Last Friday, sixteen men from Joe Cursio’s Fightfit gym in South Melbourne, almost all of them white-collar workers, became professional boxers for a day so they could square off against another of their number for one legitimate fight at Albert Park’s Powerhouse function centre—an event promoted by Cursio.

This assortment of clerks, stockbrokers, computer analysts, accountants, businessmen and managers train at Cursio’s gym to get the strength, fitness, speed and reflexes their shallow-breathing professions never encourage. Cursio opened the opportunity to all his clients. These are the men who put their hands up.

They filled the Powerhouse centre with tables populated by friends, family and workmates—a ragbag of the curious, vaguely-offended, wholehearted and mystified. The sort of mix you might get at a wedding. The civilised clink of crockery and hushed phalanxes of obliging waiters clashed with the clamour and faux-glamour of the fight.

The boys are serious and have trained hard. A week out, Mark Ridolphi, who runs a transport company, turned to me with cold Italian yearning and said he desired a “brutal fight.” John Tokarua, of Polynesian descent and built like Muhammad Ali, and Dean Harnden (or Bear, as he’s known around the gym), a hoarse-voiced, roughnut rogue who is a sales executive, have some mutual rancour. John runs a “security and risk management” company. Bear is a patron at one of the pubs his firm works at, and they “know each other”, according to Cursio. “If Bear loses he’ll never be able to go to that pub again. But if he wins”—Joe laughs, as if the outcome is obvious.

But these are shallow grudges and psyche. On top of humility and a certain introversion these men mostly share, I noted a need for compensation. Each had a life-long fascination with those men with the “balls” to face others in the ring who can destroy them physically, and face their own selves, who can destroy them in every other way. Each gave off the strong impression that his biography would be incomplete until he performed some similar act of courage.

Cursio, a 40 year-old whose own boxing ambitions were thwarted by illness, is having his first pro fight on the bill. He conceived this idea after witnessing “corporate” boxing in England and America.

Such events are slowly taking over the real thing as spectators and their motivations change. People no longer flinch at the idea of non-boxers—even respected high-achievers in other fields— beating up on one-another (did you see the great gymnast Olga Korbut get hurt on Celebrity Boxing? Why would you want to?). Maybe there’s more schadenfreude around than we think.

The increasing willingness people have to don the gloves against their own workmates is a new catalyst to the psychodynamics of workplaces. Imagine how different a work dispute would be if it was “sorted out” in the ring. Ten million fantasies about ending the myth of the boss’s power with a thump—fulfilled! A better world? Maybe no worse.

This event is mainly about young men doing their thing. They willed it and they got it. They lost weight, grew “balls” and they’re proud. But they are novices. I have no idea, for example, who trains badly but fires up on the night. Or who’s the better technician in a real fight. Or who’ll back out.

The fact is, under real fight conditions, the field of forces that impel you into the gymnasium ring shift, and in doing so, they can rip apart technique, fragment self-esteem, destroy fitness. These practiced virtues—and many others—can flee along vectors of fear, confusion and fatigue. These matches could quickly become wild, and then they’ll be just fit enough to hurt themselves, or each other.

You fight to win, but also to avoid shame. Pride is murderous. It’s suicidal. They will experience pride in their opponents and in themselves.

Each is right at this moment beginning to realise just how much this experience, win or lose, show or no-show, will re-draw the boundaries of the little space that is their life, forever.

The realisation shows. Their own easy smiles and warm gazes will take on the sort of intensity that they’d have secretly feared witnessing in a gym-mate-turned-opponent. Mark, resembling Pacino, will set his jaw and chill his gaze at the bell and convert into De Niro’s Raging Bull. In his fight, Brent Szalay’s howdy-doodie will become the hewn visage of the Man of Steel, Tony Zale. Others will show touches of alarm as the realisation that this is a universe away from a gym spar dawns.

This crowd produces not one sparkle of recognition as world-rated middleweight Sam Soliman is introduced. They’re a quiet, civilised lump whose aggressions come out progressively in emboldened comments, a lump leavened right now by the presence of boxing showmen like Cursio, announcer Howard Leigh and judge Gus Mercurio.

The first fight of the night features the only tradesman on the bill, Robbie “The Entertainer” Williams. His fight with plucky Ben Manning, who works for a commercial painting company, is stopped when Manning’s technique began to break down under constant pressure. In these circumstances, a good stoppage.

Brent, an accountant, wins his hyperactive bout impressively on a third-round stoppage.

Nick Paton had once been an elite downhill skier. At 173cm, he entered Joe’s gym weighing 100kg. His mum is in the crowd, hating this. He was private school educated, with a good job as an accounts manager. Why would he need to do this?

As it turns out, Nick is one of the better performers, and as his opponent, Jerry Javni, a livewire Filipino-Aussie computer technician, is left, on hands and knees, quietly defragging his mind after a thud to the face, Howard is already in the ring calling for Nick’s mother. No chance.

But behind the faulty techniques and cardinal sins, the rushed slapping, the crossed feet, the turning away from an onrushing opponent, is bravery.

Cheyne Gates, a mild-mannered stock broker, an invisible type, shows himself to be the bravest of all. One week earlier, he had a certain air that made me as uneasy as if I’d watched his aura disappear before my eyes.

Sparring the smaller Cursio, he’d held his own until an exchange ended with an overhand right to his face. Cheyne’s mind fled, his eyes rolled. He folded in half without falling. A replacement unceremoniously came into the ring with Cheyne still in the corner. Eventually he staggered morosely to his feet, and slumped, dazed and dejected, over to his kit bag.

Cursio reckoned Cheyne’s jab might keep the determined Mark off. But Cheyne barely throws it, and Mark is able to implement that brutal plan. A semi-solid hook, and Cheyne drops his hands and stumbles, only a smile indicating he’s well enough to try a deception on the ref. It doesn’t work. Standing eight-count. Stop it now! A second hook and the ref, to his credit, steps in. Cheyne grimaces quietly, shaking his head, but is gracious. He’ll get back to go to the stock exchange on Monday able to tell the story.

The “grudge” match. After 1:59 of the first round, both Bear and John have figured out a way to nail the other and each is eager to execute. Then, on the bell, Bear throws out his right shoulder. He bravely comes out for the second. It pops out again, and the fight is stopped.

Cursio wins a hard match against a one-fight pro, Simon Leone, on points. He will retire undefeated and a little more complete. Moreover, his foray into corporate boxing has been a success.

“Some of these guys have sold more tables than a lot of fighters going around. There were about 200 here to see me get my head punched in. And I must say, nearly everyone’s mates have bought tables to see them get their heads punched in, not actually watch them win.”

Maybe there’s more schadenfreude in the room than we think. I guess it’s as good a reason as any to watch fights.

The dressing rooms are chaotic, happy and full of relief, without the customary workaday routinism.

“There were more knockouts than I expected”, says Paul Fyfield, trainer at Joe’s gym, with mild surprise. “We taught them to punch hard but maybe their defence could have been better.”

They are all more powerful individuals than they once were. Defence, survival, and the balance between these and attack are longer-learned. In boxing, just enough ability can be just enough rope. Thanks to the referees, well-briefed by Cursio and his team, we can breathe a sigh of relief.

Bear’s lived hard. “Do this again? Not at forty, mate.” Sam Soliman’s in the ring telling the crowd how he’s still “chasing the dream” against the world’s best. Brent is addicted, and indulging his own dream. “I wouldn’t discard the idea of another fight, that’s for sure.” I hope he has more than enough rope.

Published in The Age, January 2009