News - November 2007

Danny Butler, Spaniorum Farm’s talented teenage boxer, puts his unbeaten record of eight fights, eight wins, on the line when he boxes his first ten round contest for the vacant British Masters light-middle weight title against a, so far, un-named opponent, on a Jane Couch promotion at the Marriott Hotel, Bristol U.K. on Sunday December 2nd.

Unable to plan sparring for a specific opponent, manager/coach Tex Woodward has enlisted an assortment of sparring partners varying from heavyweight to ten year old ‘paper weight’ Jasmine Stephens-Parr (in picture with Danny).

Woodward says, tongue in cheek, “ I know this type of sparring is a bit unusual but Jasmine is a much smaller target than the heavy-weights and she is also more elusive.

Jasmine’s mother Julia says, “Jasmine loves going to the gym. It is a place where you feel immediately at ease and everyone is friendly and welcoming. Through Tex’s guidance and tuition she is improving vastly and her confidence is growing daily."

Two Spaniorum Farm boxers returned to the ring, after time out with injuries, on Sunday October 21st at a Nick Hodges promotion at the Brangwyn Hall, Swansea.

Fighting Welsh boxers in Wales is never going to make for an easy night’s work ( in this case an afternoon) and Chris Long, Calne, showed his ring-rust after a lack of sparring, due to a damaged hand, when he boxed Damien Owen, Swansea, 4 x 3 min rounds. Owen won each round, but Chris weathered the storm of combinations and was still looking for one big punch when the bell ended the fight.

Spaniorum’s other fighter on the bill Danny Gwylim, Bristol, who last boxed as a light-middleweight five months ago, returned to the ring as a light heavyweight to face Llanelly’s ex cage-fighter Adam Wilcox, who was making his professional boxing debut over 6 x 2 min. rounds. Adam, much taller and heavier than Gwylim, looked to impress these assets on his much shorter, but surprisingly muscular, opponent.

Despite his recently acquired weight, Danny was much faster on his feet than Wilcox and his clever ducking and weaving negated Adam’s big swings. Apprehensive about throwing his right hand, due to a recent injury, Danny Gwylim relied on his footwork and occasional left hook to keep out of trouble. In the interval after the third round, corner-man Tex Woodward told his charge that there were signs that he could win the fight, and to up his workrate and punches. Danny responded well and scored more regularly as his opponent tired and showed signs of frustration. Gwylim’s right hand responding to fight induced adrenalin, gave Wilcox more problems and staggered him on two occasions. The last two rounds showed even more activity from Danny and secured him a clear points win that was received with loud applause from the Welsh fans, who must have realised that although Danny Gwylim was living the other side of the River Severn, he was still of Welsh stock.

At Spaniorum Farm, nestled among paddocks, green pastures and a steep, tree lined hill, I have found my own piece of boxing heaven. It’s not everyone’s idea of heaven of course.

But if boxing is some how in your blood and you fancy working out among champions, you’ll understand the attraction.

I grew up watching Sugar Ray, Duran, Hearns. My dad let me stay up to watch the big fights. We shouted at the TV set together. We urged Honeyghan to finish Curry, we sat in silence as Hagler did Hearns in three, we kept screaming at Andries to get up when he took on the Hitman. I read every boxing book and magazine I could lay my hands on. I fell in love with boxing. It reached me in a way football never could.

These men were true heroes. Frazier, who broke his left arm as a kid and could never straighten it, yet still became champion of the world. Foreman, saved from crime and cell blocks because he could dish out two-fisted misery. Hagler, whose mean stare and bald head used to scare me to death. And Wilfred Benitez, whose poster hung on my wardrobe door. My favourite. From the gutter to a world title at just 17.

After years admiring, I thought it was time to understand what my heroes went through.

I knew I was fit, but I was middle class fit. Cosy gym, three times a week, kind of fit. My own locker, shampoo in the shower cubicle, sweet smelly stuff in bowls by the sinks. I wanted raw fit, harsh fit, brutal fit – and I got it.

When Tex unlocked the gym and I walked into the darkness, grey shafts of sunlight throwing shadows over heavy bags, speed balls, yellowing fight posters and newspaper cuttings on the white washed walls, I knew I’d found what I was looking for. What followed that first day was the most brutal hour of my life. I can run 13 miles in 92 minutes – not exactly Paul Radcliffe, but not exactly Dale Winton either. Nothing prepared me for this.

Skipping, bag work, shadow boxing, sparring and circuits. Tex’s sessions – all timed like a fight with three minutes of balls-out, lung bursting effort and one minute’s rest - left me on all fours, soaked with sweat, gasping for breath, the lactic acid burning like lead in my arms.

I couldn’t give in. There, feet away from me, shadow boxing furiously was Jane Couch, a five time world champion. The dark haired 19 year old ripping into a heavy bag with hooks and upper cuts was Danny Butler, the South West’s teen sensation. They both smiled as I suffered.

First day in he was quiet. Tex – the trainer - just watched. “Keep your elbows in and head down,” that was all he said. He’s seen plenty like me. Enthusiastic, eager, stupid? One session’s usually enough. But he soon realised I was serious….when I kept coming back.

Day two, I sparred with Danny for two rounds, never hit him once. He clipped me playfully. I remembered what Tex had said about my head and hands.

Day three, I was in with Jane. Two more rounds that left me with bruised ribs and a sore mouth and I never landed a glove on her. They were both toying with me, pulling their punches while mine missed every time, but I was still left slumped in a corner, gasping for breath.

A month in I felt fitter than at any point in my life. Tex explained all about balance, foot work, how to throw perfect jabs, hooks and upper cuts, how to bob and weave. Then, just when I thought I was getting there, he took me in the ring with the pads on and I spent three minutes chasing thin air, never once hitting his mitt. He’s 73 and he finished me off without throwing a punch. ‘Don’t worry,” he reassured me, “I have shattered better boxers than you!.”

So this is my little bit of heaven, skipping in front of a mirror, dripping with sweat, the sunlight streaming into the gym, while around me former world champions and champions of the future make skipping ropes blur, heavy bags dance like puppets and sparring partners wince.

I could never do what they do. Their bravery, strength, skill and fitness are way beyond me. But at least now, thanks to Tex, Jane and Danny, I am beginning to understand just what it takes to be a hero in the ring. My admiration for fighters has escalated. I will never shout at a boxer on TV in frustration ever again. If you’ve never tried, you just can’t imagine what they have to go through.

Vince Ellis (Sports Journalist)

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