"Dangerous" Dave Robinson	Boxer’s moves like poetry in motion Marty Gervais Windsor Star May 7, 2003 The tall, lanky kid hesitates at the doorway to the Border City Boxing Club on Drouillard Road. The harsh late afternoon sunlight silhouettes him. He has written a poem and reaches down into a knapsack to find it, at which point the boy’s coach, Josh Canty, snaps it away from him. “Let me read it!” he says. We stand there listening to the poem. The kid is 19, originally from Vancouver. He lolls about with some other boxers. The mirrors behind us display figures of other hopefuls who skip or stretch or do situps. The walls are plastered with newspaper clippings—the histories of the battles in the local boxing rings. The boy standing at the doorway listens to his coach intone the words of this incantational poem. It’s a good one. Clever. Optimistic. Idealistic. Shades of Ali: “Train like an ox/ fight like a fox…” Just moments before, these two—Dave Robinson, an Essex District High School Grade 12 student, and Canty, his mentor and coach, a Riverside Secondary School English teacher—had been in the ring sparring. Dave chased Canty all about, but the wily coach, who at 16 won the Canadian junior championship, faked him out and got in a few sucker punches. Lucky shots, shrugged a smiling Dave, shaking off the stingers. He then slammed his 29-year-old coach into the corner like a piece of forgotten furniture. By the time the sparring was done, Canty was covered in sweat and Dave was fresh and gangly as a magnolia in the spring. I like watching Josh work with these kids. He’s all energy. His words feed their young minds like adrenaline. He’s their conscience. Keeps them on track. Never lets up on his praise of these boys. Knows their strengths. Knows what they’re all about. Knows when they’re going to triumph. Knows, too, when they’re going to fall down, and watches out for them. Josh coached the legendary Margaret Sidoroff and helped her to three world championships. He’s now married to her. Their three-month-old Miranda is always at his side or propped up at ringside to watch him spar with his students. Suspended from hockey This is home for Josh, and this new kid on the block, Davey-Rob as they call him. A hockey player turned boxer. As Josh will tell you, Davey-Rob was suspended from hockey with his Essex High School team after he practically took on the entire opposing team. Apparently, the bodies were flying left and right. “He still punches like a hockey player and we’re working on that—shaping him,” says Josh, who is hopeful that Dave will turn into a disciplined boxer. “He’s getting better,” says Josh cautiously. “So is his poetry.” As a matter of fact, he’s getting help from Essex High English teacher, and published poet, Dorothy Mahoney. A few days later, I see Dave again. This time at Essex. He’s the main event in a Border City Boxing Club-sponsored weekend fight. A record of 32 and 8, and isn’t as nervous as the heavyweight fighter I noticed just before Dave’s fight. This fellow was in the hallway slamming the concrete walls with his gloves. When it was Dave’s turn to step into the ring, the gymnasium exploded in cheers for this golly-gee teenage fighter. He luxuriated in the adulation, raising his red gloves high above him as if he had already won. Yet there wasn’t a hint of arrogance in that youthful stride. He was veritably giddy, and happy his buddies had come out. Win or lose. Canty beamed from the corner. Within a second of the bell ringing, I saw Dave leap from his corner like a pit bull ready for the kill. He drove the Toronto boxer straight across the ring—his gangly arms, whaling away at the perplexed pugilist, never giving his opponent a chance to strike back. Dave’s fists battered him like bombs. Blow after blow. Blow after blow. In a strange sort of way—believe it or not—his rhythm was like that of the poem: Incantational lines repeating themselves. Iambic bombs. Convincing victory. Canty sat back, arms crossed over his chest, a face full of bemusement. Like a proud dad, he couldn’t keep his eyes off his boy, whose arms wouldn’t halt this ferocious barrage. There was the look on Canty’s face that said, “I don’t need to tell this boy anything!” True enough. That night, the kid’s hands were poetry in motion.”
Border City Home Coaches Boxers Hall of Fame Results Links Boxing Trivia Contact Copyright Š2003 Rebecca Canty All rights reserved.

"Dangerous"

Dave Robinson

Boxer’s moves like poetry in motion

Windsor Star

May 7, 2003

The tall, lanky kid hesitates at the doorway to the Border City Boxing Club on Drouillard Road. The harsh late afternoon sunlight silhouettes him. He has written a poem and reaches down into a knapsack to find it, at which point the boy’s coach, Josh Canty, snaps it away from him.

“Let me read it!” he says.

We stand there listening to the poem. The kid is 19, originally from Vancouver. He lolls about with some other boxers. The mirrors behind us display figures of other hopefuls who skip or stretch or do situps. The walls are plastered with newspaper clippings—the histories of the battles in the local boxing rings.

The boy standing at the doorway listens to his coach intone the words of this incantational poem. It’s a good one. Clever. Optimistic. Idealistic.

Shades of Ali: “Train like an ox/ fight like a fox…”

Just moments before, these two—Dave Robinson, an Essex District High School Grade 12 student, and Canty, his mentor and coach, a Riverside Secondary School English teacher—had been in the ring sparring. Dave chased Canty all about, but the wily coach, who at 16 won the Canadian junior championship, faked him out and got in a few sucker punches. Lucky shots, shrugged a smiling Dave, shaking off the stingers. He then slammed his 29-year-old coach into the corner like a piece of forgotten furniture.

By the time the sparring was done, Canty was covered in sweat and Dave was fresh and gangly as a magnolia in the spring.

I like watching Josh work with these kids. He’s all energy. His words feed their young minds like adrenaline. He’s their conscience. Keeps them on track. Never lets up on his praise of these boys. Knows their strengths. Knows what they’re all about. Knows when they’re going to triumph. Knows, too, when they’re going to fall down, and watches out for them.

Josh coached the legendary Margaret Sidoroff and helped her to three world championships. He’s now married to her. Their three-month-old Miranda is always at his side or propped up at ringside to watch him spar with his students.

Suspended from hockey

This is home for Josh, and this new kid on the block, Davey-Rob as they call him.

A hockey player turned boxer.

As Josh will tell you, Davey-Rob was suspended from hockey with his Essex High School team after he practically took on the entire opposing team.

Apparently, the bodies were flying left and right.

“He still punches like a hockey player and we’re working on that—shaping him,” says Josh, who is hopeful that Dave will turn into a disciplined boxer.

“He’s getting better,” says Josh cautiously. “So is his poetry.”

As a matter of fact, he’s getting help from Essex High English teacher, and published poet, Dorothy Mahoney.

A few days later, I see Dave again. This time at Essex. He’s the main event in a Border City Boxing Club-sponsored weekend fight. A record of 32 and 8, and isn’t as nervous as the heavyweight fighter I noticed just before Dave’s fight. This fellow was in the hallway slamming the concrete walls with his gloves.

When it was Dave’s turn to step into the ring, the gymnasium exploded in cheers for this golly-gee teenage fighter. He luxuriated in the adulation, raising his red gloves high above him as if he had already won. Yet there wasn’t a hint of arrogance in that youthful stride. He was veritably giddy, and happy his buddies had come out. Win or lose.

Canty beamed from the corner.

Within a second of the bell ringing, I saw Dave leap from his corner like a pit bull ready for the kill. He drove the Toronto boxer straight across the ring—his gangly arms, whaling away at the perplexed pugilist, never giving his opponent a chance to strike back. Dave’s fists battered him like bombs. Blow after blow. Blow after blow. In a strange sort of way—believe it or not—his rhythm was like that of the poem: Incantational lines repeating themselves.

Iambic bombs. Convincing victory.

Canty sat back, arms crossed over his chest, a face full of bemusement. Like a proud dad, he couldn’t keep his eyes off his boy, whose arms wouldn’t halt this ferocious barrage.

There was the look on Canty’s face that said, “I don’t need to tell this boy anything!”

True enough. That night, the kid’s hands were poetry in motion.”

Border City Home Coaches Boxers Hall of Fame Results Links Boxing Trivia Contact

"Dangerous"

Dave Robinson

Copyright Š2003 Rebecca Canty All rights reserved.