Watching Steph fight

27th May 2023, Bethnal Green, London

I had not seen Steph for over a decade but we were still connected on Facebook. We’d met working in a restaurant in London, the well travelled route for people short of cash but wanting to get somewhere in the capital. Those servers became actors, students, bar owners, filmmakers and travelled the world. Steph? A mother, a law degree and then a boxer. On Facebook she was trying to sell tickets to her fight in London, I bought a couple and invited a friend from the military. I was working late on the Friday and got down to London on the day of the fight, setting off from a friend’s flat wearing a jacket, polo shirt, trousers and trainers. I looked at the ticket. No sportswear/trainers. My friend had a suit on so he went to find a pint in Bethnal Green and I raced to Covent Garden. It was 4pm, the doors were open at York Hall, the first fight at 4:30pm, I’d called the promoter, Steph would be fighting after the interval around 9pm, but there were 22 fights and we were in for a good day so I quickly bought some boots for a pretty penny and headed over on the Central line. On the way in I watched in mild upset as man after man was let in to the venue wearing trainers. Mine were in the bag from the shop. Ah well. We were in.

One fight lasted the time between it being announced and us taking our seats ringside. The first round, in seconds, it was over. More people joined as the afternoon rolled into the evening, fight after fight. Around ten young Turkish men sat to my right, two had bought their dates to watch the fights. One blew kisses at the woman holding the round cards as she went to each side of the ring, after a few rounds I told him she couldn’t see him as the lights were in her face. He sat disappointed and we chatted briefly about the Turkish election. It’s a big one for us, he said, nodding his head. There were several women fighting but no list so I kept looking to where the fighters would emerge to see either Steph or her opponent. I ran to the loo during a fight, a man at a urinal asked me for cocaine, I need some he declared, I washed my hands quickly and left not wanting to miss Steph. One fight was hyped by the promoters as the main event, they used the word WAR in capital letters. For a belt. One held it the other wanted it. It wasn’t hyperbole. The challenger was a young Algerian man, draped in the green and white flag with the red crescent and star. It didn’t start gently.

It was like a pub fight. In the first two rounds Sammy the Algerian was knocked to the ground twice and it felt like it was all over for him, his head was bleeding and the referee was checking he could still fight. Sammy shook his head when asked if he wanted it to end, he waved his gloves in the air, Come On, let’s keep going, and so they did. I can’t believe there was a person in the hall who believed Sammy could win. He went on to turn the whole fight on its head and swung ferociously at the belt holder who had turned from the obvious winner to a man pressed into the ropes and needing them to stop him being punched into the crowd. The referee had seen enough and stopped the fight. As Sammy’s hand was raised on the decision the man losing his belt looked tired. It was an incredible few minutes. How did Sammy do it? His was the fight before the one I’d come for. Her opponent came out first and into the ring, this was it. Out came Steph tapping her right glove over her heart. Across her back, MAV, short for Mavromatis. And into the ring. 

I stood up and took some photos but mostly watched and shouted her name. Come on, Steph! The Turks realised I knew her and started supporting her too. A family in front of me whose father had fought and won earlier also started cheering for Steph. I heard her name from the right, from the upper decks in the beautiful hall. I’d been in fights and noticed there is a noise around me but my senses were intimately concerned with the threat in front of me so guessed in the breaks between rounds she’d hear us. In the first two rounds I couldn’t call it, they seemed evenly matched and they landed and took blows regularly but there was a turn. It didn’t come as violently and explosively as Sammy the Algerian but there was a gentle shift into it being less 50/50, Steph had tired her opponent and here it was, she was winning, you could see it and we cheered louder. No dramatic knockouts but continual hard work over time. When it came to the end her hand was raised, she had won. As she came out of the ring I saw her and we hugged. I need a drink, she told me. 

We went to the bar, I’d seen the fight I’d travelled down for, she told me she’d not drank for 6 months and had had three fights. Her sister, also a friend from the restaurant was there. She didn’t like Steph fighting but it was her choice. A year after giving birth, going from 85kg, down to 70kg and 66kg for this fight. She was the new welterweight champion with a belt over her shoulder. It was the night. The bar at York Hall. Pints in plastic. Most of the men wearing trainers. Even jeans. Even jeans. The women had dressed smarter. Talk of fights won and lost. People asked her for photos. Her family stood with her. Some of those that had lost drank with cuts on their faces. My friend and I left shortly after. Outside a chap who’d had too much to drink inside was causing trouble. On the Tube I looked at the photos I’d taken, I didn’t have my camera with me, just the phone so they’re of a poor quality but I relived the fight, her entrance, her taking hits, giving, and the win, on her knees in the ring face in wrapped hands.

Well done, champ.