ROLLIN’ WITH THE PUNCHES
IN AN OLD North London gym, sandwiched between Crouch End and Finsbury Park, a group of 30 boxers are receiving a bollocking. “We don’t play boxing!” barks Jerry Mitchell, a senior coach at Islington Boxing Club. Dressed head to toe in Adidas, he berates his fighters with all the intensity of a drill sergeant. “We train Monday, Wednesday and Friday. So you turn up Monday, Wednesday and Friday! You who don’t turn up can fuck off.”
As the guilty parties look around sheepishly, a sharp whistle signals the start of training. Shoes squeak across the tiled floor. Skipping ropes get whipped into a frenzied whoosh. Sparring partners erupt in laughter, yelps and shouts. Beneath it all is the steady rhythm of punches being thrown: glove hitting bag, glove hitting pad, glove hitting body, glove hitting face. It’s the sensory equivalent of standing in the middle of a busy boxing,” Jerry repeats, prowling up and down the room with a glint in his eye and a barely contained grin. It’s going to be a good night.
