Where Boxing Still Lives - A Visit to La Belle Province

Jason Karp reflects upon his experiences watching Jean Pascal claim the light-heavyweight crown from Chad Dawson last Saturday night at the Bell Centre in Montreal.

It was a little past seven when I made my way into the Bell Centre. The first of the opening bout's contestants was only beginning his march towards the ring as I took my seat in the first row of the arena's lower bowl, so I knew I had not missed any action. But that was of little importance. Indeed, the scheduled under card promised to be a dull affair, even by boxing's standards, with a roster comprised of the walking dead lined up for a selection of Quebecois prospects to feast on. Even had the fight card harboured potential for early-evening entertainment, it would have made no difference. That's not what I was here for.

In John Keats's Romantic classic "An Ode to a Grecian Urn," the narrator meditates on a vase upon which is engraved the image of two lovers in playful pursuit. The lovers, arms extended toward each other, inches from contact, are frozen in place for eternity, forever on the brink of realizing the other's touch, but forever falling just short. For Keats, the urn represented a powerful truth: if indulgence is the death of desire, then it's in the moment of anticipation that the fire burns brightest.

As I settled into my seat and took in my surroundings, I wondered what Keats might have made of the Bell Centre as it appeared to my eyes at that moment. What I saw did not appear to me the setting of a championship prize fight in a boxing-mad city. The arena was awash in a sea of empty seats, dotted only here and there with signs of humanity. Press row was largely empty, and even the ring, which in a few hours would provide the canvas on which a new chapter of light heavyweight history would be written, appeared strangely mundane, bathed as it was under a bland bubble of white light, rather than the high-powered, multicolored television lights that would paint the image beamed to an audience of millions in a few-hours time.

But it was this picture of sterile emptiness that I had come for. There is something surreal about an empty venue on the night of a big fight. Somehow, in that vacuum of ambiance, it's possible to envision the spectacle that awaits, and this vision provides a sense of anticipation that is rivalled only by Michael Buffer's call-to-arms and the referee's final instructions to the combatants.

Keats had his urn. I have my empty Bell Centre.

For the next couple of hours, I watched the arena methodically shed its humble visage in favor of a setting more suitable to the magnitude of that night's confrontation. Slowly, the Bell Centre became infused with the energy and passion that had earned Montreal its reputation as a boxing hotbed. Finding little of note occurring in the ring, I found myself more and more engaged by this metamorphosis.

Watching this shift take place, I began thinking about the phenomenon that is Montreal as a boxing city and my own relationship to it.

***

As a young boxing fan growing up in fight-barren Ontario in the mid-to-late 90s, my only lifeline to a community of fans was through the internet. And even this connection didn't help stem the feeling that my love of the sport was a freak accident, not a natural result of the sport's appeal. After all, even State-side fans on the internet seemed to be isolated exceptions to the overwhelming rule that boxing was a dying sport and a thing of the past. It became evident that the type of boxing schizophrenia I experienced also extended south of the border: here's this unbelievably enthralling sport that you are utterly convinced is as wonderful as it appears to be, and yet, inexplicably, you are the only one who sees it.

So, like atheists and foot-festishists, boxing fans seemed resigned to the internet as the lone venue for congregation. The sport, in North America at least, just didn't carry the cultural weight to maintain a stronghold in any one geographic setting.

Around the same time my boxing fandom was taking hold in Toronto, a different type of awakening, or re-awakening, was occurring about 800 kilometres east. Two years earlier, in 1995, Quebecors had headed to the polls to once again answer the question that had come to define political discourse in the province since the Quiet Revolution: should Quebec secede from Canada and form its own sovereign country? 50.58% voted NO, 49.42% YES.

While the province rejected sovereignty, the razor-thin margin on which the proposition was defeated was a stark reminder that while Quebec remained part of Canada constitutionally, culturally the Two Solitudes remained.

The perceived differences between Quebec and the Rest of Canada that stoked the fires of Quebec nationalism and later Quebec sovereignty were no less understood by English Canadians in Alberta or Nova Scotia than they were by Francophone Quebecoise in Laval or Gatineau. While Canadians may have grumbled over Quebec's efforts to be designated a distinct society during the constitutional amendment talks at Meech Lake and Charlottetown in the late 1980s and early 1990s, they nonetheless were forced to acknowledge that the term was not altogether unfounded. There was something different about Quebec, and it was a difference that, as a teenager growing up in the cultural and political centre of English Canada, I was all too aware of.

The language it spoke; the joie de vive that seemed to radiate from its major cities; its rich history that had grown separately from that of its English partners in Confederation; even its lax liquor laws and its heightened sense of fashion and sexuality — it all added to the impression that Quebec was a world apart, and what's more, from the view from staid, Protestant Toronto, a world to be envied.

In 2001, a bridge to that world appeared, and it came in the form of Eric Lucas. In September of that year, this rugged if unspectacular super middleweight from Montreal squared off against Briton Glenn Catley for the vacant WBC super middleweight title in the Bell Centre in Lucas's hometown. I can't remember how I saw it – whether it was a rare TSN (Canada's largest sports network) broadcast of a Quebec-based fight (doubtful), or if I somehow had access to the RDS (Quebec's TSN equivalent) presentation – but watching that event, I sensed that my days as an isolated boxing fan were up.

The arena was packed close to capacity, and those who were there — well, there was no mistaking them for the apathetic part-timers who in the 1990s attended Billy 'The Kid' Irwin fights on comped tickets in cramped Ontario ballrooms and who more recently have migrated to Casino Rama to feign interest in Steve Molitor. The Bell Centre crowd was as boxing-savvy as one could hope. The fans buzzed throughout every second of each round, erupting in response to every Lucas attack, both failed and successful. My memory of how the fight ended is vague, although boxrec.com tells me it was by stoppage in the 7th round. What I do remember are the scenes that followed. Confetti falling from the rafters. Fireworks in the air and jubilation in the stands. Was this fandom restricted to a small community of Montreal boxing fans, I thought? A visit to the RDS and Montreal Gazette websites proved it wasn't. Lucas's win was front-page news throughout Quebec. Quebec loved boxing.

In the province that had for so long appeared to me a mystery, I had now found a kindred spirit with which to share my love of the fight-game. I quickly became familiar with Quebec's boxing landscape. Lucas, the pre-eminent figure on the scene at the time, moved near the top of my list of favourite fighters. Interbox, Quebec's dominant promotion, was nestled into my consciousness next to names like Top Rank and Don King Productions. And in 2003 I, along with all Quebec boxing fans, was introduced to a young Romanian whom in the coming years we would watch develop into the heir to Lucas's Montreal boxing crown.

Sharing in Quebec's home-grown boxing culture was, from the perspective of an Ontarioan, like being a part of some exclusive club. This wasn't like cheering for the Montreal Canadiens, which many Ontarioans did; hockey was universal in Canada, and the Habs were an institution nation-wide. Quebec's boxing scene existed within a bubble that extended only as far as the province's borders. No one outside it knew about nor cared to take notice of what was happening inside. Why should they? After all – boxing was dead. Not in my mind it wasn't. And not in Quebec.

***

The Bell Centre's lower bowl was slowly filling to capacity. Members of the media had now begun to take their places at press row, and HBO production hands could be seen buzzing to and fro in their clearly marked HBO Boxing shirts and hats as the moment of live-to-air rapidly approached. As the scene took shape, I began to take note of some of the things that made a night out at the fights in Montreal so unique.

The VIP tables positioned at ringside were filling up with Quebec's celebrity ranks. Some were familiar to me, such as boxers Herman Ngoudjo and David Lemieux, but most I only recognized as figures of note by the stream of well-wishers and picture takers. Much like its boxing scene, Quebec's entertainment industry is almost entirely self-contained and self-sustaining, desiring no acknowledgement nor affirmation from the outside world. Whereas English Canadians are prone to look southward for its cultural fix, Quebeckers tend more often to look inward, and so Quebec films with no presence outside the province can often be seen topping the box-office charts within it. And so out of this cultural milieu has arisen a roster of celebrities for whom any outsider would be hard-pressed to identify.

Sometimes a Quebec celebrity will cross-over and strike some sort of chord within English Canada, until their profile fades and they return to being a figure of note only in Quebec. Such was the case with the man sitting at the table closest to me. He was black, bald, and despite being obviously middle-aged, carried the sort of physique that hints at a past in athletics. I couldn't make out who it was, but I knew I recognized him from some where. It was killing me. Andy, who I'd travelled from Toronto with, echoed my sentiments, and guessed maybe a boxer. Midway through the break prior to the main event, a fan a few rows back stood up and called out to the man of mystery, trying to get his attention. "Bruny!" he shouted.

Bruny Surin. Of course! Surin was a member of Canada's Gold Medal winning relay team at the 1996 Summer Olympics, a landmark achievement in Canada's sporting history, and a memory that still resonated with any Canadian who witnessed it. Surin's name still lingered in the rest of Canada, but like a passe one-hit-wonder pop-star, his profile had faded. Obviously not in Quebec, though, where he was constantly shaking hands and sharing words with a host of admirers.

It was a pleasantly strange moment for this visiting Torontonian. Underneath the nostalgia it summoned, it also served to remind me that while I may identify with Quebec boxing, that did not make me a Quebecker.

Nor was Michael Buffer, despite his attempts to ingratiate himself to the crowd by peppering his now familiar pre-fight ritual with a few lines of forced Quebecois french. It was time for Dawson-Pascal.

For a fight taking place in Montreal, the ring walks could not have been more American. Both fighters began their processions on an elevated stage, surrounded by pyrotechnics and blaring hip-hop. Chad Dawson appeared first, accompanied by the sound of Eminem's "I'm not Afraid." For nearly three minutes, Dawson refused to move. Standing in place, perfectly still, his head knelt and his gloves resting on the shoulders of his young son who stood in front of him, Dawson appeared at once a picture of serenity and defiance. It was as if Bad Chad, having heard so much about the ferociousness of Montreal boxing fans, wanted to make a point. "I'm not afraid," sang Eminem. And neither was Chad Dawson. The fans could say what they wanted, and shout it as loud as they wanted, it didn't matter. Dawson was not going to be intimidated.

Next up was Jean Pascal. Immediately, the cascade of boos, cat-calls, and middle-fingers transformed into a wave of adulation. Despite the setting, such a reception for the Haitian-born Pascal was somewhat novel. Quebec's relationship with Pascal had been tempered by the impression that the fighter suffers from an inflated ego and loose lips, a no-no in a land where modesty and quiet fortitude are traits held highest (see: Bute, Lucian). Boxing fans in Quebec have been slow to embrace Pascal, and in his fights against Montreal-native Adrian Diacanu, the crowd was solidly on the side of the Romanian, with Pascal's support limited mostly to Haitians. But here, against a foreign fighter like Dawson, all ambivalence was dissipated. Whatever reservations Quebeckers held about Pascal were put aside on the basis that he was one of theirs and was performing on the largest stage against an American.

A trio of songs accompanied Pascal to the ring. The last and most prevalent a bass-heavy remix of Trick Daddy's "Fuck the Otherside," a mix put together especially for Pascal, who for three fights now had used it as his own signature walk-in music. "Yeah, and I can't even lie. You can tell from my red-ass eyes that I'm high." The line looped repeatedly as Pascal made his way to the ring. The herbalistic reference caught the attention of both myself and Sirius Radio's Corey Erdman. I've since dedicated myself to promoting for Jean the nickname Blaze Pascal – Blaze being a reference to Blaise Pascal, the 17th century French mathematician, as well as a nod to both Pascal's speed and, well, I'll let the song speak for itself.

For eleven rounds, Pascal and Dawson tip-toed around each other, searching for moments in which to burst forward. These bursts were carefully timed and rarely simultaneous, as neither man seemed keen on exchanging punches. Pascal, respecting Dawson's reach and accuracy, particularly the straight left, and Dawson, respecting Pascal's hand speed and power, each looked to mitigate risk by choosing their spots carefully. The strategy favored Pascal, whose leaping, looping hooks left more of an impression, at least on the judges if not on the opponent, than did Dawson's wet-noodle jab and right hands to the body.

In between rounds, the Montreal crowd exhibited its ingenuity, using the minute's rest period typically reserved for chatter and emergency beer runs as an opportunity to get in the foreign challenger's head.

"DAAAAAAWSOOOOOONNN. DAAAAAAWSOOOOOONNN. DAAAAAAWSOOOOOONNN."

Over and over, the crowd called out to Dawson in this mockingly lethargic drone. The chant struck me as some sort of pied piper's tune, trying to lure Dawson's attention away from his trainer, installing doubt in the fighter's mind where Eddie Mustafa Muhammad was trying to install belief. "Don't listen to him," it said. "He's lying to you. You've got no chance. Just give up." The chant was a carry-over from Montreal Canadiens games, where it's used to rattle opposing goalkeepers. Also a carry-over was the sound of Ole Ole Ole echoing around the arena every other round or so, a trademark of any Habs home game.

When the fight was cut short in the 11th thanks to a clash of heads and the resulting gash above Dawson's right eye, I worried that Pascal's pounce and run strategy and Dawson's late-fight charge had left the hometown fighter in jeopardy of losing on the scorecards. A visit to twitter quickly assuaged those fears, as it became evident that viewers at home had come away with a rather more favourable impression of Pascal's performance than I had.

As it turned out, the viewers at home were right. Pascal was handed the decision and jubilation ensued. As HBO ended its broadcast, Pascal, shiny new Ring belt in hand, took a microphone and prepared to address the crowd. As he did, I reflected on Canada's new claim to a lineal title.

"Quebeeeeeccc!" Pascal shouted.

Or, should I say, Quebec's claim.

As Pascal spoke to the crowd in native tongue, I once again was met with the reality that however much an emotional connection I built up towards fighters from this province, I was still an outsider here. Pascal's call to the crowd was emblematic. While what I saw, or at least wanted to see, was a Canadian champion whose feat had just raised the profile of Canadian boxing around the world, what Pascal seemed to see in himself, and indeed what most of the crowd at the Bell Centre saw, was a Quebecois champion, whose reign was to be draped in the blue and white fleur de lis. Boxing, like so much else in in Quebec, is insular. When fighters perform, they perform not for the world, not for Canada, but for Quebec.

But then I also recalled Eric Lucas, the fighter responsible for sparking my fascination with Quebec boxing in the first place. Like Pascal, Lucas was a proud Quebecker who presented himself as such, and someone I'd just assumed would rather identify as a Quebec fighter than a Canadian one. Then, in March of 2002, Lucas travelled to Connecticut to fight Vinny Pazienza, the first fight of his title reign to take place outside of Quebec. When Lucas appeared from the locker room area, he sported a red and white team Canada hockey jersey. Within his home province, Lucas was a Quebec fighter. Stepping onto the international stage, however, the audience expanded beyond Quebec, and as it did, so too did how he presented himself.

Pascal's speech was white noise to my anglo ears. I do know that it was peppered with references to Quebec and the Quebecois. However, as he was winding down, Pascal made a very sudden but very clear reference to Canada, the first I'd ever heard coming from him. With his victory over Dawson, Pascal was now stepping out of the limited lime light of Quebec and into the international consciousness. Maybe, like Lucas, such a move will trigger a shift in how Pascal portrays himself. Maybe that will in turn increase his and by extension Quebec boxing's exposure in the rest of Canada. Maybe then will Canada have the opportunity to share in the gold mine that is boxing in Quebec.

e-mail Jason Karp

Jason can also be followed on Twitter.