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Chuck Palahniuk, the author of Fight Club, once said: "I just don't want to die without a few scars." He set about fulfilling that ambition by brawling indiscriminately in

bars around Portland, Oregon, with little consideration for his antagonists as he gathered the real-life bruises that informed his brilliant best-seller. It was a remark eerily echoed

recently by Andrew Flintoff's wife, Rachael. On learning that her cuddly husband wanted to have at least one fight as a professional heavyweight, she reckoned, "a couple of

bruises, quite nice, quite masculine" were a price worth paying for the adventure. Whether she feels the same way after Freddie has tasted the real thing we will learn after his boxing

debut, and perhaps farewell, in Manchester on Friday night. When we met a few years ago Palahniuk represented the very soul of this urge to drag up the neanderthal man that he said still

lurks in all of us. He had struggled to live up to the demands of his macho father, he revealed, so he started arguments and fights with strangers to find his inner man. But, although he had

done martial arts to keep fit, he did not try boxing, which is interesting. The discipline of the sport would have been too big a curb on the self-indulgence of his casual violence, I

suggested. He demurred. Flintoff is hoping those rules are his ultimate shield – yet getting into a ring with a referee in some ways takes more courage than fighting in the street because

the antagonists do not get to run away. They must take their licks. Also, they have a paid audience to satisfy and the performance anxiety can be just as nerve-shredding as any fear of pain

or humiliation. While the compulsion to share an experience known only to the few makes good fodder for amateur psychologists, so does the fact that comfort kills bravado, as Chuck

discovered when Fight Club was made into a successful movie, thus affording him enough bucks to calm down a little (although he still had his moments). Flintoff, who should not need the

money, might mull over a few of these thoughts while he sweats up before his debut as a fully paid-up fighting man against Richard Dawson – the finest heavyweight to leave Okmulgee,

Oklahoma, since, well, his father, Anthony Cooks, who rumbled modestly in the 80s and 90s for a 7-6 record (stopped twice). Dawson, 23, who has beaten two nondescript opponents, would seem

to be following in the family tradition – although employment alternatives might be limited in Okmulgee. So Flintoff will be either encouraged or apprehensive that his first opponent is a

hungry man with a thin CV. He could take comfort, meanwhile, from the fact he is not alone in abandoning one form of leather-hurling for another. His New Zealand soulmate, the untamed and

lately discarded New Zealand Test batsman Jesse Ryder, has dabbled with gloves; more ominously, so has Ryder's lesser known compatriot Kerry Walmsley, who had a rather more sensational

cameo appearance in the ring, against James Cracknell that resulted in a horrendous knockout for the Olympic rowing gold medallist. Monty Panesar attributes some of his recent Indian heroics

to pre-tour sparring in the considerable shadow of the unbeaten heavyweight Dillian "The Villain" Whyte. And Adam Hollioake, formerly of Surrey and England, can often be found in

an MMA cage in Australia these days, having boxed legitimately for a time. "I've had a couple of nice messages from Adam," Flintoff said. "He's been very

supportive." Some of this new love of fist-fighting can be put down to fashion. Conditioners and nutritionists have for a little while seen the benefits of the boxing lifestyle, if not

the actual boxing. Last February Glamorgan County Cricket Club employed the trainer Enzo Calzaghe to get players fit for the 2012 season. The success of the Great Britain Olympic team has

not hurt either, especially when the angelic faces of Nicola Adams and Natasha Jonas shone down from the podium. All of a sudden, boxing did not seem so ugly, so life-threatening. Want to

bet? ONCE WE WERE WARRIORS There was a time, long ago, when Flintoff's little fling in the ring would not have been such a big deal. After all it was the gloriously monikered Johnny

Won't Hit Today Douglas, who captained England at cricket a century or so ago and won one of Great Britain's first Olympic boxing gold medals, as a middleweight in 1908. His beaten

opponent in the final, the Australian Snowy Baker, alleged wrongly that the judge was JWHT's father. Then look at this list of characters from the world of arts, entertainment and

public life who have strayed into a boxing ring down the decades, some more convincingly than others: the writers George Bernard Shaw (who competed in the ABAs as a middleweight and mentored

Gene Tunney in a literary career of staggering pomposity) and Ernest Hemingway (a dreadful bully, as his fellow writer George Plimpton discovered when asked to spar bare-knuckled with him

in Havana); left-wing politicians Tommy Sheridan and John Prescott and, on the completely other side, Charlotte Leslie; actors and comedians Victor McLaglen (who fought Jack Johnson), Bob

Hope, Charlie Chaplin, Dean Martin, not Frank Sinatra (but his dad, who boxed as Marty O'Brien), Richard Pryor, Norman Wisdom, Charles Bronson, Roy Scheider, Ryan O'Neill, Errol

Flynn, Liam Neeson (an all-Ireland junior champion) and Jack Palance (whose real name was Palahniuk); singers Billy Joel, Terence Trent D'Arby, James Brown, Jackie Wilson and Kris

Kristofferson, who got a Blue at Oxford (as did the MP Colin Moynihan, for rowing and boxing); the dancer Michael Flatley (a Golden Gloves champion) and, infamously, the Kray twins and the

dictator Idi Amin. Most did it for a stab at glory. Some did it for a living. Others, like Flintoff, were curious and restless. With any luck the likeable lug will leave a bigger impact on

his bank account than on the canvas on Friday night. But he is in good hands. Barry McGuigan and his son Shane have fashioned a good right cross for Fred and the former world champion – who

tutored Daniel Day-Lewis for a year before his role in The Boxer, declaring, "He was good enough to fight as a pro" – has done a fine job moulding a facsimile of a fighter from the

remains of a hard-drinking retired fast bowler whose last scrap was at school. He is fitter than at any time in his cricket career. So, here they are: work done, Blarney spread, hopes

reasonably high and only Mr Dawson standing in the way, all 17st-plus of him. Flintoff has slimmed down to around 15st. At least there will be less of him to hit. THE REAL THING Meanwhile

David Price, a real heavyweight, one with legitimate hopes of winning a world title, defends his British and Commonwealth title on Friday night at Aintree Equestrian Centre, Liverpool,

against the ageless Matt Skelton. The bout, on a decent card, forms part of a two-city show on BoxNation. And on Saturday night in Belfast the unbeaten and physically reshaped Tyson Fury,

who, for a variety of reasons, did not take up his challenge of Price's titles, goes against the 33-year-old American Kevin Johnson in a non-title bout whose scheduled distance has not

been announced. Channel 5 are the broadcasters. The prize for Fury could be a shot at one of the Klitschkos, according to Fury's promoter, Mick Hennessy. One way or another it is a

strange weekend of fisticuffs, bringing together rival promoters and TV outlets in a whole melange of self-interest. That says a lot about the state of the business. Price should knock out

Skelton, Fury ought to get past Johnson – and the best of luck to Flintoff.