December 17th, 2019

#2 SANDPIPER WAY
BLOUBERGSTRAND
CAPE TOWN, WESTERN CAPE, SOUTH AFRICA
DECEMBER 17th, 2019

You ever heard of Ruann Visser?
How about Tian Fick?
Well, me either. Until today.
Anyway, the former is the heavyweight boxing champion of South Africa, and the latter is his challenger. And tonight, here in Cape Town, they’re fighting for the title. Or were supposed to. Alas, that didn’t happen.But why, you ask, am I telling you this? Why is this relevant? Who cares?
Fair question; here’s why. The challenger just happens to be Reini’s son, and Reini is my hostess at my AirBnb here in Cape Town! How cool is that?
So we’re sitting, Reini and I, in her lovely and peaceful garden, enjoying the ocean breezes. It’s 68 degrees, cloudless blue sky, and we are chatting away like magpies, getting to know each other. It’s maybe 6 in the evening. Shadows are lengthening. Reini is of German ancestry, via Namibia, speaks three languages ( the others being German and Afrikaans), has a curious, searching intellect and is an intrepid conversationalist. She’s a widow, her husband having died suddenly and
unexpectedly a few years ago. She’s tall and willowy and her hair is a casual tangle. It’s hard to age her, but she attracts attention, without seeking it. A free spirit….
“Want to go?” she asks me - she’s talking about the fight.
“Yes, absolutely.”
So we do, though not together. Her evening is pre-arranged.
And now I get to the crazy part.
This fight, billed as Collision Course, is being held in a high school gym, an old facility, tired and ugly. Tickets are R100 ( about US $7). We sit ringside, where the seats are R300.
There are maybe 300 people, eager fans, sitting in green plastic chairs or standing, ranged around the boxing ring. As the preliminary bouts get underway, you have the feeling that lots of on-lookers personally know the combatants, because
they’re ceaselessly screaming at their man, coaxing him on.
Anyway, this is not Vegas. This is not Mayweather/ Pacquio.
Well, it’s finally time for the Main Event, and the announcer - in what looks like a rented tux - runs out of superlatives in his buildup. Of course the fighters make their entrance to cheers and fanfare and there’s even a little smoke machine over by the
entrance to the locker room that belches a few desultory puffs now and again.
Anyway, I’m liking this. It’s real. I like it precisely because it’s not Vegas. And we all gotta start somewhere, right?
Now the announcer is introducing all the satellite players who put the event together, so besides the fighters, their entourages, the promoters, the judges, the ringside physician, the timers, the mayor, the manager of the gym and the janitor ( okay, maybe not the janitor, but you get my drift), all of ‘em are now up on stage, preening, prancing and parading around.
Hell, it’s their moment in the sun, their time to shine.
Okay, fans, it’s SHOWTIME!
Then, suddenly, the ring collapses, or more properly the top ring rope breaks - it goes utterly slack - and now the champion - The Champion! - falls out of the ring and is laying on the floor, not moving much, and this whole shit show devolves into
chaos.
Now WTF? Is this a real athletic event or pro wrestling?
This whole scene reminds me of that midget wrestling extravaganza I told you about. Remember that one? It was up in Maine, back in the summer of 2015. About twenty midgets, all drunk and sweaty and swearing, rolling around in filthy sawdust in a barn. Your basic freak show. Simply awful. Fodder for enduring nightmares. As I said at the time, “When it comes to refined amusement, midgets set the bar pretty low.”
Back here in South Africa the crowd, needless to say, is caught flat footed and gasps. Clearly, this is about the last thing they expected. On the other hand, they came for entertainment and they’re certainly getting that. Who doesn’t love it when a plan falls apart? And who doesn’t love a stick in the eye of boxing promoters? Hell, they’re all corrupt and nobody likes the bastards, anyway.
In any case, the action gets paused for maybe 45 minutes while the ring techs disassemble and then reassemble the ring ropes and then everyone troops back out except now, NOW, the champion claims his back hurts and he can’t fight and he
withdraws. Ring physician’s orders, etcetera. Blah, blah.
And on that down note, the evening’s over.
Well, I boo loudly but soon notice I’m the only one booing so I quit and along with all the others, shuffle out.
However, in the lobby entrance I sit down at the ticket desk and start calling out to the exiting fans, “Refunds, get your refunds here!” Folks laugh and smile. Hell, what can you do, anyway? That’s life.
Outside, I can’t seem to get Uber on my phone and a guy approaches me and offers to help and guess what?
Turns out, he’s one of the ring med techs!
We converse. Tells me the champ wasn’t hurt. Didn’t want to fight. His heart just wasn’t in it. No Eye of the Tiger, I guess.
Meanwhile, he’s looking at me with a distinctly professional concern. Which is understandable, because I’ve once again managed to pick up some head cold thing on the endless flights over here. I have a sore throat and my voice alternates between a husky croak and a squeak - basic laryngitis. Anyway, I sound like a creep and as disheveled and generally confused as I am, folks probably figure I’m the pathetic result of some gender re-assignment experiment gone badly awry.
There was I time I’d care. Now, not really.
Okay, that’s it for now. Be well, do good work and stay in touch, as shall I.

Lou

Table Mountain viewed from Big Bay, Cape Town

The shit show after the ropes collapsed in the boxing ring.