Backyard boxing is back

When the Intl. Brotherhood of Sweet Scientists gathers, there's beer, barbecue and two amateur pugilists beating the bejesus out of each other.

By King Kaufman

Sept. 7, 2001 | ST. LOUIS -- A man in a tuxedo is singing the national anthem and about 250 people, hands and hats over their hearts, are facing a huge American flag hanging from a back porch, bellowing along at the top of their lungs. For blocks around, drivers are slowing down, rolling down their windows and making "What the?" faces at their passengers.

Although this is the third time today that "The Star-Spangled Banner" has been belted out from this crowded backyard, this isn't a gathering of some patriotic group, not exactly, but rather a meeting of the unsanctioned and highly unofficial International Brotherhood of Sweet Scientists, Local 529. Friends, acquaintances, workmates, roommates and at least one grandma have gathered to drink beer, listen to music, eat barbecue, gossip and watch a select few of their number lace up the gloves and try to beat the snot out of each other.

Backyard boxing, an old tradition revived here over the last two Memorial Days, has branched out to Labor Day.

Backyard boxing is undergoing a bit of a revival around the country, possibly in response to the 1999 movie " Fight Club." An Internet search on the phrase reveals a scattering of Web sites chronicling the informal adventures of young people who slug it out with each other, usually amid much drinking and with few rules.

The International Brotherhood is less "Fight Club," more "Fat City." The boxers wear gloves, mouthpieces, foul-proof cups and headgear. The ring is homemade, but it's a ring. The surface is carpet fragments duct-taped together over the grass, with nylon straps and garden hose-wrapped cable for ropes. (Full disclosure: This writer loaned the organizers a utility knife for carpet cutting.) There are judges, referees, seconds and an official timekeeper.

"The way I got the idea of doing it in the backyard was from my grandmother," says Steve "Iron Skillet" Smith, 28, the founder and organizer of these semi-regular events, the last one of which earned coverage in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He's also the defending heavyweight Hoosierbelt champion, a bottlecap-festooned belt he'll defend in the main event. (In St. Louis parlance, a hoosier is a lowlife, a redneck.)

"Her father, Tom Murray from Ireland, he used to have the kids invite everybody over," Smith continues, "and when I started boxing she started telling me that's what they used to do. I never thought anything of it until I just wanted to just box, just how I played fuzzball in the schoolyard, which I still do. Just, 'Hey, you wanna go play?' and we'd go play."

Smith, who sells underwriting at community radio station KDHX, got into boxing as a way to get into shape. After training for a while, he wanted to get into the ring and test his skills in a match. He fought a sanctioned amateur bout, but found the competition too intense. He just wanted to have fun.

"To do amateur I've gotta go in and box in the same ring as these 8-year-old kids are boxing in, and that's just a completely different level than what I want to do," he says. "And then you'll get the 18-year-old kids, who'd just kick my absolute ass up and down the ring, and I'm not going to learn anything or have any fun doing that."

So, inspired by tales of his grandfather and the boxing tradition of his town -- this is the city of Sonny Liston and the Spinks brothers, as well as decades worth of less famous pugs -- he went to the backyard. He fought his pal Peter Neukirch, a giant of a chef, to a draw, then beat him by decision in a rematch. Unfortunately for Neukirch, Smith's been shedding pounds in training, so they're no longer at comparable weights. So Neukirch will referee today as Smith defends his title against Thomas "Akita" Crone, 32, editor of stltoday.com, a Web site affiliated with the Post-Dispatch.

On the undercard, Smith's friend Glen "Bad Intentions" McBrady, a 32-year-old apartment building manager, will make his debut against Pablo "Jabbin' Jew" Weiss, also 32, the owner of the Rocket Bar, a local punk club, and the light heavyweight Hoosierbelt champ. Both fights will consist of five two-minute rounds.

The anthem is sung before each bout, and there are round card girls -- and boys -- as well as barbecue grills and Port-a-Potties, a sideshow performer and an Irish harpist. The yard is festooned with not only the Stars and Stripes but with the flags of St. Louis and Great Britain -- odd, because Smith is proudly Irish-American -- and a Jolly Roger.

But before the boys start slugging, the card gets underway with a three-round women's exhibition. "Vicious" Virginia Remus is about to square off against "Lethal" Lisa Kindleberger. "Vicious" Virginia is a 17-year-old high school student with an 0-1 amateur record.

As a former newspaper boxing writer, I've asked a lot of fighters how they got into the sport. The answers tend to fall into one of three categories: Fighters either wandered into a neighborhood gym, idolized a fighter they'd seen on TV, or saw "Rocky" on the late show. "Vicious" Virginia's answer is a little different.

Next page: "He's hitting you with some crazy-ass punches, OK?"