BY GETTING there early and before anyone else he was setting the tone, that’s all. He need not be reminded he was methodical by nature, nor be told the importance of being first and gaining a head start.
Ask John Watson, in fact, and he would say that the appeal of entering Prizefighter was not the format itself, which in many ways challenged his every tendency, but instead the reward: £32,000.
For that Watson, a 28-year-old Liverpudlian, was prepared to amend his style, increase his work rate, and arrive at a changing room inside Wolverhampton’s Civic Hall earlier than he would have preferred.
“This three-round format goes back to the amateur days, doesn’t it, John?” said Watson’s trainer Oliver Harrison, who, along with Johnney Roye, had arrived with Watson before six o’clock. “Nice to be able to go straight into the quarter-finals, though. Normally you have to fight loads to get there.”
“I haven’t lost a quarter-final yet,” replied Watson. “Never lost one ever.”
The fighter’s reward for being the first in the room was to receive his fight shorts before the rest. These shorts were red and white, the colours of Liverpool Football Club, with “Watto” printed along the waistband, and were plucked from a Sports Direct bag by the inimitable Sandy Risley, Matchroom’s whip. Kitted out that night in a silk waistcoat, and wearing shiny winklepicker shoes, Risley ran a tight ship and let everybody know. He had recently fallen victim to cancer and, although the disease never got him down, incompetence did, he said, and so he was grateful for Watson being on time.
“How are you feeling today, John Watson?” asked Harrison, now wrapping his fighter’s hands.
“Good,” said Watson. “Ready.”
Convinced, Harrison began to apply tape to Watson’s hand and the fighter closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Don’t do anything different from what you’ve done in other fights, okay?” said Harrison. “What are you?”
“What am I?” said Watson, confused by the question.
“Yes. What are you in fights?”
“I’m a slow starter.”
“Exactly!” said
