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Excerpt from ‘Fight Night in the Mother City’, a blog in Soberholic by Keith Bain.
The Armoury Boxing Club in Woodstock opened just a few months back and has rapidly caught the attention and imagination of all kinds of Capetonians — scenesters and socialites rubbing shoulders with boxing aficionados, and pre-teen kids cheering wildly alongside women averting their delicate gaze from the pounding blows and uppercuts being delivered in the ring.
No Fight Club-style underground bunker room—this is a venue where vintage upholstery meets exposed brick, where sophistication and sweat are allies. Armoury is a fitness gym, first and foremost, but with boxing as its training fulcrum, it also offers opportunities for boxers to engage in real physical bouts in front of a paying crowd. And what a crowd it was on that final Friday in July.
The event was standing room only, but a surprising mix of Capetonians turned up, having travelled from all sides of the invisible divides that seem to ensure that Cape Town remains a city of tribes. Hell, there was even a Jo’burg-based world title-holder in attendance, and the organizers had two bars and a DJ to give the event that typically Cape Town party vibe.
Gorgeous “ring girls” in gold lame dresses held aloft Moet-branded cards at the start of each round; chisel-jawed referees in white collared shirts and latex gloves took charge of the action, and the trainers manning the corners were the real deal, wiping away blood and sweat, fanning their fighters with towels while feeding them advice. A tuxedoed MC kept the evening running at a smooth pace, and the DJ made sure that each fighter had his own theme tune.
Whatever its driving impulse, it’s heartstopping, compulsive entertainment. I don’t think you can watch a boxing match without experiencing some level of transcendence. The air all around you is alive, so taut, in fact, that you feel each and every blow. It’s about giving and receiving fistfuls of power, and the repeated thrusting, ducking, reaching and all-round butterfly-like dancing is exhausting. And at the end of these fights—three rounds of two very long minutes—no winners or losers are declared.
They say the fighters know who’s come out tops; it’s White Collar Boxing, and it’s a gentleman’s game. They know full well that they’ve stretched themselves in ways few urban executives ever get a chance to these days.
The Armoury Boxing Club in Woodstock opened just a few months back and has rapidly caught the attention and imagination of all kinds of Capetonians — scenesters and socialites rubbing shoulders with boxing aficionados, and pre-teen kids cheering wildly alongside women averting their delicate gaze from the pounding blows and uppercuts being delivered in the ring.No Fight Club-style underground bunker room—this is a venue where vintage upholstery meets exposed brick, where sophistication and sweat are allies. Armoury is a fitness gym, first and foremost, but with boxing as its training fulcrum, it also offers opportunities for boxers to engage in real physical bouts in front of a paying crowd. And what a crowd it was on that final Friday in July.
The event was standing room only, but a surprising mix of Capetonians turned up, having travelled from all sides of the invisible divides that seem to ensure that Cape Town remains a city of tribes. Hell, there was even a Jo’burg-based world title-holder in attendance, and the organizers had two bars and a DJ to give the event that typically Cape Town party vibe.
Gorgeous “ring girls” in gold lame dresses held aloft Moet-branded cards at the start of each round; chisel-jawed referees in white collared shirts and latex gloves took charge of the action, and the trainers manning the corners were the real deal, wiping away blood and sweat, fanning their fighters with towels while feeding them advice. A tuxedoed MC kept the evening running at a smooth pace, and the DJ made sure that each fighter had his own theme tune.
Whatever its driving impulse, it’s heartstopping, compulsive entertainment. I don’t think you can watch a boxing match without experiencing some level of transcendence. The air all around you is alive, so taut, in fact, that you feel each and every blow. It’s about giving and receiving fistfuls of power, and the repeated thrusting, ducking, reaching and all-round butterfly-like dancing is exhausting. And at the end of these fights—three rounds of two very long minutes—no winners or losers are declared.They say the fighters know who’s come out tops; it’s White Collar Boxing, and it’s a gentleman’s game. They know full well that they’ve stretched themselves in ways few urban executives ever get a chance to these days.