MOTHER’S PRIDE
In the sixth instalment of an ongoing series, Ian Probert sits down with 3-0 cruiserweight James Branch and his adoring mum, who reveals what it’s like watching her son ght for a living
IF I THOUGHT THERE WAS ANYBODY OUT THERE WHO COULD BEAT ME I WOULDN’T BOTHER ANY MORE”
WHAT’S it like being the mother of a professional boxer?
“It’s so hard to watch him in that ring. In the amateurs I loved watching him, but now I don’t like the cameras and I don’t like the pressure. As a mum that’s how I feel. And I know it’s part and parcel but it’s pressure that no one needs. The crowds… I just find it all overwhelming.”
I’m sitting in a bar in London’s Westfield shopping centre with cruiserweight prospect James Branch and his slightly nervous mother. The three of us nibble away at fish finger sandwiches, as Lindsay Branch tries to put into words how it feels to watch her son regularly put his life on the line.
“I don’t sit ringside,” she tells me. “I run around the whole place. I want to be there. And then I want to go home. I want to sit in the car. I want to hide my head. And then I think: ‘No! I’ve got to be there for him!’ As I was getting off the train at Canning Town for his first pro fight I could actually feel my knees knocking together. And I thought to myself, ‘I just can’t watch it’.”
Boxing has been a part of Lindsay’s life for as long as she can remember. Born in Ilford, Essex, she met James Branch Snr at school when she was just 12 years old. “I always knew he wanted to be a boxer,” she admits. “That’s all he used to talk about. He never used to come out with us because he was always training. Boxing was his life.”
Regular readers of this column will already know that Lindsay’s husband was himself a professional boxer. A highly rated amateur, James had only three professional fights before choosing to call it a day.
“I was sad for him when he stopped boxing because I knew that was his life,” says Lindsay. “He had it tough really. He had a lot of pressures and I don’t want our son having that. Because I do think pressure can bring you down. Trying to pay a mortgage… Trying to do the training… And working at the same time.
“I think he got a bit disheartened with it. I don’t think he really looked after himself the way that we try and make James look after himself. Nowadays things are so much better.”
“And when James Jnr first picked up the gloves,” I ask, “did you think: ‘Here we go again?’”
“I did. But this time around I just thought, ‘I’m going to put my input into it all.’ And I did. All those years down the Repton, three nights a week, from four o’clock until sometimes nine o’clock at night. We put all this into it as a family, we’ve all got to get behind him 100 per cent.” Was James’ talent immediately obvious to you? “No. James was useless!” laughs Lindsay. “James was never going to be an athlete. He couldn’t even do the egg and spoon race!”
“I was last at everything,” agrees her son. “I had the winning mentality. I used to give everything but I used to cry my eyes out.”
And does Lindsay herself ever feel the urge to cry when she sits and watches other people hit her son, unable to do anything about it?
“When he was in the amateurs he was fighting 25-26-year-olds and I could just still see a baby in that ring,” she says. “I just thought: ‘What type of mum am I? This is brutal!’ I’m sitting here watching him in that ring. And James has got that style when he boxes with his hands down. He’s human – somebody’s going to get him one day. And I just say to him: ‘Don’t do it! Don’t do it! But he don’t listen.”
“You’re not going to like this,” I say. “But he will get beaten at some point.” “Of course he will.” “Marciano… Mayweather… Calzaghe… I’m already running out of boxers who are unbeaten now.”
“Why can’t I be up there with them?” interrupts James. “If I thought there was anybody out there who could beat me I wouldn’t bother any more. Some people do it because they love the sport, but I do it because I want to be the best. I miss out on everything. You can’t eat. I’m starving – I’ve hardly eaten anything in three days.”
“I think anybody who gets in that ring – not just James – as long as they get out healthy nothing matters,” agrees his mother. “James could become champion of the world or he could work in a supermarket for the rest of his life, but as long as you’ve got your health that’s all that matters.”
“When James lost in the amateurs, did you get upset?” I ask.
“Only once, when he was genuinely robbed,” says Lindsay. “It gets my blood boiling. It just makes you so disheartened, not only for James but for all the other kids and professionals. It’s so soul-destroying when you think you’ve won that fight and they haven’t given it to you. They train so hard and sacrifice everything. It’s a hard life.”
“What would you do as a mother if you saw him in the ring getting really hurt?”
“Well, I’ve got enough faith in his dad for his dad to know he’s not there to be hurt for people’s entertainment. Because you wouldn’t want to see that for anyone. I’ve sat and watched fights and I’ve been sitting there cringing at the telly. I’ve had to walk out, saying: ‘Please stop the fight!’ Where do you draw the line? It ends up affecting their brain.
“People want to see a knockout – I know that is the game. But as a mum. God forgive I would never jump in the ring. I sometimes can’t even tell you his name. I just go blank. My lips go numb, I feel like I’m going to faint. I’m trembling!”