Storyville! The Romance and Tragedy of Boxing.

May 15, 2017
1,145
1,247
Mr. Rudell Stitch came up in conversation yesterday. I hadn't thought about him in a long while. A true American hero.

https://www.courier-journal.com/story/news/history/river-city-retro/2014/09/11/celebrating-history-rudell-stitch/15433403/?from=new-cookie

Louisville Courier-Journal
Celebrating Our History | boxer Rudell Stitch
Martha Elson
LCJ Published 12:00 a.m. ET Sept. 12, 2014 | Updated 9:20 a.m. ET Sept. 11, 2014


Nearly 55 years after Louisville boxer Rudell Stitch drowned while trying to save a friend in the Ohio River, he was honored for his sports accomplishments and his heroism.

Stitch was inducted into the Kentucky Athletic Hall of Fame in June, a year after being honored with a Kentucky Pride Foundation "hometown heroes" mural on the 4th Street Live parking garage, next to the Cathedral of the Assumption on Fifth Street.

He also was awarded two Carnegie Hero Fund Commission medals — both for lifesaving efforts.

Stitch was one of the top-ranked welterweight boxers in the world when he died in 1960 at age 27. His widow, Rosa Mae Stitch, was shot and killed in her Prospect home four years later at age 31, leaving behind their six children, Rudell III, Donald, Rodney, Perry, Darryl Lamarr and Janet Lynn.

HISTORY

Stitch grew up in a poor neighborhood around 13th Street in west Louisville, near the railroad tracks, according to a 1978 Louisville Times story. He worked out at Bud Bruner's gym on Shelby Street and had a job at a meat packing plant, salting and stacking 90-pound cowhides, Bruner said in the story.

Stitch often went to the gym in the afternoon, after eight hours on the job, and sometimes got up at 3:30 a.m. to run in a park near his home.

"As a boxer, he was capable of imposing fierce physical demands on himself, and it paid off in the ring," the story said. Stitch "could punch, and he could box," Bruner said. "He was tremendously strong in the shoulders."

Stitch started his professional boxing career in 1956. A turning point came after Bruner got him a bout with Charlie Cotton, who was having trouble finding ranking welterweights willing to fight him, the story said. Stitch won in a knockout.

RIVER HEROISM

In 1958 Stitch was fishing beside the Ohio River when he rescued a stranger, Army Corps of Engineers worker Joseph Shifcar of Elizabeth, Ind., who was swept into the river near the McAlpine Dam, a Courier-Journal story said.

"Although the area beneath the dam was known to be very dangerous for swimming, Stitch plunged in and brought the injured man safely ashore," a 1962 Presbyterian Life story said. In 1960, according to the Louisville Times, Stitch was fishing with Bruner and his son and another friend, Charles Oliver, near the dam when Oliver slipped and pulled Stitch into the water. Stitch tried to rescue his friend, but neither man surfaced, and the Coast Guard brought up their bodies.

Thousands of people attended the viewing session for Stitch at Hope Presbyterian Church and 1,200 attended the funeral at Central Presbyterian Church, according to Presbyterian Life. A memorial fund was set up, and the National Boxing Association established the Rudell Stitch Sportsmanship Award in his memory.

STITCH'S RECORD

Stitch won 45 of 57 amateur bouts in his career. He won Kentucky state titles in 1951, 1952, 1953, 1955 and 1956. That last year he reached the semifinals of the Chicago Golden Gloves and the finals of the National AAU Tournament.

ROSA MAE STITCH

In January 1964, Rosa Mae Stitch was killed in what was thought to be a murder-suicide incident. Philander Bryant, 44, of S. 18th Street, was found next to her and died the next day at General Hospital.

Evie Rice, Rosa Mae Stitch's mother, had been living with her daughter and grandchildren but was spending the night with her sister the night her daughter was shot, according to The C-J.

In 1964, Cassius Clay talked of organizing a boxing exhibition with Stitch's brother, Rudy, to benefit the Stitch children, a C-J story said.

WWW.RUDELLSTITCH.COM

The website listed with the smiling visage of Stitch on the Fifth Street mural says he was one of Muhammad Ali's heroes and that Stitch sparred with him, then Cassius Clay, when Ali was training for the 1960 Rome Olympics. It ends with: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13

© 2017 www.courier-journal.com. All rights reserved.




 
Jun 11, 2014
6,732
6,565
scotland
A where are they now story great piece of investigative journalism by Dan Greene.. To locate the "worst Boxer ever".


The Worst Boxer Ever.




Whatever happened to ‘The Worst Boxer in the History of the World’?


QUICKLY
  • One Tuesday night in 1993, Brian Sutherland stepped into a ring and lasted just 56 seconds. But his short-lived bout lives on in infamy on the Internet.
By Dan Greene
August 01, 2016
The midday sun shines hard on Kings Mountain, a pickup truck town between the highways that cut through North Carolina’s southwestern hills. I ring the front doorbell twice, then the one on the side door under the overhang garage. There is no response but a small dog’s yapping on the inside. Minutes pass slowly outside the brick-and-vinyl split-level. I sweat a bit. I wonder if I’m in the right place.

I came here because of a YouTube video. When anyone asked why I was heading to Kings Mountain, I would show them the clip. Soon they understood.

That video, entitled The Man From Shelby and posted in 2008, has more than 90,000 views. There’s another version called THE WORST DEBUT IN BOXING HISTORY that has more than 330,000. Worst Boxer ever. Tidy Mullet has more than 60,000. The most popular version is called Worst Boxer in the History of the World ...epic mullet!!! and features Quebecois announcers, jump-cuts to a shocked Beyonce and to a cat fighting a chicken, as well as “Eye of the Tiger” playing in the background. In nearly six years online it has been viewed more than three million times.

It was The Man From Shelby that I came across one idle afternoon, while stumbling down an Internet rabbit hole of listicles about the worst boxers of all time. Even within that genre, so much of the video struck me: The man from Shelby’s mustache and, yes, his tidy and epic mullet above an everyman build and a patch of chest hair. The claim that he was making his professional debut. His flailing kangaroo punches. The open derision from the television commentators. The inevitable conclusion after 56 seconds, when he got tagged with a left hook and then nailed by an overhand right that spun him straight up like a Looney Tunes character. The way his assailant shrugged as he collapsed to the mat. The slight smile after he climbed back to his feet. That all of this was broadcast on national TV as part of the USA Network’s Tuesday Night Fights.

How could this have happened? What sort of process could produce such a mismatch on such a stage? And whatever became of “the world’s worst boxer,” whose real name was Brian Sutherland? I took to Google. I found blog posts from a few years ago yukking it up over the video, an ironic following on boxing message boards, comparisons to another mulleted Shelby native, the fictional Kenny Powers of HBO’s Eastbound & Down. I pulled up the entry for Sutherland on BoxRec, the sport’s online encyclopedia. He had no fights after this knockout in 1993, but there had been one 10 days before, another first-round KO loss, this one to a heavyweight with a career record of 17–102–2. There were no local newspaper stories on either fight from then or now. The only social media accounts I found belonged to other Brian Sutherlands or were obvious fakes made by jokesters taken with the YouTube clips. I couldn’t find a real trace of the man himself.

Over the next few weeks, my curiosity stayed piqued. Here was a man whose life briefly and bizarrely caught the light, who got knocked out, receded into anonymity, and was unwittingly thrust back into the public eye to be laughed at two decades on. The more I watched the clip, the more I wanted to find out: What was the story of the man from Shelby?

Read the rest of the article here.... https://www.si.com/boxing/brian-sutherland-worst-boxer-ever-youtube-video
@sugar ray sheepskin @Chinny
Read this article and watch the clip on YouTube that is featured......the Scouse boxer that wins the 'fight' is Kenny Rainford .....who featured in that article that was posted about Earnie Shavers in the ' Boxing News 100 greatest British boxers' thread.:deal:thumbsup
 
Reactions: Chinny
Oct 27, 2016
1,184
2,393
Tyrone Everett from Philadelphia,36-1 got robbed so they say in his one and only title shot at 130 lbs.

If you could buy a ticket for value for money cards in the States in the 70's the Spectrum housed so many unheralded but would go on to have great career fighters like Hagler,MS Muhammad etc.The promoter mentioned J.Russell Peltz put on competitive cards.matched fighters hard,but treated the fighters fairly purse wise and many thanked him after their careers as did the fans.

Everett was one of those forgotten fighters,interesting article and died young in unusual circumstances,short article worth a read with comments below.

http://phillysportshistory.com/2011/05/18/the-fast-rise-and-tragic-fall-of-tyrone-the-mean-machine-everett/
 
May 8, 2016
3,003
2,739
Five early foes recall fighting Tyson
Jun 11, 2005
  • Tim Graham
  • They go by many labels. The polite terms are trial horses, stepping-stones, gatekeepers, B sides. Others would dare to call them palookas, bums, stiffs, pugs, cadavers, cannon fodder – though maybe not to their faces.
These are the sort of men, practically anonymous to all but the staunchest fight fans, who compose the early portion of every champion's career. They build up confidence. They build up a record. And then when their usefulness has been exhausted, they usually fade away.Mike Tyson had the most prominent career launch of any non-Olympic fighter. The buzz generated by his early fights – the relentlessness, the explosive power, the don't-blink knockouts – made Kid Dynamite a crossover sensation.

Even so, a quick glance at those early bouts will conjure up memories of … well, not much. Most of the names won't register.

Who are these guys? Where are they now?

Some fighters, like Tyson's first professional foe, Hector Mercedes, are tough to locate. Some, like Mitch "Blood" Green, are easier. Joe Ribalta won't do interviews without getting paid. Reggie Gross was imprisoned on murder charges.

Tyson will try to patch up his sagging career against Kevin McBride on Saturday night in Washington. This will mark Tyson's first appearance since losing to Danny Williams last summer.

So the time seems fitting – since McBride is about the same caliber of fighter upon which a 19-year-old Tyson feasted regularly back in the day – to track down some of those men who gamely stepped into the ring to face a skyrocketing phenom and helped create a legend.

Mitch Green
A weak, raspy voice, barely audible over the blaring television in the background, picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"I'm looking for Mitch Green. Is this him?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm calling from ESPN.com. I'm working on a story on some of Mike Tyson's early opponents, and …"

"Tyson's a knucklehead!" Green shouted, instantly evolving into a Chris Rock character from "Saturday Night Live." The TV quickly was muted. "Come on, man! He's getting knocked out by bums. That's all I can say about that because you're not giving me any money for this. I can't talk about that knucklehead. … But I got a lot to say."

Mitch "Blood" Green is flat broke. He's not afraid to admit it because if he doesn't let you know, you wouldn't think to offer him some money.
But if charisma were currency, Green would be watching "Judge Judy" while sitting on a beanbag chair stuffed with large bills.

Green, 48, lives alone in Queens and has no apparent means of income aside from receiving $5 for every autograph he sells on a Web page constructed in his honor. Benefactors apparently help him pay his bills.

Fans are still drawn to Green and his wacky tales, his hilarious one-liners and outrageous statements.

"I'm like a politician in Harlem," Green said. "Every time I go out it's "What's up, Mitch? Mitch, Mitch, Mitch! Bop, bop, bop! Blood, Blood, Blood!"

He does magic tricks for kids on the streets, and he's still famous enough to bail himself out of trouble with the law – sometimes – with a funny story or an autograph. He has been in and out of jail more often than Sideshow Bob and reportedly has had his driver's license suspended 54 times. But he recently avoided a ticket for turnstile jumping on the subway when two undercover cops accepted a signature instead.

Green fought Tyson twice. The first time was in May 1986. Green dropped a lopsided 10-round decision but became only the second opponent to last that long with Kid Dynamite, who rose to 21-0.

The second time, two years later, Tyson infamously brawled Green in front of a Harlem clothing store just before dawn.

Green is still begging to complete the trilogy, even though he hasn't fought since 2002, when he picked up a title from something known as the World Boxing Syndicate by beating Danny Wofford, a pug who came into the fight with a record of 17-94-2.

"Tyson's a punk. That boy is scared to death of me," said Green, who went 18-6 but fought only seven times in 16 years after losing to Tyson. "It's a damn shame Tyson's scared of me like that. We could make a lot of money. Aw, man!

"I could tattoo all these chumps. I could beat both them bums. Tyson's fighting a bride. Ha! It's like they're getting married. … They'll be hugging and kissing.

"You know, you asking me a lot of questions. I should get paid for this."

Toward the end of the uncompensated interview, Green started to feel antsy. All that boxing talk was giving him ideas, awakening dormant desires.

"I haven't been to the gym lately, but I'm going," he said. "I might just get me a fight.

"Sure you can't give me a couple dollars for this? I'm tapped."

David Jaco
The popular barroom debate generally starts with the following question: "How much money would you need to get in the ring with Mike Tyson?"

David Jaco's figure was not a king's ransom.

He took $5,000 to fight Tyson in January 1986. Tyson was only 15-0 at the time, but he had started to create a global ruckus with his thunderous hands and lightning-quick knockouts. Four months earlier, he had blitzed Michael Johnson in 39 seconds. Three months prior, he annihilated Robert Colay in 37 seconds.

But Jaco didn't care. He needed money quick, or else he would lose his family.

"That $5,000 I made from Tyson changed my life," the 48-year-old Jaco said from his home in Sarasota, Fla. "Who would think that kind of money could do that?"

Jaco was divorced in 1979 but stayed with his ex-wife, who had custody of their twin sons, in hopes of reconciling. He described his ex-wife as a hopeless drug addict, and when she split the Toledo area and took the boys to Florida, he was terrified.

But before he could track her down, he needed cash. And before he could get the cash, he had to survive Tyson.

Jaco was an imposing presence at 6-foot-6 and 217 pounds. He had a respectable record of 19-5 with 15 KOs and had already issued Razor Ruddock's first defeat.

Jaco wasn't about to spoil Tyson's unblemished record, too.

"He was quick, like a cat," Jaco said. "He came in so low to the ground. I was bent over, trying to hit him. But he just came up and bang, bang. He was for real back then."

The fight ended at 2:16 of the first round because of the three-knockdown rule.

"The referee came up to me and said 'Nice fight, David,' " Jaco recalled. "And I said, 'What the hell are you talking about?' He said 'You've been down three times!' I said, 'Bull----! I've only been down twice!' "

Jaco took his purse and bolted for Florida. He eventually won custody of his sons, met a registered nurse and was remarried in 1992. He and his second wife had four daughters between 1993 and '99.

He retired in 1994 after losing seven consecutive bouts, giving him a record of 24-25-1 with 19 knockouts.

"I went from boxing to being Mr. Mom for the first six years of our marriage. What can I say? My wife pays the mortgage," said Jaco, who last year put 26,000 miles on his Dodge Durango transporting injured workman's compensation candidates to hospitals throughout Florida.

His sons, Aaron and Adam, became prizefighters. A rotator cuff injury prematurely ended Adam's career, but now he trains and manages his brother. Aaron, a light heavyweight, is 13-0 with 4 KOs.

"I don't want to see him get all tore up for nothing," Jaco said. "I hope someone takes notice and helps him make some money so he can get out."

Jaco's ledger also lists defeats against Carl Williams, Tony Tucker, Buster Douglas, Mike Weaver, Oliver McCall, George Foreman and Tommy Morrison.

"People hear all the big names I fought and say, 'Wow, you got money.' I don't got no money because I never made no money," Jaco said. "I'm one of those guys on the B side. I was a palooka. I was put in there as a stepping-stone, for a win.

"But for an old palooka, life is pretty good. I got a nice house, a good woman, four new daughters and a great job."

Donnie Long
Donnie Long, even though he doesn't follow boxing anymore, is familiar with the sordid nature of Mike Tyson.

Long knows about the rape conviction and the numerous allegations of similar incidents. He is aware of the assaults, the ear-biting incident, the alleged marijuana usage, and on and on and on.

Long, the ninth opponent of Kid Dynamite's pro career, has faith Tyson can be rehabilitated despite zero supporting evidence over the years.

Stranger things have happened.Long knows this because his life story might be the strangest of them all. If this can be possible, anything is.

The convicted murderer and drug trafficker, who used to wear a dog collar at Akron's North High and once stabbed a classmate in the schoolyard, now is the associate minister at Mount Lebanon Baptist Church in Akron, Ohio.

And five years ago, after his first week at Mount Lebanon, the former boxer was reunited with a woman he hadn't seen in decades. A month later, he married her – while on parole for murdering her brother.

Donnie and Margaret Long never really dated and never were engaged. One afternoon, they were downtown and impulsively walked into the courthouse, where a judge, who had no idea he might be an accessory to a parole violation, married them.

"I asked her 'What will your family think?'" the 48-year-old Long recalled. "And she said 'I'll do what I want to do!' We said we better not tell everybody. We waited a couple weeks because we didn't want anybody to have a heart attack."

Long was only 18 years old when he killed Jeffrie Boyd during an altercation in an Akron pool joint in 1975. Long claimed self-defense, that he was cornered and was only trying to fire a warning shot when the bullet struck Boyd dead.

"My mother had some of the worst kids in Akron," Long said. "I was probably every bit of Jason, Chucky and Freddy Krueger all rolled into one."

Long's sentence was 15 years to life, but a higher court released him in 1981 on grounds his trial was unconstitutional. He began his boxing career in earnest that year and won his first dozen fights before losing to James Broad. "The Master of Disaster" rebounded in his next appearance, beating Dino Dennis on national TV.

But the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals reversed the decision again and sent Long back to prison in 1984. He said he got a second chance to make good in the ring when he was released in 1985.

Long won his first two bouts and received a $5,000 invitation to fight Tyson in Atlantic City in November 1985.

"I remember going to the fight, and I remember waking up in the hospital," Long said. "As far as the actual fight, I can't tell you a single thing."

Tyson floored Long three times in 88 seconds.

"After I fought Mike Tyson, my whole career went down the drain," Long said. "I went from thinking I was somebody great to being lost in the wilderness. I lost my faith in myself. I thought I was a loser and a failure again. I went back to the streets and the destruction."

He fought seven more times after the Tyson defeat, winning only once and taking lumps against Francesco Damiani, Renaldo Snipes and Buster Douglas. Long retired with a 16-10 mark.

Long also had a side job pushing drugs. He was charged with five counts of drug trafficking in 1988 and went on the lam for five years. He hid in Alabama for a while, but eventually decided to take control of his life and turn himself in to police.

The man who used to wear a dog collar to school even surprised himself when recounting his life story to a reporter for the first time. He vowed all the old memories would be locked away at the end of the phone call. There won't be any more interviews about boxing.

Then Long imparted one last thought: "Through boxing, I learned to prepare for the battle of life. I can withstand against any storm. God knows how to put the puzzle together."

Read the rest of the article Here >>>> http://www.espn.com/sports/boxing/columns/story?id=2086508
 

Trail

R.I.P. Joe Rein
May 24, 2013
33,581
8,655
Donny
Five early foes recall fighting Tyson
Jun 11, 2005
  • Tim Graham
  • They go by many labels. The polite terms are trial horses, stepping-stones, gatekeepers, B sides. Others would dare to call them palookas, bums, stiffs, pugs, cadavers, cannon fodder – though maybe not to their faces.
These are the sort of men, practically anonymous to all but the staunchest fight fans, who compose the early portion of every champion's career. They build up confidence. They build up a record. And then when their usefulness has been exhausted, they usually fade away.Mike Tyson had the most prominent career launch of any non-Olympic fighter. The buzz generated by his early fights – the relentlessness, the explosive power, the don't-blink knockouts – made Kid Dynamite a crossover sensation.

Even so, a quick glance at those early bouts will conjure up memories of … well, not much. Most of the names won't register.

Who are these guys? Where are they now?

Some fighters, like Tyson's first professional foe, Hector Mercedes, are tough to locate. Some, like Mitch "Blood" Green, are easier. Joe Ribalta won't do interviews without getting paid. Reggie Gross was imprisoned on murder charges.

Tyson will try to patch up his sagging career against Kevin McBride on Saturday night in Washington. This will mark Tyson's first appearance since losing to Danny Williams last summer.

So the time seems fitting – since McBride is about the same caliber of fighter upon which a 19-year-old Tyson feasted regularly back in the day – to track down some of those men who gamely stepped into the ring to face a skyrocketing phenom and helped create a legend.

Mitch Green
A weak, raspy voice, barely audible over the blaring television in the background, picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"I'm looking for Mitch Green. Is this him?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm calling from ESPN.com. I'm working on a story on some of Mike Tyson's early opponents, and …"

"Tyson's a knucklehead!" Green shouted, instantly evolving into a Chris Rock character from "Saturday Night Live." The TV quickly was muted. "Come on, man! He's getting knocked out by bums. That's all I can say about that because you're not giving me any money for this. I can't talk about that knucklehead. … But I got a lot to say."

Mitch "Blood" Green is flat broke. He's not afraid to admit it because if he doesn't let you know, you wouldn't think to offer him some money.
But if charisma were currency, Green would be watching "Judge Judy" while sitting on a beanbag chair stuffed with large bills.

Green, 48, lives alone in Queens and has no apparent means of income aside from receiving $5 for every autograph he sells on a Web page constructed in his honor. Benefactors apparently help him pay his bills.

Fans are still drawn to Green and his wacky tales, his hilarious one-liners and outrageous statements.

"I'm like a politician in Harlem," Green said. "Every time I go out it's "What's up, Mitch? Mitch, Mitch, Mitch! Bop, bop, bop! Blood, Blood, Blood!"

He does magic tricks for kids on the streets, and he's still famous enough to bail himself out of trouble with the law – sometimes – with a funny story or an autograph. He has been in and out of jail more often than Sideshow Bob and reportedly has had his driver's license suspended 54 times. But he recently avoided a ticket for turnstile jumping on the subway when two undercover cops accepted a signature instead.

Green fought Tyson twice. The first time was in May 1986. Green dropped a lopsided 10-round decision but became only the second opponent to last that long with Kid Dynamite, who rose to 21-0.

The second time, two years later, Tyson infamously brawled Green in front of a Harlem clothing store just before dawn.

Green is still begging to complete the trilogy, even though he hasn't fought since 2002, when he picked up a title from something known as the World Boxing Syndicate by beating Danny Wofford, a pug who came into the fight with a record of 17-94-2.

"Tyson's a punk. That boy is scared to death of me," said Green, who went 18-6 but fought only seven times in 16 years after losing to Tyson. "It's a damn shame Tyson's scared of me like that. We could make a lot of money. Aw, man!

"I could tattoo all these chumps. I could beat both them bums. Tyson's fighting a bride. Ha! It's like they're getting married. … They'll be hugging and kissing.

"You know, you asking me a lot of questions. I should get paid for this."

Toward the end of the uncompensated interview, Green started to feel antsy. All that boxing talk was giving him ideas, awakening dormant desires.

"I haven't been to the gym lately, but I'm going," he said. "I might just get me a fight.

"Sure you can't give me a couple dollars for this? I'm tapped."

David Jaco
The popular barroom debate generally starts with the following question: "How much money would you need to get in the ring with Mike Tyson?"

David Jaco's figure was not a king's ransom.

He took $5,000 to fight Tyson in January 1986. Tyson was only 15-0 at the time, but he had started to create a global ruckus with his thunderous hands and lightning-quick knockouts. Four months earlier, he had blitzed Michael Johnson in 39 seconds. Three months prior, he annihilated Robert Colay in 37 seconds.

But Jaco didn't care. He needed money quick, or else he would lose his family.

"That $5,000 I made from Tyson changed my life," the 48-year-old Jaco said from his home in Sarasota, Fla. "Who would think that kind of money could do that?"

Jaco was divorced in 1979 but stayed with his ex-wife, who had custody of their twin sons, in hopes of reconciling. He described his ex-wife as a hopeless drug addict, and when she split the Toledo area and took the boys to Florida, he was terrified.

But before he could track her down, he needed cash. And before he could get the cash, he had to survive Tyson.

Jaco was an imposing presence at 6-foot-6 and 217 pounds. He had a respectable record of 19-5 with 15 KOs and had already issued Razor Ruddock's first defeat.

Jaco wasn't about to spoil Tyson's unblemished record, too.

"He was quick, like a cat," Jaco said. "He came in so low to the ground. I was bent over, trying to hit him. But he just came up and bang, bang. He was for real back then."

The fight ended at 2:16 of the first round because of the three-knockdown rule.

"The referee came up to me and said 'Nice fight, David,' " Jaco recalled. "And I said, 'What the hell are you talking about?' He said 'You've been down three times!' I said, 'Bull----! I've only been down twice!' "

Jaco took his purse and bolted for Florida. He eventually won custody of his sons, met a registered nurse and was remarried in 1992. He and his second wife had four daughters between 1993 and '99.

He retired in 1994 after losing seven consecutive bouts, giving him a record of 24-25-1 with 19 knockouts.

"I went from boxing to being Mr. Mom for the first six years of our marriage. What can I say? My wife pays the mortgage," said Jaco, who last year put 26,000 miles on his Dodge Durango transporting injured workman's compensation candidates to hospitals throughout Florida.

His sons, Aaron and Adam, became prizefighters. A rotator cuff injury prematurely ended Adam's career, but now he trains and manages his brother. Aaron, a light heavyweight, is 13-0 with 4 KOs.

"I don't want to see him get all tore up for nothing," Jaco said. "I hope someone takes notice and helps him make some money so he can get out."

Jaco's ledger also lists defeats against Carl Williams, Tony Tucker, Buster Douglas, Mike Weaver, Oliver McCall, George Foreman and Tommy Morrison.

"People hear all the big names I fought and say, 'Wow, you got money.' I don't got no money because I never made no money," Jaco said. "I'm one of those guys on the B side. I was a palooka. I was put in there as a stepping-stone, for a win.

"But for an old palooka, life is pretty good. I got a nice house, a good woman, four new daughters and a great job."

Donnie Long
Donnie Long, even though he doesn't follow boxing anymore, is familiar with the sordid nature of Mike Tyson.

Long knows about the rape conviction and the numerous allegations of similar incidents. He is aware of the assaults, the ear-biting incident, the alleged marijuana usage, and on and on and on.

Long, the ninth opponent of Kid Dynamite's pro career, has faith Tyson can be rehabilitated despite zero supporting evidence over the years.

Stranger things have happened.Long knows this because his life story might be the strangest of them all. If this can be possible, anything is.

The convicted murderer and drug trafficker, who used to wear a dog collar at Akron's North High and once stabbed a classmate in the schoolyard, now is the associate minister at Mount Lebanon Baptist Church in Akron, Ohio.

And five years ago, after his first week at Mount Lebanon, the former boxer was reunited with a woman he hadn't seen in decades. A month later, he married her – while on parole for murdering her brother.

Donnie and Margaret Long never really dated and never were engaged. One afternoon, they were downtown and impulsively walked into the courthouse, where a judge, who had no idea he might be an accessory to a parole violation, married them.

"I asked her 'What will your family think?'" the 48-year-old Long recalled. "And she said 'I'll do what I want to do!' We said we better not tell everybody. We waited a couple weeks because we didn't want anybody to have a heart attack."

Long was only 18 years old when he killed Jeffrie Boyd during an altercation in an Akron pool joint in 1975. Long claimed self-defense, that he was cornered and was only trying to fire a warning shot when the bullet struck Boyd dead.

"My mother had some of the worst kids in Akron," Long said. "I was probably every bit of Jason, Chucky and Freddy Krueger all rolled into one."

Long's sentence was 15 years to life, but a higher court released him in 1981 on grounds his trial was unconstitutional. He began his boxing career in earnest that year and won his first dozen fights before losing to James Broad. "The Master of Disaster" rebounded in his next appearance, beating Dino Dennis on national TV.

But the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals reversed the decision again and sent Long back to prison in 1984. He said he got a second chance to make good in the ring when he was released in 1985.

Long won his first two bouts and received a $5,000 invitation to fight Tyson in Atlantic City in November 1985.

"I remember going to the fight, and I remember waking up in the hospital," Long said. "As far as the actual fight, I can't tell you a single thing."

Tyson floored Long three times in 88 seconds.

"After I fought Mike Tyson, my whole career went down the drain," Long said. "I went from thinking I was somebody great to being lost in the wilderness. I lost my faith in myself. I thought I was a loser and a failure again. I went back to the streets and the destruction."

He fought seven more times after the Tyson defeat, winning only once and taking lumps against Francesco Damiani, Renaldo Snipes and Buster Douglas. Long retired with a 16-10 mark.

Long also had a side job pushing drugs. He was charged with five counts of drug trafficking in 1988 and went on the lam for five years. He hid in Alabama for a while, but eventually decided to take control of his life and turn himself in to police.

The man who used to wear a dog collar to school even surprised himself when recounting his life story to a reporter for the first time. He vowed all the old memories would be locked away at the end of the phone call. There won't be any more interviews about boxing.

Then Long imparted one last thought: "Through boxing, I learned to prepare for the battle of life. I can withstand against any storm. God knows how to put the puzzle together."

Read the rest of the article Here >>>> http://www.espn.com/sports/boxing/columns/story?id=2086508
Thank you.
 
Oct 27, 2016
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I was going to post this in dkos 'Bizarre Side of Boxing' thread but it probably deserves a place in this great thread.

Iwao Hakamada 16-11-2 record spent a record 46 years on death row for a crime he didn't commit,released and then the case against him was going to be reopened.Very interesting story.

https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/qbx7k5/iwao-hakamada-life-after-death-row-kim-sungwoon-freedom-moon

They didn't in the end reopen the case against him but you can google and read a bit more about him here.

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/jun/11/japan-man-freed-after-45-years-on-death-row-could-go-back-to-jail
 
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WHERE THEY ARE NOW: RANDY SHIELDS : Former Pugilist Hopes to Score Knockout With Movie Script : Boxing: He punches a keyboard instead of opponents trying for his big break in Hollywood.
FERNANDO DOMINGUEZTIMES STAFF WRITER

It was a scene straight out of a movie, but much more violent than the ones Randy Shields likes to write.
There were no cameras rolling, no director giving instructions, no actors in a make-believe world. This was real-life drama, with loaded guns and two hardened criminals looking for an excuse to use them.
And Shields, 38, a screenwriter and former top-flight boxer who grew up and still lives in North Hollywood, could see the ending was not going to play well in Peoria. Or anywhere else.
It happened on a late summer night two years ago at a small restaurant on Laurel Canyon Boulevard called Four 'N 20 Pie Shop. But for Shields, the images remain so vivid in his mind, it might as well have been yesterday.
"I was sitting right here," Shields said the other day, as he recounted the terrifying event. "I was writing a scene for a screenplay when they came in and fired four shots into the ceiling."
Two gunmen busted into the restaurant around midnight on Sept. 18, 1992, and demanded all the cash in the register. As they entered and blew out part of the ceiling with a shotgun blast, Shields dropped to the floor and crawled toward the back of the restaurant. One of the men saw Shields and fired a shot into the back of his left leg, but Shields escaped into a darkened back room.
When an employee, and then a customer, couldn't open the register as ordered, one of the gunmen threatened to kill someone. That's when Shields, who sometimes works as a bodyguard and has a license to carry a concealed weapon, realized he had to do something.
"I pulled my gun and went out," Shields said. "I started shooting at them and they ran out, but I hit both of them. I hit one guy in the chest and the back, and I hit the other guy in the back. They made it home and called 911 and said they had been involved in a drive-by (shooting), but their stories didn't fool the police. They also had pretty long rap sheets."
Both men, and the driver of the getaway car, are doing 18 years in prison. Shields, who possibly saved some lives that night, is still hanging out at his favorite eatery and churning out the stories he hopes to see on the big screen, usually from the table where not long ago he saw a Hollywood plot unfold before his eyes.
*
Unleashing his imagination into story lines that would hold an audience captive is what makes Shields tick nowadays.
Although none of his scripts has gone beyond the word processor, Shields spends hours--often late into the night--either at home or at the Four 'N 20 polishing his work. And he says he could be close to a breakthrough with one of his stories if the pieces fall into place in the next few weeks.
Shields says he has a financial backer who will put up around $13 million to produce his latest finished project, a movie titled "Bagdad" that deals with the plight of a homeless man who, by chance, encounters the two grown sons he abandoned years before.
The catch, however, is that Charlie Sheen must agree to play the role of one of the sons for the money to come through, Shields said. Martin Sheen, father of Charlie and actor Emilio Estevez, is interested in playing the role of the dad, Shields said.
"Charlie's publicist has the script and (Charlie) is considering it," Shields said. "The writers have a Catch-22. You need the actors to sell the work but the actors are afraid to put their names on something that won't sell because they don't want the stigma. Hopefully, this one will work out."
Almost all the scripts he has written, Shields said, have nothing to do with boxing. He wants to be recognized as someone who has more to offer than his connection to the sport.
"I have several boxing stories but whether I do anything with them, I don't know," Shields said. "It has a lot to do with me wanting to establish myself as a writer first, rather than people thinking of me as a dumb ex-boxer who can only write about boxing."
Still, Shields admits that boxing has helped him make contacts in the film industry.
"Luckily, I can break down a lot of doors because of boxing," Shields said. "But for (producers) to take me seriously as a writer is a tough sale."
*
Before trying his luck at writing films, Shields was a leading protagonist in a genre in which showmanship, sport and brutality blend to entertain the public.
As a youngster in the late 1960s and early '70s, Shields established himself as a promising fighter, one who could throw damaging blows and also take a punch.
"If you have a world-class talent, it shows even at 14 or 15 years old," said Joe Goossen, the veteran Valley-based trainer who has known Shields since each was a teen-ager. "Randy was definitely beating up pros in the gym when he was that age. He was one of the cleanest-living fighters I've ever been around. He didn't smoke or drink, and he never missed a training session."
With his father, Sonny, a former boxer and longtime stuntman as his manager and trainer, Shields cruised through a 92-bout amateur career with 67 knockouts among his 88 victories. He won the 1973 national Amateur Athletic Union junior welterweight title with a convincing decision over Sugar Ray Leonard and competed internationally with the U.S. team.
One year later, Shields turned professional and began a career that would pit him against some of the best fighters of his era--and in some cases, of all time. But Shields' career also was marred by illness and injuries.
In his pro debut at the old Olympic Auditorium in 1974, for example, Shields jumped into the ring against journeyman Victor Abraham despite a 102-degree fever. He won a six-round decision but was knocked down for the only time in his pro career.
"I had this cold and I couldn't breathe," Shields recalled, "so I went back for a breather and put my guard down. He caught me with a right hand."
At the time, Shields was trying to balance boxing with schoolwork at Valley College. But he had to give up the books because he was constantly training and fighting. In his first pro year, Shields fought 21 times. He devoted his spare time to writing poetry and short stories, and was already delving into screenwriting.
By 1978, Shields and Leonard were crossing paths again, this time with money at stake. Leonard, on his way to becoming a legend, beat Shields in 10 rounds in Baltimore in what Shields considers one of his most memorable and difficult fights.
"The fights with Leonard were the toughest, both as an amateur and a pro," Shields said. "The hardest I've ever been hit was by Leonard. Didn't do anything to me, but he had this sharp, stinging punch that really hurt."
Despite the loss to Leonard, Shields ascended the rankings. In 1979 he got a shot at the World Boxing Assn. welterweight title against Jose (Pipino) Cuevas, the hard-hitting Mexican champion who was considered virtually unbeatable. Shields lost a narrow and controversial decision to Cuevas in Chicago, and was preparing for a rematch when he faced Mauricio Aldana in a tuneup bout at the Sports Arena. He nearly didn't make it home in one piece.
After beating Aldana, fans chanting Cuevas' name turned on Shields when he left the ring. "The crowd started pummeling me," Shields said. "They threw a metal chair from the balcony and opened a gash on top of my head. Then someone slapped me on the right ear and perforated the ear drum."
Shields recovered, but not in time to fight Cuevas, who lost the WBA title to Thomas Hearns in 1980. Shields challenged Hearns a year later and fought essentially one-handed after he suffered a torn rotator cuff in his left shoulder while training a few days before the bout. Shields worked through the agonizing pain and was ahead on all three judges' scorecards until cuts over his eyes gave Hearns a TKO victory in the 12th round.
"I thought I could squeeze by, but I could hardly move my arm," Shields said.
The shoulder, in fact, never quite healed and Shields, tired of living on painkillers, retired in 1983 with a 41-9-1 record. He attempted a comeback in September, 1990, and suffered a broken jaw in a 10-round junior middleweight victory over Stewart Baynes at the Country Club in Reseda.
That convinced him to quit for good.
Shields remains connected with the sport by training two amateur boxers he says will soon turn pro. He also does security work, but his real passion is the movies.
"I love writing," Shields said. "I've had some job offers but this is what I want to do."
Copyright © 2019, Los Angeles Times
 
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Fighter against time Dennis Andries


Harry Mullan meets Britain's ageing lord of the ring who has earned res pect the hard way
Harry Mullan

Sunday 15 January 1995 01:02

NASEEM HAMED will get the TV attention and the Sunday paper headlines when he boxes in Glasgow on Saturday, but the real story is down the bill, where the indefatigable Dennis Andries attempts to become the oldest ever British champion. Andries, a three-time WBC light-heavyweight champion, faces Denzil Browne of Leeds for the vacant British cruiserweight championship, just a month short of 15 years since his first British title attempt. It would be a good story under any circumstances, but give n Andries' advanced age - whatever that might be - it is remarkable that he is still competing at this level at all.

His strikingly handsome features offer no clue either as to his profession or his age; he could pass for 25, but has mischieviously encouraged speculation that he's 20 years older. Now, he says: "There's no mystery: I'm 41. The press wanted to be funny. I said, OK, pick a number... Well, make me 46, 48, anything you want.' And then I thought, You know, this old man nonsense is OK. Maybe it'll bring me more fights, because people want to fight you if they think you're old - but when they get in there, they'll find this is one tough old boy.' Anyway, age don't matter. I've seen guys washed up at 24. One bad beating can make you old overnight."


Boxing's best-known antiques, George Foreman and Roberto Duran, have lasted so well because of their styles: Foreman usually gets rid of opponents early, while Duran is a clever, slippery type who takes comparatively little punishment. Yet Andries, who has had more life-and-death struggles than any British boxer of his several generations, remains unmarked, clear-eyed and precise of speech despite 17 hard years in the professional ring.


He seems genuinely astonished at the suggestion that he has had some tough battles. "Did you ever see me walk in with my face up and take punches all the time like that? No, I'm always covering, blocking. If I can't whup you, I can protect myself. You don't see me with cuts, bumps and bruises."


There is also, he suggests, a genetic explanation for his longevity; his tough childhood in Guyana. "I'm from a hard country, a hard place where you got to think like a man and do man things by the age of 12. We were working-class, country people. My daddy came to Britain first, then my mother and my sister, and when they'd saved the money, maybe eight years later, they sent for me and my brother. My parents had split by the time we got here. I ran away four times in Guyana because I didn't want to leave my cousins and my friends, so they finally caught me and said, Away you go, 'cause you're too bad for us.' I'm a down-to-earth, quiet kind of a guy now but back then I was a wild kid."

He needed all that self- sufficiency to carry him through a career with more troughs than peaks, in which he had to carve out his own niche as an unfashionable, crude brawler without the financial, promotional or managerial connections needed to make things happen. His illusions did not survive for long.


"I had a lot of setbacks early on, but then I got the Southern Area title, so if anybody wanted the British title they had to go through me first. Trainers would say to me
Why don't you retire, or step aside and let my boy in - I'll give you a grand. You're just holding other fighters back.' I said, I ain't holding your boy back - if he wants to fight, let him fight me. I'm here, and if I'm in his way he's got to beat me first.' They saw me as the Iron Man of the division, and I couldn't get no fights."

He solved his dilemma by creating the impression that his dedication had faded: he would train for a couple of days in a professional gym, then disappear for a week to make it seem that he's broken training. In fact, he would instead be working out at anamateur club with people whom he could trust with his secret. "I had to con opponents that I wasn't ready, otherwise I'd still be waiting," he remembers with a chuckle.

He got his first major opportunity in his ninth fight, as a short- notice substitute against the veteran British champion Bunny Johnson in January 1979, and even though he lost on points he made a strong enough impression to be granted a rematch for the title a year later. It proved a nightmare experience: in probably the worst championship fight in the division's history. Andries blundered and stumbled his way to a 15-rounds points loss. It was a humiliating experience, and the critics were merciless. He remained unperturbed.

"If you can't take criticism, you're gonna be suicidal. Fighters tell me
I can't take what they're writing about me.' I say Well don't read it, then. Ten years after, when it's all over, read it and have a laugh.' If I read something about me that I don't like, I'll just cut it out and put it away.

"I've been around, and I've learned from all my bad experiences. I've only had one first-round knockout in nearly 60 fights. They've all been tough. I've always fought guys one level above me. If you put a bum fighter in front of me I'd probably lose, because I wouldn't know what to do with him. I'd be thinking
God, it's Christmas,' because they've given me a turkey."


Andries persisted at his trade, learning from his losses until, having won the British title at the third attempt and put together a 13-fight unbeaten run, he took the WBC championship from the American ex-Marine J B Williamson. It was a short reign: after one successful defence, he was stopped in 10 rounds by Thomas Hearns in Detroit, showing almost superhuman courage and endurance in getting off the floor time and again. A couple of days later Hearns's manager, Emanuel Steward had a call from the ex-champ, asking to join Steward's famous Kronk gym.

"I'd said to myself, Win or lose, I'm going to Steward,' but obviously I couldn't talk to him before the fight," he recalls. Steward, impressed by his courage, agreed to take him on, but those early days in the ferocious environment of the Kronk were brutal.

"When I went there first, guys were lining up to say,
You think Tommy Hearns done you, we're going to do you worse.' They'd say We want that British boy. We're gonna whup his ass'. I said, Let me tell you something. I'm not born in England.' Then yo u 're English, boy, and we're gonna kick your ass'.


"It was tough, but I had to beat respect into them. They all thought,
Give him a week or two and he'll leave. If we don't beat him out of here the heat will drive him out.' But a determined man is a dangerous man. I stayed on and I commanded respect. There were so many broken noses, ribs, jaws, eye sockets. I might've had a little cut here and there, but that's all.

"The ring in the Kronk used to be slippery with sweat, 'cause there were so many tough-ass people working out hard. People used to come down there to see fights. They'd bring their lunch and their dinners, and sit and watch them. They didn't have to pay money to go to an arena. They'd see guys carried out of there, guys been broken in the ring. That's how tough it was."

Under Steward's guidance he regained the WBC title, lost it and won it back. His three WBC titles earned the trade's respect, and some decent American paydays, but he remains virtually unknown to the wider sporting public. "It doesn't bother me," he insists. "Nothing gets to me. If it did, I'd be cracked up by now. The media and the British people like losers, and all that bullshit. Well, go on your way, man, 'cause I'm not a loser."


His nomadic lifestyle requires an understanding wife, Odette, with whom he has been "since we were kids at school". "She's a strong woman and we love each other. We decided early on we'd be together in this boxing thing and we were gonna do it. If you got someone to support you in what you're doing, you got no problems.

"I lived in Detroit from 1987, and I'm still back and forth. But I've got two boys now. They're getting bigger and I need to be there, to be a daddy for them. I was reared up with no father, and I'm not going to make the same mistake. I got to be there for my own kids.

"I'll know when to get out of boxing. I don't want to push it too much. Give it another year, maybe two, and that's it. I'll let boxing be. For now, I enjoy what I'm doing. Why quit all that to drink and go to the bars? That's when you will get old.

"I'll keep working, 'cause I got to. Some people are born lucky, and then there's the rest of us. You see that guy won £1m on the lottery and wants to give it back? I can't understand that: why play a game if you don't want to win

Source... The independent.
 
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EIGHT MINUTES OF FURY
MARVIN HAGLER UNLEASHED AN ALL-OUT ASSAULT AGAINST THOMAS HEARNS TO RETAIN HIS MIDDLEWEIGHT CROWN

BY PAT PUTNAM

APRIL 22, 1985

There was a strong wind blowing through Las Vegas Monday night, but it could not sweep away the smell of raw violence as Marvelous Marvin Hagler and Thomas Hearns hammered at each other with a fury that spent itself only after Hearns had been saved by the protecting arms of referee Richard Steele. The fight in a ring set up on the tennis courts at Caesars Palace lasted only a second longer than eight minutes, but for those who saw it, the memory of its nonstop savagery will remain forever.

Hagler's undisputed middleweight championship was at stake, and for the first time since he won it from Alan Minter in 1980, people had been questioning his ability to retain it. In the weeks leading up to the fight, Hagler fumed as the odds tilted back and forth before settling on the champion by the narrowest of margins. Hagler's pride was sorely stung, and a deep burning anger wrote his battle plan.

It was a simple strategy, one that could have been designed by Attila: Keep the swords swinging until there are no more heads to roll, give no quarter, take no prisoners. There would be only one pace, all-out; only one direction, forward.

It was a gamble, for Hagler would be exposing his 30-year-old body to the cannons that had knocked out 34 of the 41 men his 26-year-old challenger had faced and had earned Hearns the nickname Hit Man. "But he ain't never hit Marvin Hagler," the champion sneered. "I've taken the best shots of the biggest hitters in the middleweight division, and I've never been off my feet [Hagler considers his knockdown by Juan Roldan a slip]. And this guy isn't even a middleweight. Hit Man, my ass."



ORIGINAL LAYOUT
Hearns, as the challenger, came into the ring first—tall and strikingly muscular at 159¾ pounds—wearing a red robe with yellow trim. He jumped up and down to limber up his leg muscles, and then he strolled around the ring smiling. Hagler followed, in a royal-blue robe over trunks of the same color. Most champions keep challengers waiting alone in the ring as long as possible, but Hagler had warmed up well in his dressing room and he wanted to make his appearance while the sweat was still oiling his body. Entering the ring, he fixed Hearns with a scowl that never wavered, not even during Doc Severinsen's trumpet version of the National Anthem.

When the bell rang, the war was immediately on. "I think Marvin may come out so fired up that we'll just have Tommy stick and move," Emanuel Steward, the challenger's manager, had said. "Hagler will be so juiced up, after seven or eight rounds it'll rob his strength. Then we'll go for the late knockout."

But Steward underestimated just how juiced up the champ would be. Hagler never gave Hearns a chance to do anything but fight for his life. The 5'9½" champion swept over his 6'2" opponent like a 159-pound tidal wave. There were no knockdowns in the first round, but only because both men were superbly conditioned and courageous athletes. Surely each hit the other with plenty of blows powerful enough to drop lesser mortals. In all, 165 punches (by computer count) were thrown by both fighters: 82 by Hagler, 83 by the challenger.

Startled by the intensity of Hagler's assault, Hearns replied in kind. He's normally a sharpshooter from the outside, but only 22 of his 83 punches were jabs. Hagler, attacking Hearns's slender middle with his first volley, threw none. "I started slugging because I had to," Hearns admitted later. "Marvin started running in, and I had to protect myself."

It was a sensational opening round. Both fighters were rocked during the violent toe-to-toe exchanges, and midway through the round the champion's forehead over his right eye was ripped open either by a Hearns right hand or elbow. With Hagler not bothering with defense, Hearns went for the quick kill. His gloves became a red blur as he rained punch after punch on the champion's head—and it would prove his undoing.

"He fought 12 rounds in one," Steward said later.

Returning to his corner, Hearns wore the drained expression of a man who had already fought for 36 minutes.

"What are you doing?" Steward screamed. "You've got to stick and move. Jab. Don't fight with him."

In the champ's corner, Dr. Donald Romeo, the chief physician of the Nevada State Athletic Commission, was examining the cut on Hagler's forehead. Another abrasion had begun to form under the eye. Satisfied that the cut on the forehead was harmless, Romeo returned to his seat.

"Don't change," Hagler's trainer, Goody Petronelli, told the champion. "Just keep your hands up a little higher. Don't worry about the cut. Just keep charging and keep the pressure up."

"O.K.," said Hagler. "I won't worry about the cut. If you go to war, you're going to get wounded."

Hagler's pace in the second round was only slightly less relentless. "When I see blood," said the champion, "I become a bull." He came out ready to gore whatever was in his path, and although Hearns rocked him midway through the round with a strong right cross, Hagler never for an instant eased the pressure. "All that right hand did," said Hagler, "was make me even madder."

A veteran of 64 professional fights (all but two of them victories), Hagler could sense the strength seeping away from Hearns's body. As he went back to his corner after the second round, the champion knew the fight was just about over.

"This cut isn't bad, but it's bleeding a lot," said Petronelli, as he worked on Hagler's forehead. "Let's not take any chances. Take him out this round."

"He's ready to go," said Hagler, spitting a mouthful of water into a pail. "He's not going to hurt me with that right hand. I took his best, and now I'm going to knock him out."

As in the first two rounds, Hagler came out at full fury. Forcing himself up on his toes, Hearns tried to hold him off with jabs, but he had little left. Hagler waded through the challenger's jabs, pressing forward, always punching. Hearns was not backing down, but he was backing up. One of Hearns's jabs widened the cut on Hagler's forehead, and as blood came roaring down the champion's face, Steele signaled time-out and stepped in. He led Hagler back to his corner to be reexamined by Romeo.


"Can you see all right?" the physician asked over the screams of 15,088 outraged fans.

"No problem," said Hagler. "I ain't missing him, am I?"

Romeo again motioned to Steele that the fight could continue.

Deciding that he didn't want the outcome determined by anyone but himself, Hagler moved in, first firing a short left and then a smashing right to the side of Hearns's head. Dazed, the challenger floundered backward across the ring.

The pursuing Hagler unloaded a right and a left, and then leaped in with an overhand right that thundered against Hearns's head. On instinct alone, the challenger tried to clinch, but then he went down.

As Steele picked up the count, Hearns lay on his back, arms outstretched, eyes open but unseeing. With great will, Hearns rolled over and brought himself to his feet at the count of nine. But Steele, after studying the challenger's glazed eyes, wisely signaled a cease-fire. The time was 2:01 of the third round.

With blood still streaming down his face and onto his chest, Hagler leaped into the air, at least $5.7 million richer. It was his 11th title defense, leaving him on track in his drive to surpass Carlos Monzon's middleweight record of 14.

Hearns had to be carried back to his corner, and it was several minutes before he could stand on his own two feet. Later, Hearns, who is still WBC junior middleweight champ and who stands to bank at least $5.4 million from the fight, went into Hagler's dressing room. "We made a lot of money, but we gave them a good show," Hearns said. "Tell you what. You move up and fight the light heavies, and I'll take care of the middleweights."

Hagler laughed. "You move up," he said.

After receiving four stitches for the cut in his forehead, Hagler went to a party in the Augustus Room at Caesars. He spoke briefly to the celebrators. Then, with his wife, Bertha, he watched a video replay of the fight. After seeing the knockout for the fourth time, Hagler smiled and applauded. He looked at his watch. It was midnight. "Let's go," he said to Bertha. His work was Done.

Sports Illustrated.

 
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Former light welterweight champ Saoul Mamby was one of Boxings fascinating characters, a Black Jewish guy from the Bronx managed by Don King and despit being managed by king he claims he still managed to remain financially stable ...stylistically he is what one would call a spoiler bamboozling and befuddling fighters, he even managed to get ranked in his 40's when causing a mild upset over contender Larry Barnes. He made history by fighting at 60...Despite being a journey man in the latter part of his career and suffering 34 losses he was stopped only once a testimony to his skills as a master spoiler.

Article originally published in USA Today ... https://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=2&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwis6efW8PXNAhXKA8AKHZHYAGcQFggwMAE&url=http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/sports/boxing/2008-03-12-1281354489_x.htm&usg=AFQjCNFgyuiyYgYsId_zifwyuEmbr43qLQ&bvm=bv.127178174,d.ZGg

At the age of 60, Saoul Mamby fights on because that is what he does
Posted 3/13/2008 3:59 AM



By Tim Dahlberg, AP Sports Columnist
I guess I should be outraged, but somehow I'm not.
Saoul Mamby probably shouldn't be fighting, but he's been doing it for so long I'm not going to be the one to tell him to stop.

The grandfather of 11 first fought for money in 1969, a year he remembers well even if a lot of others don't. Once a world champion who fought on the same card as Muhammad Ali, he's fought around the world in places you'd be hard pressed to find on a map, but where he could always find a payday.

The other night he went 10 rounds with a man half his age down in the Cayman Islands. He took the fight on a few days notice, figuring that even a few months shy of 61 he could beat a guy who had lost 13 of his last 14 fights.

He couldn't, but at his age one more loss isn't going to deter him.


"I didn't get hurt or beat down. It's just that my tools weren't sharp," Mamby said. "Now that I've got 10 good rounds under me I'm ready to go again."

Just when that will be depends on the ability of his manager, Steve Tannenbaum, to convince a boxing commission somewhere that 60 is the new 30 and that a fighter shouldn't be discriminated against just because he's only a few months away from collecting Social Security.

That's been difficult in recent years, but Tannenbaum has a plan. He also has an opponent, though he still needs to find him.

"Give me a white guy with a decent record from the south," Tannenbaum says. "That's all I need."

In boxing, that's all anyone needs to sell a few tickets. Add a senior citizen to the mix, and start opening some more windows at the box office.

Just how Mamby got to this point should be a cautionary tale for anyone involved in the sport of boxing. The fact that he's now fought in five different decades and might be the oldest fighter ever to step into a ring should be cause for alarm.

I said should be, because you talk to Mamby and it all makes sense. Well, almost all.

His motivation goes back 40 years, to the jungles of Vietnam where newly drafted out of the Bronx he served in the infantry. He and his buddies would sit around, joke and laugh, and talk about what they were going to do after the war.

After seeing some of those buddies leave the country in body bags, Mamby made a vow to himself to lead the life he wanted if he got out alive.

"I don't want to be the shoulda, woulda, coulda," Mamby said. "Because when it's over, it's over. I made it out of a hellhole, so whatever I want to do I'm going to do as long as it's not hurting me or anybody else."

Sounds corny, sure. There's probably a dozen B movies in Hollywood based on the same principle, though no one got their brains scrambled while making them.

Mamby's brain isn't scrambled, either, which may come as a surprise for someone who's been in 85 fights, gone 15 rounds eight different times, and fought dozens of times in places when the only medical clearance needed was your ability to breathe and climb into the ring.

Mamby can do both, though his ring skills had deteriorated so much that he was suspended after a 2000 fight in North Carolina and fought only once, in 2004 in Thailand, before getting his comeback fight Saturday night against Anthony Osbourne in the Cayman Islands.

He lost a unanimous decision to a guy who can't fight, but he felt like a winner coming out of the ring when the crowd gathered to shake his hand and cheer him on after the announcer filled them in on his age.

It was another story to add to a collection that Mamby tells with little prompting and surprising eloquence for a man who has spent most of his life trading punches to the head. He'll tell you of defending his 140-pound world title in the fight just before Ali took on Larry Holmes in 1980, his fights in Madison Square Garden, and how he used to go into the backyard of opponents around the world to make a living.

The conditions weren't always great. But once when he took his title belt to Indonesia to defend against the local hero, and the fight organizers put him up in a luxury hotel and assigned a gorgeous young woman to take care of his every need.

Mamby smelled a plant. He had the girl wake him up for road work and drive him around, but nothing else.

"She was a beautiful woman, but I wasn't going to lose my title for one night of pleasure," he said.

That was a quarter century ago, and Mamby wasn't a young man then. The guys he fought are now all old and fat or dead, while Mamby walks around at 155 or so pounds and doesn't have a gray hair on his head. He eats steamed veggies, recently bought a juicer for his health foods and will talk forever about how important proper nutrition is.

"The man hasn't had a Dunkin' Donut in his life," Tannenbaum said.

Mamby is chasing a dream he shouldn't be chasing, but all boxers do the same thing. He wants to be a champion again, and feels that with a few fights he should be able to fight for one of the many titles out there.

That's not going to happen, just as he's not going to be fighting in Las Vegas or New York or anywhere else where they regulate the sport. His best hope lies in his well-used passport or Tannenbaum's ability to find that hometown fighter somewhere in the south where they might look the other way when they see his age.

Boxing isn't pretty at times; actually it's not pretty most of the time. I've been around the sport long enough to see the effects it can have on guys who take one punch too many, and I've seen young men killed in the ring.

So, yes, I should be outraged not only that Saoul Mamby is still fighting, but that there are places that will still let him fight.

I should be, but somehow I'm not.

----

Tim Dahlberg is a national sports columnist for The Associated Press. Write to him at tdahlbergap.org

The Associated Press

Saoul Mamby passed away a few days ago.

Here he is training for his comeback fight at 61... one of Boxings unique characters.
 
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Trainer Naazim Richardson has defied the odds
by Matt Breen, Inquirer Staff Writer,Posted: November 5, 2014

Naazim Richardson stood a few feet away, watching Bernard Hopkins jostle the punching bag. Boxing's oldest world champion mixed thudding strikes with the pitter-patter of soft jabs.
Hopkins switched to the speed bag. Richardson stood to the rear. His eyes stayed on Hopkins as the fighter rattled the bag, seeming to dance with the rhythm of each punch. Richardson kept the time. The workout was almost complete.
Richardson is the trainer and Hopkins is his athlete. Not fighter, not boxer but athlete. It is a term of respect, Richardson said.
The trainer and athlete's strong bond has helped them defy the odds. They both overcame Philadelphia's streets to attain boxing glory rooted in faith and family. Their next challenge - perhaps the stiffest one yet - is Saturday night in Atlantic City. A win by the 49-year-old Hopkins against fearless Russian Sergey Kovalev may be the duo's greatest accomplishment.

Hopkins is two wins away from being the undisputed light-heavyweight champion, a feat he would try to complete after he turns 50 in January. In his way is a built-for-television knockout king. The 31-year-old Kovalev has recorded his last 13 wins by stoppage.
"You're coming to see a guy that looks like he punches like Hercules," Richardson said. "But can he beat the old bird? This joker's 111 years old and he's fighting monsters like Kovalev."

Richardson declines to talk brashly about Kovalev. Talking brashly, he said, is not what men do. Richardson said he has been a man for most of his life, ever since leaving home at 14 years old. He lived on the streets in Germantown and sought shelter each night. The nights he failed to do so were spent on park benches.
"Somebody from the neighborhood would come through and wake me up," he said. "And they'd say 'Naazim, you're sleeping.' I'd say 'Oh, my bad, I just fell asleep out here.' I didn't tell anybody that I had no place to go."

He split his schooling between Germantown High and Daniel Boone, a former disciplinary school operated by the school district. He was arrested as a teen and dropped out of school, returning to Germantown a few years later to earn his GED. He later took psychology classes in community college.
"If you had went back and asked everyone what would happen to me, everyone would pick me to be the one that was dead or in jail," Richardson said.
Richardson started his workday one late-September morning at Shuler's Gym, a tough gym in a tough West Philadelphia neighborhood. It is the home base for the trainer's Concrete Jungle Boxing Tribe.
The name is derived from a hip-hop record label that he started in the late 1980s. The project, which featured Richardson rhyming as Brother Naazim, was shelved when his sons started boxing. Now it is what he calls his group of athletes, which consist of some of the city's best talent.

Richardson wrapped the hands of his nephew Karl Dargan, a rising lightweight contender. He trained his athlete for two hours before leaving in the afternoon for Juniata Park. Richardson would do the same there with Hopkins. It was then back to West Philadelphia for a night session.
Richardson travels to three or four gyms a day, working with athletes from morning to night. Dargan said his uncle's gig is more challenging than any 9-to-5 job. The city's top trainer said life can be hectic.
"If I get a red light too long, I'm in trouble going to the next project," Richardson said.
The trainer chooses his athletes carefully. Each one, he said, is family. His friends tell him he would make more money and gain greater fame if he trained more fighters. Richardson cannot do that. He said he puts too much time into the athletes he already has.

He first started working with Hopkins in the mid-1990s. Then a middleweight, Hopkins was being trained by Bouie Fisher, who was Richardson's mentor. Hopkins and Richardson shared a troubled past. Both were from Germantown and both were incarcerated for parts of their youth. And both had found Islam.
"We feed off each other's adversity," Hopkins said. "Everyone has a story that could have ended their lives or stopped their careers. But somehow we found a way to not fall victim to those challenges. It's good to know that he's a fighter, not a quitter."
When Hopkins and Fisher split in the early 2000s over a monetary dispute, Richardson became Hopkins' chief trainer. With Richardson in his corner, Hopkins moved up two weight classes in 2006 to upset light-heavyweight champion Antonio Tarver.
Two years later, Richardson suffered a stroke. The trainer had a slight headache after returning home from Shuler's. He reached for aspirin but kept dropping the bottle. Richardson could not understand why. He lost control of the left side of his body and collapsed. His family rushed him to Temple University Hospital. Richardson could only pray.
The doctors told him he may never walk or talk again. He proved them wrong. He said that if he didn't already believe in God, he would have after that. His youngest son, Bear, who now assists his father, said the recovery was a miracle. The trainer said he felt he was letting his athletes down when his health failed. He had to make a quick return.
The father and son stood side-by-side as Hopkins completed his workout. "One minute," Richardson said. Hopkins' punches were so furious that the baseboard shook. "Thirty seconds," the trainer said. Hopkins hit the bag with a flurry.

"Time," Richardson shouted.
Hopkins whacked the speed bag, bouncing it off the baseboard and stopping it still. He walked past his trainer expressionless and covered in sweat. There was nothing more to say. The athlete and his trainer are out to defy the odds, again



R.I.P Brother Naazim he passed away today.
 

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Trainer Naazim Richardson has defied the odds
by Matt Breen, Inquirer Staff Writer,Posted: November 5, 2014

Naazim Richardson stood a few feet away, watching Bernard Hopkins jostle the punching bag. Boxing's oldest world champion mixed thudding strikes with the pitter-patter of soft jabs.
Hopkins switched to the speed bag. Richardson stood to the rear. His eyes stayed on Hopkins as the fighter rattled the bag, seeming to dance with the rhythm of each punch. Richardson kept the time. The workout was almost complete.
Richardson is the trainer and Hopkins is his athlete. Not fighter, not boxer but athlete. It is a term of respect, Richardson said.
The trainer and athlete's strong bond has helped them defy the odds. They both overcame Philadelphia's streets to attain boxing glory rooted in faith and family. Their next challenge - perhaps the stiffest one yet - is Saturday night in Atlantic City. A win by the 49-year-old Hopkins against fearless Russian Sergey Kovalev may be the duo's greatest accomplishment.

Hopkins is two wins away from being the undisputed light-heavyweight champion, a feat he would try to complete after he turns 50 in January. In his way is a built-for-television knockout king. The 31-year-old Kovalev has recorded his last 13 wins by stoppage.
"You're coming to see a guy that looks like he punches like Hercules," Richardson said. "But can he beat the old bird? This joker's 111 years old and he's fighting monsters like Kovalev."

Richardson declines to talk brashly about Kovalev. Talking brashly, he said, is not what men do. Richardson said he has been a man for most of his life, ever since leaving home at 14 years old. He lived on the streets in Germantown and sought shelter each night. The nights he failed to do so were spent on park benches.
"Somebody from the neighborhood would come through and wake me up," he said. "And they'd say 'Naazim, you're sleeping.' I'd say 'Oh, my bad, I just fell asleep out here.' I didn't tell anybody that I had no place to go."

He split his schooling between Germantown High and Daniel Boone, a former disciplinary school operated by the school district. He was arrested as a teen and dropped out of school, returning to Germantown a few years later to earn his GED. He later took psychology classes in community college.
"If you had went back and asked everyone what would happen to me, everyone would pick me to be the one that was dead or in jail," Richardson said.
Richardson started his workday one late-September morning at Shuler's Gym, a tough gym in a tough West Philadelphia neighborhood. It is the home base for the trainer's Concrete Jungle Boxing Tribe.
The name is derived from a hip-hop record label that he started in the late 1980s. The project, which featured Richardson rhyming as Brother Naazim, was shelved when his sons started boxing. Now it is what he calls his group of athletes, which consist of some of the city's best talent.

Richardson wrapped the hands of his nephew Karl Dargan, a rising lightweight contender. He trained his athlete for two hours before leaving in the afternoon for Juniata Park. Richardson would do the same there with Hopkins. It was then back to West Philadelphia for a night session.
Richardson travels to three or four gyms a day, working with athletes from morning to night. Dargan said his uncle's gig is more challenging than any 9-to-5 job. The city's top trainer said life can be hectic.
"If I get a red light too long, I'm in trouble going to the next project," Richardson said.
The trainer chooses his athletes carefully. Each one, he said, is family. His friends tell him he would make more money and gain greater fame if he trained more fighters. Richardson cannot do that. He said he puts too much time into the athletes he already has.

He first started working with Hopkins in the mid-1990s. Then a middleweight, Hopkins was being trained by Bouie Fisher, who was Richardson's mentor. Hopkins and Richardson shared a troubled past. Both were from Germantown and both were incarcerated for parts of their youth. And both had found Islam.
"We feed off each other's adversity," Hopkins said. "Everyone has a story that could have ended their lives or stopped their careers. But somehow we found a way to not fall victim to those challenges. It's good to know that he's a fighter, not a quitter."
When Hopkins and Fisher split in the early 2000s over a monetary dispute, Richardson became Hopkins' chief trainer. With Richardson in his corner, Hopkins moved up two weight classes in 2006 to upset light-heavyweight champion Antonio Tarver.
Two years later, Richardson suffered a stroke. The trainer had a slight headache after returning home from Shuler's. He reached for aspirin but kept dropping the bottle. Richardson could not understand why. He lost control of the left side of his body and collapsed. His family rushed him to Temple University Hospital. Richardson could only pray.
The doctors told him he may never walk or talk again. He proved them wrong. He said that if he didn't already believe in God, he would have after that. His youngest son, Bear, who now assists his father, said the recovery was a miracle. The trainer said he felt he was letting his athletes down when his health failed. He had to make a quick return.
The father and son stood side-by-side as Hopkins completed his workout. "One minute," Richardson said. Hopkins' punches were so furious that the baseboard shook. "Thirty seconds," the trainer said. Hopkins hit the bag with a flurry.

"Time," Richardson shouted.
Hopkins whacked the speed bag, bouncing it off the baseboard and stopping it still. He walked past his trainer expressionless and covered in sweat. There was nothing more to say. The athlete and his trainer are out to defy the odds, again



R.I.P Brother Naazim he passed away today.
Thank you very much for the article.

What a sad day.
 
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Thank you very much for the article.

What a sad day.
Always sad one of these legendary coaches passes away. Whether its a Manny Steward a Brendan Ingle or a Brother Naazim the knowledge they take with them can never be replaced. And the impact they have in mentoring hundreds of troubled youth in the innercity. Far surpasses. Any accomplishment in the ring.
 
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R.I.P. Joe Rein
May 24, 2013
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Donny
Always sad one of these legendary coaches passes away. Whether its a Manny Steward a Brendan Ingle or a Brother Naazim the knowledge they take with them can never be replaced. And the impact they have in mentoring hundreds of troubled youth in the innercity. Far surpasses. Any accomplishment in the ring.
So very true. Manny going was disastrous, not only for his talent as a trainer, but his HBO input so often (I know the two go together). Brendan Ingle was a big deal for me. I live 12 miles away from his gym, work in the same city as it is. Nobody lives forever, unfortunately in some cases.
 
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Click the link in the tweet to read the Article by Thomas Gerbassi a well written article.

 
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