IN THE RED CORNER: Ben "The Mauritian Magician" Jhoty - Senior Writer
THE STREETS OF Canberra aren't known for being particularly mean, yet for a period during the mid-Nineties, when I was at uni there, I often felt like I had a sign on my back that said, "Hit me". At least that's what every drunk in our nation's capital seemed to think. On three occasions, paralytic yobbos took a swing at me and, on three occasions, I either absorbed their drunken flailing or calmly talked them down.

I'm a lover, not a fighter; a talker, not a stalker; a pacifist, not an activist. If someone knocks over my beer in the pub, I'm the one who'll apologise. Until now, my younger brother is the only person to whom I've ever raised a fist in anger. Even then, it was only once. He went down like he was on the take. I'll never forget his cry of pain as he hit the ground. For the next 20 years, my fists have remained unclenched.

My initial reaction to our deputy editor's suggestion that my colleague Luke and I get in the ring was instinctive. "No," I said. But he persisted. I told my girlfriend. "No," she said instinctively.

Yet I couldn't quite let it go. While my history of diplomacy in the face of conflict has meant I have a full set of teeth and a straight nose, I wondered if it might also signal a broader lack of self-confidence. I started to fantasise about the ways in which 10 weeks of boxing training could transform me. I envisioned staring down an attacker, knowing that I possessed the tools to defend myself. I pictured my body hardening up, like Peter Parker's after a bite from a radioactive spider. I imagined skipping like champion boxer Floyd Mayweather Jr.

"Okay, I'll do it," I said finally. And with that, I turned my back on years of meek civility and surrendered to something more primal.


IN THE BLUE CORNER: Luke "The Duke" Benedictus - Sections Editor
PHYSICAL TOUGHNESS doesn't have much relevance in my day-to-day world. Things would probably be different if I was the leader of a biker gang or a professional ninja. But instead I'm a bumbling journalist whose last fist fight occurred in a school playground more than 20 years ago (I lost). Since then, I've avoided violent confrontations wherever possible, a state of affairs that seems broadly compatible with civilised living. To me, physical toughness seems a quaintly anachronistic concept, like codpieces or cobbled streets.

Yet avoidance ultimately breeds fear. On the rare occasion that violence has gatecrashed my life, I've had absolutely no idea how to handle it. I was mugged recently and when the bloke clocked me, I crumpled to the ground, less out of pain than bewildered shock. I failed to throw a single punch in reply. Hopefully, boxing will help me to negotiate any similar situation while retaining a degree of self-respect.

Plus there's the physical dimension. Boxing demands a level of fitness that I'm light years away from. "Exercise regimen" is a rather grandiose term for my current schedule that basically amounts to a weekly game of park football. But these days I'm slower around the pitch than ever, have one dodgy knee and have gained the odd kilo or three. The fact that I'm not significantly podgier owes more to genetic fluke than personal discipline. My attitude to food and booze is like Elvis' during his Vegas years: anything goes. But at 32, I realise that I've tacitly resigned myself to slow physical decline. This fight offers a possible escape route. Albeit one booby-trapped with punches to the head.

THE MAGICIAN
Woolloomooloo PCYC is everything you'd imagine an old-school boxing gym to be. Ancient newspaper clippings and celebrated fight posters cover the walls, sweat stings the nostrils and the rhythmic pounding of the speedball echoes around the building, as would-be fighters compete for the most elusive title of all: respect.

Luke and I are at our first session with PCYC Arena manager Corey Bocking, a powerfully built exercise physiologist who helped get former Australian light heavyweight contender Paul "Hurricane" Briggs in shape. It's Corey's job to transform us from puffy pen-pushers to hardened combatants capable of enduring three two-minute rounds in the ring. He's optimistic the transformation will be complete in 10 weeks. We take comfort from Muhammed Ali's insistence to a student who asked if he should stay in college that "if they can make penicillin out of mouldy bread, they can sure make something out of you".

To gauge our progress, Corey pinches our puny physiques for fat and measures the circumference of our limbs. I'm slightly alarmed that not only are Luke's arms bigger than mine, he also has a full 10 kilograms on me. I'm aiming to close the gap by eating a high-protein diet (more eggs and shakes) and following a structured weights program.

Having never worked my legs before, Corey reckons I could add extra muscle to my slender frame by targeting this area with a variety of dumbbell squat exercises. I'll also be lowering my reps from 10 to five on the bench press, allowing me to lift more weight for maximum strength gains.

Despite his extra bulk, Luke leaves me in his wake in a three-kilometre time trial. I cross the line one minute and 25 seconds after him. "At this level, the fittest bloke usually wins [the fight]," remarks Corey. Shit!


THE DUKE
Corey decides we're going to fight at light middleweight (69kg). This is unfortunate, given that I weigh 76kg. After analysing my diet, Corey tells me to cut back on carbs in the evening, increase my protein intake and limit the booze to 2-3 drinks a week. It's going to be a long 10 weeks.

Our six training sessions a week combine gym work, boxing technique, interval sprint training and punishing runs on the sand hills at Cronulla [in Sydney's south].

As I'm trying to get leaner, Corey sticks me on a metabolic program that's designed to maintain muscle mass and strength, while torching body fat. This translates into endless bodyweight exercises like dips, burpees (which I hate), medicine-ball push-ups and squats. The emphasis is on high reps with minimal rest between exercises.

The first gym sessions aren't pretty. Even the most basic aspects of boxing are beyond me. My skipping is a flat-footed joke - I struggle to complete 20 jumps without stumbling and my calves keep knotting with cramps. My jabs are so weak they'd barely bruise a grape. But the variety of the program ensures that things never get boring. Having the fight on the horizon focuses our efforts and gives the training a sense of urgency.

THE MAGICIAN
Luke and I stand in front of a full-length mirror, our feet either side of a chalk line, listening to the instructions of our trainer Dale Kalnins. He's a former Kings Cross bouncer, Navy meteorologist, actor (he fought Heath Ledger in Two Hands) and karate black belt who's trained boxers for more than 25 years. Dale is drilling us on the technical complexities of "the sweet science", revealing the mechanics of the punch and how true power begins with the feet and is uncoiled through the hips and shoulders.

"When you learn new movements, you're creating new neural pathways in your brain," he says, as he mimes slow-motion combinations in the mirror. "It's like hacking your way through the jungle with a machete. The first time there's lots of branches in your way and you have to work really hard. But the more you do it, the clearer it becomes." The best way to clear the path? Shadowboxing, advises Dale. That night I unleash combinations in front of my bedroom mirror. It's a ritual that will soon become second nature.

THE DUKE
My first sparring session is with Gairy "The Superman" St Clair. I've certainly got my work cut out - Gairy is a two-time super featherweight champion of the world. Measuring just 163 centimetres, he's loaded with sleek muscle and glides about the ring with effortless fluidity.

Things don't get off to the best of starts when, within the first 10 seconds, I'm left chewing a punch that sends both my contact lenses flying. Gairy is exerting perhaps one-tenth of his effort, but still evades my jabs with comical ease.

By the third round I'm really struggling. Exhaustion causes my arms to drop, opening me up to what would be a blizzard of punches but, as Gairy is taking it so easy, is really more of a light drizzle. "C'mon, work," he yells. But there's no escape and I'm powerless to stop him from playing the bongos on my head. I simply don't pack the kryptonite to keep "The Superman" at bay.


THE MAGICIAN
As the weeks pass, boxing consumes my life. I overdose on Rocky, dine out on sparring stories and throw combinations at my leaner reflection every time I feel at a loose end.

It's beginning to pay off. In front of the mirror I'm well balanced, relaxed and, thanks to Dale's continued urgings, have started bringing my non-punching hand back to my chin to defend myself. Luke, meanwhile, has a tendency to tense up, wasting precious energy. He also appears to have lead in his boots. As I will soon discover, though, it's in his gloves, too.

In the ring, where we spar against Corey, Luke looks like a natural bar-room brawler. He keeps coming forward, throws loads of punches and chases Corey all over the ring. In contrast, I'm defensive and hesitant. Reluctant to get in close due to a fear of the counter-punch, I find myself punching thin air as Corey effortlessly steps out of reach of my combinations. I try telling myself that superior technique trumps raw aggression, but as I'm becoming increasingly aware, this ain't gymnastics.


THE DUKE
After six weeks I've lost several kilograms and can handle our 10-minute skipping warm-ups without melting into a puddle of sweat on the gym floor. Our boxing styles have also begun to evolve. I'm more comfortable fighting off my front foot and coming forward at my opponent. This isn't a conscious strategy - it just feels natural. Although admittedly I'd rather be the hammer than the nail.

Watching Ben spar, he's more technically proficient and maintains a much tighter defence. But he also looks tentative and always hangs back - like he's trying to swim without getting wet. I throw more punches (good), but also blunder into a lot more (bad).

I try to put a positive spin on my defensive shortcomings by telling myself they should leave me better conditioned to soak up the big hits on the night.

THE MAGICIAN
As our 10-week physical odyssey approaches its inevitable climax, I feel like I'm in the best shape of my life. I've lost three kilos of fat and added two kilos of lean muscle, mainly to my legs and shoulders.

Miraculously, I've managed to achieve this while increasing my endurance base. At the halfway mark I'd closed the gap on Luke in the time trial to 14 seconds. I'm also right on his heels in our sand hill sessions, a gruelling battle against an unforgiving gradient, a shifting surface, spiking lactate levels and the voices in your head that scream "STOP" as your legs seize up like an exhausted marathon runner.

Our last sparring sessions are particularly heavy. Corey nails me with a vicious right uppercut to the ribs. The wind sucks out of me instantly, but the pain lingers. Afterwards, he tells me, "You need to work on setting up with your jab and then getting in close with that right hand. You've got to commit to the punch."

Over the next few days, I keep coming back to Corey's words as I think about my tactics for the fight.

If I fight the way I have in sparring, I probably won't get hurt. But I won't be able to get in range to land any punches of my own; I won't be able to win. By going on the attack there's a good chance I'll catch Luke unawares. He's expecting me to duck and dance around the ring. He may not be ready for shock and awe.

The downside, of course, is that I'll be open to the counter-punch and all that goes with it, namely pain. It's like asking a girl out. You can't get lucky if you don't take a risk. My internal ruminations manifest in my shadowboxing session the night before the fight. As I throw my last combination, I'm so far forward I hit the mirror. If this were a movie, I'd have the climax to my training montage. Now I've got to do it in the ring.


THE DUKE
In the closing stages of the training I've started looking forward to the sparring sessions with Corey where we attempt to put theory into practice. These are two-minute rounds of the rawest exhilaration. Bouncing around the ring, hands up, chin down, the rest of the world disappears as you feint and circle, your body alive with adrenaline and braced for sudden impact. Your immersion in the moment is total. Lose your focus for a split second and a painful reminder will land right between the eyes. It's here that the real thrill lies.

After our final session, I walk home loaded with endorphins and secretly proud of my new black eye. I've begun to appreciate that line in Fight Club: "After fighting, everything else in your life got the volume turned down."

THE MAGICIAN
It's fight night! A vocal crowd of about 120 has gathered at the PCYC Arena to watch the night's string of amateur fights, plus an exhibition sparring session between Solomon Haumono, the former rugby league hardman turned pro boxer, and veteran heavyweight "Big Bob" Mirovic.

My adrenaline is spiking, but, thanks to a visit to a sports psychologist, I've developed a "loop" of positive affirmations. Hopefully, it will help prevent a hormonal power surge that could see me expend too much energy too quickly. It's also designed to block out distracting anxieties, like the fact that I'm about to perform the equivalent of public speaking with my shirt off - with the potential to be knocked out.

"Hands up, punch forward, I know I can win," I repeat to myself as I wait for ring announcer Craig Markham to call my name.


THE DUKE
"Severe head, neck and other injuries, including death and paralysis, may occur despite using this equipment," warns the tag on my protective headgear. I read this cheery message as I sit in the dressing room waiting to be ushered to the ring. It's not the ideal morale booster.

Nevertheless, I feel ready. I'm braced for a tight contest but don't want to contemplate losing. All along I've reminded myself that self-belief is vital. I now understand why the pros spout all that "I am the greatest" claptrap before a big bout. It's to mentally barricade yourself against the underlying fear.

PCYC have asked Vic Darchinyan, the undisputed super flyweight champion of the world, to give us a pre-fight pep talk. Vic is like a Tardis of physical presence - a tiny bloke who radiates boundless confidence and strength. He keeps it simple: "Just keep your hands up," he advises. "Go out and enjoy yourself."

With minutes to go, my nerves start to jangle. To try to control them, I focus on my gameplan. I want to use my left jab to keep Ben busy while setting up openings for my right. But I'll try to vary my angles of attack, going to the body wherever possible to prevent him from settling his defence.

As I'm called down the stairs to the ring, I concentrate on breathing deep and slow. Ten weeks of training and gallons of sweat have all led to this moment.

GO TO THE NEXT PAGE: READ THE REST OF THE ARTICLE AND CHECK OUT A BEHIND-THE-SCENES VIDEO OF THE BOXING MATCH


Watch the entire fight - click here for the video
Masterclass with Gairy St Clair - check out the video
Get Luke and Ben's training programs - click here