Lucy, my girlfriend at the time, and my two daughters were there too: Leonie, who’s now 25, and Bailey, who’s now 18. The SkyDome Arena was a sell-out – no seats left at all! As I came into the stadium with Andre and Dev, chatting with a couple of mates from Birmingham and Coventry, the atmosphere was just fucking electric!
ANDRE
Barrington is fiercely protective of his family and close friends. There was an incident where I had to pull him off a guy. This was when we were driving around checking on door staff; I got a call from a pub where Baz’s daughter was working and a guy had put his hand up her skirt. This is probably the most angry I have ever seen him and it was all over in about 15 seconds. Baz absolutely destroyed this guy, to the point where I had to stop him for his own good. (Trust me, he looked like he had gone through a windscreen; he was a mess.) That was scary, but two minutes later he was laughing and joking again like nothing had happened.
I went backstage and started warming up for the fight. People kept trying to ask if I was OK but I wanted to be on my own. The last thing I want to hear is people coming in and saying, ‘Hope you win.’ Don’t hope – I’m going to win, I am going to fucking win!
Training up to the fight had gone well. It was on a Saturday night. My fight was the last of the night, billed as the main event. Marc came out first. When I came out in my Birmingham City top, with ‘Zulu’ written on the back, the crowd gave a big roar. All I heard was ‘ZULU!’ from the Blues lads situated behind the VIP area. Everyone rushed towards the fence and hung on it; security couldn’t do a thing about it. The crowd were going wild!
The place was chock-a-block. At one stage, the MC for the night had to come to the mic and say, ‘Can you all move back from the stage please?’ Most of my friends had tickets for outside of the VIP area – they just pushed the security out of the way and walked into it.
When it all calmed down, the referee called us to the centre of the ring. He gave us a few instructions and then it was ‘FIGHT!’
I came out feeling sharp. I felt wicked! I had him up against the cage. I was picking him off, jabbing him, kicking him, jabbing him, kicking him …
Then, all of a sudden, I got up too close to him, like a twat! My plan was to stay away from him and fight him on the outside, but he turned me, suplexed me and got me to the floor. I then turned him over and the ref stood us up. We carried on fighting. He shot forward at me and knocked me back on the floor. The guy was just bashing me, beating the head off me, and I was trying to block him.
All of a sudden, he stopped punching. He just sat on me and looked up. I had my hands on my head and all I saw was the ref walking over. Marc had stopped punching me so I thought, I’ll put my hands down now, but the ref said, ‘Carry on fighting.’ Then the guy just went BANG!
I was out cold. That’s all I remember. Apparently I was out for about three minutes.
All the Zulus smashed the fucking place up! The riot police came in and then ran out again. When I came around, I took the microphone, telling the crowd, ‘Please stop, please stop!’ My dad, step-mum and daughters had to run and hide. Apparently, four or five of the main Blues lads were stood back to back, just banging any fucker in sight that didn’t appear to be from Birmingham. At one stage, they even tried to hit Rupert, my best Brummie friend!
All I can remember is I came round at the side, I stood up and there were just chairs all over the place. Apparently, Alana got my step-mum and my dad out and took them back to the hotel. They were seated right at the front of the cage but I found out afterwards there was loads of trouble: bottles and chairs were flying everywhere, so Alana made sure they were safe.
MAL
It was the fight against this French guy in the Coventry SkyDome Arena and it was a night to remember; it kicked off big-time. It was after I’d met back up with Barrington and asked him what he was doing; he said, ‘Cage fighting – I’ll get tickets for ya.’ I said, ‘No problem, but I’ve got about 15 guys with me.’
When we went out, everyone knew Barrington, and on this particular night we didn’t have to queue up anywhere; we went straight to the front and they said, ‘Here you go, Baz.’ It was amazing; it was like being a celebrity! (This was in Brum at the Hyatt hotel in 2000. He got me involved at the place where he was training in Coventry and told them to look after me.)
Basically, we knew it was going to be a good night. But there were a lot of people in Birmingham who didn’t like people from Coventry. There was even this copper there, an inspector, and he said, ‘Are you sure about this? It’s going to kick off tonight.’ And I was going, ‘Nah, nah,’ because I was excited! So we met at my house about seven o’clock and everyone was talking about how it was going to kick off down there because of what this inspector said, but I was saying no.
We got there and you could see there was tension straight away. There were a couple of groups standing about and no one was standing near them; everyone else was just queuing away from that area. Barrington got me a VIP ticket but the other lads were sitting at the top of the arena, so I was separated from them.
It did kick off at the back as well, but I wasn’t there; I was on a table with Barrington’s daughter and some other guys I used to train with just a step away from the ring. I could see Barrington waving at me and he was really ready for it.
Further back there was a guy in a white shirt and he was kicking off a bit. There was a table of Zulus and they were just looking at him. People were trying to get this guy to sit down. I remember he had a white shirt on, because by the end of the evening it was red. I’m not joking!
Now I kept saying it was going to kick off and other people at the table were saying, ‘It’ll be all right.’ But I knew those guys wanted to kill each other. It was like a football match and they were all shouting, ‘Zulu! Zulu!’
Then Barrington’s fight started and he came out in this big Zulu top. The French guy came out and the guy with the mic introduced Barrington. After that you couldn’t hear the other guy’s name!
The guy in the white shirt was still standing up and I thought, ‘He’s going to get killed.’ You could feel the tension. People were walking around with bottles in their hands, looking across at each other, and I’m sat right in the middle of it!
The fight went off. What happened was there was so much noise going on that the ref called a stop for the end of the round and this guy kept going, hitting Barrington on the back of the head. People were just running towards the ring, I thought they were going to rip the cage apart!
Barrington had stopped fighting because he thought the round was over. He was knocked out and this other guy was declared the winner. These guys were surrounding the ring, throwing bottles and spitting and everything. Next thing you know, this guy with the white shirt gets involved and they steam in and kick the absolute shit out of him; they were waiting to do him anyway, it was just a matter of time. Then there were chairs flying across, tables flying across, cans, bottles, glasses, you name it, but there was no security at all. They just ran out!
It was such an electric atmosphere; there were so many tables and chairs flying across that it was like a war zone! Just two sets of blokes smashing into each other, Coventry and Birmingham, with a nervous lot in the middle. The guy in the white shirt was asking for a kicking anyway. There were pockets that no one wanted to stand next to; there were some people who were just there for a little night out with the wife and they were looking around the place in amazement. It was like a bomb had hit it.
Barrington had got up by now and told them to stop it and to calm down, but they weren’t listening. You could see that the guy in the white shirt’s face had dropped off. His nose was red, his face was red; they took him away. Oh my God! All I could see was 30 boys running from one side to the other and it just kicked off big-time; there were chairs and tables going everywhere. The police didn’t come in until the lads had kicked the shit out of everyone. They knew the Zulus were there and they didn’t want to come in until they’d tired the
mselves out from fighting! They were expecting it, so the inspector told me. His division were outside. He was sat as part of my group but he was in the top tier – he was safe. There were chairs flying over my head, I’d never seen anything like it. It was exciting though!
One of Barrington’s daughters nearly got knocked out, so I took her to the side and got her out of there. She would only have been 16 or 17 and she was really upset about it. But it was a fantastic night; we still talk about it now because there’s a guy who lives in Worcester who comes down and he jokes: ‘I’m never going to go out with you again! If I’m out with you lot, then there’s going to be a fight.’ We were at this Ricky Hatton after-dinner thing in the Holiday Inn and some guy got bottled there when it kicked off. This guy goes: ‘Wherever you and Barrington are, there’s always a fight! Trouble follows you wherever you go!’ I’ll never forget that night in Coventry; it’s like part of local folklore.
Everything had gone out of the window, but it still takes a man to step into the cage. I know they can battle it out on the streets, but out of all the guys that were there only two of us could actually get in the cage and fight.
It was mayhem. The police had to come in with dogs. All the chairs and tables were turned upside down. After this, I said, ‘I’ve had enough now.’ I was near enough 40 and I’d been there and done it all. I went back to my changing room and cried like a fucking baby for about five fucking minutes! Dev always said to me, ‘You never stop till the ref says stop.’ But I’d put my hands down like a twat and got punished for it.
My dad stayed around to make sure I was all right after the fight. I don’t think I spoke to him till the day after, when he left to go home to Wisbech. He was saying that he thought the guy had killed me, that I’d died in the ring and things like that. He was shook up, it was emotional for him.
It was the first time I’d been knocked out in my life – even on the street. I’d lost in front of my own crowd and in front of my dad, who was there supporting me. But he was proud because he’d seen some fighters and because of the amount of people who were there supporting me.
When I first started fighting, I always said to myself, The day I get knocked out is the day I call it a day. But I still wanted to carry on.
I went home after that and sat on my own. I cried like a fucking bitch: I can’t believe I’ve been beaten in front of all these people; I’ve never been knocked out. But the hardest part was going back to the gym and getting back in the cage or ring to fight again.
I knew I wasn’t invincible, but I just couldn’t believe I’d been knocked out. Eventually, I had to come out and face people in Coventry. I had people saying to me, ‘You got knocked out!’ on my Facebook page. But so what if I got fucking knocked out?
It was hard walking down the street. Even though I was there for the fight, there are a lot of people in Coventry who fucking hate me anyway, and a lot of people want to see me get knocked out, lose or get beaten up. It was hard walking around the town, but I just held my head up high and thought, Fuck it! You can all talk outside the ring, get in the ring and do it your fucking self! And half of those fuckers can’t. Most sat there and talked: ‘He should have done this, he should have done that’ – you go and do it.
‘Ain’t it about time you finished now? You’re getting old now’ – that’s all I used to get off my mum and my step-mum.
‘Do what you wanna do’ – that’s what my dad said.
Dev said, ‘If you wanna carry on fighting, carry on fighting.’
When I first started fighting, I just wanted to fight. I didn’t give a fuck about the money or whatever, I didn’t care if you were a fighter or a world champion – I’d fight you. But later on the money got hold of it: I wasn’t fighting for the fight; I was fighting for the money. And that’s one of the things that really got me in the end. I wasn’t fighting because I wanted to hurt someone or whatever; I thought, I could earn six or seven grand ’ere.
But fuck that, I just wanted to fight! I get in the ring, I’m a gladiator: I’m a human being, you’re a human being – it’s who’s got the better heart at the end of the day. I saw my opponent as a stepping stone for me.
What was going through my mind was: I’ve lost the fight and all I can do is pick myself up. It’s back to the drawing board again. But I knew I’d fought a better fight, even though I’d lost, because all the promoters around the country wanted me to fight in their shows! So I knew there were bigger fish to fry. Why? Because I’m a fighter and an entertainer!
But I needed a bit of time to think. It was two weeks after that before I even got back to the gym, to tell the truth. I thought, I’m not ready to retire yet; I’m not ready to finish yet. I shouldn’t let one knockout stop me from fighting again. I know I can progress and go further. I want to go again. I can carry on, I can go again. It was pure frustration: I know I can do better than what I’m doing and I can carry on fighting. I’ve still got a couple of fights left in me.
I told Dev that I’d achieved what I wanted to achieve and I’d had enough. ‘I’m gonna call it a day. I’ve got a world title in kickboxing. I’ve won the British, European, Intercontinental and Midland Area titles, I’ve won every kickboxing title going. I’ve had a long run and I’ve done fucking good. But … I’d like one more fight.’
MAL
It didn’t bother him at all; he was beating a lot of people, he would never walk away from a fight. I think there were only two clubs in Coventry where the bouncers would actually go near him; he came to my son’s 18th and the bouncers were terrified of him! I said to my son, ‘I hope everyone’s happy here, mate, because they don’t want to be kicking off!’ His physical presence on the door was enough. Everywhere I’d go with Barrington, someone knew him; he’d go to New York and get treated like a king, staying in a five-star hotel.
His last fight before he retired was with a Dutch guy and it was amazing: Rob Schreiber. Good fight.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
This promoter, Henk Kuipers from Holland, rang me out of the blue in 2008 when I was in bed. He was also a good fighter and I’d fought him twice, the first time in one of the hardest forms of knockdown karate. At that time, I didn’t know anything about it at all, so I’d gone to Geoff Thompson, borrowed a book and watched some videos. At the time, he was the top fighter in Holland and I beat him at his own sport. Then I fought him again 14 years later and everyone says I won it, but they gave it to him. It was no problem.
There was only one person I wanted to fight before I retired. Bob Schreiber was originally from the same Dutch camp but he’d gone off and done his own thing. I’d known Schreiber for over 10 years and that’s who I wanted to make my money from for this last fight. At the time, he’d also retired. So when the promoter said, ‘I’ll pay you 20,000 Euros if you want to fight Schreiber,’ I cut him short right there: ‘Damn fucking right I’ll fight him!’
Bob Schreiber was one of the most respected fighters in Holland. He’d been around for years and had fought Wanderlei Silva and the real top dogs. I told Dev, ‘I want one last fight and that’s the person I’m gonna fight.’ Plus, from day one, when I met him he was always such a nice guy. I watched his fights and DVDs and what a fighter; he was just unbelievable. He’d fought all these guys around the world. So it was an honour for me for him just to say, ‘Yeah, I’m fighting Barrington Patterson.’
I’d earned enough respect in my life and I wanted this one last fight – but when the promoter said about the money I was dancing about for over a week, just thinking about the 20,000 Euros. There was no negotiation on the purse offered. Like a twat I just said yes, lying on the sofa half-asleep and dreaming about my biggest ever earnings. I didn’t think to say, ‘I should talk to my manager first,’ who’d be unlikely to take the first offer as he’d figure Schreiber would be on 40,000–50,000 Euros. We may have got it closer to 30,000 Euros and when I told Dev he said, ‘Why the bloody hell did you say yes?’ The line of thought was that my popularity with the Dutch fanbase h
adn’t waned, even though it’d been four years since the Dalgliesh fight with rival Dutch promoters Showtime.
But it didn’t matter. I’d got the big payday I’d sought for my retirement fight and I was buzzing. At the end of the day, 20,000 Euros was a lot of money in this sport and I couldn’t wait to get into my training.
DEV
From very early on in the fights – whether you’re fighting in the pure karate or the contact, which is championship level – it doesn’t matter what level you are, from your very first fight to your last fight you have to have somebody to look after you from day one. You cannot fight without someone who is responsible for your safety, and that’s from the word go. But obviously, once you get to the big fights and negotiating money that’s a different thing.
I was living in Leamington Spa at the time with my missus Lucy, son and stepdaughter. I’d be getting up at 6am and returning home about 10pm; the kids would be in bed, she was in bed, so I’d make myself something to eat, have a shower, go to bed and get up early in the morning while everyone else was still in bed – then go to the gym, go to work and continue the training in Holland at the weekends. I’d even got myself a personal trainer who used to play rugby for England, so I was training properly for the most important fight of my career.
One-Eyed Baz Page 13