Twenty-five years ago, I squinted from a seat in Row Z as Audley Harrison began his professional career against a nightclub bouncer from Miami. Alongside me that night was my dad and two of my brothers and between us we passed a pair of binoculars to close the distance between our seats and the ring. Wherever we looked, we saw the same thing: 5,000 strangers each as convinced as I that Harrison, our Olympic gold medallist, was destined to become the heavyweight champion of the world.
This shared belief explained why we had all convened at Wembley Arena on May 19, 2001 to witness a debut, a mismatch, a pointless exercise which would last only two minutes and 45 seconds. It didn’t matter that the result was inevitable and the entertainment value would therefore be minimal. All that mattered was that 25 years later, once Harrison had reigned over the heavyweight division, all those in attendance that night would be able to say: “Yes, I was there. I was there when it all began.”
At the time I was certain of it. I had, like most of Great Britain, witnessed Harrison’s rise to the top of an Olympic podium in 2000 and showed zero hesitation when the opportunity came to invest in his pro career. In fact, to prove my commitment, I had even used “A-Force” Audley Harrison as the subject for an IT project at secondary school six months prior to watching him turn professional. It was a PowerPoint presentation, if I remember correctly, and during it I clicked through a number of slides up on a projector screen in class. It was one part biography, one part manifesto. By the final slide I hoped to have persuaded my classmates to be as enthusiastic about Harrison’s looming professional career as I was, though I cannot possibly say if I was successful or not. All I can say with some degree of confidence is that I did him justice. I mentioned the Olympic medal, of course, and I also revealed why 29 was a good age for a heavyweight to turn professional. Then you had the height of 6 '6 combined with a southpaw stance, so really, I said to them, how could it go wrong?
Thankfully, Harrison was someone plenty in our class knew, making my dedication to him not as strange as it sounds today. Back then, circa 2000, becoming an Olympic gold medallist still carried some cachet, and Harrison’s rise on the BBC was a journey many in Great Britain had keenly followed. Each of his Olympic bouts would have been broadcast that year and Harrison, in his interviews, displayed the kind of personality that grabs the attention, even of mothers and grandmothers. Aside from the fact that he spoke well, he had a presence about him and a sports science degree. His braids were also eye-catchingly colourful and his smile showed every one of his teeth. It was hard not to like and get behind him. It came as no surprise when the entire country did.
It didn’t even surprise us when we learned that the BBC had decided to pay Harrison £1 million to turn professional and handpick his first 10 opponents. In 2001, coming off the back of his Olympics success, this appeared a shrewd investment; a statement of intent. Harrison, after all, was supposed to be the next Lennox Lewis. It wouldn’t be long before he graced the cover of The Ring magazine alongside “Baby” Joe Mesi and Dominick Guinn. He was, they said, the future of the heavyweight division.
Of course, had those of us inside Wembley Arena been capable of seeing into the future, we would have known that these early proclamations were painfully wide of the mark. However, much like the BBC, we were all somewhat ignorant and we wanted to believe. We did believe. It wasn’t even a fight, that first one against Mike Middleton, but none of us present really cared. This was the first fight I had watched live in person and on that basis alone it felt, to me, significant and memorable. For the two minutes and 45 seconds it lasted I followed Harrison’s cruel pursuit of Middleton with the same intensity I would feel when later watching world-title fights from ringside. I admired every stiff jab and damaging left cross and nodded smugly when Middleton was at last dispatched, as if to say, “See? I told you. Good, isn’t he?”
Providing commentary for the BBC that night was Marvin Hagler, another southpaw and maybe the greatest middleweight of all time. It was to Hagler my brothers and I had made a beeline during the Wembley undercard and it was his signature we soon boasted on each of our fight programmes. We were, I think, too young at the time to appreciate the extent of Hagler’s greatness but we knew that he meant something. Often we had used his character on the computer game “Knockout Kings”, so he must have been good.
Later on, we would go one better. With the event now over and the arena close to empty, the three of us begged our dad to let us hang around the Wembley Arena car park on the off chance that we might spot Harrison, our hero, make his exit. We could see in his eyes and hear in his stutter the answer Dad wanted to give, but the words “fine” and “okay” fell out of his mouth and the decision was final. For the next hour we all waited. He had to leave at some stage, we told ourselves, and we were right, he did. We saw him. Before he could get away, programmes were signed and a photo was taken, with Harrison’s arms so long he enveloped the three of us in his wingspan.
My dad, taking the photo, said to him, “You’ll be bigger than Bruno”, and clearly didn’t mean in size. Harrison, in fact, was already bigger than Frank Bruno in terms of both height and weight. No, rather than physique, my dad was likely referring to things like achievement and popularity. It was a message of support, that’s all. A reminder that we had his back and that we believed in him. A positive forecast.
Perhaps my only disappointment when hearing my dad’s comment was that he hadn’t aimed a little higher. “Why not bigger than Lennox?” I thought to myself as the four of us returned to the car. “Why stop at Bruno?”
***
Nine years later, Harrison was still trying to convince. Forget other people, his goal in 2010 was to simply convince himself that he could still do it and that his dream of winning a world heavyweight title as a professional remained a possibility. In service of the quest, he had even adopted a mantra: “Yes I can!”
That was something Harrison repeated throughout 2010, having had his dwindling hope renewed by a stunning come-from-behind, final-round knockout of Michael Sprott to win the European heavyweight title that April. So shocking was the left hand to finish, it was hard not to interpret the KO as a sign that someone up there liked Harrison and was eager to now reward him for persevering through the hard times.
Because he had certainly endured, Harrison. Even in the 10 fights he matched himself as part of his BBC contract there had been early indications that his rise to heavyweight gold might not be as clear-cut as some of us had first anticipated. Fights against Mark Krence and Dominic Negus, for example, were more taxing than they perhaps should have been. Then, in 2004, a WBF heavyweight title win against Richel Hersisia was celebrated in a manner that suggested lifting a minor world heavyweight title might be enough – to sell, to parade, to kid himself. Again, for as well as he boxed that night, it was a sign.
The following year, in 2005, Harrison suffered his first professional loss: a split decision against Danny Williams. This was compounded six months later by his second pro loss, a unanimous decision against Dominick Guinn, next to whom Harrison once appeared on the cover of The Ring. Now, with neither Guinn nor Harrison deemed the heavyweight heir apparent, they had met in a must-win crossroads fight and it was Guinn, not Harrison, who had come away with the win.
Fair or not, most gave up on Harrison there and then. Even when he impressively avenged his loss to Williams with a third-round knockout in 2006, the common reaction was one of indifference. “So what?” his critics said. “If he was going to become heavyweight champion, he would have done that the first time around.”
In his next fight, against Michael Sprott, it was Harrison who was on the receiving end of a bad knockout in round three. One left hook and “A-Force” was out for the count, leading many to question whether we had seen the last of Harrison as a pro. For all the talk of world titles, he had now fallen short of winning English and Commonwealth and European Union belts. Some said he should cut his losses and run.
Yet Harrison, to his credit, never stopped believing. In 2009, he returned to his amateur roots – three three-minute rounds – to win a “Prizefighter” tournament, which did wonders for his confidence, and then, in 2010, he exacted revenge on Sprott in the most dramatic way possible. Better yet, Harrison walked away from the mess he had made of Sprott with the European heavyweight title and a top-15 world ranking.
With this ranking he could now conceivably position himself as a voluntary challenger to David Haye, the WBA heavyweight champion at the time. The two were friends, had been for years, but that didn’t mean it was beyond the realms of possibility to (a) alter that fact and (b) use Harrison’s shock rise to contention to make a lot of money together. All it required was a date on Sky Sports Box Office – November 13, 2010 – a decent enough script, and a catchy tagline: “Best of Enemies.”
Throw each of those ingredients into the mix and Haye and Harrison could flog their manufactured rivalry to the masses. If anyone were to doubt Harrison, or if he ever doubted himself, he would just flash his world ranking and then repeat his mantra: “Yes I can!” Haye, meanwhile, was so in control of this situation that he saw nothing wrong with going on Sky News and telling the world his fight with Harrison would be “as one-sided as a gang rape”.
Well, that did it. Now not only were boxing fans eager to see how violently Haye would finish a man he once considered a friend, but the rest of the population were also engaged in the fight on account of Haye’s acid tongue. Together, as a team, they had pulled it off. By day they would do interviews or attend press conferences to express their disdain for one another, and by night the two heavyweights would drive around, have dinner and discuss the rules.
In 2001, back when he turned pro, I believed Harrison’s every boast and hung on his every word. Yet it was different in 2010. By then we had solid proof that Harrison wasn’t the next great British heavyweight, so it was now hard to stay ignorant or suspend disbelief. Also, by 2010 I had switched allegiances and was now working as press officer for David Haye, the man Harrison would fight next. This suggested in the clearest way possible that I had reinvested my hopes and energy in someone else – not an Olympic champion but a former cruiserweight better suited to the pros. Haye had in fact turned pro the year after Harrison and I had followed him ever since. His career I had been fortunate enough to watch unfold from seats nearer to the ring than those in row Z. In short, backing Haye rather than Harrison had brought me much closer. Closer to the ring. Closer to the big fights. Closer to the truth.
Above all else, the proximity brought me closer to Harrison. We even spoke for the first time in the lead up to that Haye fight, not that it was easy pinning him down. He was, you see, now in the opposite corner and we, or just I, was treated as the enemy for as long as phoney warfare had a value. To get him for a pre-fight one-on-one, I was advised to contact someone called Eddie Hearn, who was responsible for dragging Harrison away from the casinos of Las Vegas and helping to reinvigorate him. Hearn, they said, was the son of Barry, the head of Matchroom, and would be able to assist me in getting hold of Harrison, his client, for an interview. Ideally it would be in person, with no other reporters around. At worst, it would be a phone call.
I did, thanks to Hearn, eventually get the interview, only to learn just before it that Harrison was boarding a plane, meaning I had to be content with around eight minutes of conversation. “They’re telling me to put my phone away now,” he said once our eight minutes were up. “We’re about to take off.”
It was, because of the constraints, a dead interview and, in truth, a waste of time. For as long as we spoke, he never veered from cliché or the script and I didn’t get the chance to either impress or intimidate him by revealing both my extensive knowledge of his career and where I was on the night of May 19, 2001. Instead, we kept it professional. He was my enemy, and I was his, and with the distinction made clear I later watched from ringside as Audley Harrison earned a reported £1 million – the total price of his first 10 fights – for landing just one jab on David Haye before being stopped in round three of his big world heavyweight title fight.
Sitting in row A that night, I no longer required binoculars to see what was going on. We could all see it. Some claimed they could see it long before it had even happened. “See?” they said. “I told you.”
