I got off the bus early on my way into town to watch England’s World Cup quarter-final with France. I wanted to check how the atmosphere was building outside Leeds Arena ahead of Josh Warrington’s world title defence against Luis Alberto Lopez. Apart from the Liverpudlian former world light-middleweight champion Liam Smith asking a steward where to find the box office, the entrance was quiet. But there were signs Leeds was warming into its Saturday night in the hum of half-cut conversation from the smoking area of the bars in the upper tier and, on the wall of the Wetherspoons opposite the arena, two fresh piles of spew.
It was my second time visiting the arena that day. I’d been to collect my press ticket at 2pm, thinking it would save me a job for later. I’ve never covered a fight night ‘formally’ before, so was unaware of the protocol. After being handed my ticket, I was led to a section of ringside seats. It was all very exciting, until a journalist walked over and asked in concern, “Have you brought any sandwiches? They didn’t let us back out last time.” There were still over eight hours until the main event, and I had plans to meet a friend at The Wardrobe for the England game. I’d collected my ticket via a quick trip to the Merrion Centre on my way home, but the only provisions in my rucksack were a Lucozade, a bottle of olive oil, and four rolls of toilet paper.
The first fight on the undercard passed in a blur while I panicked about what I was going to do. At the final bell, I launched my escape bid, striding head down around the ring and towards the door we’d entered through. Three security guards stood in the way of my exit, explaining why they weren’t going to budge, until one eventually took pity on my continued mumbling about sandwiches and toilet roll. As he escorted me down a corridor to the exit, I was pushed aside to make way for the boxer who had lost the first bout and was being taken to a medical room with blood streaming down one side of her face. I went home and didn’t leave my room until it was time to head back out, for fear of being caught on the run by a member of Matchroom’s security team.
The perma-karaoke of The Three Legs was in full flow as I walked from the arena to The Wardrobe after returning to town. We stood at the back of the venue while the football was shown on a big screen above the stage, next to a family of West Ham fans insisting the referee was French, disagreeing with all of his decisions even if they were in England’s favour. Two of the more enthusiastic fans in attendance were both wearing 1998 World Cup shirts with ‘Beckham 7’ on the back. We nicknamed them Gary and Phil.
My main concern during the game was calculating how much I could drink without appearing unprofessionally pissed when I arrived back at the arena. I needn’t have worried. There was a man slumped on the row behind, holding his head in his hands. I wondered whether he’d been sitting there for the last eight hours without any sandwiches and was about to nod off, or whether he was upset at England being knocked out of the World Cup and on the verge of bursting into tears. He taught me that first impressions can be deceiving by quietly throwing up over himself before being led away by security like a toddler who’d just told the teacher they’d had an accident.
I was far more nervous about the fight than the World Cup. Luis Alberto Lopez wasn’t well-known in England, but it didn’t take much research to learn he was a dangerous challenger. At the public workout at Kirkgate Market, he had looked (to my untrained eye) fast, powerful, and — most worrying — relaxed and assured about what he was here to do. That didn’t change under the glare of the arena’s lights.
Lopez bloodied Josh’s nose in the first round and continued throwing a barrage of punches that caught the eye, even if plenty were blocked by Warrington’s arms and gloves. Josh anticipated a fast Lopez start, planning to use the opening rounds to establish his defence and let Lopez tire himself out. But Lopez didn’t tire as quickly as hoped, and the punches kept coming.
In the build-up to the bout, Warrington spoke of how the last two years have stolen the momentum of his career — the pandemic ruining plans for a dream unification fight, two bouts with Mauricio Lara resulting in a first defeat and an unsatisfying rematch, regaining his world title against Kiko Martinez at the cost of a broken jaw and another period of pause. “It’s a powerful tool when you’re in your stride,” he said. “It takes you up another level.” The first six rounds against Lopez pitted a boxer trying to regain that momentum against one who has fought three times in the last twelve months, winning all three by knockout.
But Josh has the heart of Billy Bremner and the soul of Super Leeds. He kept fighting. Throughout the opening half, Lopez kept banging his gloves together and smiling during exchanges in a show of machismo. The smile had long since been replaced by a grimace by the final rounds, as Warrington refused to accept defeat and threatened to leave Lopez in peril. When Josh began to look back in the groove, Lopez complained of a punch to the leg. The referee didn’t see the offence, but gave Lopez almost a minute to recover.
One judge scored the fight a draw, the other two gave it to Lopez by two rounds. He wildly celebrated winning his first world title, quite rightly, then left the ring, after complaining of a dirty fight, with a heavy limp that a cynic might describe as theatrical. Liam Cooper, who stood in for Josh’s ring walk after Crysencio Summerville injured his ankle playing for Leeds, stared into the distance by the corner, not knowing where to look.
INSIDE TSB MAGAZINE ISSUE 04
Covering the fight ringside for the BBC, Carl Froch thought Josh had won by four rounds. That would have been too generous. The bruising on Josh’s face betrayed a tough, close fight. At the final bell, promoter Eddie Hearn rushed across the ring, excitedly gesturing to broadcasters. He thought Josh had won three of the last four rounds to take the fight. He was seeking affirmation, but didn’t get the reaction he hoped. He stopped grinning, and started suggesting it could be a draw. Tony Bellew walked back to DAZN’s TV studio saying Lopez won the first half, Josh the second. Like England at the World Cup, it was decided by the finest of margins.
Sean O’Hagan, Josh’s father and trainer, described the judge’s scorecards as “fucking appalling”, but he saved his most accurate words for his son. “I couldn’t have asked for anything more,” he told the BBC. “I can’t be disappointed with that. I don’t think any cornerman would be disappointed with what they’ve just seen there. That finish was a tremendous finish.”
It was past midnight when I left the arena, alongside the last of the remaining fans. As people were taking photos of an admirably optimistic lad draped in an England flag with an LUFC badge at the centre of the St George’s cross, the BBC’s Barry Jones was describing a Saturday night in Leeds that tasted oh so familiar. “Tonight was just a really close fight — that didn’t go the way of the champion.” ⬢
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