Editorial: Rinsing Off The Mouthpiece

The Flyweight
by Lucius Shepard

    In southwestern Mexico there is a small town named Santander Jimenez.   During the early 70s it was a much smaller place than now, the most insignificant of dots on the map, a farming community with a few blocks of potholed streets and rundown stucco buildings, and a single motel--a one-story wooden structure painted green, topped by a tarpaper roof, and divided into six units.  At dusk groups of campesinos   could be seen walking into town, the men carrying rifles and machetes, their wives trailing behind , holding babies, all heading for the cantina or the movie theater or the plaza, where they would sit by the fountain in the accumulating dark and talk and drink
pulque   or burro  (unrefined rum) from bottles without labels.  When I went into the plaza to ask directions, I was greeted with hostility--it seemed that long-haired gringos were not held in high esteem--and I retreated to my van thinking that Santander Jimenez was a place where I wanted to spend as little time as possible.  It certainly was not the sort of place where I expected to see professional boxing, but on checking into the hotel I saw a poster
stapled to the office door advertising a six-bout card to be held that same night in the movie theater, featuring the light-heavyweight champion of Yucatan.  I also discovered that one of the rooms in the hotel was occupied by six fit-looking guys, some of whom looked to be about my age (I was 22)  and who were extremely solicitous of my
girlfriend.  They told her they were a boxing team and had traveled all the way from Merida to fight.  They invited her and--as an afterthought, me--to attend.

      The movie theater wasnąt much bigger than a theater in a multiplex.  A ring had been set up in the center of the place and about a hundred folding chairs arranged around it.  There werenąt any overhead lights; the only illumination came from the projection booth, so that as the boxers fought, huge indigo shadows of the combatants were cast onto the screen.  The bouts were all decent quality club fights, ranging from flyweight to light-heavy, and the guys from Merida held their own, even though some of them were in against much heavier opponents.  I was particularly impressed with the flyweight, a quick-handed boxer without much power, but with excellent movement and defensive skills that set him apart from the rest.  As the card progressed I realized that the six guys were all wearing the same pair of white trunks--I recognized the bloodstains--and that they only had one pair of shoes among them.   A smallish pair, apparently, as the two largest guys fought barefoot.

     The light-heavyweight champion of Yucatan was a man in his late twenties built along the lines of a Yaqui Lopez.  His stance was too straight-up, and he threw uppercuts from the outside, tendencies that would have gotten him into trouble with world class opposition.  But he was in with a teenager who couldnąt have been more than a junior middleweight:  a thick-waisted blond kid with a ruddy complexion that grew considerably ruddier over the eight round distance.  He absorbed dozens of power shots, but except for a reddened face and an
increasingly stubborn expression, he showed no effects and kept moving forward, whacking the champ with a wicked left hook to the body.  By the middle rounds the champ had lost much of his enthusiasm for the fray and he began to circle, snapping back the kidąs head with a jab.  But the kid kept on throwing the hook, walking through fire to unload it, his shadowy image on the screen appearing much more violent and menacing than he himself, and by the seventh round, heąd slowed his opponent to the point that he was now landing a nice straight right to the head as well.  The champion spent the eighth holding onto the back of the kidąs neck, while the kid flailed away at his liver, his hips, his kidneys, and whatever else fell to hand.  And when at the end of the round the championąs hand was raised, the crowd vented their displeasure with the decision by whistling and gesturing with their machetes.  My feeling was that while the kid had won the battle of wills, he had clearly been outpointed, and I soon found myself arguing the matter with some of the men who had met me with stony glares earlier that evening in the plaza, all of us engaging in a heated yet amicable round-by-round dissection of the bout. 

    Back at the hotel I fell into a conversation with the flyweight, who was named Miguel.  He was sporting a mouse under his right eye, but didnąt seem the worse for wear.  We talked about boxing, about Ali, Duran, Palomino, Napoles.   He was such a good-natured kid, always joking, smiling, I couldnąt imagine him making a living in the ring (I'd never talked to a professional fighter before and didnąt realize that most of them were quite different from their ring personas), and I asked what he planned to do with his life.  His smile vanished, he
fixed me with a gunslinger look and said he intended to become champion of the world.  

    I've always enjoyed watching Latin fighters.  I admire their aggression, their heart, the way they work the body.  But until that night at the movie theater in Santander Jimenez, watching the shadow of the light-heavyweight champion of the Yucatan being chased about a flyspecked screen by a smaller, quicker shadow with a mean left hook, I'd never understood anything about the obstacles the fighters I'd seen on TV had to overcome.  As I continued to travel around Mexico, I attended fights held in makeshift outdoor rings, in pits normally used for cockfights, in corrals, in every imaginable sort of venue.  I saw guys wearing bruises and cuts from recent fights go face-first at their unmarked opponents; I saw sixteen year old kids debuting against men with 20 fights; I saw other kids substitute for injured boxers despite having fought a bout earlier in the evening.  Part of the mystique attaching to Latin fighters was their toughness, and it was becoming clear how they got that way, and just how tough they had to be in order to claw their way out of the backwaters and make it to money fights in Mexico City and TJ and other such places, and--if they were really tough, really talented, and really lucky--to the States. 

    About a year after the fights in Santander Jimenez, when I was living in Merida, I was in a little ice cream shop on the plaza mayor,  when I spotted Miguel, the flyweight whom I'd watched in the movie theater, walking past.    I called out to him, and after an exchange of greetings, we grabbed a bench and talked for a while.  It was late
afternoon, and on the bandstand at the center of the plaza a brass band dressed in military uniforms were playing a woefully inept rendition of the William Tell Overture to an audience consisting of old men and shoeshine boys.  Pigeons were strafing the benches beneath the trees at the edge of the plazea where lethargic hippies relaxed in
the shade.  Pretty Mexican girls were walking in groups of three and four, taking their paseo,  ignoring the boys who called after them, but quite a few waved and smiled at Miguel--I began to have the idea that he was something of a big deal.  I asked how his boxing was going, and he said he had an important bout coming up with a   from Mexico City.

      The next couple of weeks, at Miguel's invitation, I spent a good deal of time at his gym.  He always acknowledged me with a grin, but we didn't talk much--he was intent upon his training.  The gym was not what I was used to in the States.  Much of the equipment was homemade.  Handsewn heavy bags.   Free weights consisting of axles to which lumps of iron had been welded.  But it was one serious boxing place.  From the old ex-fighters who kibitzed and gave advice to the trainers to the skinny-armed ten-year-olds who ran errands, everyone there was totally dedicated to the sport and to each other.  There was a unity of purpose among the people who frequented the gym, a much tighter bond than any I'd experienced in gyms back home--it brought to mind the intense loyalty displayed by members of those fictive martial arts schools depicted in Bruce Lee films.  At the moment the focus of all that intensity was Miguel.  It was plain that he was the hope of the place, the guy whom they thought might bring them glory and maybe even some money, and when he was sparring or working the speed bag, the old dozers on the benches would come alert and the other fighters would stop what they were doing, and you could feel the push of their wills urging him on.

      The fight was held late on a Saturday afternoon in the bull ring in Merida.  Chairs had been set up on the sand around the ring; they were all filled, and the bleachers, too, were packed.  By the time the main event started, the atmosphere had become electric, almost to the level of a bigtime title fight.   Miguel had improved a lot since Santander Jimenez.  For the first four rounds he dominated his opponent with his movement and quick combinations.   The crowd was on its feet, yelling and shaking their fists.  But then in the fifth he was headbutted and received a bad cut beneath the eyebrow.  His corner was able to deal with the bleeding between rounds, but the cut kept reopening, his opponent continued to use his head, and since Miguel didnąt have the pop to take the guy out, he was forced into an increasingly defensive posture.  As a result, he lost a close and controversial decision. 

    I didnąt see Miguel until a few days later.  His eye had been patched up, but he was otherwise unmarked--his opponent hadnąt done much damage with his gloves.  I thought he'd be depressed but he was strangely upbeat.  He said that his performance had proved he was capable of competing on a championship level.  And the controversial result?  He shrugged.  Politics, he said.  He hadn't expected to win a decision,  But people in Mexico City would hear what had happened, and he was confident that before long he'd be fighting in the capitol.  I wasn't so confident.  I figured Miguel was going to be another one of the hard luck kids I'd watched in boxing rings all over Mexico, and that his loss in the plaza del toros    was merely the first in a long line of bad breaks coming his way.  I was glad I wasn't going to be around to see it--I was due to head north in less than a month.  
   

    It occurs to me now that I shouldn't have been so concerned about Miguel, because I'd witnessed numerous instances of his determination and dedication.   I recall one night we were drinking on the benches in a small square near my apartment, hanging out with some guys Miguel knew who drove horse-drawn cabs.  It was the only time I ever saw him take a drink--he lived in shape;  but he was having woman trouble and was depressed.  It must have been about one oąclock in the morning when someone got the idea that if we drove over to his girlfriendąs house and serenaded her, all his problems would be solved.  Off we went, clopping along in one of the cabs, drunk on our asses.  By the time we reached the girlfriend's house Miguel had passed out, but his friends decided that we had to serenade her nevertheless.  None of them, however, could stay on-key.  Which is why I soon found myself leaning against the neck of a horse, holding onto it to steady myself, and signing a mangled solo version of "Guantamera" to a confused-looking girl standing in her nightgown behind the wrought-iron bars of her
bedroom window. 

    Miguel regained consciousness as we headed back toward the center of town; he seemed angry, and he insisted on being let off at the gym.  He pounded on the door until the old man who slept there opened up.  I
went inside with him, thinking I'd catch a few hours sleep and thus be better prepared to face the woman--doubtless an extremely angry woman--waiting for me at home.   I figured Miguel was thinking along
similar lines.  He went to take a shower.  I settled in a corner and dozed off.    Several hours later I was awakened by what proved to be shouts of effort.   Miguel was hanging from the chin-up bar by his knees, holding a large cement block to his chest, and doing sit-ups. 

    On my way out of town I stopped by the gym to say goodbye to Miguel.   He gave me an embrace, then shook my hand and said God willing we would meet again someday.  But God wasn't willing, apparently.  I never did see him again.   However, a few years later I did learn something about him.  I was in a hotel bar in Athens, the
other side of the world, when I spotted a boxing magazine that someone had left on the counter.  I thumbed through it and came to the page where all the champions and contenders were listed.  I'd been too busy to keep up with the sport for over a year, and I was curious to learn what changes had occurred.  When I looked at the lighter weight classes I was startled to discover that the flyweight who had cast a shadow on the movie screen in Santander Jimenez had come to cast a far more considerable shadow over his division.  Miguel Angel Canto had
become the WBC champion of the world.

By Rick Farris

In March of 1973,  Roberto Duran,  Lightweight Champion of the World, came to Los Angeles to fight Mexican champ Javiar Ayala in a ten round non-title fight.  The match was on the same card with the WBC Lightweight Championship bout between  title holder Rudolfo Gonzales and challenger Ruben Navarro.

Navarro and I were stablemates and would often spar together.  However,  for this match Ruben had a group of sparring partners whose styles were more like Gonzales than mine.  Two years previous, Ruben came close to upsetting then lightweight champ Ken Buchanan but lost a close decision.  This would be another opportunity to win a version of the world title and he was taking no chances. 

One day I arrived at the Main Street Gym shortly after Duran and Navarro had completed their workouts.  I talked to Ruben in the dressing room as I  laced up my boxing shoes.  That day,  Navarro had sparred with Duran and he seemed a little different than usual.

"This guy hits harder than anybody",  Navarro said.  "He hit me high on the forehead with a spent jab and it shook me all the way down my back to my toes".  I had known Ruben for quite a few years and never heard him express respect for another fighter as he was Duran.  It was almost as if he was intimidated,   not in a cowardly sense, but in a way that caught me off guard.  Navarro had fought and beaten some of the best lightweights and Jr. lightweights in the world during his career,  so I had to believe what he was saying.

A few days later,  I was in the gym at the same time as Duran and it was fascinating watching him train.  He skipped rope like nobody I'd ever seen,  including the great Sugar Ray Robinson.  Duran could do things with a jump rope that made for quite a show.  However,  the most entertaining of all (aside from his sparring) was watching Roberto hit the speed bag with his head.  I don't mean just banging it back and forth,  Duran could make the bag dance with his head as well as most boxers do with their hands.

However,  watching Duran spar was the real show.  In fact,  Duran didn't just spar,  he fought all out regardless of who he was in the ring with and it was common for a sparring partner to hit the canvas and be out cold.  When
Roberto would launch a body attack he'd fire vicious shots that would land with a thud.   He'd let out a "yelp" as the punch was delivered.  The high pitched noise coming from Duran's mouth would punctuate each blow and had an eerie effect.  I was impressed, to say the least, and privately thought to myself, "Glad I'm a featherweight and won't have to fight this guy".

Little did I know that my manager had been talking with Duran's trainer,  Freddie Brown,  and had agreed to let me spar with Duran.  It wasn't something I had a great desire to do,  but a fighter doesn't show his feelings so when I got the news I just acted like it was no big deal.  I was told that the only reason I'd be working with the larger Duran was for speed.   I had fast hands and would provide quickness for Duran.   Brown had assured my manager,  Johnny Flores, that Duran would work lightly and not cut down on me.

Somebody must have forgot to tell Roberto the plan and about midway thru the opening round I found myself sitting on the canvas.  I got up quickly and was OK but it occurred to me that I might be fighting for life.   When the sparring resumed I understood what Navarro had meant when describing Duran's power.  It was awesome, and even punches that most would consider average shots had something I'd never felt before.   It was like being hit with baseball bat.  Duran had  16 ounce training gloves on that looked to be padded,  but it didn't feel like they were.  This was before Roberto had been tagged "Manos de Piedra" or "Hands of Stone" in English.  I can personally verify that this is more than just a nick name, it's a fact!

Duran is a guy who considers the ring his personal domain and anybody who stepped in with him was treated as if they were caught breaking into his home.  The ring was Duran's office and he'd establish this immediately with anybody who entered,  including me.   

After the three rounds of torture with Duran,  I punched the heavy bag. The champ finished sparring with two other boxers, a lightweight and a welterweight who was beaten so badly he left the ring trembling.   After Duran stepped out of the ring Freddie Brown untied the champs gloves and pulled them off.  I was resting between rounds on the heavy bag and moved closer to Duran to get a  look at his hands.   There had to be something harder than a fist inside the gloves and I wanted to see what it was.

Brown glanced over at me and said something to Duran in Spanish and the two began to laugh.  I asked Brown  "What did you say to him"?   Brown just looked at me with a smile and answered,  "I told him you were looking for the horseshoe".

I had to laugh, but honestly,  that's exactly what I was doing.  However, The only thing I found  in Duran's gloves were his fists.  Or as they would later be known, "Hands of Stone". 

About a week later, at the Los Angeles Sports Arena,  my friend and stablemate Ruben Navarro was stopped by Rudolfo Gonzalez in his last attempt to win a world title.  In the fight before the title match,  the real lightweight king Roberto Duran battered Javiar Ayala savagely and won a unanimous ten round decision. 

With the feel of those rock hard fists still fresh in my mind,  I knew that Javiar Ayala  discovered the same thing that Navarro and I had just days before.    The horseshoe had nothing on "Hands of Stone"

By Dave Iamele

    You're Marvelous Marvin Hagler.  You are the middleweight champion of the world, an honor you've held since 1980.  In those seven years, you have successfully defended your title 12 times, ko'ing all of your foes except for future Hall of Famer, Roberto Duran.  You have been one of the very few undisputed champions of the 1980's.  You must be a happy guy, right?  No.  On this April night of 1987,  happy you ain't.  After a career that seemed to triumph over one screw job after another, tonight should have been your crowing moment.  This should have been the defining moment of your career.  Instead it's just one more screw job.   The last screw job.  Disgusted after coming out on the wrong side of a bad decision  against Ray Leonard, you turn your back on boxing.  Forever.  No come backs.  No one-more-times.  Done.


5/18/73 - 4/6/87

67 bouts    62 wins 3 losses    2 draws 52 ko's

    Over twenty years later, I sit sweating in the motel lobby of Graziano's.  It's June in Canastota, and the Hall of Fame is hopping.  I'm waiting.  Been waiting.  I'm surrounded by my gear:  tape recorder, cassettes, mic, boxing mags, interview notes, pens, boxing cards, posters, x-tra batteries, card sleeves, cigars, beers (in portable cooler), etc.  I'm hot and getting a little cranky.  I'm sweating up the suit I just had dry cleaned.   Agonizingly, I can see the cool comfort of the air conditioned bar only a few short feet away.  I can almost taste the beer.  I've been waiting for Joe Frazier for a long time.  Too long.  As I'm debating over leaving or cracking open a cold one from my supply, a bus pulls up.  Who steps out?  You do, of course.   The Marvelous One.  I ask.  You oblige.  Your thoughts --

DI: "You made more middle weight title defenses than anyone except for Carlos Monzon. . ."

MMH:    "Well, I tried.  I was one fight away from conquering the record of Carlos Monzon.  Monzon held the title for 10 years.  Over 7 1/2 years, I was already close to beating that record.  I felt as if I could have done that (beaten the record for most title defenses - 14) but you know what the outcome was.   The controversy with the Sugar Ray Leonard fight.  But it probably was for the best because I would've continued because I was only another fight away from making history in a sense."

DI: "You were known as a devastating puncher, and excellent boxer and you adapted well defensively to your opponents.  One of the best of your time.  Yet, originally, you didn't want to be a boxer, you wanted to play baseball?"

MMH:    "No.  I played all sports in school.  I was very fortunate, in a sense, to find boxing,  because you had to have the education to play baseball or basketball in college.  In boxing, you didn't have to have that, you just had to have that street (toughness).  I was too small for football.  Boxing was just made for me.  I think I was born to be a fighter."

DI: "Floyd Paterson was one of your heroes when you were coming up?"

MMH:    "Floyd Patterson is STILL one of my heroes.  He was one of my idols.  Also Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier. . .Bob Foster. . .  This is why I enjoy coming to the Hall of Fame, because I get a chance to see my idols.  You get a chance to sit down and talk and just hang out with them.  It's a nice feeling."

DI: "That's what the fans enjoy too.  You didn't get a title shot until 1979 against Vito Antuofermo and then they called the bout a draw.  Why did it take so long for you to get a title shot?  Didn't the Petronelli brothers have the connections?"

MMH:    "No.  It's because we never kissed butt and that's what happened.  It's the same thing that's happening to me now in my film career.  I find out it's the same game.  It's who you know.  If you kiss butt, your career moves along a little faster.  That's what happened to me with the title shot.  I didn't kiss butt.  Another thing is I was a dangerous fighter.  At least I was very happy that Antuofermo gave me the opportunity to fight for the title.  I felt that I won that fight, but the decision was a draw.  I always said that if anything ever happens the way that it happened with Antuofermo and me, with him being able to keep the belt because he was the champion. . . well, with me in  my last fight with Ray Leonard, they seen what happened to me in the title fight with Antuofermo, and I was hoping that if it  ever happened to me, it would go in my favor.  Which it happened, and you know the outcome of that."

DI: "You didn't waste much time letting the draw get you down.  Less than a year later , you went over to England and ko'd Alan Minter in three rounds to capture the world middle weight title. . ."

MMH:    "I was the number one contender.  I was the number   one contender for three years (laughs).  Unbelievable!"

DI: "Yet, after you won the title, every fight was a title defense."

MMH:    "And every one was against the number one contender."

DI: "You never ducked anyone."

MMH:    "That's right.  I was very happy the way I finished my career.  There's no one out there that can say I ducked them.  We gave everyone an opportunity to dethrone me and prove who was a better fighter."

DI: "In all those defenses, you ko'd everyone except Roberto Duran.  That's pretty impressive."

MMH:    "Well, you see, Roberto Duran was a different kind of fighter.   Roberto Duran was a three time champion,  he had the speed of a welterweight. . . he had a lot of experience. . . for me. . . I enjoyed that fight, more than anything.   The first few rounds, I couldn't understand, because Roberto still had the speed. . . but after I started to figure out his style and to show him that anything he could do, I could do better.  To go the distance, the full fifteen rounds, that was to show you that I was the true world champion."

DI: "In your career, you didn't seem to make out too well in Philadelphia.  You lost home town decisions to Bobby Watts and Willie Monroe there.  What is it about you and Philly?  It must not be your favorite town."

MMH:    "Philadelphia was the land of opportunity for me when I look back.  All those guys could've been champion of the world if it wasn't for me.   I still respect all those fighters because they were all top rated guys, you know, Cyclone Hart, Bad Benny Briscoe. . . I mean, when you get past these guys, then you know.   That was my test to show my true ability.  To show that I had what it took to be a true world champion."

DI: "You revenged both of those losses with Watts and Monroe later. . ."

MMH:    "Well, you know, with the first Watts fight, I thought that wasn't right  and with the Willie The Worm fight, I made no excuses - I've never made no excuses, I had bronchitis at the time and my trainer didn't even want me to take the fight.  But there were just two weeks until the fight and it was an opportunity, you know?  I mean, he was rated #3 in the world and you get by this guy, maybe you get a shot at the title.  And that's what I wanted, a shot at the title."

DI: "So, basically, you retired undefeated, truthfully."

MMH:    "I feel that way.  Even the last one (the Leonard bout), which was very hard for me to swallow, because I know in my heart that this guy never beat me, but you know the controversial decision.  I felt that with a little luck . . . that the luck should go on  my side. . . but I never had any luck in the boxing game (laughs).  I just got tired of the politics and everything, and I just said `forget it', you know."

DI: "I remember we listed to the fight on pay-per-view.  We didn't pay for it, so the picture was all scrambled but back then, you could still hear it.  So it was like listening to it on the radio.  Anyway, we certainly had the impression that   you had won the fit, and I can remember everyone was shocked when they announced that Leonard was the winner.  Having watched the bout several times since, I think you clearly won the fight.  You got robbed."

MMH:    "Well, I think there's no way in the world, even by being the champion - talking about Antuofermo again - where in a draw, the belt went to the champion.  If you don't knock the champion out or you don't beat the champ convincingly, the title still remains with the  champion.  That's a lesson I learned the hard way.  So then I knew what it took for the last fight.  There's no way, I mean when I was finished with the Ray Leonard fight, I came out without a scar,   without a swollen lip, not nothing.  I mean, if you've seen the fight with me & Mugabi, I mean I was a mess.  It was a very hard fight.  But these guys came to fight, came to take away my title.  This guy (Ray Leonard) only came to survive."

DI: "You were a very active fighter until 1981, then you only had 3 or less bouts a year from 81 - 87.  Why?"

MMH:    "That had nothing to do with me.  That depends on the manager and trainers.  That's what they wanted to do, so that's the way I went."

DI: "People wondered why you never came back after the Ray Leonard bout or why there was never a rematch.  Were you just sick of getting screwed?"

MMH:    "I got screwed all my life!  I mean, you know the boxing game, and I just got fed up with it.  We did wait around for another year hoping that Leonard would give me a return match, and I think if the shoe  was on the other foot, I'd have given him the return match.  I think this guy was just waiting around for me to get older,  then he felt he'd have a better chance.  But you know, I was still very strong when I retired, and I still felt very good, but you know I waited a year, and when I saw he wasn't gonna give me a rematch, I decided that life has to go on, and I have to find another career.  Which is what I've done now with the movies and now that's what I'm chasing - It's like another title fight but now an Oscar is like a championship title (laughs)."

DI: "How's that going over in Italy?"

MMH:    "It's going very good, you know.  But it's still hard.   You can get discouraged,  but I think the boxing games helped me to keep strong and focused.  I believe that if  I put the discipline, the sacrifice, the determination that I put into boxing into this, then something's gotta come out very good."

DI: "One last question, Champ. . ."

MMH:    "I've only got four films under my belt right now. I always felt when I was doing a film, it's like the beginning of a boxing career.  So I'm like in my fifth round (laughs)!"

DI: "So you play kick-ass guys like Van Damme and Chuck Norris?!"

MMH:    "Yeah.  I like the action/adventure type of films.   I like to stay in focus and in front of the fans.  I have a lot of fans and people wonder, `where did Marvelous Marvin Hagler go?'  Now, my fans can go to the movies and still see the kid.  I hope I can do as great a job in movies as I did in the ring.  Another thing I'm trying to do is show boxers that there is another life after the ring.  You don't have to be making comebacks.  I mean the money ain't all that great, but I'm having fun making movies.  That's what's good.  Anything that you do, if you're having fun, then it's good."

DI: "And you're not getting your head punched in."

MMH:    "That's even better, not takin' a punch."

DI: "Thanks for your time, Marvelous."

MMH:    "Anytime, thank you."

    So the tape stops, and I pick up my gear.  Marvin graciously signs a couple of boxing cards for me, and I take off after another interview, or a least a cold beer.  I never did get Joe Frazier to sit down for an interview, but I got a chance to speak with the Marvelous One because of him, so Joe's all right by me.  If Marvin never wins his Oscar or isn't quite Clint Eastwood, it won't be because he didn't give it his all.  And he was Marvelous in the ring, Lord he was.

    It what was probably the most stunning decisions since General Custer decided to take on those pesky Indians, Felix Trinidad was awarded a majority decision over Oscar de la Hoya on September 18th in Las Vegas. Judge Jerry "Robber" Roth scored it 115-113 and "Burglar" Bob Logist had it 115-114, both for Trinidad.   Glen "Highwayman" Hamada had it at 114-114, a draw.

    The Don King-bought Vegas judges perpetrated a bigger travesty than their counterparts did in New York City after the Lennox Lewis-Evander Holyfield heavyweight fight earlier this year. At least in the heavyweight fiasco that took place in New York City, Lewis got a draw. That fight produced an investigation into the honesty of the boxing judges. The De la Hoya-Trinidad robbery should mandate the same, but the fact is, everyone in the town that Bugsy built is so giddy about a possibly rematch and another huge payday, no one gives a hoot anyway.

    Just look at the ludicrous scoring of Judge "Robber" Roth. This crook gave Felix Trinidad three of the first four rounds, when in fact, it was hard to  make a case that Tito won any of the first nine rounds.

    Gil Clancy, who worked as an advisor in De La Hoya's corner said afterwards,  "I'm shocked. Don't those people (judges) know good boxing when they see it?"

    Sure they do Gil. But they see more  lucrative paydays in their pockets, if they vote for the right (the Don King-owned) fighter, much more distinctly.

    The fight went simply like this. De la Hoya won the first nine rounds easily. He out jabbed, out punched Trinidad, and he seemed able to take out Tito anytime he wanted. The tenth round was razor close, so I gave it to
Trinidad, just for showing up.

    Before the eleventh round,  Clancy, one of the most savvy trainers in the history of boxing, told De la Hoya to "simply box." The implication was that Oscar was so far ahead, only a knockout by Trinidad could give him the fight.

    Clancy's advice was on the mark. De la Hoya did what he was supposed to do in the final two rounds. He boxed and stood out of harm's way.

    Like the Holyfield fight, I watched the fight over Neil's house in sunny Sarasota, Florida with friend Felix. We all were hoping to see the much publicized "fight of the millennium." Instead we saw a masterful, but sometimes boring, boxing display by De la Hoya that made most purists giddy. The intermittent booing in the arena was probably caused by the Vegas high rollers who bet big cash on Trinidad,   and were watching their money flush
right down the drain.

    After the fight Neal, Felix and I all scored the fight the same way; 117-111 ( 9 rounds to 3 )in favor of De la Hoya. There was nary a doubt in our minds. but before the decision was announced, I told them like I did after the Holyfield fight, "Don't laugh guys, but Don King bought at least one judge. I bet one judge scored the fight a draw."

    Neal and Felix laughed heartily again, but not with the same conviction as they did after the Holyfield-Lewis fight. I  proved to be prophetic again when "Highwayman" Hamada's scorecard was announced.

    But never in my wildest imagination was I ready for what I heard next; the other two crook judges giving the fight to Trinidad.

    I rushed to my computer the following morning to read what other boxing scribes around the country had thought about the decision. Only Mike Katz of the New York Daily News, (who has a running feud with De la Hoya and constantly calls him "chicken"), scored the fight a draw. Everyone else had it for De la Hoya. Some had it closer than I had , but all for De la Hoya nevertheless.

    Then I turned on the Sports Reporters on ESPN and New York Daily News diminutive sports columnist Mike Lupica (I'm being kind. The man's Pee Wee Herman, but not as tough) actually said, "I thought Felix Trinidad won the fight."

    Now I felt much better, since this is the same Mike Lupica whom I   never saw at a single fight, or boxing press conference that I covered in New York City from 1978-1989. To Lupica, boxing and most fellow sportswriters are way beneath him. Lupica's a member of the elite, Fourth Estate pseudo-intelligencia, who look upon us peons as if we are hemorrhoids on the backside of society.

    After the fight, Oscar had a stunned incredulous smile pasted across his handsome face. He said, "Trinidad is a very strong fighter. I am hurt inside emotionally.  Honestly in my heart I thought I won the fight.  I really believe I was giving him a boxing lesson, but apparently it wasn't appreciated by people (the judges).  I really believe I was in control of the fight.'

    "Give him the last four rounds and it is still 8 to 4," de la Hoya added. "I feel in my heart that I tried to box and give a good lesson. The people at ringside didn't see that. I thought I had it in the bag, I swear in my heart I had it in the bag.  I was never, ever hurt.  I really, really felt he was hurt two or three times.  But still, the strategy was not to knock him out.  I was not even thinking of knocking him out." 

    De la Hoya wasn't the only person in Vegas stunned and hurt financially by the three unscrupulous judge's decision. His promoter Bullspit Bob Arum said afterward, "I don't know what the hell people are looking at scoring a bout. I have never been so damn stunned.  There was a lot of talk about Oscar not being able to lose a decision in Las Vegas, I think the judges went in with that mind set.  If you win eight of the first nine rounds, it should be in the bag." 

    Guys, it was in the bag. Don King's bag, you fools. In fact, in the ring after the decision was announced, King, with his usual mocking style, told Oscar,   "You see, what you need is a better promoter."

    A promoter more capable of influencing (buying?) the judges.

    The bottom line is this. Boxing people who understand what they were watching, and actually know how to judge a fight, all had it bigtime for Oscar. The others, some who see a fight as often as Halley's Comet makes an
appearance, or have a personal dislike for Oscar that clouds their judgment, either had it a draw, or somehow scored the fight for Trinidad because he was moving aggressively forward for most of the fight.

    The operative word here is "effective aggressiveness."   Effective aggressiveness (De la Hoya), clean punching (De la Hoya), defense   (De la Hoya), and ring generalship (De la Hoya), are the four criteria supposedly used to judge a fight. (The great Willie Pep once won a round without throwing a single punch because his defense was so spellbinding.)

    If you are a stickler for statistics, CompuBox had De La Hoya landing 263 of 648 punches, Trinidad 166 of 462. (41% to 36%) Oscar landed 97 more punches, and the harder blows throughout the fight were consistently landed by De la Hoya, especially his piston like left jab, which seemed nailed to Tito's nose throughout the first nine rounds. The only power punches of any note landed by Trinidad were fired in the last two rounds.

   So kiddies, save up your pennies. The rematch is in the bag too. The only person who can gum the works is De la Hoya himself. Oscar could retire and tell them all to shove it. But don't count on it. Oscar has pride, and the fear of being called chicken by more people than Mike Katz, should be enough to force him to fight Trinidad again.

    There is a precedent for a champion never fighting again after being screwed in Las Vegas. After he was robbed in a twelve round fight against then-Golden Boy Sugar Ray Leonard in 1989, Marvelous Marvin Hagler decided to star in action movies in Italy rather than submit himself, his pride, and his fight record to the rogue Las Vegas judges. If the next time they meet, Oscar greats Hagler with a "caio paisan", then his proposed rematch against Trinidad could go right down the crapper.

    Show real guts Oscar. Not intestinal fortitude, which most fight fans know you have anyway. Use the fortitude of your mind. Tell them all to take a hike. Make commercials. Make movies. Make Spanish albums. But don't give them what they (King) want so dearly; a chance to screw you, and the paying public again.
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    I hate to say it, but this one was a pleasure to watch.

    Former great champion Julio Cesar Chavez had his clock totally cleaned by club fighter Willie Wise on the undercard of the Ricardo Lopez-Will Grigsby title fight in Las Vegas on October 2nd. Wise won virtually every
round, completely dominating Chavez, and almost knocking the Mexican legend down twice. If Wise had been a bigger banger ( he has only has seven career knockouts), Chavez would've surely been blasted out. The judges scorecards were unanimous for Wise,  118-111, 117-111 and 116-112.  How anyone gave Chavez four rounds is another example of the criminal judges in Las Vegas. The online scoring tabulated by Showtime had it 10-0 for Wise. This reporter had it 9-1 for Wise, giving Chavez only the first round.

    As usual, Chavez made excuses for his poor performance.

    Through swollen lips Chavez said after the fight, "Wise got his confidence against me and I was preparing for an easy fight." 

    Then Chavez hinted he might be foolish enough to try to fight again, the next time against a banger like junior welterweight champion Kostya Tszyu.     "I am still the challenger for the junior welterweight title," Chavez
said.  "Preparing for a championship fight is a lot different than for an easy fight like this." 

    Easy fight? Maybe Chavez was hit a lot harder than it appeared.

    If Don King is greedy enough, and of course he is, and Chavez stupid enough (this one's up for grabs), a fight against Tszyu could be suicidal for Chavez.

    It won't be a pretty sight.
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  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

    This shocking tidbit was in a New York Daily News, written by TV columnist Bob Raissman. "In a letter to the Miami Herald, Showtime boxing analyst Ferdie Pacheco ripped into TVKO's coverage of Felix (Tito) Trinidad's
win over Oscar De La Hoya. Pacheco accused TVKO's announcers of being pro De La Hoya, and directed much of his wrath at the guys from CompuBox who keep the punch stats. He claimed they work for Bob Arum, De La Hoya's promoter."

    The two guys Pacheco is slinging mud at are Logan Hobson (previously   a boxing writer for the now-defunct United Press International), and Bob Canobbio, co owners of Compubox. I've known Logan for twenty years (and Bob for the last fifteen years. I distinctly remember telling both that this punch stat thing would never work (I also thought General Custer was right about those damn Indians). Both Logan and Bob are above reproach. They work only for themselves, and in this business of counting punches, integrity and good eyesight are of the utmost importance. Bob Arum is not their friend. if anything, both are closer to the Duvas, and they don't give the Duva's
fighters a break either.

    But this fraud Pacheco, "The Fright Doctor," has been nothing but a shill for Don King for years. Listen to Pacheco working a fight on Showtime, or a pay-per-view promoted by King, and right away you know which fighter Don King wants to win. It's like the other fighter is not even in the ring. In the journalism business, his peers rank Ferdie Pacheco somewhere below President Clinton for integrity, and Donald Trump for shamelessness,  and that's saying  a mouthful.

    Tyson continued his self-serving diatribe with, " In retaliation, I'll fight back because nobody is fighting for me. I have to defend myself. It is just human nature to defend yourself.  Nobody ever has any sympathy or pity
for me."

    Wrong, Vampire teeth. I know one boxing columnist who thinks you're unfairly labeled "America's Bogey Man." The same columnist probably thinks President Clinton's didn't inhale, or have "sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky."

    Still, one thing's a lock.  The Las Vegas commission, who reinstated Tyson's boxing license after a 15 month suspension for the above bite, is on pins and needles waiting to see if Tyson goes (biting) berserk again against
Orlin Norris later this month in Vegas. If Tyson does resort to form "protecting himself", the commission is sure to give Tyson more than an just an earful.

During the eighth round, Murray was credited with throwing 85 punches.   Unfortunately, "Relentless Ray", as the ESPN commentators were calling him, threw 100 more punches that round.

    Before the 10th round began, Medeiros instructed Oliveira to maintain his torrid pace.  He also suggested that if Murray happened to lose his mouthpiece again, to make him pay by "driving uppercuts up into his jaw."  During the round, a gasping Murray lost his mouthpiece once again and Oliveira immediately followed through with Medieros' instructions firing and landing uppercuts into Murray's jaw.   It was a convincing finish to a dominating and disciplined performance by Ray Oliveira.

    As the scorecards were read after the fight, Oliveira looked concerned as his punched out arms draped over the ropes.  The 1,111 punches Oliveira threw were convincing enough for the judges to deservedly award him a unanimous decision that was, quite possibly, the biggest victory of his career.

    As remarkable as Oliveira's upset over Murray was, what impressed me most  was the adversity that Oliveira hurdled in doing so.  Oliveira would go on to defeat Murray again in '97 for Murray's NABF Junior Welterweight Title.  In discussing with Ray which one of his victories he most treasures, he without hesitation replied: "The second fight with Murray.  I beat him worse than the first time and I won his title." 

In my opinion, it was their first battle.  A battle when toughness overcame fear.   Oliveira defeated a highly regarded former titlist entering the fight with a broken nose.  There have been many fighters who have reasonably
postponed bouts in fear of losing, but there are other fighters who snarl at such fear.   New York Jets Head Football Coach, Bill Parcells always insists, "On game day, players play."  Oliveira shows that on fight night, fighters  fight. 
   
* Oliveira is of Cape Verdean descent where the native language is Portuguese.  The Portuguese word for sugar is "sucra." 

RANDY'S   WORLD  OF  BOXING

By Randy Gordon

A SUGAR COATED THANK YOU

A few weeks ago, I was asked to be an in-studio guest on a FOX-TV show called "The Edge," which is hosted by the beautiful and talented Paula Zahn.   An in-studio guest with me was author/publisher/journalist/cigar
smoker/Fedora lover/character Bert Randolph Sugar.  Following the show, on which we discussed the Margaret McGregor-Loi Chow history-making, precedent-setting bout (we took different sides), Bert and I went out to tip
a few.   Being with Bert again in a bar setting talking sports and life and family was great.  It was de ja vu--it reminded me of the fabulous times we had 20 years ago.  Twenty years!  I remember every second of them as if they happened 20 minutes ago. 

    Too often we are remiss in telling those we care about just how we feel.  I will not be remiss.  I owe Bert a tremendous "Thank you" for all he has done for me and for boxing, and I'd like this column to be a tribute to a man I regard as a big brother and a great friend. 

    Back in 1979, I was the Assistant Editor of World Boxing & International Boxing Magazine, a series of boxing magazines owned by publisher Stanley Weston.  He also put out a bi-monthly boxing magazine called Big Book of Boxing.  I worked for ‘ol Stanley from 1974 until 1979.  Despite my presence, Weston's publications were actually outstanding, with quality writing by such notables as Dan Shocket and Gary Morgenstein and top-notch photos, most by Bill Apter, who is as world-class a photographer as can be found.  There were other boxing magazines to be found on the stands every month, most notably Boxing Illustrated and the granddaddy of boxing mags, The Ring, known as "The Bible of Boxing."

    By 1979, The Ring was nearing bottom after a three-year decline in sales.  This had been caused, in major part, by what had become a cheap, shoddy-looking product; by a female boxer appearing on Ring's cover in 1976; and a ratings scandal the following year which also placed egg on the faces of ABC-TV and the New York State Athletic Commission.  On a warm May evening in 1979, my home phone rang.   My wife answered.  It was somebody named Sugar.  Bert Randolph Sugar.   I knew him only from reading some of the boxing publications he edited, including Boxing Illustrated, and couldn't figure what he could possibly want or need from me.

    He asked me if what he was about to tell me would remain just with me, at least for the time being.  I promised him it would.  He then told me he was in the process of buying Ring Magazine,  and wanted me to be his editor.  I
couldn't believe my ears.  It was the break I was waiting for.

    Stanley Weston was furious when I told him I was leaving him for Bert Sugar.  At first, he  told me, "Get out!"   He didn't just mean from his private office.  He meant from the publishing company...from the building!  Our editor-in-chief, Peter King, was able to calm him down, and I was allowed to return to my desk.

    Later, when he regained some of his composure, Weston told me, "You have no idea what kind of man this Bert Sugar is.  He is an eccentric.  If you go to work for him, your life will change."  The way I looked at it is I already worked for an eccentric.  The worst that would happen is I would be going from one eccentric to another--for more money and more exposure.   Well, Weston was right.  My life did change.  For the better!  I packed my bags and left for a journey which continues today.

*        *         *
    Monday, July 1, 1979, was a sweltering day in New York.    That was my first day working with Bert at The Ring's ratty offices at 120 W. 31st Street in Manhattan.  For the next four plus years I worked side by side with Sugar, learning and growing, all the while, putting out the best monthly magazine the sport had ever seen or ever will see.

    Together, Bert and I took in one title fight after another.  Las Vegas and Atlantic City became regular stops for us as we covered title fights involving such names as Larry Holmes, Sugar Ray Leonard, Marvelous Marvin Hagler, Roberto Duran, Thomas Hearns, Wilfred Benitez, Sean O'Grady, Alexis Arguello, John Conteh, Eddie Mustafa Muhammad, Matthew Saad Muhammad, Michael Spinks, Dwight Muhammad Qawi, Aaron Pryor,   Marvin Johnson, Vito Antuofermo, Bobby Chacon, Ray Mancini and many more.  My announcing career began with ESPN and the USA Network during my years with Bert, and he always fed me constructive criticism on my performances when I returned to the office.

    Our office was a cigar smoke-filled tribute to boxing and to boxers.  As ugly and dirty and ratty as it was, fighters and fight figures loved coming up to the mess that was our offices on the fifth-floor.  It was nothing to
see Randall "Tex" Cobb, Cus D'Amato, Jim Jacobs, Vito Antuofermo,  Alexis Arguello, Wilfred Benitez, Sean O'Grady, Thomas Hearns, Aaron Pryor, Juan LaPorte, Emanuel Steward, Don Turner, Freddie Brown, Ray Arcel, Jack Sharkey, Eddie Mustafa Muhammad, Matthew Saad Muhammad, Tim Witherspoon, top journalists and camera crews streaming in and out of those offices on any given day.  

    Alongside Bert I learned.  His knowledge and wisdom is vast; his recall is amazing; his honesty is refreshing.  And, in this world of front-runners, his loyalty and is undying. Bert is no back-slapper.  If he likes you, you'll
know it.  If he doesn't, you'll know that, too.

    His sense of humor is, well, different.  On a plane to Las Vegas to cover a Larry Holmes title fight, he started a food fight in the back of the plane by hurling a piece of cheese cake at a sportswriter; in Landover, Maryland,
he was arrested in a bar for chasing Boston sportswriter George Kimball around the bar with a potted palm, after Kimball had playfully tossed some goldfish munchies at him; in a Las Vegas restaurant, he tossed a dinner roll
across the room, aimed at promoter Don King, who had just walked in.  The roll fell short of King.  It crash-landed on a table--splashing in a bowl of soup--where four people dined just feet from King, splattering all four; in Washington, D.C., after waiting for over 30 minutes at a table in a restaurant without being waited on, Bert stood up on his chair and called for help; and in a Las Vegas hotel room, when columnist Dick Young came to the room to see if Bert always wears a hat, Bert came out of the shower wearing only his hat when he answered the door, much to Young's astonished look.  The next day, in his column, "Young Ideas," Young's last line was "And for those of you who wondered, yes, Bert Sugar always wears his hat!"  No, being around Bert was never dull.

    He has called top promoters Don King and Bob Arum all sorts of names; he stood toe-to-toe with Dr. George Lundberg, the longtime head of the Journal of the American Medical Association for constantly and unfairly picking on boxing, when Lundberg's own house needed tobe straightened; and he has been on the case of WBC President Jose Sulaiman for over 20 years for the vast improprieties, embarrassment and wrongdoing he and his sanctioning cronies have brought to boxing.

    And unlike the "New York Negatives"--the group of so-called boxing writers which lurk in yellow journalistic waters of New York daily newspapers and more often than not trash fights and fighters--Bert more often than not
finds positive things to write about fights and fighters.  If boxing is dying, it's not just because of unscrupulous promoters and crooked sanctioning bodies.  It's because of yellow journalists like the "New York Negatives" who will go so far as to make things up just to add spice to their columns.  If boxing is flourishing, it's because of people like Bert Sugar, who has stood at boxing's side for years and told us of its beauty, not just of its ugly side.

    Bert is currently putting out a boxing magazine entitled, appropriately enough, "Bert Sugar's Fight Game."  It's presence and material buries the remnants of what remains of The Ring.  For any  fan of boxing, the magazine is fun and informative.  My only complaint is that it comes out every other month.   It's so good it should be out every other week! 

        One day, Bert Randolph Sugar will be elected to boxing's Hall of Fame.  On that day, I intend to be, not only in Canastota, New York, home of the H.O.F., but the first one out of my seat, as well, applauding the man who has given every ounce of his being to the sport we all love.

    To my buddy Bert, "Thank you" for everything you've meant to me and to boxing.  To Bert, I raise my glass and offer a toast:     "The world needs more people like you."

By Eric Jorgensen

If Jess Willard isn’t the most underrated heavyweight champion of all-time, then Jack Sharkey surely is. Yes, Sharkey was erratic; ‘twas not for nothing they called him the "The Fighting Fool". Yes, he frequently allowed himself to get out of shape (188 v. Jack Dempsey; 201 v. Primo Carnera the 2nd time). Yes, he sometimes fought with less than 100% effort — sometimes far less, as in his draw with Mickey Walker. Yet, notwithstanding all of that, when Sharkey was "on", as he was against Harry Wills, George Godfrey, Jack Delaney, Max Schmeling, Tommy Loughran the 1st time, Carnera the 1st time, and even Dempsey, he was a truly great fighter — he could move, box and bang — the whole package. Too many people have forgotten that.

The reason why is easily discernable. In the minds of a great number of pundits, Sharkey permanently vacated his place in the all-time pantheon by 2 profoundly discreditable performances: his 15-round draw with middleweight champion Walker and his knockout loss to Carnera. For a variety of reasons, however, I suggest that these fights are indicative only of Sharkey’s inconsistent temperament, not of his true ability, and that to focus on them alone is to do Sharkey a great injustice.

First, the Walker fight. Of course, I have heard the arguments (in fact, I used to make them myself). They go something like this: "Look, the fact that Sharkey couldn’t beat a middleweight — no matter how great — proves he was a ham-and-egger, period. After all, could anyone imagine Marvin Hagler securing a draw with Larry Holmes?" But, there is more to it than that. The first point that should be made about that fight is that Sharkey probably did "win" it, in the sense that he deserved the decision. Contemporary accounts typically referenced Walker’s gallant effort and Sharkey’s half-hearted one, but also typically stated that the draw was "sentimental". Nowadays, you hear a lot of people getting carried away, particularly when writing adoring blurbs on the popular Walker, by implying Walker deserved the nod. If anyone who actually saw the fight had that impression, I am unaware of it. At the same time, though, I concede that that’s not the whole point. That the fight was close at all is indeed embarrassing from Sharkey’s standpoint and so must be addressed.

At bottom, the explanation for that performance is that Sharkey just did not give it his best; for whatever reason, he simply didn’t try. It happens sometimes. [Remember Eddie Gregory sleep-walking against Victor Galindez? Howard Davis Jr. against Jim Watt? Same thing.] That sounds like an excuse from an advocate rather than an assessment from an analyst, I know, but the films absolutely bear this out. You cannot watch that fight and tell me that Sharkey looks like he’s interested in winning it: he didn’t throw any punches. One look will tell you that that is not the same Sharkey who fought Dempsey & Wills; not even close. Perhaps the same mob connections that bought Tiger Flowers’s middleweight crown for Walker also bought him an evening without left hooks against Sharkey, or perhaps Sharkey just wasn’t in the mood that night. Again, I fully acknowledge he was erratic. Nevertheless, that was not vintage Sharkey and this fight should not be accorded much consideration when assessing how Sharkey, at his best, compares with the other champions.

Okay, now Carnera. Nobody disputes that Sharkey beat him easily the first time around — knocked him down and pitched a near-shutout. By the time of the rematch, Sharkey was an old 32, was coming off 1-year lay-off, and was about 10 lbs. overweight. So, he was (1) rusty, (2) past his prime, and (3) out of shape. In other words, Sharkey was no longer remotely the fighter he had once been. In addition, Carnera himself has been severely underrated. True, he got hammered by Joe Louis & Max Baer, but so did Schmeling, and nobody laughs at him. Plus, he beat legitimate first-raters in Paolino Uzcuden, Ernie Schaaf and Tommy Loughran (all 3 of whom tattooed Baer at his best, recall). Despite all that, after 5 rounds, the fight was arguably 5-0 Sharkey.

Then came the much-debated 6th. Sharkey was cruising merrily along when Carnera pushed him to the ropes and threw an uppercut that looks like it was mostly "arm". Sharkey reared back dramatically and dropped "senseless" to the canvas. Cynics said the fight was an obvious tank. Until his dying day, Sharkey passionately disputed that characterization. His story was that he suddenly became overwhelmed by visions of his close friend and protégé Ernie Schaaf and just froze (or "choked", to use the modern parlance). Films are inconclusive (no matter what anyone tells you).

For my money, the answer does not much matter for purposes of evaluating the in-prime Sharkey’s place in history. Though I actually tend to favor the "dive" explanation (Sharkey did seem to encounter fighters with "ties" to the mob with alarming frequency: Stribling, Carnera, Walker, etc.), Sharkey’s version may be plausible. Occasionally fighters gain reputations — auras of invincibility — that they do not deserve, and fighters who could beat them do not because they don’t believe they can. I have no doubt, for example, Michael Spinks would have performed better against Mike Tyson had he seen the Buster Douglas debacle beforehand. Similarly, I think Floyd Patterson would have performed better against Sonny Liston had he foreseen how Liston would come apart against Muhammad Ali. So, maybe the Schaaf fight had Sharkey thinking Carnera was invincible and maybe Sharkey did choke. Maybe as his lack of conditioning began to tell a bit and Sharkey became concerned whereupon his always-fragile psyche really did place Schaaf’s ghost before him. Or, maybe it’s as simple as a washed-up fighter running into one. Regardless, I say that the Sharkey of the Wills & Dempsey fights was Carnera’s clear superior, as their first fight plainly demonstrates. If Sharkey did choke, I think it was a function of his age and deteriorating ability, as well as the emotional scars left by the Schaaf tragedy, that eroded his confidence and left him psychologically vulnerable; a bizarre combination of circumstances not likely to happen twice, and which never would have happened at all had Sharkey been fit, in his prime, and on his game.

Now for what Sharkey did right. For starters, he proved himself a better fighter than Schmeling, whom virtually everyone regards as having been a great fighter. He trounced Schmeling in the first fight, dominating it completely. Regardless of whether he did in fact hit Schmeling low, I am convinced after watching the films that Max stayed down because he would rather have obtained the title that way than get up and get knocked out, which was about to happen. Schmeling got the win, yes, but there is no question that Sharkey was the better fighter that night. As one commentator described the fight:

"This was one of those nights when Sharkey was at his brilliant best. His jabs, hooks, and uppercuts were working to perfection, completely baffling the dark-browed Schmeling. Jack kept throwing leather so fast and accurately that Max could not get set to throw his big gun. . . . Sharkey had the German groggy in the 4th round and was battering him all over the ring. Then, trying to shift inside one of Max's feeble leads, he brought a hook to the body. Instantly, Max doubled up and clutched his groin as if fouled. . . . Referee Jim Crowley had seen no foul and started the count. . . . [¶] Although Max wore a type of protector which had been proved to withstand the hardest blow without harm to the wearer, he went into a grimacing act that would have drawn applause from the Barrymores . . . . [¶] Was Schmeling really fouled? A careful study of the movies by unbiased observers later revealed that the blow was not low. It was on the beltline, close to foul territory perhaps, but certainly not in the groin."

John Durant, The Heavyweight Champions, Hastings House (1976), pp. 87-88.

Sharkey was also better than Schmeling in the rematch, notwithstanding his weird decision to handicap himself by refusing to throw any body punches as some sort of infantile protest against the disqualification in the first fight: "Fifteen long rounds; I never hit him below the chin." Peter Heller, "In This Corner. . .!" 42 World champions Tell Their Stories, Da Capo Press (1994 ed.), Jack Sharkey chapter, p. 158. Joe Jacobs yelled "We wuz robbed!" when the decision came down, of course, and many people who did not see the fight jumped on the bandwagon. That made things simple for those preferring to rate Schmeling as an all-timer (after all, he beat Joe Louis), but ignore Sharkey at the same time (after all, he lost to Carnera). But, referee Gunboat Smith’s comments on the decision dispel the all-too-convenient "robbery" explanation:

"From the first til the 10th or 11th, Jack Sharkey win every round. The other fellow did nothing but dance. . . . [Schmeling] got the last 4 rounds, but how could I give him the decision when he won only 4 rounds? . . . I give it to Sharkey. Eleven to 4, I've got to do it."

Heller, "In This Corner. . .!" 42 World Champions Tell Their Stories, supra, Gunboat Smith chapter, pp. 44-45. Thus, Sharkey outfought Schmeling 2 out of 2 times, no small feat and one which should be afforded the respect it merits.

Besides Schmeling, Sharkey easily beat the 2 top black fighters of the period, Harry Wills and George Godfrey, who could punch holes in brick walls and whom most white fighters did not want to get anywhere near. [Wills was past his best but still a terrific heavyweight at the time, and Godfrey was in his prime.] He also flattened 2 of the greatest light-heavyweight champions of all-time in Tommy Loughran and Jack Delaney, and whipped another top all-time light-heavyweight, Young Stribling, by decision. So, when he was "right", he could handle both speedy boxers (Loughran, Delaney, Stribling) and hard-hitting powerhouses (Schmeling, Wills, Godfrey). Few heavyweights of any era have displayed such versatility. As one author commented:

"Jack’s repertoire of punches was something to behold. When he first started out, his only weakness was a looping right that he’d toss as though he were pegging an indoor baseball. After painstaking study, he developed the short lethal jolt that begins at the chest and travels only a foot.

There are no more than eight real blows in boxing - the left jab, left hook to the head, left rip to the body, right cross to the chin, straight right to the body and right uppercut. If you wish, you might ring in the left and right inside uppercuts. Few heavyweights past or present could deliver them all, and no one but Sharkey could deliver each one with devastating effect.

Jack’s left jab was no flickering thing like Tommy Loughran’s but a solid smash with his whole shoulder behind it. Tunney had it, but he never had Sharkey’s whizzing left hook that could separate a man from his senses as quickly as his right. Sharkey would step in with his right under the heart just like Tunney, but then he’d risk a right cross to the chin, which was not for Gene. Tunney preferred to reach with the punch - it was safer."

John D. McCallum, The World Heavyweight Boxing Championship - A History, Chilton Book Company (1974), pp. 154-155.

Perhaps longtime boxing guru Stanley Weston summed Sharkey up best when he remarked:

"Throughout his career, Jack Sharkey was an enigma. He had everything going for him: dazzling speed, size, the artistic boxing moves of a Jim Corbett and the knockout power of a Bob Fitzsimmons. He also possessed a braggart's confidence. If it lived and breathed, Sharkey was sure he could bust it apart. Most experts would have agreed were it not for one failing: Sharkey’s short temper. . . . [I]f Jack Sharkey had been able to keep his cool under pressure, he would almost certainly be rated among the elite heavyweight champions, with Dempsey, Joe Louis and Jack Johnson."

Stanley Weston, The Heavyweight Champions, Ace Publishing Corporation (1970), pp. 142-143.

So, where does Sharkey rate? No, even I would not put him among the top 10 or 15 heavyweights of all-time. But, after that, his name surfaces pretty quickly; certainly, he makes the top 25. I say he was equal to or better than any of the five men who held the title between Tunney and Louis. As to those who preceded him, I would make him a clear underdog to only 4: Jim Jeffries, Johnson, Dempsey & Tunney. As those coming after Jim Braddock, I place him ahead of Ingemar Johansson, Jimmy Ellis, Leon Spinks, Michael Spinks, Buster Douglas and Michael Moorer, even-money against Jersey Joe Walcott and Floyd Patterson, and only a slight underdog against Ezzard Charles and Lennox Lewis (an oaf, but a very big oaf). As to the rest, he’s probably a more sizeable underdog. On the right night, however, ya never know. . . .

One thing is for certain, though: Sharkey was too good to be dismissed out of hand as he often is today — far too good!

This as much as anything else illustrates the unfairness of judging women according to men's achievements. To do so is to miss the true value of sport and the virtue of competition. Is not the true purpose of sport to judge the quality of an athlete's performance, rather than the quantity? Isn't the accomplishment in gauging how far one has
excelled, rather than what numbers they rack up for times or scores? A woman who breaks a world record or wins a championship has done something special, regardless of what the men's record for that event is. Her success should be gauged by how far beyond the average woman she has performed or by how much she has expanded her own abilities, not by how far above or below a man's achievement she ranks.

And that brings us back to boxing. Ideally, the person with the best combination of talent, preparation, intelligence, and effort wins a competition, especially in a sport as elemental as boxing. But if one competitor starts with a disadvantage (particularly one not of their own making), then they may be the most skilled, best prepared,
smartest, and most diligent, and still not overcome the disadvantage they started with. In such a case the better man (woman) would lose, which runs counter to the essence of the sport.

This is precisely why boxing has weight classes. Boxing divides competitors by weight to equalize the playing field to begin with. No one would accept a Super Middleweight going up against Welterweight as a fair contest. Yet the differences in musculature between a 168 pound man and a 147 pound man are less extreme than the differences between a comparably weighted man and woman. Why then should the former be perfectly acceptable while the latter is seen as sexist?

Even beyond the question of fairness, there is the issue of entertainment. Boxing is a show. If something isn't good for the fans, its not good for boxing. And beyond the initial spectacle of the man versus woman bout, there is little merit in the concept to present the fans with a satisfying show. A good fight is a close fight; one with enough drama to hold the spectator's attention. Whether the combatants are men, women, or one of each, the key is equality, because equality breeds the drama. In the McGregor - Chow fight, there was neither equality nor drama. McGregor had the talent to make Chow look silly, but not the power to back up her talent. Looking at their pre-fight stats, one could accurately predict just how this bout would end. What then was the point of having the fight if the outcome was never in doubt?

Though boxing purists may cringe at this, a big part of the excitement for a boxing fan is the potential for a knock-out. Its the same impulse that drives fans to watch a car race to see the wrecks. Like it or not, its true. And the fact is, the public's perception is that a man of equal talent is in very little danger of being knocked out by
a woman. And as any boxing fan knows, a fight in which only one person has a chance for a KO generally makes for a dull fight. Points and strategy are an integral part of boxing to be sure, and women have an equal chance to score against men, but big punching power is what draws the crowds.

That being said, I'm sure there are competitive man-woman fights to be made, but they will be few and far between. And even those few are unlikely to be made. There is very little incentive for a male boxer with talent and prospects to go into a fight against a woman. He has nothing to win and much to lose in a sport where reputation equals money. Without big names, big fights aren't going to happen.

Lastly, whether justified or not, the prospect of men versus women fights, which inevitably will get bloody in many cases, just won't sit well with a large portion of the viewing public. Boxing already has a reputation as a crude, brutal, and violent sport. Guys beating up women for money isn't going to help. In sports, image translates to dollars, and boxing can't afford to lose any more status in the public eye.

So, in the end, men versus women in the boxing ring fails on multiple levels. It fails to remain true to the sport in that it does not serve as a valid standard for comparison of achievement for either gender. It fails to make a compelling and competitive contest that fans will want to pay to see. And lastly, it just looks bad. The question
remains as to whether there can be a sport where men and women are truly equal so that they may face each other on a completely level playing field. But considering the true virtue of sport and what it represents, is it really all that necessary that one be found?