Gritty old pugilistic palace still packs a punch : Boxing fans flock to the Blue Horizon for an evening of blood, sweat and brawling.

Fight night at the Blue Horizon, and the audience is reacting to the under card like a pack of hunting dogs scenting the kill. Boom! The first fight ends in a second-round TKO. Pow! Fight No. 2 is finis in Round 3. Smash! Fights No. 3 and No. 4 don’t last beyond their first rounds, which means more than 1,000 fans won’t get an opportunity to see what minuscule new costume the round-card girl is wearing.

As the crowd buzzes with excitement, featherweight David Toledo, straight from the mean streets of Paterson, N. J., steps into the ring. He’s young, he’s cocky, he sports a short pigtail and is wearing sequined pants that reach almost to his ankles. Shadow boxing and shuffling with all the elan he can muster, it’s obvious he’s spent his youth worshiping at the shrine of flamboyant former lightweight boxing champion Hector (Macho) Camacho.

An appreciative murmur of “Macho Man” rises from the audience. The fans recognize the kid’s style, because they’ve seen it before--probably many times. In the long history of the sweet science, the Blue Horizon is famous not only for attracting one of the most knowledgeable fight crowds around, but for being one of the last pure boxing clubs in the entire U.S. of A.

“It’s tradition. Ambience. This building talks to you,” says Big Mike Ware, a Blue Horizon regular. “The casinos drew all the big fighters away, so this is like a local tradition we’re trying to hold onto.”

Says Marvis Frazier, son of former heavyweight champ Joe Frazier: “Philadelphia is the capital of boxing, and when you come to the Blue Horizon, you’re in the White House.”

It sure doesn’t look like the White House. Built in the 1920s, the Blue Horizon is an old Moose hall that has been hosting boxing matches since the early 1960s. Located in a seedy neighborhood within walking distance of Temple University, the building is now owned by a church group--one half is used for religious purposes, while the upstairs auditorium/ballroom, which has a balcony and a stage, has become a pugilistic mecca.

The place doesn’t look like much--it’s just a big hall with a ring in the center and lots of folding metal chairs--but that’s not the point. The crowd is what makes the Horizon hum, and it’s something to see: every race, every social class, mingling and cheering for their favorites.

“We get the upscale millionaire lawyers, to the guy on the street corner, and everything in between,” says J. Russell Peltz, who’s been promoting Horizon matches since 1969. “It’s an old-time boxing atmosphere, blue collar boxing, where you see peer pressure for the fighters from their friends in the audience.”

The Blue Horizon is the kind of place where the ring announcer introduces fighters by mentioning the neighborhood they’re from. Where every seat is so close to the action you can hear the grunts as the boxers throw their punches, see the sweat and spit at close range, hear the referees giving the fighters instructions. It’s got a hard-core group of fans who know their sport inside and out--and are not afraid to voice their disapproval if they feel they’re not getting their money’s worth.

“These fans are really into boxing,” says referee Frank Cappuccino, a veteran of 43 world championship matches who’s here to ref tonight’s main event. “It’s a totally different audience from the kind you get when you’re at the casinos, and someone comps you with tickets.”

Becky O’Neill is at the center of this reunion-like atmosphere. She’s an elfin woman of indeterminate age who wears her hair in bunches, chain smokes and affects red satin jackets with the word “Korea” stitched on the back. Known as “K. O. Becky” because she once managed Joltin’ Jeff Chandler, a former bantamweight champ, O’Neill has her own ringside seat, where she holds court with a constant stream of fans, refs, writers and boxing hangers-on.

“It’s the club of the century,” she says of the Blue Horizon. “Your adrenaline goes up when you see the blood. At least it does for me.”

Not that there’s blood in the ring right now, but David Toledo is definitely piling up the points against his opponent. The crowd is into the fight, the most competitive of the night so far, offering plenty of vocal encouragement and applause when a good punch finds its target. Along one wall of the room, a handful of Latino kids, obviously part of Toledo’s entourage, are keeping up a rhythmic chant of “David! David!”

Toledo is grooving to all this, and starts playing to the audience. Juking, feinting with his chin, throwing off combinations with piston-like speed, he showboats for all he’s worth. It’s only the kid’s fifth pro fight, but he’s already been infected by those legendary Blue Horizon vibes.

“What’d I tell you?” says Ware, who’s obviously enjoying Toledo’s antics. “Is this the real deal, or what?”