Into the beating heart of British boxing: York Hall never lies, and George Liddard passed the test
LONDON — Awrestdryftugyihuijko.;;,.
That’s probably not the punchy, enticing opening line you expected.
No, no, I haven’t employed my 3-year-old miniature dachshund on a freelance basis to cover stories I no longer fancy — though it’s interesting to me that I mentioned Franco’s age like it had any bearing on his employability. Rather, I was simply wiping the sweat from another human being off my keyboard.
That’s not a normal day at work, is it? I guess it depends what field you’re in — and the mind truly boggles — but covering live boxing from ringside inside east London’s legendary York Hall isn’t normal. And I guess calling it "work" is also a stretch.
The human in question? Kieron Conway.
Three rounds in on a sweltering Friday night, Conway’s British and Commonwealth middleweight title defense hangs in the balance. A thunderous right hand crashes through his guard, sending a spray of sweat arcing over the top rope. The undefeated 23-year-old standing across him, George Liddard, grins like a fighter sensing the tide. He steps forward, calm and composed, knowing he has the champion right where he wants him.
Climbing the stairs out of east London’s Bethnal Green station, you’re on your own. There’s no lemming-like trail of fans to follow, no steady march of shirts and scarves guiding the way. On nights like this, you have to find the fight for yourself.
I cut through the weekend rush, backpack swinging, clipping a few unsuspecting Londoners with body shots, queued for their buses home. York Hall Leisure Centre finally comes into view — and at first glance, you’d think you’d stumbled onto a wedding. A wildly underdressed one, mind you.
Outside, smokers gather in clusters as booming bass lines leak through the brickwork. Families in snug-fitting merch — the faces of their own in the ring printed across their chests — stream through the arched doors. Others slow down, staring, trying to make sense of the noise and light spilling out of such an unassuming old hall.
It’s impossible not to be charmed as you enter the building. The muggy heat hits you like stepping off an airplane in Miami, but instead of towering palm trees, it’s damp floorboards, condensated windows and clinical walkways that greet you.
Everyone inside the 96-year-old building has some relation to each fighter on the bill. You’re on a constant bob-and-weave to avoid interrupting hugs and handshakes. Whether it’s partners, mothers, fathers, uncles, aunties, best mates, stablemates, postmen or that guy who’s always in the local boozer, the 1,200 capacity demands this kind of intimate invite.
Fighters navigate the rabbit-run passages in plain sight. There are no secret entrances or feelings of mystique; no surprises — it’s all there spilled out in front of you.
Standing since 1929, York Hall’s red-brick frame holds nearly a century of noise and memory. By the late ’40s, it found its true calling: Boxing. Since then, it’s become something close to sacred ground.
This small, sweating hall has shaped more champions than most arenas ever will. Tyson Fury, Carl Froch, Chris Eubank, Nigel Benn and David Haye are just some of the names who cut their teeth here. Long before the bright lights and sold-out crowds, before belts and headlines, they learned what it really meant to fight. York Hall caught their first punches, their first dreams long before the rest of the world knew their names.
And on this Friday night, it's the turns of Conway and Liddard — two middleweights standing at opposite ends on the scale of experience. Conway, 29, has been Stateside to fight world-class operators, to Japan in a winning effort and up and down the United Kingdom, most recently to London’s Copper Box, where he added the British belt to his already-owned Commonwealth title.
Liddard comes into this fight as a 52-round novice after 12 flawless fights. Everyone in the Liddard business believes his ceiling is higher than Conway's, but it’s all about proving it in boxing. Barely escaped from his teenage years, he's aiming to become the youngest British middleweight champion in history this evening — fighters like Hall of Famer Randy Turpin and the legendary Terry Downes are, after all, fantastic company to keep in owning one of the most sought after prizes in British boxing.
As the night's headline bout approaches, there’s a rush from the smoking area back into the main hall. It’s like the barman has just called last orders. A group of Liddard’s extended family tell me it will be an easy night’s work for their young charge, and they rush ahead of me, slapping each other on the back, singing his now trademark song: “Liddard again, ole, ole!”
They aren't wrong.
Conway showed real guts in the middle rounds as he scrambled, in vain, to keep hold of his cherished British and Commonwealth titles. The Northampton fighter was swinging from the hip, back arched, in hope of landing that telling get-out-of-jail-free shot, but instead it was Liddard running loops around the board.
Conway, not even aged 30, was made to look old by the Billericay fighter. A cut under his right eye began streaming with crimson, his face looked worn and every shot thrown began looking like a painful exercise.
Liddard — with the fearlessness of youth on his side — fought like a man with nothing to lose and everything to prove. From the ring walk to each punch thrown, he painted a picture of enjoyment, relishing every minute of this breakout opportunity, unwilling to let it pass him by.
York Hall has a way of stripping boxing down to its bones. Sometimes that’s needed to feed the sport’s soul.
You can hear every punch land, every intake of breath, every grunt from the corner. The crowd leans in close, feeding off the rhythm — the jab snapping like an old snare drum, the counter looping back with bad intentions. It’s not the glitz of Vegas or the methodical order of Saudi Arabia. It’s purer, hungrier.
Here, reputations aren’t built by hype, not bought by the highest bidder, but determined by how much you can take when the tide turns against you — and at the start of the 10th round, the tide eventually swallowed Conway whole.
The champion’s corner threw in the towel as Conway’s body — arm and shoulder — began breaking down, and Liddard celebrated center-ring, the youngest middleweight to ever be decorated with the colors and history of the Commonwealth and Lord Lonsdale titles. Having passed the same test given to so many before him, a vast and potentially lucrative future at the world level suddenly laid ahead.
And just like that, the night of action was over. Those in attendance waddled out through the thin exits, said their goodbyes and poured into the adjacent Dundee Arms pub. A mere half-hour after the final bell and you’d be forgiven for not knowing that anything of note had occurred down this unassuming side street in east London.
But like the ghosts that haunt York Hall’s walls — not everything believed must be seen.
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