Pro Box By Smac A womens' professional boxing match to celebrate their new status Corrected 2/07/2001 Saturday the 31st. of March 2001 may have missed the turn of the century by a couple of months, but the day marked a turning point in the course of women's' boxing. At eleven in the morning, a press conference was called by the newly formed women's' professional boxing authority, there the assembled hacks were provided with a copy of the authority's rules and code of conduct. As in the early nineteen eighties and nineties the twin evils of recession and it's attendant unemployment led to accelerated social change. During both of these previous periods women's' boxing had briefly flourished. Coupled with some not too adverse publicity and the steady, painfully slow, progress of the true emancipation of women the grudging acceptance of women as boxers was almost universal over the USA and most of western Europe. Male boxing too had enjoyed a remarkable renaissance and could he enjoyed almost any night of the week on television, film and even in local town halls. The women, till now, had boxed in halls and clubs, unlicensed and under whatever rules suited their sponsors. Now they had regulation and respectability. Indeed the first official women's' championship was to be shown on national TV at the weekend and there were scores of cards in town halls and sports centres throughout the UK to mark the formation of the new regulatory body. But we won't be watching the glitzy TV fight, good though it probably will be, we'll set the video to tape it and instead be off to the Clifton Hall at Bristol to watch a live event. There is a women's fight on the card for Saturday. Incidentally women had been boxing there regularly for the last two years but without all the attendant publicity. Briefly to return to the question of rules, the authority had decided merely to amend the BBB of C new and revised rules of Nov. 1947 rather than endure the tedious, and probably drawn out process of drafting their own. So the men's' rules stood with the following changes. Although there were already some teenagers alive who had never known the Thatcher era when, where bare female breasts were concerned, a double standard still applied. Toplessness was alright on the newsagents' top shelf, still very much a part of sunbathing on the beach, but not the kind of thing one's daughter did, and especially not, never, seen on British television. And in this respect the potential loss of TV sponsorship made the change of rule two inevitable. For it read "Contestants must be stripped to the waist." There had been much debate, nay argument, on the subject of dress in the months before the rules had been promulgated. Shorts and singlets had been the obvious solution but some thought it made the women out to be amateurs, as this was their style, others thought it too much like the men's kit anyway, so why not make a complete break. The latter plan had won the day and the professional women boxers fighting under WPBA rules in the future would wear leotards. But they weren't the kind of leotards mummy might wear for her keep fit class they were very revealing leotards. Permission for a club/venue to obtain a supply would be granted on production of the participant women's' boxing licences at least one month before each event. The company which had won the authority contract had produced a garment which, when folded and rolled up, fitted comfortably in the palm of a child's hand. When an average woman wore one she was as good as naked, let alone topless. The material, what there was of it was a manmade fibre, but it breathed well and all the volunteers who'd worn them to date had nothing but praise for them. They were totally backless, but for a narrow thong up between the buttocks. The sides were cut high so as to ride on the crowns of the hips and the top covered the breasts to some extent, unless the wearer was more than moderately endowed, in which case their breasts tended to bulge out over the material rather like a beer gut over a tight, low slung belt. Beneath, the front covered just the pubic mound, at the outset of a fight at least. And there was another subtlety not lost on most male observers, the leotards were to be either pure white or in very, very pale pastel shades of pink, yellow or blue. The fact that they would most certainly become virtually transparent once they were moist with water, or of course sweat, must have crossed their collective mind. The authority officials, all women, had admitted that, to date, most of the orders received from clubs staging events in the weeks and months subsequent to the new order, had been for the all white leotards. Once the leotard had been established as the mode of dress the subject of ring boots really was a non-starter. A few girls were asked to parade before the executive committee in the brief costumes with boxing boots on, but they did look ridiculous. So it was barefoot boxers by a unanimous decision, there being no vote taken. The last issue of rule two concerns boxing gloves and here the decision had not been unanimous. Most of the committee being ex boxers or having been involved in the past with the now illegal, unlicensed female boxing wanted to see the glove weights remain the same as for the male boxers, given that the weight bands would necessarily need to change for the women for obvious reasons. (It was unlikely for a sixteen or seventeen stone woman to take to the boxing ring, so female heavyweights would initially start at ten and a half stone.) But a few of the more vociferous, feminist members wanted to see the lighter gloves bought out for the women. Wiser council prevailed and saw the rule staying as it was, heavy and middleweights to wear eight ounce, the rest six ounce leather boxing gloves. However the minority did gain a concession in that it was agreed that there should be a review after eighteen months on the issue of the weight of boxing gloves used by the women under WPBA rules. The bandaging and tapes too would also remain as for the men. Rule four concerns the medical examination of boxers. Here again there was no dissension. In addition to the customary medical examination by a WFBA doctor, there would be a compulsory pregnancy test and each licensed woman boxer would be issued with a diary in which to record details of her menstrual cycle. The issue of the duration of fights was as complex as it is for the men. It was decided to leave the rules the same as for males and to review in eighteen months. Thus a maximum of twelve, three minute rounds with, one minute intervals was set, with a minimum of four, three minute rounds. The remainder of the male rule, concerning novice competitions and contests less than ten rounds duration were struck out, largely leaving the fight promoters, managers and sponsors to settle on the number of three minute rounds the women would box, up to a maximum of twelve. The fouls bringing disqualification, rule six, was the last bone of contention within the original BBB of C rules. Article a), the first principle reads, 'no hitting below the belt.' Some members flippantly reminded the chair that the women wouldn't have a belt to hit under but, in rule five it states 'the belt is an imaginary line drawn across the body from the tops of the hip bones.' So the rug was effectively pulled from under that idea. There the advice of the practised women boxers on the panel was sought and, after a vote, article a) was struck from the WPBA rules for professional women boxers. They were women after all. The men had kept them at least out, at best underground for so long the more severe rules of competition were bound to raise a few more hackles but who cares now? We arrived at the hall at six thirty, before either of the women boxers did in fact, but the intervening time wasn't wasted, we chatted to the manager and one of the girl's trainers. The manager confirmed that the billboards advertising the boxing women had been up all round the city for weeks and that the advanced ticket sales had swamped the booking office. The demand was many times that of an all male event, and all this with only one women's' bout on the card. His only reservation was that it may all be just a flash in the pan. But he added, tapping his nose, that he'd already laid on a four fight women's' card for the near future and that ticket sales were already well up on that too. I asked how the evening's boxing was to be arranged. He replied, predictably that, the women's bout would be the last on the card, after three men's matches. I groaned, but he cheered me up by saying firstly that he didn't think any of the male matches would, go the distance, and secondly that he was sure the two women boxers wouldn't mind if I talked to them in their dressing room for a while instead of watching all the men's fights. "I'll give you a shout when they're decent," he called, leaving us in the corridor outside his shabby office. We waited around in the corridor, like two naughty schoolboys outside the headmaster's study waiting for the cane. For three quarters of an hour we stood there, not daring to wander off in case we missed the summons to the women's' dressing room. At last a face appeared round the passageway. "Right Mike, you're on. No more than a quarter of an hour though, I want them in the hall well before they're due to go on." We fell over ourselves trying to catch him up. The changing room was even shabbier than his office. There was a hastily scrawled hand written sign bearing the legend, 'Women' nailed to the flimsy door of what looked like an old broom cupboard. With two fairly hefty looking women in there already, we more or less stood in the open doorway talking to them till they made room for us inside. They both wore reasonably clean dressing gowns and their hands were neatly bandaged. One of them was carefully tying the other's hair back. The one doing the tying was by far the taller of the two, a very imposing woman. "I'm Anne," she grinned, her voice husky and slightly thickened by a foreign accent. At six foot she towered over the other woman, Susan, as she stood behind her, her strong fingers knotting the white ribbon at the nape of the stocky girl's neck. And was she stocky. When the ribbon was finished I couldn't resist it any longer. "What are these leotards like then Sue?" Her eyes locked onto mine for a second or two, then she began to pick at the knotted belt with her heavily bandaged hands. "Here let me help," I begged. But before I could get my shaking fingers to the towelling robe she'd done it. She flung the gown open with a flourish. I nearly fell off my perch. She was a big woman all right. If I hadn't been expecting the leotard I may have thought her naked at first glance. It was white, but with a blush of pink to make it almost the same colour as Sue herself. It hid nothing. Her big thighs were bare anyway, all the way up. As were her upper chest and shoulders. Many a rugby player would have been proud of those shoulders she had a bull neck and a strong jaw. Sue wouldn't win any beauty contests, but she had my vote. My gaze dropped to her big body again. Those tits. The rugby allusion came to mind again. Her huge, firm breasts stuck out like two halves of a rugby ball stuck high on her barrel chest, the tight, deep canyon of cleavage in a dark line to where her tits began to separate from one another as her teats approached. The material was so thin that the little bumps on the aureoles surrounding her big, hard teats could he seen clearly. She had a bit of a spare type but, in a woman of her proportions, I wasn't at all surprised. The material of her leotard finished at her waist a thin vee plunging down between her massive thighs. It was obvious she'd had to shave her pubic hair for only her actual cunt lips were thinly covered by the gossamer fabric. "What about the back," I swallowed, eventually. She grinned broadly and, handing out her gown for me to hold, turned slowly. There was really no back to it at all. Her huge, bare bum and soft, bare back and a thin, tight tee of white from hip to hip and disappearing between the deep cleft between the globes of her behind. "Seen enough?" she asked cheekily. I wished I could hang on to the gown, but she grabbed it from me and threw it round her wide shoulders. I looked pleadingly at Anne. She shook her dark head slowly. "You'll have to wait till I'm in the ring," she growled, her strong fingers going, involuntarily, to the knot at her waist. The tension was broken by the manager snatching open the flimsy door. "You both brought your high heels haven't you?" The women nodded. "Just before we go, he pulled himself to his full, yet compared to the women boxers, diminutive height and continued, "this is the big one girls. I know you always put on a good show, but this needs to be one hundred per cent." He swallowed hard.. "I'll make it well worth your while if you give it all you've got tonight." Both women looked down their noses at him. One of them, the stockier woman's, had obviously been broken several times. They slipped their bare, feet into the heels and followed him out into the corridor, leaving us with their discarded clothing and a lingering scent of Estee Lauder. I nodded to Jim and we legged it after them, shutting the rickety door with care while the fragile hinges held. The hall was pretty gloomy and strangely quiet. The manager obviously knew what he was about because the clicking of the women's' high heels on the bare, concrete floor ricocheted all round the place. It was rather like a fanfare for them. The last of the men's' bouts had finished some fifteen minutes before, giving the audience time to visit the toilets and otherwise get themselves sitting comfortably to watch the women box. We found our ringside seats and moved on the two youths who had presumed them unbooked. The intense glare of the overhead ring lights served to accentuate the murkiness of the hall in general. When the two women and their male seconds climbed between the rough ropes at opposite corners of the ring I knew we would have at least an uninterrupted and extremely well lit view of the fight, however well it turned out. Next the manager squeezed through the ropes and nodded to the two women. They simultaneously kicked off their high heels and padded over to the centre of the ring near him. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, "this contest is over twelve, three minute rounds with one, minute's rest and is between, on my left," he held his hand up to the shorter woman, "Sue and on my right", the tall dark, "Anne." The women returned to their corners and began to attack the tight knots at their waists. Susan managed to undo hers first, their was a gasp from the crowd at the sight of her without the dressing gown. She was big woman, and her leotard hid nothing. But when Anne slipped her gown off her square shoulders the sharp intake of breath was audible. Her leotard was pristine white, contrasting starkly with her evenly bronzed body, like Sue's, most of which could be seen. Her dark hair was close cropped, boyish like her pert bum. Her thighs, calves and biceps were those of an avid bodybuilder. Her grapefruit sized breasts rode high, her cleavage very wide, unlike Sue's. Her face looked quite attractive, but there was an unmistakable hardness in her eyes. I thought that I shouldn't like to be facing her with the gloves on myself. But Sue obviously had few inhibitions, holding out her neatly bandaged left hand to receive the six ounces of black leather. I glanced over to Anne, she too was being gloved up, I don't know what happened to the eight ounce glove rule. These gloves were definitely no bigger than sixes and neither of these women would see eleven stone again. "0h well, shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth." The whole ring shuddered as the two boxers began to warm up in their respective corners. I noticed several blood spots on the white canvas of the ring floor, presumably from the previous men's' bouts, I looked at the serious expressions on the two women and wondered what we were in for. The bell dinged and they danced towards one another, gloves high, elbows in over their gossamer covered midriffs. Anne spat out a right, catching Sue on the forehead, sending her head back, she followed up with a left hook to her now exposed cheek... Sue dropped to one knee. I looked at Jim. "Not a bloody one rounder," I groaned. Although she was up in no time the ref, very properly gave her a standing count of eight and having seen the punches land, I'm sure she needed it. He motioned Anne back to the fray. Sue hit the big woman hard in the guts, she never flinched, her eyes fixed on her opponent's. "Looks like you could break a hand doing that," muttered Jim. In reply Anne tried one to Sue's belly. The right uppercut sank into her bulging waistline just below where her leotard dipped into her deep bellybutton. It was a vicious punch but, like Anne, she appeared to ignore it. Perhaps there was more to Sue than met the eye, figuratively speaking. There certainly was plenty of her, and most of it blatantly on show here tonight. Her forehead and cheek already glowed where Anne had whacked her at the start of the round and it looked as if her big teats were trying to thrust their way through her flimsy boxing suit. Crisp left leads followed the tentative shots to their bellies. They'd both opened up a bit and each went to their corner with pinked faces at the bell. Their seconds worked quickly and with a detachment I should have found difficult to maintain. Round two began briskly and, thankfully, more evenly. By the bell both had taken sane cracking punches and both were beginning to warm up. The leotards, as promised, were already even more revealing than at the outset. The liberal, and probably deliberate, use of plenty of water on their faces and the backs of their necks saw them standing for the third with water running down their bare backs and cleavage. The left leads began again, one particularly vicious dig elicited a dribble of bright blood from Sue's swollen nose. She sniffed and rubbed her right forearm roughly across her face. Glancing at the smear of her blood she whacked Anne hard in the mouth with her left hook, one of her wickedest shots. Anne appeared to take the punch lightly but after a short while she parted her lips and let a mouthful of blood run down her chin and the front of her damp leotard. It ran into her cleavage to begin with, but soon the stain spread across the straining material covering her firm tits. Honours were even, both were bloodied. On reflection, that seemed to have been a turning point in the fight between Sue and Anne. If there was any pretence at scientific boxing it was surely gone now, the rest of the round, the rest of the fight was a brutal, bloody slug feast. They weren't in too bad a state at the end or the third but by the end of the fourth both leotards were wet with blood down to the waist, stuck to their swollen breasts as both bled freely from the nose and mouth. I noticed that several of the women in the audience had had their hands over their eyes during the latter part of the fourth. I'd been watching boxing for many years and had seldom seen so many hard punches land in one single round. Many of the younger, male members of the motley crowd, had been on their feet for most of the round, baying for blood and their prayers had been answered. Both women stood stoically, ready for the fifth. A quick wipe with the sponge had done little to improve their faces, blood still dripped steadily from each strong chin, further messing up their once clean leotards. The way Sue had squirmed her bare hum on the stool as her second wiped up her face made me wonder if her nose was, in fact broken again. It was certainly bleeding profusely. She collected a straight right in the blood wet leotard as Anne pile drove her thinly padded fist into her bulging left breast. Her gloves dropped to her waist and Anne whipped a left cross into her other tit. She went on down to her knees, her forearms over her ravaged bosom. She looked piteously up at the referee, he continued to count inexorably approaching the final 'ten'. Resignedly she straightened at nine and instantly put her gloves up to her messy face, but Anne elected to stay with her breasts, unfortunately for the keening Sue. Her tits were visibly swollen by the time the bell gave her a minute's respite at the end of the fifth. There was a thin ripple of applause as she lowered her battered body onto her stool. Her nose still ran red, but she put her right boxing glove up to stop her second sponging her face and pulled his hand gently down to her bloated tits. Her aching head went hack against the comer padding, her blood spattered chest heaving mightily, even her tree trunk thighs had trickles of her blood on them. Over in the opposite corner Anne, though no oil painting herself, looked the victor as they rose to face up for the sixth time that evening. It began more evenly again, with them standing toe to toe punching one another in the face and tits, but with Sue's already distended breasts and probably broken nose she began the round at a distinct disadvantage. The front of both leotards were wet with blood, you could have wrung it out of the tiny suits and Sue's thighs shone wetly, she'd lost enough blood to slow her down by the look of things, though it was difficult to tell, she'd taken so much punishment. Several of the crowd were yelling for it to be stopped. But the referee was also the manager of the hall. Sue made it to the end of the sixth but her second had to lead her to the stool, she looked dead on her bare, blood spattered feet. The ref went over to her during the brief break and it didn't need a PhD to imagine what he said to her. Sue never really got out of her corner at the bell. Anne's first cracking right uppercut proved that her belly muscles wouldn't support the weight of a mouse and, as she doubled, the statuesque, bloody faced woman let her have a second uppercut in the face. Down she went again, even my stomach was churning as she writhed about on the grubby canvas only feet away from my face. Somehow she made it up again, it was only guts and determination that kept her on her feet. All she could do was cover her pulped face with her open gloves, letting Anne pound her belly, ribs and bag like breasts. She looked terrible as she turned for her corner at the end of the round. She was led to her stool by her second and the shocked referee. Indicating her gory mouth with her right glove, she spat the end of one of her broken front teeth into the second's palm as the manager sheepishly looked away. He muttered something to her and she nodded stoically, her mouth twisting into a grisly grin, with her gory gloves she gently pounded her blood streaked thighs. Her blood ran steadily from the point of her chin, down into her massive cleavage, covering the whole of her front, from neck to crotch in red gore. Anne too bled from her nose, and mouth, but her second continued to ignore her injuries. Anyone but a complete nutter could see that the brave Sue wouldn't, couldn't make it through the next three minutes. Anne stood slowly, well before the bell, she looked awesome. Her fine head erect, gloves loosely by her hard, shiny thighs. The front of her once white leotard was blood soaked and her face looked rather a mess, but she was the victor of this brutal fight, Sue was like a lamb to the slaughter and all in the hall, including she, knew it. A hush descended as the bell clanged and Sue wearily clung on to the middle rope with her boxing gloves to pull herself up for the eighth. She shuffled whilst, Anne marched. They inevitably met near the broken girl's corner, Anne crowding her back into it with lefts and rights to her tender breasts. Again the cries of "stop it " from some of the crowd, but it was clear that the ref, and the two boxers, wanted a fitting end to this cruel contest of the leather clad fists. Sue stood, propped in her own corner, totally defenceless, indeed her own weapons, the six ounce leather boxing gloves were down at her messy thighs. She made a pitiful sight, blood flying from her ragged lips as the ramrod straights destroyed her face and tits. Anne showed no emotion, just the grimace of her efforts and the flecks of blood spraying from the human punch bag in front of her impassive face. A scything right cross made a change from the welter of straight punches. It sent Sue's head right round on her spattered shoulders and sent gouts of her blood right out into the ringside seats, she hung over the top rope, bleeding onto the floor of the hall for a for seconds before slipping ungraciously to the canvas and welcome unconsciousness. There was no sound from the hall, even as the ref. raised Anne's blood sodden right boxing glove shoulder high, but the look on most of the punter's faces told the manager that, shocked and bemused as they were, they'd be back. These two women had shown them what two women were prepared to do to one another in the name of boxing.