In 2016 I began a project focussing on Wythenshawe, the vast council estate where I was brought up and whose reputation very often precedes it for all the wrong reasons. I had no knowledge or interest in boxing, yet I found the idea of photographing a local amateur boxing club compelling. Despite knowing that Wythenshawe’s ‘rough’ reputation existed more in the minds of the Mancunian bourgeoisie than in reality, it played neatly into the idea of the violent working class council estate in a way that I felt I could play off and use as juxtaposition.
The idea of entering a hyper masculine environment full of sweating men smashing each other in the face while I minced about with a camera getting heckled by a gang of rough-necked 8 year olds did give me pause, but despite this I contacted Steve Egan the head man at Jimmy Egan’s Boxing Academy - the club set up by his late father. The academy was housed in the gym of Crossacres Primary School, a mere stone’s throw from my Mum’s house.
Now, I’ve heard a lot over the years about how boxing is good for young lads as it teaches respect but I’d always taken that with a pinch of salt, unconvinced that a combination of violence and discipline were the ideal route to that goal.
What I realised about 15 minutes after walking into the room was that I was in one of the most fraternal, respectful and supportive environments I’d been in to that point and still have to this day. It was practically magnetic. After an hour I was contemplating starting training there myself. Whether that was down to some magic in boxing’s DNA or a collective psychology Steve Egan and his fighters could gather around a boxing ring I’m still not sure.
I photographed men slamming their fists into the heavy bags, young lads doing sit up repeats, hand written motivational signs, tatty posters of famous fighters. I was sticking around waiting for the sparring session to end, the 18 year old in the centre of the ring, longish wavy hair, a little podgy was sweating heavily as a result of the bin liner he wore under his vest. Steve told me with some pride and no little confidence that this lad would one day become the heavyweight champion of the world.
As I’d not been to a boxing gym before I assumed that this was standard form, the best guy there is always going to be the next Klitschko, the next Mayweather, the next Ali. He’s going all the way. He’s going to make it. The local boy‘s gonna make it to the big time. Sure, Steve. I stuck around anyway.
I got some pictures with this lad and his Dad and I had to admit that if nothing else he certainly had a great fighters name, Tyson Fury.
The Wythenshawe project fizzled out, I was photographing worthies in the area, council workers, housing association staff. It wasn’t representative of the place I’d grown up and I lost interest. I kept an eye on Jimmy Egan’s though, they’d lost their home at Crossacres and after a perilous hiatus found themselves a new gym in the heart of Benchill, the badlands of the estate, a place where Steve’s magic would be valuable and gratefully received.
Tyson Fury I forgot about until one day I saw a newspaper article announcing that he’d become British heavyweight champion. Not world champion, but remarkable nonetheless. I followed his progress pretty closely after that, right up to Klitschko - the unbeatable champion - when he made the prophecy come true. Heavyweight Champion of the World.
I wrote him off again a few years later when he was at 28 stone, mentally and physically ruined, the road back looked too long, things had moved on. It was a glorious career but it had ended in ignominy.
And yet again he returned, some weak warm-ups until still badly out of shape he unfeasibly met Deontay Wilder, the man with a cannon for a right hand, surely it would end now? And yet he beat him and beat him and beat him again until he stands atop the heavyweight division with no peers, no doubters. The greatest heavyweight champion of his generation.
The moral of the tale? Good things happen when you put the work in, and never right off Tyson Fury.