Boxing Referee Quotes

What I want at my funeral is an actual boxing referee to do a count, and at five, just wave it off and say 'He's not getting up.

They sat for a minute in uncomfortable silence, the hateful little blue box plopped between them like a bad referee at a tight match.

(The Revsons apparently did not like a young psychologist named Joyce Brothers, who appeared as an expert on boxing. Thus the questions given her were exceptionally hard—they even asked her the names of referees—in the desire to get her off the show; their strategy had no effect: She became the second person to win $64,000.)

The sneaker is a slightly overhanded right hook to the head, delivered at the instant you force a break-away from a clinch. In boxing, it is illegal for you to use this blow, or any other, after the referee has told you to break. But you can use it before he orders a break-when you make your own break. In fist-fighting you can use it whenever you get the chance. Here's what you do in a clinch when you haven't room to punch with either hand: (1) Keep your head in close to the left side of your opponent's head, with your chin slightly over his shoulder; (2) maneuver with your left hand until you can grab the inside crook of his right elbow, and thus hold his right arm so firmly that he can't punch with it; (3) get his left arm under your right arm, and clamp your right hand under his arm-just above the elbow-just below the biceps (Figure 36). When you hold him in that fashion, he can't hit you; but you are in perfect position to break away sharply and deliver a stunning overhanded "sneaker" hook. Suddenly, yank him tighter to you with your right hand; then, shove him violently away with both hands; and-- almost in the same movementwhip an outside right hook up over his left shoulder-and down-so that your striking knuckles smash into his left jawbone or left temple (Figure 37). If the "sneaker" is delivered properly, your opponent will drop like a poleaxed steer. If he doesn't drop, he'll be so groggy that one or two shovels to the chin will finish him. Practice the "sneaker" until you can do it automatically. It's called a sneak punch because it's delivered on the break, when an opponent is not expecting it, and when he's off balance. Because of its surprise and explosiveness, the sneaker is one of the deadliest of punches.

Anger provides the No. 1 difference between a fist-fight and a boxing bout. Anger is an unwelcome guest in any department of boxing. From the first time a chap draws on gloves as a beginner, he is taught to "keep his temper"-never to "lose his head." When a boxer gives way to anger, he becomes a "natural" fighter who tosses science into the bucket. When that occurs in the amateur or professional ring, the lost-head fighter leaves himself open and becomes an easy target for a sharpshooting opponent. Because an angry fighter usually is a helpless fighter in the ring, many prominent professionals-like Abe Attell and the late Kid McCoy- tried to taunt fiery opponents into losing their heads and "opening up." Anger rarely flares in a boxing match. Different, indeed, is the mental condition governing a fist-fight. In that brand of combat, anger invariably is the fuel propelling one or both contestants. And when an angry, berserk chap is whaling away in a fist-fight, he usually forgets all about rules-if he ever knew any. That brings us to difference No. 2: THE REFEREE ENFORCES THE RULES IN A BOXING MATCH; BUT THERE ARE NO OFFICIALS AT A FIST-FIGHT. Since a fist-fight has no supervision, it can develop into a roughhouse affair in which anything goes. There's no one to prevent low blows, butting, kicking, eye-gouging, biting and strangling. When angry fighters fall into a clinch, there's no one to separate them. Wrestling often ensues. A fellow may be thrown to earth, floor, or pavement. He can be hammered when down, or even be "given the boots"- kicked in the faceunless some humane bystander interferes. And you can't count on bystanders. A third difference is this: A FIST-FIGHT IS NOT PRECEDED BY MATCHMAKING. In boxing, matches are made according to weights and comparative abilities. For example, if you're an amateur or professional lightweight boxer, you'll probably be paired off against a chap of approximately your poundage-one who weighs between 126 and 135 pounds. And you'll generally be matched with a fellow whose ability is rated about on a par with your own, to insure an interesting bout and to prevent injury to either. If you boast only nine professional fights, there's little danger of your being tossed in with a top-flighter or a champion.

He was enormous. I got into my fighting crouch and delivered about half a dozen blows. He went down. The round wasn’t nearly over! The referee had begun the count when the Boston Bearcat raised his hand and interrupted him by saying, “The Bearcat is through.” I couldn’t believe it. The fight with the Bearcat really spurred me on. Now I fought more and more and trained harder than ever, running six or seven miles every morning before sunrise to strengthen my legs and my stamina. I adopted different methods to suit my size and talents. If a man fought down low, then I’d have to get down low too. If he was a puncher, I couldn’t box him; I had to fight him. Above all, I really got to know myself, to know my ability to take a blow and to know the extent of my endurance under different conditions. Missing a target only weakened my strength; it was better to duck, feint and weave. I practised ducking my head from side to side when charging in, making me harder to hit. When I was in the ring, if it was going well, very little went on in my head. I didn’t have time to think because I had to concentrate on what I was doing. If I got hurt and pain seared through my body, I’d hope that the fight would soon end. I was always aware of the lust for blood of a portion of the fight crowd. There was that unconscious wish to see something dramatic happen. Often those who seemed the most timid would be the ones who screamed their lungs out at ringside, hoping their voices would mingle with the others. But the fight crowd was an essential part of the fight game. Without the people, there would have been no color, no stimulation and of course no gate.

The first Ultimate Fighting Championship took place on November 12, 1993, in the lung-sucking mile-high elevation of Denver, Colorado. Eight competitors representing eight different martial arts—from Karate to Sumo to Western Boxing to, of course, Jiu-Jitsu—were set to fight in a single elimination-style tournament, with the winner receiving $50,000. Like in the challenge matches, rules were kept to a minimum: biting, eye gouging, and groin strikes were illegal (groin strikes wouldn't become legal until UFC 2) and punishable by a $1,500 fine... though these offenses would occur, and go unacknowledged by the ring referee. There were no globes, no weight classes, no rounds, no time limits, and—even for those of us who'd been witness to the challenge matches—no real blueprint for what to expect.

The afternoon was given over to sport, or to the appreciation of sport, as Ulf watched two football matches on the television, one after the other. They were scrappy and inconclusive games, marred by several ill-natured arguments with the referee. That always irritated Ulf, who felt that referees should be granted powers of arrest. If the police were waiting on the lines, and offenders could be seized and marched off to the cells, then there would be none of this bad behaviour, thought Ulf. As it was, these overpaid and over-indulged sportsmen could play to the gallery, parading their egos in displays of arrogance and petulance that held up the game unnecessarily. And as for those who deliberately sought to prolong a match for strategic reasons by feigning injury, they would soon abandon that if referees were allowed to count them out on the ground, just as the umpires of boxing matches could do. They would not have to count up to ten, thought Ulf: three would probably be enough to restore these sham casualties to rude health.

Odd little beggar, Smiley was. Reminded Mendel of a fat boy he’d played football with at school. Couldn’t run, couldn’t kick, blind as a bat but played like hell, never satisfied till he’d got himself torn to bits. Used to box, too. Came in wide open swinging his arms about: got himself half killed before the referee stopped it. Clever bloke, too.

It was a superb spectacle while it lasted, and I was able to understand what people meant when they spoke of the Church Militant. A good deal to my regret it did not last long. Spode was full of the will to win, but Stinker had the science. It was not for nothing that he had added a Boxing Blue to his Football Blue when at the old Alma Mater. There was a brief mix-up, and the next thing one observed was Spode on the ground, looking like a corpse which had been in the water several days. His left eye was swelling visibly, and a referee could have counted a hundred over him without eliciting a response.