Almanac Boxing: When in doubt, stop the bout

 

 

I won the university championships. I won varsity champion. That’s champion of all the universities in Australia. I was good enough for my trainer to put me into the state titles. I advanced a couple of rounds. I never went into the semis. I never got that far. The closest I got was a quarterfinal against Swinger Hall. The one who I should’ve boxed like my trainer said to.

 

He was a stocky, nuggety fella. My trainer Andy Whittet said, Lou, you’re going to beat this guy as long as you keep on jabbing and following up with the right whenever you get a break. But you know what? I didn’t listen. All I can remember in that first round is after about 30 seconds the referee saying six, seven. I looked at my corner and they said stay down. I said there’s no way I’m getting up. I spoke to Swinger Hall later, and he said I surprised him by coming out swinging. He said we trained for you to box me. I said, yeah mate, anyway, you learn that way, don’t you.

 

• Doctor Lou Lewis in 2025, describing his loss as an amateur boxer in the 1971 state titles

 

Doctor Lou Lewis is 76. By his estimation, he has been the ringside doctor for more than 40,000 amateur and professional fights. Since the seventies, he presided over the health and wellbeing of thousands of fighters. From his ringside seat, he watched legends of Australian boxing win and lose championships. Recently, he retired as a doctor and from official ringside duties. Lou’s extraordinary career has been punctuated by a point of difference. The renowned fight doctor was once a fighter. While studying medicine at Sydney University, he had fifteen amateur fights. It gave him an inimitable perspective when he had to step onto the ring apron to examine a cut or assess a fighter who had been knocked down. Lou had felt the punches. He had been knocked down. He knew the dangers of boxing, and his experience ensured he always put fighters before the result. He coined a phrase – when in doubt, stop the bout, and never wavered from it.

 

At fifteen, Lou met a mate, Tony Rok, at the Sydney Royal Easter Show. Rok borrowed money to buy a can of soft drink and they stopped outside Jimmy Sharman’s Boxing marquee. ‘Come in here and see me fight,’ Rok said. ‘I’ll fix you up once I get my purse.’

 

When Rock took off to get a can of drink, Lou turned to his brother Alex. ‘Oh God, this poor guy’s going to get massacred,’ Lou said.

 

Inside the tent, Rok stood among those brave enough to fight. Lou figured Rok would’ve weighed about 50 kilograms, and he was matched against a taller, heavier opponent. As Lou and Alex watched on, the massacre eventuated, but at the end of the bout, it was Rok who held his hands aloft as the winner. ‘I learned more about fighting that day than anything else,’ Lou said. ‘It was really quite incredible.’

 

Lou admired Rok’s intestinal fortitude to fight, and a lifelong friendship was forged. A couple of years later, Rok was working at the Oxford Hotel in Sydney’s Taylor Square. Having graduated from the boxing troupe, Rok was training with the hotel bouncer. The manager offered Lou a job, and he ended up working at the Oxford Hotel for four years, every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. At eighteen, Rok turned professional, and Lou watched him fight a few times at Sydney Stadium.

 

Although Lou enjoyed watching a fight, he never thought of lacing up the gloves until his second year of medicine at Sydney University. Lou had a good relationship with his brother Alex, but occasionally as they were growing up, they would fight like most brothers. Not just verbally, but physically. While studying medicine at the University of New South Wales, Alex joined the university’s amateur boxing program.

 

‘I didn’t want to be left out,’ Lou said. ‘So I said I’m going to join the Sydney University Boxing Club. And that’s how I got into boxing.’

 

As the brothers trained, they both exhibited a natural affinity for boxing. A few months later, in 1969, Lou had a couple of amateur fights. A fraction short of six-foot, he described himself as tall and lanky. He competed in the light welterweight division, while Alex, who was shorter but heavier, fought as a welterweight. They never had a serious fight in the ring, but on several cards they fought exhibition bouts against each other and took it easy.

 

‘It was really quite an exciting time for us,’ Lou said. ‘Alex was more suited to brawling rather than me, who was more suited to boxing.’

 

Their trainer, Andy Whittet, ran a gym at the Cronulla Labour and Workingman’s Club and also trained fighters at the Sydney University Boxing Club. Whittet trained two professional fighters, Gary Dean, who won the New South Wales bantamweight title, and Greg Moroney, who won the Australian junior welterweight title. Whittet’s first love was amateur boxing.

 

After being stopped by Swinger Hall, Lou’s next fight was against a man called Yap. Held at an RSL club, Lou outboxed Yap, and recalled that he was barely hit. When Arthur Tunstall, a sport administrator and key figure in Australian boxing, announced the decision, Lou expected the victory. But Tunstall read out Yap’s name and the crowd started booing.

 

‘I thought what’s going on here?’ Lou recalls. ‘Even Yap’s corner was a bit stunned.’

 

Making his way across the ring, Lou told Arthur that the scorecards were wrong.

 

Tunstall shook his head. ‘Lou, you know he’s Japanese and he’s fighting in an RSL, so I thought it’d be good if he gets the decision.’

 

‘You can’t do that,’ Lou said. ‘First of all, he’s not Japanese, he’s Chinese. And secondly, never do that to a boxer.’

 

Tunstall merely shrugged.

 

‘When I become president of the boxing association, I’ll make sure that no referee ever scores on their own biases.’

 

Lou understands there are bad decisions in boxing, but still remains miffed that he was robbed of victory. ‘There’s bad results, but not a decision that was bad because they want to look good and not have a supposed Japanese man lose in an RSL club.’

 

Later that year, Lou went to Melbourne for the inter-varsity championships. His first opponent was eighteen, and had never had a fight. Worried, Lou approached the cornermen and asked why they were letting him debut in the championships. He’ll be okay was the reply. ‘Rather than pulling him out, I’ll fight him but I won’t hurt him,’ Lou said. ‘If you think it’s getting a bit carried away, throw in the towel.’

 

During the build-up to the championships, the boxers trained to fight six, two minute rounds. As the first round went on, Lou realised he was fighting three minute rounds. His opponent was younger and fitter. Realising he was losing, Lou stepped it up. Late in the round, he stopped the man with a body shot. After the fight, he sought out the timekeeper and asked why the rounds were three minutes.

 

‘They’re four, three-minute rounds,’ the timekeeper said.

 

‘’No they’re not,’ Lou said. ‘They’re six, two minute rounds.’

 

The timekeeper had a chat with the officials as Lou apologised to his opponent for hurting him. ‘I had no choice and I felt bad doing it,’ he said. ‘But what can you do? It would’ve meant no progressing.’

 

He fought his last amateur fight in 1973. Entering his fifth year of medicine, he couldn’t dedicate time for training, and ramped up the study. Of his fifteen amateur fights, he lost five, including a loss in his first bout. The Sydney University Boxing Club was small, and at the end of the year, most of them quit boxing to concentrate on study. ‘It was time for us all to quit,’ Lou said. ‘From a team of eight, it dropped to three and I think they had to rebuild it after a couple of years. We had two doctors, three doing law and one doing pharmacy in our boxing team.’

 

Lou didn’t give boxing much thought while he finished his degree and started working at his uncle’s surgery in Sydney. Getting involved in boxing again was an accident, literally.

 

 

 

Rebirth as the ringside doctor

 

In 1978, Lou had a minor crash while driving home from work. His car was taken to a panel beater, Charlie Gergen, and while he assessed the damage, Lou pointed at a poster of Tony Mundine on the wall. ‘Do you know that guy?’ Lou asked.

 

‘Of course,’ Gergen said. ‘I’m involved with him.’

 

‘I sparred with him a few years ago,’ Lou said.

 

‘You sparred with him?’

 

‘We went to his gym, the whole group of Sydney University boxers,’ Lou said. ‘And we sparred with Tony Mundine.’

 

‘I’m involved in boxing,’ Gergen said. ‘I’m having a party this Saturday with some boxers and I’d like you to come along because all the amateur officials will be there.’

 

Lou went to the party. Arthur Tunstall was there, who Lou hadn’t seen since the loss to Yap. Tunstall asked if Lou was a doctor.

 

‘I am,’ Lou said.

 

‘Would you like be a ringside doctor for a few of our shows?’ Tunstall’s eyebrows rose in hope.

 

Two weeks later, Lou officiated at his first show at the Balmain Leagues Club, and loved it. Word spread around about the former fighter who was now a doctor. Trainers and promoters began calling and asking him to officiate at their promotions.

 

‘There was a lot of boxing going on in those days,’ Lou said. ‘Because Charlie Gergen was involved with Tony Mundine, I did quite a few of Tony’s fights. Then it became more. I was doing amateur and professional shows. It was a very busy period.’

 

From his ringside seat, Lou watched intently. He understood boxing and knew a lot of the fighters, promoters and trainers. He wasn’t involved for glory, and found that officiating at fights provided a break from the daily routine of being a GP.

 

‘It was enjoyable because I was comfortable with the sport of boxing,’ Lou said. ‘I thought the doctors looked after me when I was boxing. Now it’s my turn to look after the boxers.’

 

As Lou became known as the ringside doctor, boxers would make appointments for their annual medical assessment. Fighters and trainers became Lou’s patients. They had families, and their aunties, cousins and friends became Lou’s patients. Quickly, his practise was based on connections to boxing.

 

Lou is aware that boxing is dangerous. As a doctor, he understand why the medical profession has called for boxing to be banned. Lou’s duty of care to his patients is to keep them healthy, and he dismissed concerns that as a doctor, he was presiding over a dangerous sport where the intent is to hurt your opponent.

 

 

 

‘People are going to fight no matter what,’ Lou said. ‘If you ban it, it goes underground. So you must have people there who know the game and ensure they fight under the rules. Have power to stop fights. I wasn’t advocating for boxing, but advocating for the boxer’s health.’

 

If Lou felt a fighter should retire on medical grounds, he could prevent them from continuing. Quietly advise them that it was over, for their health and wellbeing. He knew about head injuries, but felt rugby league in the seventies, eighties and nineties was much more violent and uncontrolled. Players routinely were concussed, or suffered broken facial bones from being belted. Rugby league was promoted as a team game, a great sport that built character, and the on-field violence was accepted as part of the game. Lou shudders at memories of players, back then, continuing to play while concussed.

 

‘No one is forced to box,’ he said. ‘The Australian Medical Association would be promoting rugby league and condemning boxing.’

 

The Australian Medical Association’s concerns about boxing is the intent to hurt the opponent through repeated blows to the head and body. Football doesn’t have that intent written into the rules, but it happened, and club doctors allowed players to return to the field despite the severity of a head knock. Lou rolled with the criticism, because his intent was on the health and safety of the fighter.

 

Many sports incur injuries to the body and head. Torn and strained muscles, broken bones and concussions can ruin careers. Lou recalls an article in a medical journal calling for the banning of boxing after the death of a fighter in Fiji. The same journal featured a study about two overseas footballers who died from playing football and players who became quadriplegics. Lou thought the bias against boxing was obvious.

 

Arthur Tunstall used to claim that rugby league would never be banned because doctors make too much money out of it. That includes club doctors, orthopaedic surgeons, physiotherapists and allied health professionals. Sport and medicine is big business. Lou believes boxing is no different, because it is a regulated sport.

 

‘What I say is if you’ve got two willing people to do it, it’s not violence,’ he said. ‘It’s controlled aggression. They’re fighting under rules. Most boxers respect each other.’

 

But fighting is different. One on one. Other sports, such as tennis, can be one on one. But boxing and martial arts don’t have racquets and balls. No teammates. And that intent to cause damage. Lou said boxing is heavily regulated, and in terms of injuries, they’re usually related to hands and the face.

 

‘Boxing is not very intensive in regards to injuries,’ Lou said. ‘Most fighters don’t get those big catastrophic injuries. They rarely get injuries to their legs, rarely get injuries to the neck. If they get stopped, they’re out for a month at least anyway.’

 

A knocked out boxer is subjected to scans, MRIs and other medical assessment. Boxing now is not like it once was. The focus in training is not on excessive sparring. Rather, it is about fitness, defensive technique and avoiding punches. Sparring partners are rarely obliterated in training now. The mindset has changed, but the basics haven’t. Fighter’s wear three sets of protective equipment, gloves, mouth guards and foul-proof protectors to protect the groin. Boxing gloves aren’t designed to protect an opponent’s face. They’re designed to protect a fighter’s hands. Boxing, obviously, is unarmed combat.

 

‘We have rules and regulations and you break those rules and regulations, then you’re out,’ Lou said. ‘You lose the fight or you’re banned from boxing. It’s a very disciplined sport.’

 

Lou is aware that people don’t like boxing. The sport is a throwback to a gladiatorial era, and despite the opposition, a big fight still draws huge crowds.

 

‘If you don’t like it, don’t watch it,’ Lou said. ‘A lot of people use boxing as a way to get rid of their aggression. They use boxing as a way out of their poverty.’

 

That is no different to many sports. People with a unique talent want to take it as far as they can. A successful boxer can travel the world. At amateur level, there’s funding for interstate travel. Many amateur boxers wouldn’t have a chance to travel due to their economic circumstances. But if they win a State title, they can travel all over Australia. Win an Australian title, and they fly to different countries.

 

‘It was a great thing for young people,’ Lou said of boxing. ‘And still is.’

 

 

          Medical examinations – almost by deception

 

For decades, Lou conducted annual medicals for almost every Sydney-based boxer. He would gently shake hands with a fighter. To be registered to fight, a professional and amateur boxers must get an annual medical examination and have blood tests for HIV, Hep B and C every six months.

 

On the day of a fight, a boxer has a pre-fight medical, which is basically a mini-physical examination. Lou would make sure they had no facial abrasions or injuries to their hands that could impact on their ability fight. Their blood pressure is checked. He looked into their eyes to make sure their pupils are reacting. He checked their face for swelling, any preexisting injuries or evidence of a fractured nose. He listened to their lungs to make sure there’s no infection or severe wheezing, and checked their skin for rashes that could indicate they’re carrying a bug. He felt their abdomen for muscle tone, and checked their reflexes. He watched how they walk to check their balance.

 

 

‘Most importantly, you’re talking to them,’ Lou said. ‘Just conversation. If they don’t sound okay, you then you ask a few questions. Like what their trainers name is and who are they training with.’

 

At the end of the medical, Lou had examined them from head to toe. The pre-fight medical is used the world over. International boxers who can’t speak English know what to expect. Trainers know what to expect. Anyone Lou felt was ill or carrying an injury was ruled out of fighting that night. It was almost like a physical by deception.

 

‘There’s a lot more in that physical than people realise,’ Lou said. ‘When you get more experience, you get more experienced at picking up very quickly, the subtle signs.’

 

Occasionally, Lou would frown when a fighter’s pupils didn’t react properly, but he was aware of Adie’s Pupil which is a condition people are born with where their eyes are chronically dilated. Fighter’s with Adie’s Pupil would produce documentation to show they have always had the condition.

 

‘I can honestly say there’s probably half a dozen people in forty years where I’ve had to say you don’t pass the pre-fight medical,’ Lou said. ‘And we’re dealing here with thousands of people over those forty years. It’s rare.’

 

 

When in doubt, stop the bout.

 

During a fight, there are injuries. Boxers fight through cuts, broken hand bones, broken noses, sprained wrists and muscle tears. Cuts around the eyes can be stinging, nagging injuries. The main issue from a cut isn’t scarring, but blood seeping into an eye and impeding a fighter’s vision. Generally, only the referee can stop a fight, but that doesn’t preclude a referee from listening to the doctor. From his ringside seat, Lou watched intently. A fighter taking too many punches without fighting back is obvious, but there are subtle differences that a referee might not notice. A fighter might be carrying his hands too low. He might lose balance and control of his legs.

 

Lou understands knockdowns. There are flash knockdowns, when a fighter gets up immediately and isn’t hurt. But if a fighter is seriously knocked down and wobbly on their feet, Lou would examine them at the end of the round.

 

‘I can’t think of any time I have not gone and checked on them,’ Lou said of fighters who have been knocked down. ‘Always check on them because you never know what’s going to happen to that person.’

 

In the corner between rounds, Lou would check the reaction of a fighter’s eyes. He’d ask a few questions. Do you know where you are? What round is it? What’s your name? What’s your birthday? Do you know who I am? While asking those questions, Lou would check their face for fractures.

 

‘If you think they’re okay, you let them go on,’ he said ‘But if there’s any doubt, you say, no referee, we’ve gotta call it off.’

 

He recalls a bout when a fighter was knocked down. At the end of the round, Lou examined him. The chief second was providing advice while the cornermen sponged the fighter’s face and neck. Lou knew the fighter, and knew he was concussed. The fighter was nodding his head at the instructions, but Lou told the referee to stop the fight.

 

‘He was actually out cold,’ Lou recalled.

 

The corner hadn’t noticed. The fighter was responding to their words on instinct alone. The bout was stopped, and Lou breathed a sigh of relief when he returned to his ringside seat.

 

‘That was the time my knowledge came in handy,’ he said. ‘Because he would have gone out there, unconscious and fighting and the disaster would have happened.’

 

Knockdowns and knockouts are an understandable stoppage, but the injury that causes the most consternation is the cut eye. Lou said cuts don’t always impair a fighter’s performance. Cuts don’t automatically result in a stoppage, because the cutman can stop most bleeds adequately between rounds. Most cuts occur on the eyebrow, or below the eye. Cutmen typically apply adrenaline solution by a swab to the cut, which constricts blood vessels and reduces bleeding. Some blend adrenaline solution with Vaseline to reduce friction, seal cuts, and prolong its effect during the following rounds. But no matter how skilled a cutman is, a bad cut will continue to bleed.

 

Cuts that impede the boxers vision, where blood leaks into his eye, reduces their ability to see punches and defend themselves. A big cut might not necessarily be an issue, but a small cut may be in a terrible position, like on an eyelid.

 

When Lou inspected cuts, he made multiple assessments. Will it impede their performance and their vision. Will it increase in size. Is it bleeding uncontrollably.  Is the cutman controlling it.

 

‘If it gets worse and the boxer’s performance is starting to be hindered, then you stop it,’ Lou said. ‘That’s something you learn from experience.’

 

Lou recalls a bout where the fighter had four cuts around the eye, but none were affecting his vision or bleeding into the eye. That fight continued. Bad cuts, where another punch could split the eyebrow or cheek require a judgement call. Lou would inspect those cuts closely and call the referee over. ‘It’s pretty bad now,’ Lou would say. ‘I can’t even let the corner have a look at it because if he has one more punch, you can see it’s gonna take the eyelid off.’

 

And the referee would stop the fight.

 

 

Lou didn’t just inspect cuts in the corner. Between rounds, the cutman cleans up the wound, rinses the eyes and the fighter will say they can see. But when the next round starts, Lou could see that the fighter is wiping blood from his eyes. He would step up to the ring apron, get the referee’s attention and inspect the cut mid-round. If the eye was impacted by blood, Lou would tell the referee to stop the fight.

 

‘You’ve gotta actually see it while it’s happening,’ Lou said of his mid-round intervention. ‘There’s no use just going to see it in the corner.’

 

When Lou first started, he was the only ringside doctor. He learned on his feet and used his medical training. Years later, there were often two doctors at every promotion. They could confer, and it took the pressure off Lou, when he might have wondered if he was right or wrong to stop a fight.

 

‘Having a second pair of eyes helps,’ Lou said. ‘My brother and I did it for years. If boxers feel comfortable with you as a doctor, they know you’re an ex fighter, and they know you’re not going to stop the fight unless it’s for their health and wellbeing.’

 

Lou was paid by promoters to be ringside, but remained neutral. He was there to look after fighters, and didn’t care if the promoter stood to lose money. He wasn’t going to risk a fighter’s health, and no promoter ever tried to sway his judgement. ‘Because they trust you as a doctor,’ Lou said. ‘I’ve stressed that to other doctors coming through the ranks. You’ve got to think of the boxers health at all times. And there’s no way in the world promoters want to see anything bad happening in their show.’

 

Lou never wavered from his duty of care to the fighters. He was renowned as a skilled ringside physician. Most fighters understood when Lou stopped a bout, because he had to. But there were times when he stopped a fight because of a cut, and sections of the crowd booed him. The couldn’t see the danger up close like Lou could. Between bouts, when the boos died down, people in the crowd would ask Lou how bad the cut was. Bad enough to stop the fight, Lou would say. And those people would understand. Mostly, the crowd trusted Lou, and knew he was protecting the fighter. ‘When they’re booing you, that’s part of them letting off steam,’ Lou said. ‘But it’s not their life that’s at risk.’

 

Due to the immense disappointment, fighters never thanked Lou in the ring when he stopped a fight. But occasionally, years later, fighters have sought Lou out, offering thanks. ‘I’ve had many boxers say you looked after me when I was boxing,’ Lou said. ‘And they’re quite happy about that.’

 

 

          Nil enjoyment at ringside

 

 

At ringside, Lou watched every moment of the fight, his eyes darting between the boxers. He never talked or turned around, because he didn’t want to miss a moment where a fighter might take a heavy shot, get cut or hit the canvas. ‘You don’t take your eyes off the fighters,’ he said. ‘You’re observing them all the time.’

 

Lou was on edge during every bout. He loved boxing, and on a superficial level, might’ve enjoyed a fight, but after it was over, the action became a blur. His concentration didn’t allow him to absorb the fight. ‘I wouldn’t know what the fight was like until I saw it later,’ Lou said. ‘It’s quite incredible.’

 

From Lou’s point of view, the best fight is the dullest fight for the crowd. He enjoyed boring fights because he didn’t have to do anything. When he was the Australian doctor for the Sydney Olympics, most of the fights were boring. No one got hurt, knocked down or cut. ‘Those ones you can enjoy,’ he said. ‘From a doctor’s point of view during an exciting fight, you’re looking at it with trepidation, thinking, what’s going to happen? When it does happen, that’s where you turn into that professional who knows exactly what to do.’

 

Lou treated thousands of cuts during his career. Between fights, he would apply steri-strips to a cut. At the end of the promotion, if a fighter needed stitches, Lou would stitch them up. Occasionally, a fighter would take off to a hospital or clinic for stitches if they didn’t want to wait for the last bout to finish. For Lou, his job usually wasn’t over until the crowd had left or retreated to the bar. He would inspect the cut, see if the steri-strips had closed it and wish the fighter well. Often, it would be hours after the last bout before he was able to return to the hotel or go home.

 

 

          Looking back

 

Lou recalls examining an amateur boxer before his debut fight. The boxer was visibly nervous and worried. His mates were in the crowd, and the boxer worried about letting them down. ‘You’re not going to let anybody down,’ Lou said. ‘The fact that you’re in here right now having your medical and getting in that ring is what most of that audience would love to do. But they can’t. They don’t have the guts.’

 

The boxer sucked a deep breath.

 

‘You’ve joined a pretty unique club,’ Lou said. ‘Of the one percent of people who actually box.’

 

The boxer smiled, and his nerves were settled.

 

One of Lou’s favourite moments was when Tony Mundine fought Bunny Johnson in 1981 on the Gold Coast. In the 10th round, Mundine landed a big punch and knocked Johnson out. ‘Even though I was ringside doctor, I just jumped for joy,’ Lou said.

 

He loved Anthony Mundine promotions, particularly that Mundine was pitched as the bad guy. One of his favourite boxing characters was a Mexican – Hector Lopez. ‘He was supposed to be evil, one of the meanest men on the planet,’ Lou said. ‘He was one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet. He’d say, okay Doc, I’ve gotta go out now, and he put on a totally different face. People would say, God, look at that mean guy. He was an actor. It was great.’

 

In five decades, Lou met every famous Australian boxer, including Jeff Fenech, Danny Green, the Tszyu family, the Kelly brothers, the Rowsells and Mundines. ‘There’s so many of them,’ he said. ‘It’s been a glorious thing. I got to examine Muhammad Ali when he came out here. That would have been in the late 70s when he had to give an exhibition. Who else is going to say I actually examined Muhammad Ali? To me, that was the greatest thing in the world.’

 

Pictures of Lou at ringside, examining boxers or in posed shots hang on the walls at his house. Those photos are a fraction of the famous people he has met. He loved meeting them outside the ring and watching them fight. He enjoyed the theatre of boxing, the publicity machine, and said no one rivalled Anthony Mundine. ‘He was a self-perpetuating publicity machine,’ Lou said. ‘That, to me, was the greatest compliment I could ever give anybody.’ He recalls Mundine, after transitioning to boxing, telling journalists he dreamt about returning to rugby league. For three days, speculative stories in the media predicted which club would take him. ‘I said who else could generate that much publicity without actually going for publicity?’ Lou recalls.

 

Despite retiring as a doctor and from his ringside duties, Lou is the patron for the Veteran Boxers Association. He is on the board as medical director of the burgeoning bare knuckle boxing sport. He is involved to keep an interest. ‘And try and give a lot back to the sport,’ he said. ‘The sport gave me a lot and I want to give a lot back to it.’

 

 

 

He misses his ringside role, but admires the doctors who have taken his place. For years, he was on the Medical Commission for Boxing Australia and on the Boxing Authority of New South Wales, and was instrumental in establishing rules that made the sport safer for fighters, referees and judges. Crucially, he insisted that doctors needed the power to stop a fight, and the authorities recognised that power.

 

‘There comes a time for somebody else to take over,’ Lou said. ‘There’s no point in going on and not handing your role over to other people. I’ve been there, done that and I’m happy now for other people who in thirty years’ time will say the same.’

 

His career was without incident until the rematch between Danny Green and Anthony Mundine in 2017. As the referee separated the fighters midway through the first round, Mundine hit Green with a left hook, a cheap shot. Green, who hadn’t seen the punch, went down. Confusion reigned. The referee didn’t call a knockdown or disqualify Mundine for an illegal blow. Lou wasn’t the officiating doctor, but was the assistant. Stepping onto the ring apron, two doctors examined Green. Lou concluded that Green was concussed, but was overruled and the fight continued.

 

So he quit the fight on the spot.

 

After the fight, Green confessed that he didn’t know if he was ‘Arthur or Martha,’ but won a close decision. Lou felt the fight should’ve been stopped for Green’s wellbeing. ‘That was a low point,’ Lou said. ‘But you know what? I did what was right. Better stop the fight earlier than late. If in doubt, stop the bout. And the referee made an error in that fight.’

 

Rule changes in boxing regarding concussion slowly made their way into football. Concussion and repeated head trauma is now taken seriously by the AFL, the NRL and Rugby Union. Rules have changed to prevent head knocks, deliberate or not. Lou used to cringe when a concussed footballer returned to the field, and felt sorry for club doctors who were overruled. Now, doctors have the power to order a player to the bench. It is making the football codes safer. Lou believes the football codes were too slow in implementing a concussion rule.

 

Retirement has given Lou plenty of time to look back at his career in boxing. He is writing an autobiography about his five decades at ringside. He is unlikely to pull any punches…

 

 

 

 

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