Ballrooms, Yuppies, Boxing: Does That Make Sense?

I know what a lot of people say about boxing, that it appeals to the most base human instincts, that it’s an ignoble excuse for violence and that it’s generally in extremely poor taste.

Which, of course, is why my husband, my editor and I eagerly ventured ringside Monday night.

I mean, how down and dirty can one possibly get in the Grand Ballroom at the Irvine Marriott?

Maybe you’ve heard about this phenomenon. Yuppie boxing is what they call it, although, personally, I think the crowd in Irvine looked like it would be more at home with a Coors and “Roseanne” than with Perrier and “thirtysomething.”

Sure, there were several suits filled with Young Turk types, but mostly it was guys in patterned sweaters and jeans, a few of them shepherding dolled up female companions.

And speaking of the females--which, ahem, most everybody seemed to be doing--Heather and Lori were the ones in the sparkling string bikinis, spike heels, evening gloves, and really big smiles. They announced the upcoming rounds by walking, with a certain feeling, around the ring.

But, hey, I don’t mean to give the wrong impression. I mean, really, I was here to see the fights, maybe spot some raw talent before it starts doing things like marrying Robin Givens and crashing luxury cars and making millions off commercials.

So, let’s see. First up, Doug Esteban of Los Angeles vs. Javier Torres of Bell. Esteban wins it in a split decision after four rounds. Kinda dull.

James (The Phoenix) Rowe of Los Angeles and Fred Heath of San Diego take to the ring for Bout 2. First professional fight for both of them. They pussyfoot around for the first three rounds, then in the fourth, The Phoenix rises, knocking Freddy silly.

The crowd loves it. We all rise to our feet, propelled by our basest instincts. The Phoenix is declared winner by a knockout. He makes the sign of the cross.

Let me mention here that I happen to know something about boxing. Years ago, on my first paying job in journalism when I knew absolutely nothing about boxing, my editor sent me to cover a title bout, a Don King production.

This was in San Juan, Puerto Rico. There was none of this Grand Ballroom stuff.

This was a huge arena with concrete floors, packed with men, muggy, with the fighters in the stands competing for attention with the ones who were getting paid in the ring.

Everyone was smoking cigars. Seated ringside (with a telephone for calling in round-by-round descriptions), I was splattered with sweat every time a punch connected. I was forced to make friends fast.

But these are just fond memories. I’m in Irvine now. When I catch a guy trying to change my chair for his own, which he has soaked with beer, he apologizes.

Now I turn to my left, where my editor is sitting. He’s getting excited because we’ve got a local angle coming up next: Mike Samaza of Villa Park taking on David Conchola of East L.A.

“He’s undefeated in 27 fights!” my editor says with a gulp of Tecate.

Actually, Samaza’s weight is 127, but that’s how editors are, always going off half-cocked. Still, the fight’s not bad. Samaza slugs Conchola in the head and he’s down in Round 2.

Next up, Ernie Nava of Los Angeles vs. Mario Solorio, who’s from Michoacan, Mexico, and wears one of those gaudy charro hats into the ring.

Yet the Mexican laughs last. The fight’s stopped in the third round and Solorio wins on a technical knockout. Nava was getting a little bloody.

Finally, what we are supposed to be waiting for, the main event, for the California super featherweight title. It’s Benny (The Pit Bull) Lopez of Upland vs. Vicente Gonzalez of Bell.

They go all 12 rounds, a jab here and there, a few bear hugs and a lot of swiping at the air. The guys sitting behind me are yelling “Que le duela!” --Make it hurt!--over and over. The ones in front of me are talking, loudly, about Heather and Lori.

Then, it’s over. The Pit Bull wins the vacant title in a unanimous decision. Later the Pit Bull says, “It was no man’s land and I felt it.”

Hey, Pit, I know what you’re talking about. I felt it, too.

The crystal chandeliers, the imported beer, the tobacco-free air. I thought I knew something about boxing, but obviously the rules have changed.

Dianne Klein’s column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Klein by writing to her at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7406.