We put one of our journos in the ring with Tim Tszyu ... and he copped a beating

All sports journalists are just failed athletes.

It’s a cliche, but jeez, it’s not far off. I played lots of sports growing up: football, cricket, a bit of rugby, and did a year or two of boxing, among other things.

Cricket went first (I wasn’t bad, though), rugby was a very casual thing during school, and the gloves made way for the HSC so I could still play my first love, football.

But I always had an affinity for boxing.

I sparred a few times, albeit never seriously. And although an amateur fight was somewhere on the bucket list, it ultimately turned out to be a relative impossibility. You know, it would have to involve me, an adult, getting in the ring with another fully-grown adult. Who’s got the time?

One thing led to another, though, and I ended up covering combat sports for foxsports.com.au.

I spoke to boxers, covered fights, and thought back to my short boxing stint in a less-than-realistic pattern of ‘what could have been’ thinking.

THE IDEA

Tim Tszyu basically came out of the womb with boxing gloves on. His father, Kostya, was a world champion, and the Tszyu Boxing Academy in Rockdale was his home.

I first had the idea of trying to get in the ring with Tim when he came into the office shortly after beginning his Australian pay-per-view journey. He had just announced his fight against Joel Camilleri; the first local on his Main Event hit-list, that a year on, has just one uncrossed name: Jeff Horn.

I called him a few days after he downed Camilleri and suggested it. He laughed and told me to bring a mouthguard.

It only took about another year to actually get the idea over the line; Tim’s manager warning as he finally agreed to let it happen: “You won’t last 20 seconds”.

THE FIGHT

The first few moments of the first round (we settled on 3 x 1 minute rounds) were strange.

I’d been so consumed with making sure everything was set up for the day — time, crew, Tim actually being there — that I sort of forgot about the actual boxing part.

Standing there with headgear on, that for some cruel reason had less protection than Tim’s, it hit me: Oh f***, I’m in the ring with a professional boxer.

I knew three things going in: 1. I’m not a complete novice, although it’s close. 2. Tim could obviously end this whenever he wants. 3. This is going on the internet, so try to avoid looking like an idiot.

Fight or flight is the psychological response that occurs when a person goes into survival mode.

For pride and content’s sake, I bit down on my mouthguard and moved forward behind my jab; a punch Tim later told me I threw better than Horn, who he was supposed to face on April 22 before the fight was postponed due to COVID-19.

Tim had watched me warm up in front of the mirror so our cameraman could get some B-roll.

Like learning how to stop, drop, and roll before running into a burning building, it felt somewhat pointless, but I did it nonetheless. Any element of surprise was gone, while my own self-doubt had only grown.

Either way, he didn’t take long to figure me out in the ring.

A slapping left hook connected after I chased him with my jab early on; a recurring theme of the fight. Not long after, a big overhand right connected. Yep, I felt that.

I remember the first time I copped one to the face. My dad and I were play-fighting — I was probably around 13 or 14 — and I caught one on the nose.

Stunned by what had just happened; my eyes watered and I skulked away. The initial shock passed seconds later, before I figured out that I was, in fact, not made of glass.

But wondering — leading up to the day — how I would react to a Tszyu punch, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that my brain and body were happy to continue after taking some early punishment.

The first thing that struck me being in the ring with Tim, apart from his fists, was just how manicured his distancing and movement was. I’d have his head lined up, target locked, and throw my jab, only to mostly come up with air. He was either out of reach or to the side, loading up on a straight right or left hook.

Then there were our energies. And no, I’m not talking about star signs or chakras. Only one of us was comfortable in there, and it wasn’t me.

He walked around the ring like he owned it, which he actually does. Meanwhile, I was just trying to figure out how to land a punch without eating something twice as big in return. My footwork was a mess; a frazzled crossing of wires, glitching between ‘avoid damage’ and ‘I need to land something' desperation.

In truth, I didn’t pose too many questions, but he had all the answers anyway. I wasn’t a threat. He knew that, probably better than I did.

My punches didn’t really register. Not because there was a complete lack of power — although that could have been a factor — but mainly because he’s paid to get punched in the face. It’s part of the job.

“I’m in trouble, boys,” I said near the end of the first, right before I tracked Tim down again, only to be clocked with another reality check of a left hand.

It had been a minute, and I was gassed. Tim later said he was in cruise control, going about 50km/h in there with me. Sure that’s not 100, but it was plenty fast enough to flatten me.

The day before, a housemate had joked that I should do some crunches to better deal with the body shots I was sure to encounter. I laughed it off; one night’s work wouldn’t make a difference.

Well, in the second and third rounds I was wishing I’d done something, anything to prepare.

I stumbled around the ring like a badly constipated hunchback, doing everything I could to get some air after taking shot after shot to the gut; eventually dropping my hands to the canvas after one to the solar plexus. Sucking in nothing but disappointment, I did what I could to stay upright, slightly embarrassed that a jab was enough to drop me.

I was over-committing on my punches; desperate to close the distance. But nothing really worked.

Tim was out of the danger zone before I arrived, and he’d land a parting shot each time. I was being outclassed; a dog turning to chase his chew toy only to realise it’s still in his owner’s hand.

He had control of the ring, and everything that happened inside it.

The final bell went, and we hugged it out.

I had a bruised cheek to go with a slightly bruised ego — no, I’m not sure what I was expecting to happen — but otherwise came out relatively unscathed, having done enough to earn Tim’s respect, and enough to make me want to do it again.

THE HIGH

We finished up in the ring and moved to the other side of the gym to discuss what had just happened. Maybe it was the endorphin rush, maybe it was a concussion, but I was still buzzing.

Do I have a future in boxing?

“You’ve got a good jab,” Tszyu said. “You can start somewhere, I guess. But nah, you’re not too bad. You throw quick punches, you landed a few jabs on me.”

And how’s my technique compared to Horn?

“I think it’s a bit better,” he said. “[You throw] straight punches, he’s a bit wilder. Completely different styles you guys have got.

“But I think your technique is a bit better.”

I’ll take that to the grave.