Irvine Marriott becomes a site where men exchange blows instead of business cards.

By Marcia C. Smith
The Orange County Register

IRVINE - So far, the day's most violent exchange has occured between a knife wielding businessman in a double breasted suit and his single breast of chicken. With six bites, the man KO'd lunch. Then he turned to potential clients inside the Irvine Marriott ballroom with a sales pitch all about security gates.

On most weekdays, a company, social group or trade association comes to these John Wayne Airport-area conference center rooms for a meeting, convention or trade show.

But on six Thursdays a year, including Dece. 14th, a somewhat bizarre change takes place for the "Battle in the Ballroom."

The business center becomes a boxing arena for a long running fight series. "A lot of people see me out selling tickets during their meetings, and ask, 'Where's the fight?' and they're shocked when I tell them, 'Right here,'" says event promoter Roy Englebrecht, 61, of Newport Beach, standing out near the easel sign "Boxing Sold Out."

"We;ve got crews ready to the room in four hours for a 7:30 fight. You won't even recognise the place."

By 2 p.m., the briefcase-swingers leave the building and the ring builders arrive. The suits wing-tip out while fighters vanish inside makeshift dressing rooms to begin their event day rituals.

Yes, that's the former WBO junio lightweight world champ "Mighty" Mike Anchondo, of the night's main event, going into the Rancho Los Palmas Room inhabited earlier by the Allergan Global Eye Care marketing team.

"There's a real buzz through here on fight nights," says resident manager Diana Harrison, please to host the hotel's 12th consecutive sellout. "It's a strange sight to see the place change."

At 2:30 p.m., a red shirted hotel crew of eight rolls the banquet tabletops into storage. A woman vacuums. One man with his shoulders weighed down by coils of extension cord dodges a phalanx of workers dragging red cushioned chairs.

"Arranging the seats is the most time consuming part," Englebrecht says. All 1,412 chairs need to be positioned and locked together in rows, sections marked, rows lettered and seatbacks numbered with postage stamp sized stickers.

Just before 3 p.m., Englebrecht dashes out the hotel's side entrance. His 2,200-pound boxing ring is here, in pieces, some inside Johnny Flores' GMC pickup, the rest on a trailer built for a fishing boat.

"We made it," says Flores, 63, the owner of Masterbuilt Rings, feeling accomplished to have arrived without hitting traffic, another car or a flat-tire-causing nail. All have happened before on the 45 mile trip from Los Angeles.

Flores' four-man team has set up Englebrecht's 22-by-22=foot ring since welterweight Danny "Magic" Lopez won the first main event, Valentine's Day 1985. In 22 seasons, 30 current or former champions have traded blows with local up and comers such as John "The Fighting Lifeguard" Armijo of Huntington Beach.

"Shane Moseley was here in the early 90's," Englebrecht says.

Two men continue unloading the rest of the ring - the bright yellow ropes, the figher's stools, the corner cushions and the red funnel spittoons - while two others being constructing the ring at the center of the ballroom.

"Pop, you got the bolts?" shouts Flores' son, Troy, elbow deep in a bucket of turnbuckles. "Never mind."

It's 3:15 p.m. and the ring's 4-foot-tall red steel supports are scattered across the ballroom like the maze of pens that trap livestock at the Orange County Fair.

Passers-by curiously gaze inside after having seen "Battle of the Ballroom" along with "Altiris Security and Sushi Meeting" and the "White Cap Industries/Makita Hospitality Night" on the lobby's "Daily Events" calendar.

"Got any tickets?" a man asks Englebrecht, sitting behind the information desk turned ticket office.

"Sorry. Sold Out. Next fight's February 8."

But a few scalpers are working the lobby, furtively offering, "Tickets, tickets, anybody need tickets?"

By 6:30 p.m. the boxing arena is complete. Patrons clutching $25, $35 and $40 tickets pour through the hallway lined with $6 draft beers and $12 White Russians. Vendors hawk Muhammad Ali T-shirts, pirate DVDs of "Apocolypto" and "Borat," 2007 bikini calndars and a large selection of gold nugget boxing themed jewelery.

The night's 12 fighters are getting their knuckles wrapped inside their dressing rooms. They earn $1,000 for the four to six-round undercard bouts and $3,000 for the eight round main event.

Moonlighting boking announcer Mike Hart, a TV news reporter for an ABC affiliate in Bakersfield, checks his microphone and straightens the maroon tie of his tuxedo.

It's 7:34 when Hart steps between the ropes and stands on the Miller Lite logo at the center of the ring. All 18,000 watts of stage lights flood him as he welcomes the fight hungry audience to "six bouts of boxing sanctioned by the California State Athletic Commission."

"This is so exciting!" says Huntington Beach first time fight-goer Gloria Charrion, 65, beside husband Donald Jackson, 74.

Across the room, Orange County brothers Harrison Gale, 21, and Evan Hale, 16, rise in their seats to see above the hulking tattoed shoulders of a bald biker in a black leather Harley-Davidson vest.

A young woman in a black string bikini and black patent leather heels cirlces the ring, holding up the first round's cards and smiling through the catcalls. Clang! goes the fight bell, and 150-pounder Tony Tupia charges out of his corner, swinging at Michael Garcia, in his first pro fight.

Jab, jab, leather Everlast gloves pound on flesh. Blood drips from Garcia's brow. Clang! Clang! Clang!

The crowd shouts "Hit him again," "Punch his lights out!" "Take him down!" yelling, cursing between swills of beer.

And that's just the women.

Heidi Werstler, 39, of Huntington Beach stands with raised fists, screaming, "Pow!"

Three bouts into the night, the ballroom is a sauna, it's air thick with blood (thirst), sweat and stale beer. Boxers beaten, some bloodied and punch drunk, leave as gracious showmen.

In the end, La Puents's Anchando wears the championship belt - and a cut eye and bruised forehead from a head butt - after earning a unanuimous decision over Armando Cordoba.

By midnight, the arena is an abandoned battlefield, silent and strewn with empty bottles, cups and crumpled scorecards. The boxing ring is going north on the 405, and a crew is turning the boxing arena back into a ballroom.

Friday morning brings another round of business.