It’s a dirty job but, well, someone’s gotta do it

When I accepted Rick Welliver’s invitation to work in the corner for his comeback professional boxing match at Northern Quest Casino, I fully expected to get stuck with the non-glamorous grunt jobs.

Carry the spit bucket. Wash off the spitty mouthpiece. Towel spit off the canvas …

There’s an ocean of drool in the fight game.

However, being told to fetch Welliver’s red foam protective codpiece and then cart it back to the dressing room through a crowded gaming establishment redefines even a migrant worker’s concept of “starting at the bottom.”

A fighter can’t step into a ring unless he wears a padded cup. And thank God for that. Without a cup, a boxer would always be one south-of-the-border blow away from speaking in a permanent Mike Tyson squeak.

Welliver hadn’t fought in several years. Not owning a cup, he arranged to borrow one from his boxing brother, Dewey.

Twenty minutes before his Thursday night revenge match with Scott Lansdon, the palooka who KO’d him three years ago, Welliver was still cupless and beginning to fret.

Then like the cavalry in an old Western, the cup came riding in.

Dustin Kim, Welliver’s trainer, was busy taping the fighter’s hands. That left me to get it from the car parked in front of the casino.

You know, I think I did see this in the first “Rocky” movie. That scene where Rocky yells to his trainer, “Cup me, Mick. Cup me.”

“Oh, well,” I thought, “I’m sure the used groin gear will be in a brown paper bag.”

NOT!

Several gamblers looked up from their slot machines with wide eyes as I breezed passed them holding the testicular safety device as gingerly as if it were hazardous waste.

But a little humiliation is a small price to pay. Getting an insider’s look at the fight game has been a dream of mine.

One my cherished childhood memories is watching TV’s Friday Night Fights with my dad. I became a die-hard fan, reveling in the battles of ring warriors like Gene Fulmer and Sugar Ray Robinson.

I told Welliver as much when I met him several weeks ago. I wrote a column about how the 31-year-old had been given a house as part of a reality TV show hosted by Troy McClain, former Spokane resident and celebrity from Donald Trump’s “The Apprentice.”

During the interview Welliver mentioned his plan to return to the ring for one last hurrah. He regretted being badly out of shape for that loss and didn’t want it as the capper on his 19-pro-bout career.

“I’ve gotta get this behind me before I start a new year,” he said.

The underlings who help in a fighter’s corner are called “seconds.” I discovered this Thursday morning when I had to pay $15 and fill out a state form for a “seconds license.”

The form asked if I’d ever committed any felonies. No problem there. My crimes are all done through newsprint.

Shortly after Welliver made his 192-pound weight at the weigh-in, my duties began. I drove the fighter to get a haircut and to a sporting goods store to buy a rubber mouth guard.

A mouthpiece is as vital as a cup. It protects the fighter from losing teeth or getting the inside of his mouth sliced up.

So you can imagine the wave of dread that washed over me 30 seconds into the third round when I looked at my right hand.

I forgot to put the mouthpiece BACK IN HIS MOUTH.

I spent the rest of the round praying that Lansdon didn’t land any of the desperation bombs he kept lobbing.

I didn’t want to be the guy who gave Rick a new nickname: “Gums” Welliver.

Fortunately the fight gods were with us. Welliver pounded Lansdon into chopped liver, winning the four-rounder on a unanimous verdict.

I hope Welliver does retire with the victory. As for me, my license is good for a year. I’m 1-0 and looking for my next match.

But fighters be warned: If you ask me to carry your cup, it by gawd better have coffee in it.