Five years ago tonight, I took on what many people regarded to me as a crazy thing to do. Something that surprised a lot of people at the time and something that still does when they’ve heard today. I’ve written in the past about being in a sport like MMA with a limb-difference, but I haven’t really ever delved into this subject or the story behind it on here and I think this is a good time to revisit it.
I remember it like it was yesterday, really. I was twenty-two at the time, helping in the gym, teaching the newbies the fundamentals and being a sparring partner for lads preparing for their respective upcoming mixed martial arts & boxing bouts. I’d always been in the gym a lot, so this was an average Friday night sparring class.
Hitting my own strides with no real goals outside of getting better and getting fitter, I happened to be outpacing some lads training for fights and had put one or two on one knee after nice combinations and left body shots, which I always felt was my trademark shot on the angle. Maybe I’m sensationalising the evening when looking back, but I think I was really hitting a peak in my abilities to switch stance and mix up my strikes – something I had worked tirelessly on given my difference.
In the car on the way home afterwards, my dad turns to me and says:
“H, why don’t you do a boxing match? We could have a look and see, why not. What do you think?”
“Ah I don’t know dad,” I reluctantly said. “I just enjoy training, really. I haven’t thought about that in years.”
You see, years prior we had tried to look at the potential to compete, but there were always issues and politics about trying to get me an opponent, mostly around my difference, so after a long time of trying we just gradually stopped and I focused on training and being a member of Hyde MMA. Our family gym I loved being able to be a part of.
“I competed in my day, your brother was really good, why don’t we see if we can get you one again?” my dad encouraged.
Taking a minute to think about it, I replied, “Ah go on, why not!”
I remember everything about that moment. It felt like agreeing to complete a trilogy of the Williams lads competing in combat sports. It felt right, I had butterflies. But I also knew that the work was now just beginning.
Side note: After announcing it, I had a lot of people ask if I was going be fighting someone with a similar difference or of ‘Paralympic’ nature – the common expectancy. When I told them no, they looked at me like I was crazy. One (awful human) at my old work who, to quote Roger Mayweather, didn’t know sh*t about boxing, thought I was straight up stupid and told me so. Those only spurred me on more. I often referred to this occasion as “A one-handed man in a punching contest,” because essentially that’s what it was. Even just last week I was asked about if I fought somebody else limb-different and the response when I say no is always funny, but I get it. In hindsight, maybe it was a little crazy.
That conversation was seven weeks out from the targeted date of 30th April. The Monday after, we got straight to work, despite not knowing who the opponent was at the time or for a couple more weeks. The difference in levels and intensity picked up quick. Those who know the training my father practised and utilised know the grit and heart you need to get through. Our lads were always known on the scene for being tough, gritty and having such great cardio that we’d never run out of steam in a fight. My cardio was always great, so I wanted to carry that forth into the bout.
Speaking with Channel 4’s Kiram Moodley for their Identity series
Under strict rules of sparring two minute rounds often and plenty of hill sprints on off days, it was going to plan. All up until the final week. Six days out, an opponent holding the attributes of the same height, similar stature and stance was quickly changed out for an opponent taller, longer and who fought southpaw. All things I hadn’t prepared for, but nonetheless was not going to cancel the bout. In came my brother for my last few sessions to whoop my butt with his horribly awkward, long southpaw style – and that he did! Fight week came and went with a little media from Channel 4 at the gym, it was time to focus on fight night.
Sunday 30th April began with a regimented plan of how much sleep I’d had, nutrition to intake and how many phone calls I could handle from my equally nervous father & coach. A position he had every right to be in on that morning. As much as it was me getting in there that evening, it was my father who also had himself on the line for permitting this contest and training to happen.
I had heard previously in the week that my opponent was aware of my limb-difference and had said something along the lines of, “He’s going to find out that he shouldn’t be in there with people with two hands.” Ultimately, it’s those things that spurred me on. 3:30pm Sunday, on the balcony of the Ritz in Manchester, my opponent’s friends approached me, sized me up and said he was going to smash me. Much to the thoughtfulness of my friends, that comment didn’t really faze me.
Even in order to keep this bout in contention, my opponent and I didn’t face off for the cameras beforehand, just in case my opponent had any mindset change upon seeing my difference. There was a lot at stake here and my dad didn’t want any chance of fallout.
All day, I felt relaxed and assured about everything that was going to happen. I’d been in venues and this once in particular hundreds of times. I’d made the walk behind teammates hundreds of times. I’d cornered teammates just as many along with my father – an honour I’d always held high – so I was not under any Hollywood illusions as to what was going to occur that evening.
5:30pm, I begin to get into my unique DIA fight gear, have my hands wrapped by my father – another ritual I’d always wanted to have done specifically by him – stretch and warm up with my brother to get the juices flowing with the music creating an atmosphere. As aforementioned, I’d been in this room, this aura so so many times before. The difference being this time it was me.
6:10pm – the minutes are narrowing down and the medics come in for one final check. Problem: they spot my hand. “Um, is he ok? Can he do this?” the medic says to my dad. Up until that moment, everything was smooth sailing. This is the first real problem to arise. to which we then have to demonstrate for five minutes that I can throw a punch, that I can box and that I can move. As far as the doc’s tests were concerned, we were given the nod, much to our relief.
6:30pm quickly came and it was time to make the walk. Ten Thousand Hours by Macklemore hit and I began my walk. With my father behind me as well as my brother George and uncle Dave, I’d never felt better and safer in the corner. The blood is rushing, the adrenaline is beginning and the vision is tunnelling in on man across the ring. I’m waiting for the music to drop, the announcer to do his thing – but wait: problem!
The referee noticed my hand through my gloves and was completely unaware prior. He was feeling very uncomfortable about the bout going ahead having known nothing about it beforehand. The referee asked a series of questions, then more about the whether or not I’m wearing a headguard. I felt like my song had played three times over by then!
Eventually, we came to the centre for the final instructions. I had watched a Mike Tyson video in the past about never staring through your opponent, waiting for the chink in the armour and the temporary snapping away of the eyes. I saw it happen, he noticed it and I knew I had won that game. The bout began in a scrappy first round packed with all the testicular fortitude necessary. My dad, ever the vocal in the corner guiding me through with the gameplan that we had to start fast and we had to be first, given only two minutes on the clock each round, there was no time for complacency. It was a dogfight. As round one ended, my dad told me: “Breathe, son.” I took control of my airways and the rest followed.
Image courtesy of KO Promotions’ YouTube
Listening to his and my brother’s instructions, it was clear I had taken two of the three rounds. My dad told me the stoppage was there and I really wanted that. We took a controlled measure to keep the pressure on and he’ll wilt fast. Going ‘full Leeds United’ my dad named it – and he’s not even a football fan!
Thirty seconds later, the bout was over and I was victorious. It all happened so fast, but I was so happy to have done it. People have always said the greatest feeling is getting your arm raised, but I never got an amazing feeling at the official decision, because I knew it was going to happen. I had sold so many tickets, I had trained with such great partners and had over two thousand people watching on a livestream – you damn right I was going to win!
The pride I felt in representing my family, representing my gym and have them walk with me meant so much as well as showing what the limb-different community can do, especially on the final day of Limb Difference Awareness Month; it was a trifecta of such magnitude it took quite some time to kick in what had happened.
Afterwards, the referee took the microphone to assess his judgement and told everyone how close he was to calling it before it even happened - he said he was so f*cking happy he allowed it to continue.
If you look at the column’s headline picture, you’ll see in front of the ring to the right hand side a bunch of lads clapping, looking extremely happy and cheering - I had never seen or met these guys before and every time I see that picture, it makes me smile. I finally got my chance. I’ll never forget that day. And those who supported me throughout it all.