Freddie Roach’s Wild Card Boxing Club is not a place for the claustrophobic. “It ain’t easy” declares the banner hung across one of the walls. It is a reference to the sweet science, no doubt, but it also serves as a judgment on the chances of swinging a medium-sized tabby on the premises without doing serious damage.
It is late afternoon in Los Angeles and it feels like the city is closing in on this first-floor room, above a dry cleaner’s. In one corner, fans, journalists and hangers-on gather around Manny Pacquiao, the world lightweight champion. In another, the British boxer Amir Khan skips, unnoticed. To his right a 60-year-old grandmother tries valiantly to touch her toes; to his left a middle-aged actor embarks on another set of sit-ups. Callow youths hit heavy bags, battered veterans go another round with the speed bags. The Wild Card is noisy, sweaty and oppressive, and its owner would not have it any other way
