One-Eyed Baz

by Barrington Patterson

  I was training for an hour at a time four times a day, for five to six days a week. My first training session would start at 6am, then I’d split up the rest of the day. One day, I’d be doing weight training in the morning, then I’d probably go out on a run followed by a boxing lesson; then it was kickboxing the next day, followed a couple of hours later by a jiu-jitsu lesson and then a grappling lesson. I just kept on mixing it up every day with a jog or a bit of running, mostly hill sprints.

  (I got that routine from rugby, which I didn’t start playing until I was 36. I played recently and we lost, but two of their guys got stretchered off so I’d done my job. I like contact sports. I guess I’ve been lucky with injuries – nothing in rugby and just broken hands and thumbs in kickboxing. When I broke my thumb in a fight in Coventry I’d gone five rounds, but it wasn’t until four days later that my girlfriend noticed the palm of my hand had gone black. I went up to the hospital where they told me I’d broken two bones in my thumb.)

  I never saw the effect all this was having on my family because I wasn’t seeing the kids. The missus and me were always arguing because I was focused totally on this fight. Then came the bombshell: she wanted to split up after another argument, so I moved out and ended up sleeping on my mate’s settee. I couldn’t see my son and I still had this big fight looming; my head was becoming messed up.

  In the middle of all this, I went to watch an Ian Freeman fight at the NEC and was sitting in the audience when I was approached by a guy who said he was from ZigZag Productions: ‘We know all about you and we really want to do a documentary on you.’

  ‘Who, me?’

  So now I’ve agreed to do this documentary while still training for my last big fight, in a situation where I’ve moved out of the house and I’m going through shit with my now ex-missus. I’ve always had more than one girl on the go at a time: I was probably seeing five or six girls, but I was going through loads of shit with Lucy, I couldn’t see my kids and I ended up in trouble with the police again over her. Lucy had given me a nice little son, Kye – that’s the one on the Danny Dyer documentary with the curly hair, who’s now eight years old. (I also have another son, Tyler, who’s nearly eight.) I ended up with Lucy but we didn’t get married, I just lived with her for about five or six years. Things didn’t work out right – I ended up catching her out as well and got in trouble with the police for what I did to her. I hammered her. I ended up in court for that one.

  Domestic problems – no matter how big you are, man, they’ll get you! As they say, a small axe will chop down a big tree. That’s what was happening.

  I was getting no sleep, I was taking too much on and I wasn’t dealing with it all; one thing was leading to another. I was now some three or four weeks from the fight and clearly not coping, so I went to the doctor who put me on antidepressants and sleeping tablets. I was starting to lose it; I was sleeping on a mate’s settee and things like that.

  DEV

  You could see it was getting to him, and the way he was going on I could actually see that perhaps he was going to end up doing something he would regret. So obviously I had to sit down with him and have a good chat about life and things: ‘You’ve done all this, look at what you’ve achieved, why do you wanna throw it all away? At this moment, you can do something about it.’ I think it was more about those things that were going on: he had to take a look at what he was doing, a look at himself. Then there was the situation with Lucy: ‘You’ve got your kids – how can you throw all that away as well?’ I think he listened.

  That was the second one where I gave evidence and there was another funny incident: Barrington was back behind bars and I went to see him, chatting about things. And he started telling me the truth about things that had happened, telling me about all the bad things that I didn’t know he had done. There was a time when some guys had got locked up on the ferry from Holland. They’d found ganja. At this point, four years later, it’s like he’s confessing to all the things he’s done before they put him away: ‘Remember that time we were coming home? Remember that ganja that was found? That was mine.’ Maybe it was prison that was making him confess to all those things.

  Since I’ve known Dev, I’ve been through quite a few women – my wives and ex-girlfriends and people like that. So it wasn’t the first time I’d been in a situation where he’s helped me. I couldn’t go into a fight with a dangerous opponent in the frame of mind I was in; my preparation had to be right for a sport like this. So I pleaded with my missus, ‘Even if we ain’t getting on, let me back to sleep in my son’s room.’ I needed a bit of home comfort, to come home and see my kids. I’d given up my flat to move in with her, so if she said no it was back to my mate’s settee. But she said no, no, no.

  I went back to my trainer and simply said, ‘I can’t fight, I don’t want to fight. My head’s not there, it just ain’t gonna happen with me.’ I don’t think Dev was surprised by what I was confessing. I was taking the odd liberty too, and Dev had to pull me aside after one such liberty and tell me, in a fatherly fashion, that I couldn’t keep going on like this, with all these women doing my head in all the time. Things had got to the stage where I’d be training and sparring with people and be so pissed off and moody that I’d knock them out.

  The documentary we were making was being presented by the actor Danny Dyer. I told him, ‘I’ve got this last fight coming up,’ and he said they wanted to come to Holland and record it. I said, ‘My missus has now agreed we can come back to film at the house, but I’m still not allowed to bloody stay there!’

  About two weeks before the fight, I did manage to get back with her; she then asked to come and watch me. I said, ‘No. You knew how important this was to me; you knew how hard I’d have to prepare for this.’ I couldn’t have my head messed with again. But I was happy enough to be back in the house, to be around my son, my stepdaughter and my missus.

  And I knew deep down that I was hungry for it. I really wanted this fight; this was my chance to be a world champion. I’d always wanted to be a champion, no matter if it was kickboxing or karate or Mixed Martial Arts. I’d said to myself, Whenever I get to win the world title, that’s it for me: end of story, dream achieved.

  At Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport, there was an impressive crowd of people waiting as soon as I got off the plane. My fight had captured the imagination of the people – this was a big, big billing. He was one of Holland’s most famous fighters and he was coming out of retirement to fight me just as I was going into retirement.

  They booked a hotel in Rotterdam for me and all my friends from Coventry. Dev was flying over the next day, more friends were staying in Amsterdam and, from the calls we were getting, we knew that more were arriving later. So I said, ‘Fuck it, let’s all have a Friday night out in Amsterdam!’ We found a cool bar and it was nice; I sat back in my chair looking around the bar. All my important friends were there, smoking the weed, drinking, dancing, talking and just enjoying themselves. They’d all come to see me fight.

  Dev said be in bed by midnight, but I ended up staying in another hotel I’d checked myself into after sampling the Amsterdam nightlife. It was four in the morning before we all got back, then I had to go to Rotterdam in a few hours. Even then, more friends were arriving and texting me to ask me to join them, but I knew the night before had been enough for me. I was content in a nice hotel just a half-hour away from the venue. I went out for something to eat with my group of friends, checked back in the afternoon and tried out the big Jacuzzi before going back out on the port town that is Rotterdam. Then Dev turned up: ‘Barrington, make sure you’re in by 12 o’clock!’ Sorry, Dev, but this is my time. I never hit the bed until about four in the morning again. Hee, hee!

  When I woke up that Sunday morning, everything felt unreal. I had to remind myself I was fighting for the world title – to become what they billed as ‘King of the Rings’. I went down to have breakfast and went out for a walk. Then two o’clock struck and we were due at the stadium for half pas
t two.

  When I was taken to the fight venue, I was feeling on top. I’d never felt like this before. People were coming up to me all the time, shaking hands and asking for autographs in the build-up to the fight. It was to take place at the Ahoy, an indoor arena most famous for large-scale pop concerts. The show was sold out in advance, the place packed with thousands of people. It was even going to be shown live on the net. I was there in the middle of the afternoon and my fight was the top of the bill, so I was on a high with time on my hands, which I used to wander around the stadium and mingle with people. ‘Hey, Patterson!’ some of them would call out in recognition.

  I just couldn’t believe I was finally fighting Bob Schreiber. There were four other fighters in the changing room I was sharing, which was fully kitted out with fruit, food, water and even a TV – everything you might want. As I got warmed up, it seemed like everyone just stopped what they were doing and watched me. I had people walking in and out, saying something in Dutch that means ‘success’ or ‘good luck’. There were TV cameras there for the fight build-up, and the Danny Dyer film crew were filming every step I took for the documentary. I also had about 30 or 40 people come over from Coventry and Birmingham to watch the fight.

  Then came the time to walk down the stairs and make my big ring entrance. I thought I’d milk it for all its worth; it was my time. As ‘Walk like a Champion’ came on, it was time to do my strut behind my two dancing girls. Everyone was jumping out of their seats, making noise, and I was just lapping it all up. I had my Blues football shirt on and my dark glasses; as I got into the ring, the music stopped and it was his turn to come out – my opponent.

  The place erupted when he came out and did his little thing – but you can’t showboat a showboater! I can’t remember the music he came out to but it goes something like ‘Mother-fuckerrrs!’ and he came out with his hands up in the air. The crowd just went mad. We even had those small heater things with flames at the side. There were more than 20,000 people there at the Ahoy stadium, it was live on the Internet and live on TV. When he came out he was just electrifying.

  As we climbed into the ring and shook hands, the ref got into the middle and said, ‘Fighters get ready …’

  DEV

  Schreiber has got that way where he pulls both hands up in the air and stands there, and that look on his face is like Robbie Williams! I think Robbie Williams must have got it from him, because he holds his hands up, gives that look and just sort of turns slowly over to the side of the crowd. That’s him. But he’s a great fighter, he really is.

  Now it was time. I ran out into him – jab left leg – jab right leg – jab left leg again – and when I hit him with my right hand he stumbled. I thought, I ain’t going to make the mistake of rushing in to finish him off. Nah, I’m going to pace myself. I knew this Dutch legend was a durable guy and he could really bang. But at this stage I was more than pleased with myself as I was knocking him all over the place; I was giving him some big hits and keeping him on the back foot all the time.

  Fair play to him though, because at one time he had me on the ropes and was bashing me as I struggled to get away. So I stood off the ropes, looked at him and punched him straight back. Back he went and then I had him on the floor. I mounted him and started to pummel him with blows to end the first round.

  DEV

  Andre was in the corner with me when I remember saying to Barrington at the end of the third, ‘Why did you let him off?’ because he put him down and he could have finished him off. I was cursing him! I said, ‘You’ve done that before, Barrington – let somebody off when you got sleepy. It’s happened again! Why are you backing off?’ Because he had him out and he stood back. He has done that in a lot of fights – he’s had people going, and he’s just backed off. So in the second round that’s all I kept saying to him.

  In the second round, he had me up against the ropes and he was like BOOM! BOOM! and I had my head covered. And, all of a sudden, I just poked my head up and laughed at him, and hit him with a right hand!

  Then I let him off. I don’t know why – it’s just me. Maybe I want ’em to soak up some more punishment.

  I sat back down in my corner, Dev said to me, ‘Take yer time, man, you can beat this guy.’

  ‘It stands out a mile that I can beat this guy!’ I cut in.

  Then I went out for the second round and continued in the same manner as I finished the first. A couple of times he had me on the back foot until we stood facing each other, punching the shit out of one another. It was becoming a proper stand-up fight and the crowd were erupting as we traded blow for blow and kick for kick. I was spitting out blood through my gum shield; he had cuts and big bruises on his leg.

  In the third and final round, we continued our out-and-out war, banging each other to fuck. I was feeling grateful that I was in the best shape I’d been in for any fight.

  At the end of the round, Dev said, ‘You’ve got it, you’ve got it!’ I just thought, Dev, you’re not remembering that most times, in order to beat these guys on their own patch, you’ve got to knock the mothers out.

  We stood out in the centre of the ring as the ref announced, ‘The winner, Barrington “Zulu” Patterson!’

  I fell down on my knees screaming, ‘YES!’ I’d finally done it; I’d got my belt and I couldn’t wait to put it around my waist when they announced me as World Champion. Bob gallantly said, ‘Well done and thanks for giving me the fight.’

  Dev was in the ring and all my other friends were climbing in. It was unreal, it just seemed like everyone was in there with me.

  ANDRE

  Baz and I have not only worked together but we also trained together; this involved punching each other in the face. Sparring regularly with Baz is great if you don’t mind an 18-stone guy trying to knock your head off or kicking you in the head and then fighting you on the floor. I used to train him on boxing skills for all his fights. I would sort out his striking and his fitness. Baz used to hate me at this point because I put him through hell to get him fit. I did his corner all over the world and I was there when he won the world MMA title against the legendry Bob Schreiber. What a fight! He beat him in his own backyard in Holland and that was the highlight of Barrington’s career. It was an honour to be there with him.

  When I sat back down in the changing room I was covered in blood. All of my mouth was bleeding and I had bruises everywhere, but, hey, I was 20,000 Euros better off and I was the World Champion. The cameras rolled on me and I said, ‘This is it: finished, Alpha–Omega, the beginning and the end.’ I’d finished on top.

  DEV

  They were both towards the end of their career. We had a rules meeting and ‘spinning back-fist’ was banned – it’s really dangerous, instead of hitting them with your fist you end up hitting them with your elbow in the forearm. It’s not only a knockout; it does a lot of damage. So we had a little set-to about that at the rules meeting and his wife – who’s a fighter as well, she’s probably as big as him – was the one who was arguing with us about it. I’ve looked at Schreiber and I’ve watched him fight. Some of the cleanest knockouts that I’ve ever seen are from Bob Schreiber. To go into a ring with a legend like that is something special – let alone to have beaten him.

  Two years before that, if they’d have said, ‘I want Barrington to fight him,’ I’d have said, ‘No way,’ because Barrington wasn’t experienced enough for Schreiber then. But I thought he had it at that time, and, although they say he came out of retirement, he didn’t look like a person who had retired. He looked in good shape. So to finish his career with that, you can’t ask for more. At the point when the fight was over, I thought to myself, You’ve won it. But it’s close and you’re on their turf, so you don’t know what to expect. But that is the thing that you can always talk about – when you even think about it you’ve got to smile. And I remember when Barrington got the decision: when I fought, in my fighting days, and won, I didn’t go parading, I’ve never been like that. Even when Barrington w
ins a lot of times I just go, ‘Yeah, well done’; you feel it inside, not externally. But when he beat Bob Schreiber, I just had to run across the ring. It was unbelievable.

  The promoter promised us an amount of expenses money – they gave us 50 per cent. The tickets hadn’t been cashed in because they were doing it through this ticketing machine: ‘We’ll sort it out when you go back tomorrow morning. Give us your bank details and we’ll post it.’ We are still waiting for it five years later. But if you’d have said to me, ‘The money or that win,’ we’d probably have said the win. So even though I’m a bit disappointed that they promised us this money but we’ve never had it, I’m still happy about it. Bob Schreiber is really principled, a nice guy, really likeable and an amazing fighter. Barrington is new to that sport really. But that guy’s been doing it a long time. That was a dream – actually standing in the ring with Schreiber on the other side, something I didn’t think I’d see. Who could ever, on my account, end up fighting somebody like that? The great thing about the Dutch is they like a good sportsperson; they will cheer you. That’s what I loved about going there.

  His cheeky wife, after I was declared the winner, came over to me and said, ‘This is our country,’ like she was expecting him to win on a hometown decision.

  But life is all about taking a risk. Coming from here and going to somebody else’s country and fighting ’em: when you see all those big boxing shows and you see those 20,000 people, you think, I’ve been in that situation myself. And when you come out and you see so many people cheering you, even in a foreign country, you just go to another planet. But even when I’d lost the fight, the Dutch were cheering for me to come back again. Because I wasn’t just a fighter, I was a good showman as well.