vlad.tribnet.com / Issue #150 / Social life / Reading article...

Perhaps the Royal Park Casino is just trying to shed its notoriety as the spot where Mafia kingpin Anatoly Kovalev was gunned down by a lone assassin situated atop the casino rooftop. Whatever the reason, the three boxing matches it sponsored on September 11 made for an extremely classy and entertaining affair.

This was boxing presented in style: bright-colored outfits, bow-tied referees, and an immaculate new boxing ring set up above the dance floor. Once past the requisite twenty guards intimidating guests at the entrance, the place felt like a small, exclusive club that belonged on the Vegas strip.

It was clear that Royal Park organizers wanted to do this one right. Robed boxers entered the room to the sound of Queen’s “We Will Rock You,” preceded by girls waving multi-colored banners. Onlookers shouted encouragement and lambasted any faulty strategy. Each match was six rounds, and none of the fighters got so pounded to make them pitiful to watch.

Sure, there were a few telltale signs of heavy Russian influence. Between matches a Michael Bolton look-alike came out for a few cheesy sax solos, and young anorexics in ultra-hip outfits put on ridiculous dances to the latest techno tunes. A pair of ballet dancers looked a little awkward as they tried to dance in a space meant for choreography of a much more violent sort.

Still, it was all part of the fun. At least there weren’t Russian folk singers out there belting out praises of the balalaika. And rest assured —unlike some evenings at Royal Park, the performers remained fully clothed.

The boxers themselves were the biggest surprise. During the three matches they fought cleanly and with tenacity, delivered hard-hitting punches and drew applause and gasps from the crowd. They were sportsman-like and gracious, at least when not beating the stuffing out of each other. During their introductions to the audience, the young men were humble, even shy.

So where was the furious shadow-boxing? The testosterone-pumped arrogance? The ear-biting? Where were the sleazy betters and prowling prostitutes? I may be stretching it, but I think this event, at a place known better as a mob hang-out than a place to take the kids, could actually be called good, wholesome fun.