, after a quick shower and couple of bottles of water I head out. My first stop is the local book store. I make my way to the magazine rack and grab every new issue of every boxing magazine they have. I toss a few glances at the girlie magazines, I have to admit, and if no one is around me I might even flip through some of the pages. Hey, I’m a guy. Then I head over to the sports section of the store to check and see if any new books on the fight game have come out. As usual I get annoyed at the selection. Nearly every book is about Muhammad Ali. I have nothing but love in my heart for Ali but come on! Don’t we have enough books on this guy already? For a moment I pause and envision one of my books up there on the shelf. I tell myself that one day I’ll have something up there. There’s a bit of sadness in me because I’ve dealt with rejection from editors over and over, but I’m convinced that one day… one day. Then I make my way to the register and purchase my magazines and head off to my next stop.

Depending on my appetite I either head to the local deli for a pound of honeyed ham, bulky rolls, potato salad and antipasto or to my favorite pub, the Alumni, that makes the best bar pizza in the world. The Alumni serves nearly 500 personal pizzas every weekend and probably serves ten times that in pints of beer. If I hit the Alumni I usually sit at the bar and check out all the regulars and down a few pints of Guinness. There’s nothing quite so romantic and so quietly sad as a local pub filled with barflies who seem to have no place else to go. With Sinatra or an old Elvis Presley tune on the jukebox, smoke so thick it reddens the eyes and stale popcorn in unwashed bowls I can never help but smile. There’s just something so cool about it all. It reminds me of old black and white films with Humphrey Bogart. The desperation is palpable. After that I head off to the local “packie” – that’s Boston speak for a liquor store, and stock up on either Rolling Rock or Guinness, depending on my mood and how many I’d already had at the Alumni.

Then it’s back to my apartment. I’ll sit back in my black leather recliner, have a few beers, and pour over the boxing magazines I bought at the book store. At around seven o’clock I’ll place my order for that night’s fights. Now, with about a two hour window before the first fight on the under card, I’ll pop in a DVD of one of my favorite bouts just to take the edge off. There’s something of the addict in me when it comes to boxing and I revel in it on fight night.

Then, when the fights are set to begin, I’ll unplug my telephone, crack open a few more beers, make up a plate of food, sit back in my chair, grab my notebook and my favorite pen – just in case some writer’s epiphany hits me during a bout, and revel in the excitement of “fight night”. Again, perhaps it’s the addict in me, but outside of a perfect night with the perfect girl, I can’t think of any other place I’d rather be.

A night at the fights – it just doesn’t get any better.