Dumbo is trendy these days – huge old warehouses provide luxury lofts, rooftop parties and film locations – but Gleason's, New York's most famous boxing gym, has always drawn its own crowd. Since 1937, 117 world champions have trained in its various locations, names like LaMotta, Ali, and Roberto "the Panamanian Superman" Duran. Nowadays their pictures are framed and yellowing, up on its red walls.
Last Saturday night Gleason's hosted the "Metros", an ongoing qualifying tournament for the Golden Gloves, New York's amateur boxing championship.
The Metros aren't what they used to be. Thousands used to come, filling out the great Bronx gyms. And among the older faces at Gleason's on Saturday there was plenty of nostalgia, glances up at the old signed photographs and memories of endless crowds of men wearing hats. "I lost hope long ago, I'm just dealing with what's left," said Bill, the grey-haired man working the video equipment. But there was also realism and expectancy.
An hour before the first bout, the gym was alive. Bruce Silverglade, the current owner of Gleason's was at the door, taking money and handing over little blue tickets. At the snack bar, a static crowd of men stood, looking up the TV which was playing reruns of old matches. And overseeing it all was a slight man with a limp and swollen knuckles, Johnnie Woluewich, president of the USA Boxing Metro. Johnnie stood against the wall, eating a slice of pizza and holding a list of boxers in his other hand. "Kids don't show up. That's the biggest problem," he said, in between loosing off orders at white-shirted officials who came and went, "laziness."
Across from Johnnie and away from the snack bar was the line for the weigh-in. Dozens of young men, in their teens and twenties, mainly black and Hispanic, stood in various slouches. Once every few moments the door to the weighing room would fly open – "One more!" – and another boxer would go in. Inside, a bald Gandhi lookalike in a black dressing gown and cap took over and led each fighter to the scales.
In the lull after the weigh-in, the fighters made their preparations. Even in the actions of the 12 and 14-year-old boys there were glimpses of boxing ritual: the reverence for the fighter's body, massages and hands outstretched, being wrapped in tape. And there were the entourages, in some cases families, in others a crowd of young guys, shadow boxing, shouting and making jokes which set off rounds of handshakes. Around the ring, the umpires made their last preparations, looking over the draw, heaving extensively at the ropes. Then a few scrambled announcements on the Tannoy, and the first fighters were coming to the ring, in red or blue, their long shorts down below their knees.
"Box!"
The first few fights were for novices – leggy teenagers flying around the ring, fizzing with energy, mad with nerves and surprised to survive. Every action drew noise from the crowd: advice and scorn and laughter. "Jab! Jab! Work your jab!" "Straight to the body! Straight to the body!" "Don't wait! Don't wait!" Everyone had something to say, from coaches to ten-year-old boys and enormous, expert women. Even the walls seemed to be yelling something.
Next to me a family watched their son compete, and lose. With the gym screaming, they were all silent, a video recorder hoisted like a flag. The younger brother gave a running commentary into a mobile phone while his mother kept her hand over her mouth.
After the novices came the open bouts, in two weight classes, 141lb and 152lb. Whereas the novices were matched against each other according to their experience and record, the open bouts, for men who have fought more than ten times, were just that: luck of the draw. And there were more mismatches as a result. There were a couple of technical knockouts – the freshly defeated showing their cut, red faces when they pulled off their helmets – and one roaring knockout, when the loser came down, limbs clattering like a chest of drawers.
But there was also more method, and intensity. Coaches were now trying to steer their guys, one gestured as if his boxer was reversing a truck. And the fighters had supporters too, shouting at the referees, standing and throwing punches in the air, enacting exactly what their friend should be doing. "Jab, baby, go with the jab!" "One, two! One, two! Straight left hook!"
In the midst of it all, during one very even fight marked by wild and ludicrous yelling – "Throw him some hot sauce!" "This one's got a touch of sleep!" "Take his fucking head off!" – Don Saxby, one of the three trainers at Gleason's, sat down next to me. His latest fighter, Dennis Douglas, had just won his bout.
"These guys work hard you know, you hate to see them lose," he said, as the outcome of the fight in front of us became clearer. "I hate to see anybody lose. If it was up to me there would be no winning or losing, there would just be competition."
By the penultimate fight, the 11th of 12, Gleason's was emptying. As boxers fought and left, they took their supporters with them. There was still heckling, and a sense of spectacle, but now individual voices were clearer, and more insistent. Into the last fight, more and more people rose to go, but no one could quite bear to leave, and have the boxers fight in silence. Then, as the last spectators shouted "to the body!" and "jab!" for the last time, at least for that evening, someone, right at the back, called out "I appreciate this fight, gentlemen!" and that seemed to sum it up as well as anything.
Slices of New York
