I Heart St. George

I love St. George. I’m going to take the next few Saturdays to tell you a few reasons why.

I first visited St. George in 1989, when I came to fight one-hundred-and-nothing-pound Mike Kroff – a Hurricane resident and good friend – in the Washington County Fair. After I drove the 4 hours to get here, Mike wisely chickened out (work conflict, my eye). So, I was matched with a 278-pounder – who fortunately was S-L-O-W.

After that first fight (first-round knock out, thank you very much), the promoter – Jay Ence – and the ref – the great middle-weight champion Gene Fulmer – said I was a great fighter. Not knowing either of them at the time, I thought that meant I must be a great fighter. (And why not? I’d had plenty of post-Christmas and post-birthday fights, back in the days when parents would give a pair of boxing gloves as a present. “I call! I get the right hand this time!”).

Of course, it didn’t mean that at all. It meant that they needed a stiff to fight Utah Highway Patrolman Ken Broadhead, who’d just starched St. George cop Kevin Sullivan. (In one of those moments you’d like to get back, I consoled Mrs. Sullivan – who was a bit disturbed that her supine husband hadn’t opened his eyes or moved for a full minute – by saying, “It’s okay. I can see him breathing.” Take note, Mother Teresa). As an aside: Kevin probably could have been a good fighter; we’ll lay his defeat on his trainer – current SGPD Chief Deputy Russ Peck. So, Jay and Gene set up the fight for the next night.

(My brother likes to tell the story about our phone call that night. After I told him about Broadhead pasting Sullivan, I asked, “Can you REALLY get hurt boxing?” Him: “Sure. Minor cuts all the way up to killed.” Me: “Aw, man. This isn’t good.” Him: “You’re an idiot.”)

The next night, I climbed into the ring to fight Officer Broadhead.

Ref (Fulmer): “I want a clean fight.”

He checked our gloves, and asked, “Are you each wearing a cup?”

Me: “Aw, man.”

I climbed out of the ring and went into the fighters' shed (at the Hurricane VFW hall) – with my gloves taped on, mind you – grabbed my cup and walked up to some poor schlep who was warming up for his later fight. He saw me and quickly assessed the situation.

“No way, man. Find someone else.”

Well, though we’d never met before, and even though he didn’t so much as buy me dinner, he finally helped me ready myself for the fight. Soft hands, for a fighter.

Back in the ring. “Okay, Champ! I’m ready to go.”

About 0:02 into the first round I believe it was, though my memory is somewhat foggy for some reason, Broadhead caught me square on the nose. After the fight, some guy enthusiastically told me, “Dude! I was on the top row, and I had to wipe your blood off my camera lens!”

After the 3 rounds, the judges scored the fight 2-1 for Broadhead. One of the judges put me up for the night. He told me, “You know, I had one round for each of you, going into the third. And the third round was very close. But, in good conscience, I just couldn’t give the fight to someone covered with so much of his own blood.”

Obviously, this is a town where reason prevails.