Friday Night at the Fights

Cincinnati has a rich boxing tradition, spanning decades and weight classes. Former world champions Ezzard Charles, Aaron Pryor and Tony ‘TNT’ Tubbs all hail from the Queen City. Cincinnati has also been a major player in the amateur ranks – this is the only city to produce two boxers for Team USA in three different Olympic Games (1992, 2000, 2004). Despite this distinguished history of boxing greatness, few consider Cincinnati a boxing town - including people who live in Southeastern Ohio. Buddy LaRosa and the Cincinnati Athletic Club look to open a few eyes and promote boxing in the area with the first installment of ‘Friday Night at the Fights’, held this past Friday night in the downtown men’s fitness club.

I have never been to a live boxing match, though claim to be a fan, and so was compelled to witness this exhibition in person.

The Cincinnati Athletic Club is located in an alley behind the Shilito Apartment off of Race St. I have been in this alley before, and never knew the place existed. $25 got me valet parking and entry into the club. The place had the smell of popcorn and drafty hallways that made it feel like a YMCA. It felt like the type of place where you work out with medicine balls, cinder blocks and pulleys. There was a member’s lounge to the left of the front desk that looked exactly like every clubhouse on an average golf club. $2 got me a Miller High Life Lite and I toted it around the front room – a leather-sofa filled lounge lined with dusty trophies in glass cases.

The third floor was the site of the fights. A classic gymnasium with a suspended running track. The elevated ring stood imposing at center court. Rows of chairs rippled out from the ring. Free LaRosa’s pizza and beer tubs commanded the four corners. It was truly a venue from the past. The only thing missing was dimmer lights and a blanket of stale cigar smoke hovering over the tops of our heads.

The crowd was a collection of Cincinnati’s semi-connected. Lawyers and member’s of the athletic club mixed with boxing aficionados and family members of the young boxers. Buddy LaRosa was making the rounds with his south-Florida tan. What looked to be his brother sported a hip, old-man mullet and copper-colored leather pants. He was the prize. What looked to be one of the Ruby’s sat near this twosome with Donald Trump’s haircut that he bought off eBay. Heavy hitters all around.

The boxers fell in an age range from 10 – 16. The young men hailed from a variety of places including Price Hill, Millville, Dayton, Indiana and Kentucky. The Price Hill boxing club came in force with a contingent of trainers including a wiry old-timer who looked like he lived in a gym his whole life. I expected him to be carrying a spit bucket. I thought of Mickey from the Rocky movies.

After 3 slices of pizza, I settled in for some controlled violence. The first two fighters ran out to the ring amidst a surge of cheers. I marveled at the composure of these 10-year old boys, ready and willing to take punches to their faces on center stage. The kids were in tremendous shape and I could not help thinking about how bad they would have both kicked my 10-year old ass. The first fight was great – wild haymakers with serious intentions. This was not like the fights my friends and I had in childhood. These kids knew what they were doing.

As the age group and skill level increased, the fights grew more disciplined and technically sound. The kids wore headgear and large gloves to minimize sharp impact to the skull. There were no knockdowns. The refs kept the fighters on a short leash and would carry out mandatory eight counts if a boxer was staggered by a blow. The rounds got longer (the first fights were limited to 1 minute rounds, the latter were 2 minutes) with each level and each fight stopped after 3 rounds. Winners were declared (there were 3 judges, stationed around the ring) and each boy received a parting trophy and rousing applause from the crowd.

Despite the intense nature of the sport of boxing, the parents were surprisingly calm. I half expected an outraged parent to go bounding over the ropes to save their child from a beating. However, the parents and family members displayed perfect sportsmanship. I’ve seen spelling-bee parents much worse than this.

There were 8 fights, and as the night rolled into fight 6, I started to doubt the 10-16 year old age range printed on the fight program. A couple of the fighters were bald and at least 5 of the 16 fighters would not get carded for buying cigarettes. There were two white guys, both from Kentucky. This seemed to make perfect sense to me. The first one entered the ring in what looked like brown, leather bowling shoes. I could not take my eyes off his feet. His punches were slow and were thrown without purpose.

It was a good night. The organizers did a good job keeping the pace of the fights moving. There was little down time between rounds and fights. Constant action. Eight fights, 24 rounds – all in a tight 90 minutes. I left feeling like I had been a part of something.


Two women were sitting next to me. They saw me taking notes and asked me if I was a scout. I told them I was a journalist and the words felt like honey coming out of my mouth. They bought me a beer. This is happiness.