In Glen Burnie, A Fight Scribe is Reminded Of What Boxing Also Is

Editor's note: , editor of Columbia Patch, also is an award-winning boxing writer for BoxingScene.com.

For one moment, go beyond the gloved combatants in the ring hell-bent on hitting each other as hard as they can and as many times as they can.

Go beyond the simplest of premises and examine boxing, starting from its philosophy and reaching to its periphery, and you will find that it is an institution in conflict with itself.

It is a savage pursuit, this casting aside of humanity for a predetermined amount of time so as to bash and bruise and cut and concuss, and to do this to another man who is not seen as a mortal enemy but merely as a momentary opponent.

It is a scientific practice based on fundamentals of technique and talent and skill and discipline. One must train and work and sacrifice to improve, and one must continue to do so just for a chance to succeed. He must release himself into battling with ruthlessness yet restrain himself by behaving within the rules.

The best must work for years to reach that level. Yet being the best doesn’t always mean others—the promoters who will pay them, the people who will pay to see them—will immediately recognize their talent and reward them for it.

But before there can be the few who find fame and fortune in the professional spotlight, there are those thousands toiling in the ranks of amateur anonymity for free.

There are the trainers at the gyms and clubs and storied holes-in-walls who take kids—many of whom come from troubled homes and neighborhoods—and deliver them into this constructive conundrum: The boxers are bettering themselves through actions that, when undertaken in any other setting outside of those four ropes, would be deemed viciously criminal.

Outside of the ropes, so many of them are anything but. Trained to use their hands to hurt, they understand the power of that privilege, the reality of responsibility.

It is easy to become distracted from that fact, to let the caricatures and the cases of chaos and corruption speak for the rest: Those who speak softly and without the salesmanship and showmanship of a Muhammad Ali or a Don King.

Those who live in a manner that will not bring headlines from a mainstream press that thinks boxing stopped when Mike Tyson retired.

Those who give soft, limp handshakes with the same hands that form clenched fists.

It is easy to become distracted by the soap operas of professional boxing: the fighters who will not fight each other, the glut of sanctioning bodies issuing a confusing abundance of title belts, the controversial endings to bouts that in turn take precedence over the actual action that came before.

Sometimes we must bring ourselves back into focus.

• • • • •

For one moment, go beyond those complications and return to where boxing is at its simplest: at the local level.

There, a writer who has been ringside in stadiums and arenas and clubs and casinos can see boxing where it is still more of a sport than it is a spectacle.

There, a person will find little of the disconnect between fighter and fan seen at the bigger of boxing cards, those events where the cost of a ticket alone will set them off at a distance from the ring—and they will be pushed farther still from the ring by rows of VIPs protected by metal barricades. Also, the best boxers might have known names, but celebrity does not truly equal familiarity.

This writer had traveled far to see the best boxers and the biggest of boxing cards. But until this past Friday he had never been half an hour from his hometown to see the quality of simplicity at a suburban Maryland ballroom.

There have long been regular professional boxing cards at in Glen Burnie. Until recently, those cards had come about half a dozen times each year. But there were but two in 2009 and two in 2010.

This was an amateur card put on by two local promoters: Scott Wagner, who has run the Ballroom Boxing shows in Glen Burnie, and Jake Smith, who has promoted in the area under his Baltimore Pro Boxing banner.

Doors opened 90 minutes before the first fight. Those arriving early could walk in to see boxers spilling out of the cramped, curtained-off area at one end of the ballroom that was serving as a makeshift dressing room for about two-dozen fighters, plus their trainers and an assortment of suitcases and duffel bags. Several wore jackets with the names of their boxing clubs emblazoned on them.

On a table at ringside, three boxes held more than two-dozen trophies of varying sizes, each with a picture of a dangling pair of red gloves and the words “The Future”—not coincidentally the name the promoters had given the event.

Nearby, one boxer sat at a table underneath one of four chandeliers, wrapping his own hands—two of those institutional conflicts appearing in a single place. This savage pursuit would take place in a room also used for weddings and proms and banquets. And fighters trained to hurt others with their hands must first follow the delicate art of cushioning those hands with gauze and tape and gloves, protection for their fists, yes, but also for their foes.

Two boxers changed and tied their shoes outside of a stall in the men’s bathroom, speaking to each other in Spanish as others occasionally entered to use the facilities for their designated purpose.

They represented athletic participation when it is still fun and not work. They presented boxing where it is still organic—there are flaws, granted, but it is easier to overlook imperfections when there is such an abundance of passion.

• • • • •

Smith was a visible presence, the show’s co-promoter working to organize the event and announce the fights and energize the fans. He wore a black T-shirt with an image imitating the lapels and undershirt of a tuxedo, casual gear necessary when you are being summoned around the building.

Earlier in the evening, the man taking the tickets up front kept yelling Smith’s name—“Jake!” “Jake!”—every time he had a question. Later, Smith was in the back with the boxers, ensuring that everything was set before the card was to get under way.

Finally, he was in the ring, microphone in hand, not at all trying for the ceremonial smoothness of a Michael Buffer, but sounding rather like the front man of a rock and roll band whose concert set was about to start and who wanted to get the fans ready to have heads banging.

“The louder you cheer, the harder they fight,” he told what had become a filled ballroom.

He announced the first bout, which would be for the amateur Maryland state championship, open-class, 165-pound division.

“That’s how we start a night,” Smith said. “Start it right.”

Reggie Lucas was from Baltimore. Most of the fans cheered. Monreco Goldston was from Salisbury. Most of the fans booed.

“Reggie, get out to the ring,” Smith said.

Lucas and Goldston did. Soon came the sound of a ring bell, which apparently was patched through the speaker system.

They were not going to be the best boxers. There are enough layers at the professional ranks—champion, titleholder, contender, prospect, gatekeeper, measuring stick, designated opponent, tomato can—never mind the amateur tiers.

But these fighters not being refined can make their fights all the more entertaining. Many tended to cast aside foot movement in favor of throwing punches and exchanging combinations. They are still developing, coached heavily during the bouts by vocal trainers.

Hal Chernoff, who works with touted professional prospect Fernando Guerrero, had made the two-hour drive from Salisbury, MD, just for his one fighter on the card, Goldston, who appropriately wore gold trunks. Of course, unlike the pro ranks, these amateur fighters also donned tank tops and protective headgear.

“Five! Five! Five! Five!” Chernoff yelled during the third and final round, the number corresponding to whatever punch the trainer wanted his fighter to throw. Goldston and Lewis exchanged haymakers in the round, attempting either to knock the other out or at least to leave an indelible impression on those scoring the fight.

The bell rang over the speaker system. Smith stepped back into the ring.

“Who thinks the blue corner?” Smith asked. “Who thinks the red corner?”

A few in the audience insisted that he get to the result. Goldston won the split decision. Both he and Lucas were handed trophies.

The Salisbury contingent cheered. At many major boxing cards, most ticket buyers don’t file in until the later fights despite spending so much money, because they are conditioned not to care about anyone beyond the upper tiers of boxers. But early on at those shows there will be the pockets of fans who traveled in support of their local heroes, support that is not conditioned upon accomplishment.

These at Michael’s Eighth Avenue were friends and family and also area residents who just appreciated a night at the fights. Though they seemed out of place with the music that played between bouts—hip-hop in a room of old and/or white faces—their enthusiasm didn’t wane, and it contributed tremendously to the atmosphere.

Simpler. More organic.

Even the ring card girls—likely two local strippers—went without the typical heels, instead wearing tube socks over their feet.

One explained that they were warned that heels would poke holes in the ring canvas.

• • • • •

For one moment, look beyond the tube socks, the simulated ring bell, the tuxedo T-shirt and the amateur action.

Ours is a culture caught up in the blockbuster: the big summer movie, the big concert, the big game, the big fight.

We designate a level of importance to those, but we must not denigrate that which cannot—and need not—live up to that billing.

There are art-house flicks and local club bands and minor league baseball teams and regional boxing cards. They are neighbors and everymen and homegrown talents whose efforts are all the more honest and nonetheless entertaining.

It is easy to become distracted by celebrity and its requisite controversy and chaos. Sometimes we must bring ourselves back into focus.

Yes, boxing is the expensive event at the stadium or arena or club or casino. It is the thrill of extraordinary boxers and exhilarating action, and it is the frustration of fights not being made, bad decisions and rampant confusion brought about by the sheer number of sanctioning bodies and title belts.

It is more than the champions and titleholders and contenders and prospects. It is the gatekeepers, measuring sticks, designated opponents and tomato cans who won’t find fame and fortune but who still take plenty of punches for a few bucks.

It is the amateur fighter who comes away with little beyond the thrill of competition, and a little recognition, and maybe a trophy, but also the improvement —and the proving—of self.

Go beyond the gloved combatants in the ring hell-bent on hitting each other as hard as they can and as many times as they can.

This might seem a savage pursuit, but those rewards bring more sweetness to this sweet science.