Ringside: The story of Tricia Turton and her quest for a world title

For many Americans ... boxing is simply barbarism. Americans love violence, but only if it retains a synthetic quality, a stylized irony perfected by Quentin Tarantino. In boxing, violence lies beyond the consolations of irony. As Joe Louis once said, "You can run but you can't hide." So we seek ways to laugh it off. Pro wrestling is the perfect substitute. It has long since eclipsed boxing in popularity. No wonder then, that boxing increasingly resembles wrestling in its sleazy promotions and the tasteless posturing of the fighters -- a far cry from the stoics of an earlier age."

-- Paul Beston, "Souring on the Sweet Science"

ROUND 1

I met Tricia Turton a few months back thanks largely to an affable waiter at Chang's Mongolian Grill in Renton. The waiter's name is Neil Stephens; he's also a heavyweight boxer with a record of 10-10. He says it should be 14-6 -- that he was "burgled" more than once. Judged solely by the feints and jabs issued while juggling my dishes, I lean toward the 14-6.

Stephens waxed poetic about some woman named Trish who fought for the George Credit Boxing Gym -- how she was going to set the world of women's professional boxing on fire. Stephens says he can hook me up so I can watch her spar with men and meet her manager, Sam DiTusa.

We arranged to meet at 6:30 a.m. on a bleak strip of Rainier Avenue North in front of an abandoned post office. Is this a hoax? Stephens takes me around back to a small warehouse. A hand-lettered sign pasted to a metal door reads, "GEORGE CREDIT BOXING GYM". The "T" in CREDIT is upside down.

Nice touch.

ROUND 2

It is toasty inside, though the ceiling leaks in several places. The walls are made of porous block. Everything revolves around a 16-by-16 professional boxing ring. Polka dots of dried blood spatter the canvas. Punching bags lie everywhere -- an uppercut bag with multiple lacerations, a double bag for the old one-two, several speed bags already in wockita-wockita mode and a gargantuan body bag suspended by a chain thick enough to anchor the Queen Mary.

When properly struck, the links of the chain groan in appreciation.

By 7 a.m. I have met Tim "The Hebrew Hammer" Pullen (who once sparred with Mike Tyson for thousands of bucks a week); shaken paws with David "Total Action" Jackson and in the far corner spotted Luis "El Lobo" Lopez from a photo on the wall where his face appears to have been tenderized with the business end of a snow shovel.

In the picture one eye is swollen shut and his ears look like mutant strains of cauliflower doused with ketchup. He was the one holding a title belt, though. He's the one still standing.

Where was Tricia Turton? Where was this woman who will challenge undefeated Mary Jo Sanders (20-0) tonight in Detroit for the junior middleweight championship of the world, this wonder woman who loves animals and teaches children as young as 3 to defend themselves?

I meet her manager; DiTusa looks like he just stepped off the set of "The Sopranos." He is a detective for the Seattle Police Department. He is a literate man who writes about boxing. DiTusa assembles the group of boxers and says, "This is the gentleman from the newspaper." The boxers shrug and stare down at their gloves -- all except one. One figure in front of me glares back with intensity, eyes never leaving mine. When she takes off the head gear, I realize it is Tricia Turton. She removes a boxing glove and stoically shakes my hand. Her eyes bore into me.

This is awkward. The night previous I had jotted down some appropriate questions: Do women wear breast protectors when they fight? Why do you spar with men? What motivates you to fight for the world title?

Nothing comes. More silence -- the eyes have me cornered. This is going to be much harder than I thought. I rally. I fight back. I have heart too, baby -- I beat up Roy Stevens in the sixth grade. Unanimous decision, Lake City Grade School, 1961. I got roots, too -- I shook Max Baer's hand in an airport when I was 6.

I dig deep. I stare back eyeball to eyeball.

"You spar almost exclusively with men," I growl between clenched teeth.

"Yeah" she says.

"Ever knock a guy out?"

In a blur Turton whacks me three times on the schnoz. "Not yet," she grins. She brushes by me like a queen late for coronation and climbs through the ropes.

ROUND 3

I arrange to meet with Turton at her home in Skyway. This time I have done my homework. I know she was a boxing instructor at Cappy's Gym near Garfield High School and tutored children from age 3 to 16 who wanted to learn how to box. I know she was a standout on a women's national rugby team that placed second in the world. I know about her rough childhood and the fact she worked nights at a nursing home to support her day job as a high school student. I know she loved cats and dogs and kids.

I was unprepared for the chickens.

I am introduced to her dog, rescued from an animal shelter in Colorado. I meet Gus the gray tabby and the free-range Rhode Island Reds named Matilda, Henrietta, Beulah, Mary Anne and so forth.

If you ignore the poultry, Turton lives a Spartan life. The house is neat as a pin and squeaky clean. We arrange two plastic chairs on the patio and bask in the noonday sun.

When you get past the eyes, Turton is soft and spacious inside. All of 5 feet, 5 inches tall with "monkey arms," she began fighting at 180 pounds but now fights at a sculpted 150.

"Boxing saved my behind," she says quietly. "My dad took me out of a bad scene with my mother when I was 3. You wonder what I can teach young kids about boxing? I can teach them focus and awareness of body. I can talk to them about choices. It's not babysitting.

"My life is pretty regimented. I get up at 4:30. I teach a fitness class at 6:15. I run on the track and spar with the men. I walk the dog, grab a bite to eat, give private instruction and watch the fights on TV until I can't stay awake. I don't take time off. I want the world title. It's that simple.

"My manager Sam? He's a story all by himself. He's my Italian connection -- my mother was Italian. Italians, we're fiery, stubborn, direct -- hard-nosed, maybe -- but loyal. And passionate. Sam, George and me -- we don't lack passion."

We shake hands when we part but the formality is behind us. Shyly, she gives me four eggs from her hen house as a gift. They taste wonderful.

ROUND 4, 5 AND SO ON

The first time I see her fight is at the sold-out Northern Lights Casino in Anacortes. The six-bout card features three fighters from the George Credit boxing emporium.

First in the ring is Luis "El Lobo" Lopez. His opponent is a rangy fighter with the unlikely moniker of Sheldon Callum. In the early rounds, Callum uses his superior reach to pepper Lopez with shots to the face. One blow slices his face. DiTusa points at his temple and then his belly and a light appears to go off inside Lopez and boom! Thwack! Bang! -- like a door slammed again and again by a kid who wants to irritate his mother, El Lobo goes to work on the body of Mr. Callum from California.

Body blows to the chest and sternum cause the nerve clusters of these areas to be pinched off. This prevents the diaphragm from operating properly, if at all. In the case of Callum, the "if at all" begins to apply and the fighter drops his guard trying to draw a breath.

It's useless.

The wolf is at the door.

THE LAST ROUND

The fight I'm here to see -- between Turton and Janae Archuleta -- isn't much of a contest. Credit and DiTusa hover over Turton between rounds like she is their only daughter.

"Don't follow her!" DiTusa shouts.

Turton obeys at first. Her defense is uncanny; Archuleta can't touch her.

"Take your time!" Credit screeches.

Turton tries but soon senses she can strike at will and wades into her opponent without mercy and doubles her up with combinations of punches that make me wince. Turton pins Archuleta on the ropes just above my seat. A spray of blood mixed with sweat stains my writing tablet.

Blood does not have the consistency or the color or the smell of ketchup. The color of blood is that of a red, red rose. Its consistency when mixed with sweat is like mist from an inland sea. The smell of blood is the smell of that sea.

The referee steps in and does his job.

In the post-fight interview, I ask Turton about her chance to become the champion of the world. "You become what you think you are," she says. In her eyes I see the flame of some pure fire.

The Sufi poet Rumi said, "Out beyond ideas of right doing and wrong doing there is a field. I'll meet you there." I say in the middle of that field is the ring of truth. Today, the ring of truth is the Palace of Auburn Hills, where the Detroit Pistons play and where Tricia Turton has journeyed in her quest for the championship.

Can the "sweet science" of boxing -- which is neither sweet nor scientific -- illustrate the virtues of humanity? Jack London and George Plimpton and Red Smith and A.J. Liebling all wrote something to that effect. You can look it up.

Boxing and literature in the same breath? That's right, sport. You gotta problem with that?

Larry Lee Palmer writes about boxing and horse racing for the P-I. He can be reached at larryleepal@aol.com.