Nate Siegel: Marked for Death

 He survived World War One, but was no match for Boston’s Underworld…

 by Don Stradley

 

 

Nate Siegel in his prime, circa 1920

 

On August 13, 1934, at approximately 2:00 AM, Nate Siegel was in the living room of his home on 64 Endicott Ave in Revere. His wife and two children were sleeping, but he was up late, tending to business. He was looking at receipts from the Clover Leaf Cafe, a tavern on North Shore Road of which he was part owner. 

 

Owning a tavern was a natural progression for the former welterweight boxing champion of New England. He was a hero in his neighborhood, and a respected businessman. But in the stillness of the early morning hours, as Siegel ruffled through the day’s receipts, an assassin with a shotgun aimed through the front window of the house and fired.

 

The horrible sound woke his wife, Clara. She rushed out to find her husband on the floor. The blast had torn apart his neck and face. The café receipts were scattered around him. Siegel had died instantly. 

 

Clara claimed to have seen three men running from the yard into a nearby car and speeding away. Police would find the supposed getaway car a half mile away in East Boston, abandoned in the Orient Heights neighborhood. They described it as a “cheap sedan” fitted with orange Maine number plates. Wrapped in brown paper and jammed under the rear seat was a .12-gauge automatic shotgun. The killers, though, had vanished like those shadowy gunmen in an old-time radio serial.

 

Conflicting stories emerged. Clara said her husband had no enemies. Yet Siegel's friends and the café staff said he’d had constant conflicts with people. Some members of his inner circle claimed Siegel had talked about being marked for death.  He’d given no specific reasons and made no effort to conceal his movements or get out of Revere, but he’d spoken about a gangland plot to “get” him. 

 

The café had been in the news a few times that year.  Revere was going through a rash of burglaries at the time, and desperate young men at the height of the Great Depression were resorting to petty crimes. Yet despite police questioning everyone connected with the place, the Clover Leaf Café couldn’t be connected to Siegel’s murder.

 

Police speculated that Siegel had come between rival gangs of liquor distributors. There was talk of an impending gang war, and local authorities vowed to break up Revere’s “racket conditions.” Even the Federal Government took an interest. The case was feared to have broader ramifications than just the death of a tavern owner, and city powers felt the local police were ill equipped to handle the investigation. A councilman declared, “The police here are so used to gang conditions and practices that they have become inoculated to them.”  Crime was so high in Revere that outside aid was needed, “in cleaning up the city.” 

 

The automobile with the shotgun in it had been reported stolen many months earlier. The trail reached all the way to Providence, RI, though both the car and the weapon were registered to fictitious Maine persons. Both the car and the gun were clean of fingerprints, suggesting to police that the job was done by professionals, not punks.

 

The weapon, an automatic shotgun, lent further credence to Siegel’s murder being a gangland crime. It was the same type of weapon used in a pair of recent gang murders in Boston, as well as a botched attack on a store on Boston’s Washington Street. Police believed a killer, or killers, were being hired by mobsters for what they called “spot jobs.” The guns were expensive new models, but the police surmised that if a hit man was being paid well to kill someone, there was no loss in buying a new gun for the job and discarding it. Like the piece used to kill Siegel, an abandoned shotgun found after the failed store shooting was registered to a fictional Mainer. 

 

As police gathered more information, their frustration increased. None of the pieces of this puzzle fit together. In time, investigators couldn’t settle on whether the murder was gang related, or merely a personal incident that had escalated into violence. Siegel was, his friends said, a bold man who didn’t back down from anyone.

 

He’d grown up in Boston’s West End, where he was said to have had “a good many scraps.” Siegel began his professional boxing career in 1916 before joining the war effort in 1917. After serving 13 months overseas in the 82^nd Division (and suffering shrapnel wounds in the right arm) he resumed fighting in the ring. By this time his family had settled into Revere’s Beachmont neighborhood, and Siegel often stayed at their home on the corner of Shirley Avenue and Nahant Street. It made him a favorite among the locals. Boxing was soaring in popularity, and Revere had its very own fighter to admire.

 

 A 21-bout undefeated streak was highlighted by a points win over a shopworn Ted “Kid” Lewis of Britain, and a decision over Tommy Corcoran (aka “Young Kloby”) in front of 15,000 at Braves Field. The Globe declared the Siegel-Corcoran bout was, “one of the best battles ever held in Boston.” It also earned Siegel the welterweight championship of New England, a minor title that no doubt filled its winner and his loved ones with pride.

 

Siegel was a celebrity, known for speeding around Boston and Revere in his Cadillac. He was colorful, a capable trash talker who could also tell entertaining stories about the war. His popularity was at its peak in 1922 when his bout with Dave Shade at the Boston Arena was filmed, making it the city's first bout captured on celluloid. 

 

He was especially proud of his Jewish heritage, and critical of promoters who had once tried to saddle him with an Irish gimmick. “Why should I change my name and put on green tights?” Siegel said. “Can’t the Irish do their own fighting?” The irony was that his tavern had an Irish motif – the cloverleaf – and most of the clientele was Irish.

 

If Siegel wasn’t willing to become Irish, he was more than happy to compete against the area’s many Irish brawlers, particularly Patrick J. “Paddy” Flynn of Everett. The Siegel - Flynn series had everything – not only was it a Jewish fighter versus an Irishman (one of boxing’s hot ethnic rivalries of the period), but their respective hometowns, Revere and Everett, had always been competitive in amateur tournaments. Moreover, the camps of Siegel and Flynn had a loud rivalry in the press, hurling insults back and forth. Promoters had a small goldmine in Siegel and Flynn. They fought twice at the Boston Armory in 1920, and once at the Boston Arena in 1921. Siegel won every time.

 

Siegel’s time at the top was fleeting. He lost a pair of bouts to future Hall of Famer Mickey Walker. More losses followed. On May 27, 1924, immediately after a loss to Rocky Smith at Boston’s Grand Opera House, Siegel retired from fighting. He left the business with a record of 39-16-14 with 17 wins by KO and two no-decisions. 

 

Siegel settled down with Clara, became a father, and occasionally offered his services as a boxing trainer. He was a well-liked man in the Beachmont neighborhood. His café was popular. Life was nice.

 

His murder at age 38 left the police baffled. State Detective John F. Stokes wondered aloud for the Globe at Siegel’s carelessness on the night of his death. If Siegel knew gangsters were after him, why was he so cavalier about standing in front of his window? Did he think his pursuers had been called off? Or was Siegel merely acting in what his friends described as his “courageous and defiant manner?” 

 

Chances are, this fighting man who had been in the ring as well as the front lines of World War One felt there was nothing to fear. But according to his great nephew, Peter Siegel, there was plenty to fear. 

 

"My grandparents thought that they knew who was behind Nate's murder," Peter said in 2024. "Family lore varied a little with each person. My aunt said that Nate owned a speakeasy. By 1934 I expect it reverted to a tavern. She said that Nate had refused to buy his liquor from a certain gangster."

 

According to family legends, Siegel's death had been ordered by a Jewish gangster named Louie Fox. A Revere character known for his underworld activities and political contacts, Fox had a spicy reputation that was only whispered about. Fox's supporters claimed he was merely a real estate speculator and a philanthropist - the city named a building after him in 1988. Yet Mafia turncoat Vinnie Teresa dubbed Fox the "financial wizard for the Massachusetts mob," and described him as owning Revere, "lock, stock and barrel." Criminals of every stripe bowed to Lou Fox. 

 

It was general knowledge that Fox "ran" Revere Beach, a three-mile stretch of barrooms, hotels and carnival rides that was sometimes called "The Coney Island of Boston."  Fox owned most of it and even built the famous Wonderland dog track. Fox had enough clout that he leased an office at Boston's City Hall. 

 

Fox came into Siegel's circle when his sister Vera married Siegel's brother, Eddie. Having a reputed racketeer in the family fold was not a cause for concern, for even members of the Siegel family had indulged in some bootlegging during the prohibition years. At the time, the Siegels may have looked at Fox as a businessman and nothing more.  Fox eventually had his brother-in-law, Eddie Siegel, overseeing the day-to-day operations at Revere Beach.

 

When Nate Siegel opened his speakeasy, Fox allegedly approached him. No one could run a racket in Revere without Fox's permission, not even a distant family member. The story passed down by the family is that Fox warned the ex-fighter about how to do business. 

 

"He said, 'I'll allow you to sell liquor, but you can sell my liquor, or you don't sell liquor at all,'" said Peter Siegel. "Nate probably told him off." 

 

The first run-in between Siegel and Fox happened during the prohibition years. It is believed that Fox confronted Siegel many times and was always rebuffed. There was even talk at the time of the murder that Siegel recently "got physical" with someone at the tavern who had insisted he sell a certain kind of ale. 

 

Fox's name was never officially linked to the murder, though according to Peter Siegel, he was considered the architect of the killing, "pretty much across the family."   

 

Siegel’s funeral was a major event. More than 7,000 mourners gathered along the narrow streets of Revere as a cortege of 165 cars proceeded to a Nahant Ave synagogue. According to the Boston Globe, Clara collapsed at the house and “was carried to an automobile by relatives.” Out of respect for Siegel, all Revere liquor stores closed for an hour during the services.

 

The Siegel case remained unsolved. There were attempts to link it to other unsolved Revere killings in the next few years, particularly for victims involved in the city’s underground gambling racket. Strangely, a few other Boston area boxers had been murdered in those years, including East Boston featherweight George Brogna (aka "Johnny DeLano"), whose bullet-riddled body was found in Revere. Each had links to bootlegging.

 

Siegel’s old rival Paddy Flynn also came to a nasty end. Four years after Siegel’s death, an unknown assailant murdered Flynn at a Malden gaming house. Flynn died as doctors tried to remove a .22 slug from his brain.

 

What are the chances that Siegel and Flynn, who had battled each other three times, would both be victims of unsolved murders? Those who saw them fight at the old Boston Armory thought it was just another local rivalry, but they were watching two doomed men.  

 

***

My book, Slaughter in the Streets,  explores a period of time where many Boston area boxers were killed in what appeared to be mob-related ambushes. Most went unsolved. For reasons of length, the section on Nate Siegel was cut. I've always wanted to share it.  

If you'd like to read the book, look for it on Amazon.  https://rb.gy/2qfxin

 

 

https://www.amazon.com/author/donstradley

 

RICHARD CRENNA IN THE COMBAT ZONE

When a Hollywood Nice Guy Played a Sicko

 by Don Stradley

 

Richard Crenna as Prof. William Douglas in The High Price of Passion

It didn't sound right. Richard Crenna, an actor known best for playing upstanding, intelligent characters, was cast in an NBC movie as a sex-addicted college professor who murdered a young woman.

 

Anyone who had followed the infamous William Douglas case in 1983 thought it was an odd casting choice. Douglas was a well-known professor from Tufts University who became embroiled with a 21-year-old sex worker named Robin Benedict. When she tried to end their ongoing "affair," he bashed her head in with a hammer and disposed of the body. 

 

Those who had seen pictures of Douglas knew he was a grossly overweight clod  who frequented Boston's red light district. He was a stalker, an embezzler, and an all-around creep. Crenna seemed too  charismatic for such a role. Of course, if you weren't familiar with the case,  you could just accept it as another cheesy, made-for-TV crime movie of the week. The networks were grinding them out in those days.

 

But even Crenna knew it was unusual to see him as a villain. He generally played good guys.

 

"This latest role gave me the opportunity to go 180 degrees in the other direction," he told the New York Daily News. "It was a pathetic sexual relationship."

 

"There were so many facets to this character. When he was teaching at college, he had tremendous command, lots of charm, and was in control of the people he taught. But in his relationship with the prostitute, she controlled him. She totally dominated him. He became childlike, a boy. That's how I played him."

 

The High Price of Passion (1986) was aired on the Sunday after Thanksgiving in 1986. It was given a high profile slot, with ads blaring in advance. The case was already a few years old, but it had received nationwide attention and was still hot. To his credit, Crenna promoted the hell out of the movie. 

 

"These kinds of roles are terrific to play," he said. "It gives me a chance to find out what I can do."

 

###

 

The real William Douglas

When I was writing my book, Boston Tabloid: The Killing of Robin Benedict, I had a chance to watch the movie again. My memories of it were vague, only that it came out in the heyday of made-for-television true crime movies. Frankly, I had more vivid memories of Mark Harmon playing Ted Bundy in The Deliberate Stranger, and Tommy Lee Jones as Gary Gilmore in The Executioner's Song. When I rewatched The High Price of Passion,  I saw a standard TV drama that was filmed in Toronto, not Boston, and Crenna doing his best to look like a rumpled professor. The movie wasn't terrible, but from my research of the case I knew it  was missing the target.

 

The main issue was Crenna. He was a 60-year-old man, while Douglas had been 41 at the time of the murder. Douglas weighed 300 pounds, while Crenna was probably less than 200. And Douglas was known for his his high-pitched voice, while Crenna had a strong, actor's voice.  

 

For that matter, no one in the movie looked like the characters they were playing. The Benedict family was portrayed by mostly Irish, or Anglo actors, when the father was actually from South America, and dark-haired Robin Benedict looked much like her Latino dad. Fair-skinned and fair-haired Karen Young portrayed Benedict, and played her as a callow, not too bright young woman.  

 

Benedict's Black pimp was written out of the story completely. Instead, she had a white boyfriend. There was even a scene where Robin showed up at her parent's house to announce that she was done with the street life, and ready to live happily ever after. None of this happened, but that's a TV movie for you. Facts were not important. It was just a way to spend a Sunday evening in front of the tube. 

 

Furthermore, the TV-movie stripped away the edges of the story. Where was the cocaine? Much of the money Douglas embezzled was to help feed Benedict's drug habit. There's not a single line of the stuff to be seen in the movie. And while many Boston area prostitutes claimed Douglas as a client, the movie makes it seem as if Benedict was the first sex worker he ever met, and that he simply mewled around her like a puppy. Strangest of all, Douglas' wife and children go unseen in the movie. He doesn't even admit to having a family until the movie's end.

At the time of the movie's release, the Benedict's declared it was good to see their daughter portrayed in a nice way (the media of the time tended to depict her as hardhearted and greedy, while the movie made her more of a sweet girl who had made some bad choices). The family, however, thought Crenna was too nice as Douglas, and that the violent murder of their daughter was glossed over. They were correct about that - we see Douglas and Benedict scuffling in silhouette, but we don't see the bloodbath that must've taken place.

 

Sate trooper Paul Landry, who was one of the key investigators, thought the movie was laughable. He told me, "When they raided Douglas' house, they knocked on the door and said, 'Boston City Police.' There's no such thing!" 

 

It was also odd that Crenna sat by while the investigators went through his house. In real life, Douglas was a nervous wreck, acting strange the whole time the troopers were there.

 

Moreover, since it was a TV movie, the sordid milieu of Boston's red light district - the notorious "Combat Zone" - was downplayed. Then again, it was unlikely anyone could've recreated the boiling cauldron of sleaze that Boston was in that period. The High Price of Passion was an R-rated story squashed into a PG-rated script. "That movie was crap," said Landry. "Not even close." 

Ultimately, the movie was a very basic version of the story. It seemed to be simplified for people with limited attention spans. 

 

Yet The High Price of Passion was a success. It drew an 18.9 in the Nielson ratings, finishing an impressive 15th for the week, well ahead of such popular programs as Moonlighting, ALF, and a repeat of Miami Vice. In its own time slot, it whipped the other competing programs, including a showing of Clint Eastwood's Escape from Alcatraz on ABC. NBC had to be pleased. The network had gambled that the Douglas-Benedict story would pull in viewers, and that Crenna could play the professor.

 

Along with solid ratings, The High Price of Passion did well with  critics. The Boston Globe called it "not a bad movie," and despite his not being right for the role, praised Crenna. He "manages to capture the nuances of the professor who could not control his obsession," reported the Globe's TV critic. 

 
Most of the reviews around the country were positive. Some reviewers noted the many holes in the plot, but that's how the case was: full of holes and unanswered questions. 

 

Generally, Crenna was applauded. But by that time in his career, Crenna was a reliable journeyman actor.  Even if he wasn't the perfect Douglas, Crenna was always a solid, watchable performer. People liked the guy. Douglas, a selfish nutjob, was too well-served. 

 

###

 

You can read more about this case in my book, Boston Tabloid: The Killing of Robin Benedict.

 

"an intriguing story of fatal obsession" - Kirkus Reviews

 

Pick it up from Amazon  https://rb.gy/ofvem6

 

You can also purchase it from Hamilcar Publications. https://hamilcarpubs.com/books/boston-tabloid-the-killing-of-robin-benedict/

 

 

 

Another Tainted Star in the IBHOF

 

He stood five feet, ten inches tall, which was enormous for a featherweight. Compare him to, say, Sandy Saddler, who was considered freakish at five feet eight, and you understand the size of Diego Corrales. Even as a lightweight, he was taller than most. This, possibly, was why opponents came at him so hard. He once said to me, “I can box a lot of different ways, but I always end up in a brawl.” He was a physical anomaly. At full height in the center of the ring, he looked like a King Cobra rising to strike.

Yet he was hardly snakelike. The fact is that Corrales, who will be inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame next June, was more like a junkyard dog, willing to fight with his ears and tail torn off. Alas, it wasn’t until the later days of his career that we truly appreciated Corrales’ fighting spirit. He’d always been a fighter we wanted to see, but near the end, he was a fighter we had to see.

He was always smiling. Smiling at how he had lived his boyhood dream to become a professional fighter; smiling at how he became a titleholder at 23; and absolutely beaming after any of the 40 wins on his record. He reacted to each of his victories like a kid who had been surprised by an unexpected birthday gift.

That’s why it was always hard to reconcile this likable, oversized boy with the fact that he had a history of violence against women and once served 14 months in a state prison for felony spouse abuse. What went on in his mind? We’ll never know.

He was 29 when it all ended. He’d lost three fights in a row, which is hard to come back from. He was on his third marriage, and it, too, was falling apart. He had problems with the IRS and was running out of money. Friends said he was optimistic about his career and his troubled marriage, but Corrales seemed like a man with an uncertain future.  Just weeks after his most recent loss, he was riding his Suzuki motorcycle northbound on Fort Apache Road in the Las Vegas Valley. He was drunk. Along with hitting women, he had a history of drunk driving arrests. On this night he rammed into the back of a car. The impact left the Suzuki looking like a crushed Coke can, and sent Corrales hurtling 100 feet. When Corrales landed, he was struck by another car. He died hard.

He had become a legend of sorts by then, all because of one fight – and it is largely because of that one fight that he has been selected for enshrinement in Canastota – a stunning, 10th round come-from-behind knockout of Jose Luis Castillo in 2005. It was contested in a half-empty Mandalay Bay Center for alphabet belts that no one remembers, but a generation of boxing fans considered it the best fight in history. Who could argue? Corrales and Castillo had battered each other. Their faces and torsos were beaten into colors we’d never seen on human flesh. The bruises weren’t black and blue; they were grey, or muddy brown. It was as if the contusions were in pain, screaming for mercy.

Castillo was about to win, having sent Corrales to the canvas twice in the 10^th, but somehow Corrales landed a right on Castillo’s cast-iron jaw. Jose Luis sagged into the ropes unable to defend himself. Corrales threw a few more punches until referee Tony Weeks stepped in. It was instantly an all-time classic.

“We were going to box,” Corrales said later, “but I kind of shredded that game plan once the fight started. I was just in the mood to fight.”

That gritty side had existed in Corrales all along. There was a bout with Joel Casamayor where Corrales was bleeding so badly from a cut in his mouth that the ringside doctor called for the fight to be stopped. Corrales argued, wanting to continue even as gore spurted from his lips.

The same was true of his loss to Floyd Mayweather Jr. Corrales had been dropped five times and was so far behind on points that his step-father/trainer stopped the fight. Again, Corrales was outraged. There were still two rounds left. When a man can punch like Corrales, he always believes his fortunes can change.

His time at the top was brief. He met Castillo for a rematch five months later and was stopped in four. Two more losses followed. The first war with Castillo made Corrales the toast of boxing, but it also ruined him. He was never the same.

It is possible that Corrales could’ve achieved more in boxing. He always had that urge to show the world what he could do. After his second bout with Casamayor, in which he had boxed with finesse and won by split decision, Corrales turned to the cameras and smiled. He said, “See? I told you I could fight like that.” As much as he loved a good rumble, he wanted us to know he was more than a brawler.

Corrales wasn’t a great fighter, but he was a good one. He was gutsy and he could punch. There was his bout with Acelino Freitas, a strange one that saw Freitas simply stop fighting in the middle of a round and walk to his corner. It was a mystery as to why Freitas surrendered, though his manager later told me the reason. “He said Corrales hit him so hard that he was seeing triple; there were three Corraleses in front of him and he didn’t know what to do.” Such was Corrales’ power.

There were stories of Corrales’ gentler side. He was a gourmet cook who loved TV soap operas and designer clothing. When reporters made fun of him early in his career for having too many piercings, he felt embarrassed and removed them all. He seemed eager to please. He could charm you. I recall his mild voice, excitable but friendly, like a teen. Our few conversations had been nice. He was personable, happy to talk about his career and upcoming fights. But as LA writer Bill Dwyer said of Corrales many years ago, he was “a con artist with a twinkle in his eye.”

Corrales was pleasant to me, but was I just another person taken in by the Corrales con?

“Face to face, he was a wonderful kid,” said publicist Bill Caplan at the time of Corrales’ death.

But when no one was looking, Corrales became something less than wonderful.

Corrales put his second wife in the hospital with a broken collarbone, bruised ribs, and other injuries. She was pregnant at the time. On another occasion she was seen with Corrales’ handprints on her neck. Choke marks. The powerful hands that had made him a champion were used to strangle a woman who was nearly a foot shorter than him, and weighed less than 100 pounds. You don’t put your hands on a woman’s throat unless you mean to kill her. How close did he come to snuffing her out? He’d beaten up his first wife, too, so you can’t say it was just bad chemistry between Corrales and wife number two. The man was a serial abuser.

Corrales hadn’t been a shoe-in for the IBHOF. It took 16 years for him to be inducted. The IBHOF didn’t return calls for this story, but one can imagine the response would be typical of his defenders, something about his personal life not having an effect on his being selected. But one wonders if 16 years were needed because it took that much time for people to forget the worst things about Corrales, and to just remember the fights.

Corrales has always had supporters. Contemporaries who knew him from California gyms will smile and say, “My man, Chico!” Loved ones will cry at his memory. Journalists will try to put a romantic spin on him, saying that he lived recklessly and died recklessly, that he was a thrill seeker. They’ve always done that for Corrales, idealizing him as a “Raging Bull” type of character, a man of extreme emotions, a man with a dark side. They will say his misdeeds are unfortunate because they taint his legacy. I think they’re unfortunate because a couple of women are probably still having nightmares about him.

There’s a history of fighters being given a pass for abusing women. There seems to be an unspoken deal, in that the fighter entertains us, so we forgive his wrongdoings. In that way, boxing fans aren’t much different than the folks in Ozone Park who revered John Gotti, a Mob killer, because on Independence Day he supplied them with fireworks and sausages.

Corrales will be honored this spring. Hardcore fans who make the yearly trek to upstate New York for the inductions will cheer his name. Why not? His fight with Castillo made us all love boxing again, and that may be reason enough to place him among the great ones. And he’s certainly not the only wife beater in the hall. He’s just the latest.

Inducting Corrales gives people a chance to recall his best moments in the ring, but it will also give us a chance to think about the way we continue to glorify these men who hurt women. To say Corrales served his time is far too simplistic, as is the tendency to glamorize him as a man tortured by demons. The tough guy who thrives in a violent profession but beats his wife is an archetype that has been around too long, and one we no longer need.

 

- Don Stradley 

 

 

 

If you enjoyed this article, you might check out some of my books from Amazon. Here is a link to my author's page...  https://www.amazon.com/author/donstradley 

 

Thanks!

 

 

 

Nick Charles, Hall of Famer

 

He was ill. Everybody knew it. But some kind people at HBO invited Nick Charles of Showtime onto one of their Boxing After Dark broadcasts and let him commandeer a mic. It was for an undercard bout, not the main event,  but he handled it with the grace and professionalism that had been his trademark. In no more than 12 or 15 minutes, he put on a clinic of how to lead a boxing broadcast. 

Did I imagine it, or did I hear a kind of joy in Nick Charles' voice that night in 2011? He'd let it be known that he wanted to call one more fight before his time on Earth ended. Some people did the right thing and let him work. As I listened to him, I felt I was hearing a man doing what he loved one last time, and he was relishing every second of it.

In the annals of people on their last legs putting in a command performance, I think of Nick Charles' last call  and I rate it up there with some of the all time greats: John Wayne suffering through The Shootist; Warren Zevon pulling himself together to record one last album; David Bowie doing the same. Yes, I put a boxing commentator in the same breath as actors and singers because for Nick Charles, broadcasting was his art.  Some were more famous, but few were better.

A dozen years later it is still incredibly moving to think about that final call. It wasn't just the smoothness of his delivery - he'd turn it over to analyst Max Kellerman like Bob Cousy doing one of those behind the back passes - but we could almost sense him taking in the fight atmosphere, absorbing it, breathing it all in, trying to take it with him, wherever he was going. He had lived a rich life full of children and grandchildren and awards. Yet boxing had a special place for him. Nick Charles really loved boxing. He loved the fighters, and he loved the milieu. Maybe that's what I was hearing.

My first encounter with Nick came after I'd written a story about women's boxing and all of its problems. He contacted me to say he agreed that the women were struggling. At that time, a lot of the women in the business didn't know  the fundamentals. Many of those early women's bouts looked like two ladies flailing away in a parking lot. It wasn't fun to watch. He thought women's boxing was going to fail, simply because there weren't enough women at the top level to sell it. The women eventually improved, but it took a long time.

In that conversation, I could sense how much he loved boxing, how he admired the best practitioners, and how it actually hurt him to think of these fledgling women being thrown into the ring just for the sake of novelty. I thought at the time, this guy really loves boxing. He cared about it. I've met other broadcasters, and not all of them cared as much as Nick Charles did.

To look at him, you'd think he was just a garden variety TV personality. He would've fit in on any morning show, or  news program, any place you could stick him before a camera. In fact, he was CNN's anchorman on their 1980s show, Sports Tonight. He was once voted "America's Sexiest Sportscaster" by the U.S. Television Fan Association, a distinction he accepted with grace and humor. 

True, he had a great look and was always immaculate. He was a bit like that other "Nick Charles," the famous fictional detective of The Thin Man movie series played by William Powell. I guess if you're named Nick Charles, there is a chance you'll be a suave and sophisticated chap. And while I can't vouch for William Powell, I can say with confidence that Nick Charles looked that way all the time. I saw him a few times during off hours, with no cameras around, and he was still immaculate. He was one of those guys who could walk through a rainstorm and not get wet.

But the handsome clotheshorse was drawn to boxing. It was his juice. Even when he was ill, he used boxing jargon to talk about it. "I'm in the late rounds," he wrote to me in an e-mail. "And I'm behind on points. But I plan to score a come from behind knockout."

Once, at an HBO event in Madison Square Garden, I noticed him and his Showtime broadcasting partner, Steve Farhood. They were sitting together a few seats away from me. Why were they there? They weren't working. Farhood may have been writing a story for a magazine. But Nick? He was just there to enjoy the action. He could've taken the night off and watched from home. But there he was, looking as clean and pressed as if he were  ready to go on camera. And with each fight on a rather bland undercard, his eyes were riveted on the ring. He wasn't there to schmooze with people or be seen with other celebrities. He was just a fan watching the fights.

Showtime's Saturday afternoon show, ShoBox: The New Generation, was a pet project of his. He purportedly helped create it, and his presence gave the show some class. He thought it was important to introduce new fighters, and he was right. He'd had a long career, and as it was winding down, he was telling us about the young boxers who were hoping to make an impression. 

Nick Charles will be inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame next June. If inductees were elected based on how much they cared about the business, he would've been in a long time ago. I wish he was still around because I would love to hear his acceptance speech. I know it would be elegant and professional. And I know he'd talk about his love of boxing, and how proud he was of ShoBox.

Posthumous inductions are always bittersweet.  It's nice that Nick Charles will be honored, but sad that he won't be there. Of course, it gives us one more chance to remember him, which is also nice. I'll remember his style. I'll remember his kindness. And I'll always remember his gallant last stand on HBO, the way he sounded as he made what he must've known was his final call. 

And I'll think of that mysterious quality in his voice that night, and what I imagine he was telling us. 

Do what you love. Love it a lot. Love it like you'll never see it again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adieu, Boo Boo

 

 

 

He looked tired and confused. He looked the way fighters do when suddenly they have no answers. 

"Stop it," he said. 

The television microphones picked up his plea to surrender.

He looked old, too, as any 35 year-old fighter does when he's been punched hard for a few rounds. His corner men hovered around like doting aunts over a sick child.

The self-assurance that was his trademark had been smacked out of him. Had there been a reason for him to be so cocksure in the first place? Sure, he had speed and skill and all the tools. For a short time it had seemed like Demetrius "Boo Boo" Andrade had the world at his feet. Now, the viewers at home were watching his Waterloo: "Stop it."

It seemed a lifetime ago when he was fighting in New England casinos. Back then he was a heralded amateur making careful inroads into the professional ranks. His management was feeding him journeymen and unknowns and he was chopping them up. 

They always fell before Boo Boo in those days. He was quick, like a martial arts master in the movies, the hands a blur. He used to beat those early opponents so badly that they needed help out of the ring, like they were being pulled from the wreckage of a car crash. That's what happened when you fought Boo Boo Andrade of Rhode Island.

When I met him in those days, a few things struck me. He was being managed not by experienced boxing people, but by a mom and pop outfit that seemed like managers of a local ice cream store. They were friendly, but protective of him. They were wary of anyone who might have deep roots in Las Vegas or the dark world of boxing. They'd be happy if they could keep him fighting in small New England venues forever.

The other thing that struck me  was that no matter how humble and well-meaning the people around him were, they were convinced that Boo Boo would be greater than Sugar Ray Leonard and Muhammad Ali combined. He couldn't fail. It was a strange, mixed message - the kid had to be protected, but he was the next icon. They never explained how he might attain this greatness if he never left the Dunkin' Donuts Center in Providence.

He won some title belts - usually vacated ones for the WBO - but there always seemed to be something amiss. He was inactive for large chunks of time, always on the verge of signing for a big fight, then disappearing again. He fought infrequently, usually in some faraway boxing outpost: Boston, Miami, Manchester, New Hampshire. Keeping him out of Las Vegas was one thing, but his career became ridiculous. When, we wondered, would they ever take the training wheels off?

He never developed a following. He had fans in Rhode Island, but otherwise he was a footnote on the fringes of the sport, a guy with a funny name and a tinpot title belt. But you always had a sense that those people who had looked out for Boo Boo were still telling him he was greatness personified, and that his career was moving along perfectly. "We don't want people to take advantage of him," they'd said. 

I remember the way he carried himself at the beginning. He was a cocky, smirking kid. There was a bout at a Connecticut casino when he sauntered in late for a meeting with the commission. They fined him for being late; he shrugged and smirked. He had a little posse of gym rats and buddies around him. They smirked, too. Here was boxing's next big star, and he was doing a cheap imitation of the clowns he'd seen in gangsta rap videos. His managers would make you jump through hoops to ask a few questions. Once you were alone with him he'd just shrug and smirk and give you nothing.

By 2018 he was busted for illegal possession of a handgun. He said he needed it for his "wealth and fame." Boo Boo had just beaten a Namibian fellow named Walter Kautondokwa for another of those vacant WBO straps. It meant very little, but maybe in Boo Boo's mind he was Mike Tyson.

Now and then there would be a shakeup at the Andrade camp. People were fired and hired, which isn't unusual in boxing. People in his circle said Boo Boo was still the same likable kid, but "the wrong people got in his ear." 

Victor Conte came onboard recently. He's the training guru who served four months in prison for money laundering and selling illegal drugs to athletes.  Conte has supposedly turned his life around, but he has that thing in his personality that we also see in  defense attorneys and used car salesmen. Nothing he says sounds true. 

Conte brought Boo Boo into his California science lab before his latest fight. He measured and probed him like a lab rat. Conte's big on oxygen now. He fits his fighters with special masks and puts them in tents so they can breathe like superman. He told ESPN that Boo Boo was like the son he'd never had. "I'm looking out for him," Conte said. This sounded familiar. People are always looking out for Boo Boo.

In a way, Conte and Boo Boo were a good match. You looked at each guy and thought, "Is he still around?" Conte talked about this fight as a sort of big comeback for both himself and Boo Boo. What a story that would've been, the forgotten fighter and the disgraced steroid salesman, bringing it all back home. 

It was a Las Vegas bout, a pay-per-view main event pitting Boo Boo against David Benavidez, the super middleweight titleholder known as "The Mexican Monster." It was the biggest fight of Boo Boo’s career, his first time in such a lavish program. His first, honest to goodness Las Vegas spectacle. He was also trying out a new weight class. 

He looked good for the first few rounds. He was moving in and out, using all of the old southpaw tricks. He looked fast.

The footwork was fine. His timing was perfect. He wasn't bothered by Benavidez' size or reputation.  When they tussled along the ropes, Boo Boo held his own. The question was whether he could maintain this for 12 rounds. 

It all fell apart at the end of the fourth when Benavidez smashed him to the canvas. A caveman with a war club couldn't have done any better. Boo Boo was hurt.

He got up and survived into the next round, but the tide of the bout had turned. Every time Benavidez hit him, Boo Boo would wobble and wince. The Monster was connecting now.

The sixth was bad for Boo Boo. Benavidez stalked him, rattled him with punches to the head and body. Boo Boo took the shots, but he looked like a man trying to survive an avalanche. He didn't come out for the seventh. Later, with heartbreak in his voice, he said something about not being used to the weight class. He said he'd fight again.

Of course he will. He's still youngish. But it'll be different this time. He'll be repackaged for less money. He'll be back in the New England casinos, only the crowds will be smaller. His fights will be part of weekend package deals. There will be a prime rib dinner, an Eagles cover band in the theater, and Boo Boo fighting some guy you never heard of. That'll get him through a few years, and then he'll complain that he can't get the big fights. We can hear him already. It will always be someone else's fault.

They tore him apart on social media. There's little patience for fallen fighters nowadays. And where Boo Boo was concerned, there was never going to much sympathy after his first loss.

But how you felt about Boo Boo may reflect where you are in life. There was something poignant about the scene in his corner. You may have recalled the early days, when Boo Boo acted like he was destined for greatness. Blink an eye, and he's asking his team to stop the fight. That's how it goes. One minute you're young and full of yourself. A moment later you're done. That's life.

That's life whether or not you had good management. 

That's life whether you fought in Lincoln, R.I., or in Las Vegas. 

That's life for Boo Boo Andrade. 

That's life for you and me.

 

 

Crawford - old school magic

In the second round a sneaky punch from Terrence Crawford put Errol Spence Jr.  on the canvas. It was the first time Spence had ever been down as a professional fighter, and the expression on his face was like that of a child  caught doing something naughty, with all of the inherent guilt, shame, and surprise that you'd expect from a kid who had never been caught before. 

He managed to get up, sheepishly, but there was a sense that Crawford had just shown him who was boss. It was a simple message, sent directly on the wings of a lightning right uppercut as Spence was leaning in. For the next several rounds the same scene continued to play out, with Crawford catching Spence with similar sneaky shots. It was as if no matter what Spence tried, Crawford had a quick answer for him. 

Spence was knocked down twice more in the seventh. By then his face was swollen from Crawford's consistently well-placed counters. The fight was finally stopped at 2:32 of the ninth, with Spence still on his feet but taking too much punishment. The so-called "Fight of the Year," "Fight of the Century," "Fight of the Epoch," was over, and it had been none of the above. Rather, it had been a dismantling. 

There was now hope that Terrence Crawford, a quiet practitioner of this ancient combat sport, would get the recognition that has eluded him. Sure, there were a lot of welterweight title belts  at stake last night in Las Vegas, but the value of boxing belts is dubious these days, even if you have filled a closet with them. For the man  known simply as "Bud," the fight was about being acknowledged as the best of his era. 

Though he showed he could take a loss like a gentleman, Spence proved little else in what was his first defeat in 29  bouts. 

Spence looked befuddled throughout. He was hardly the electrifying battler we've watched for several years. He wast more like a clumsy, outclassed journeyman being led to his doom by a relaxed and confident ring general.

The event was heralded as the first "super fight" of its type in decades, with two undefeated titleholders clashing for dominance. Yet there were some major differences in comparison to big bouts of the past. For one, we weren't bludgeoned daily with announcements of the fighters' paychecks. In the old days, the massive paydays of major championship fights were part of the promotion, so us average Joes at home could speculate about how many punches we'd take for a few million bucks. This time, the paydays were only hinted at, as if to speak of such things was gauche. 

And despite the endless talk about the "importance" of the fight, there was a lack of pageantry going into the contest. Las Vegas had its usual big fight ambience but not more so - a  strangely subdued Mike Tyson oversaw a coin toss to decide which fighter would enter the ring first, and Eminem, a somewhat faded rap artist, accompanied Spence for his ring walk - but outside of Dallas and Omaha, the respective hometowns of Spence and Crawford, the fight was virtually a secret event. Sports Illustrated all but ignored it, placing YouTube celebrity Jake Paul on the cover during fight week. SI lacks the clout it once had,  but putting Paul on the cover shows us where boxing stands at this time in history. 

In a way, it was a fight fan's fight dressed up as mainstream event, as if some Hollywood studio had picked an interesting independent movie and decided to market it like a summer blockbuster. It is not an insult to say Crawford and Spence aren't magnetic personalities. Spence tries a little bit. Crawford doesn't bother. Neither man could liven up a party. Yet for hardcore fans, this was the fight they'd waited years to see. They didn't get the great contest they may have expected, but they witnessed a great performance from Crawford.

It has already been compared by some to the best nights of the two Sugar Rays, Leonard and Robinson, but hyperbole of that type is not needed. Crawford proved himself to be a master of his profession, a brilliant strategist with a magical right hand. Comparing him to Ray Robinson would probably embarrass the man.

"I showed poise, I showed smarts, I got the job done," Crawford told ESPN after his victory. "They've got to give me my credit now. '"  

If anyone thinks Crawford created some kind of blueprint to defeat Spence, they'd be mistaken. To understand that Crawford beat Spence with perfect timing, finely parceled aggression, and with a right uppercut that seemed guided by the gods is one thing, but to try to execute that strategy yourself is quite another. Any opponent thinking Spence is now an easy target would be wrong, and they'd probably be whipped if they tried to emulate what Crawford did on July 29 at the T-Mobile Arena.      . 

In a period that broadcasters obnoxiously refer to as "the four belt era," Crawford has won belts from all four sanctioning bodies in two separate weight classes, an impressive feat that almost makes one forget how stupid it is that the boxing business has become so fractured.

Crawford's greatness has nothing to do with the gimcrack belts draped across his body, but everything to do with his style. Few fighters have ever  terrorized opponents with such basic  execution of the fundamentals. Alexis Arguello used to do it. And Marvelous Marvin Hagler. And yes, Robinson. Crawford is a throwback. He's like a fighter from the distant past, coming back to show a new generation how to do this thing. He's 40-0, with 32 knockouts. He's won his last  11 in a row by KO. He will be 36 his next birthday. We probably saw him at his fighting peak last night.

Spence has already talked about a rematch, but he's a brash young guy.  Crawford would beat him again. Besides, the contest didn't really elevate the sport to any degree. To the general public, it was just another fight. A run-of-the-mill UFC show that took place in Utah on the same night trended longer and higher on social media. If Crawford is the king, he reigns over an empire that has seen better days. Yet  his victory will be remembered by those who saw it. It was something for the connoisseur. Long live King Bud.

- Don Stradley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Earnie

 

 

You might've seen him at one of those  two-bit memorabilia shows at a local armory,  or  the International Boxing Hall of Fame annual dinner. He'd stand out. He looked like the strongest man in the room.

He was as amiable as any ex-jock on the autograph circuit, greeting well-wishers with a surprisingly soft voice.

He was always on the hustle then, peddling his memoirs and his VHS tapes. The shoulders and long arms gave him away. His arms looked like the guns on an old battleship.

Sometimes younger fans didn't recognize him.  You'd say, "That's Earnie Shavers. The best puncher of all time." 

The name wouldn't register. Surely, they'd say, he didn't hit harder than Tyson. 

You'd explain about knockout ratios, and the time Earnie put Larry Holmes on the canvas and was just a few clicks away from becoming the heavyweight champion. You'd talk about his fight with Ali at Madison Square Garden, and that even though he lost a 15-round decision, his every punch seemed to make the walls of the arena quiver.

Earnie was in his 50s by now, but like a lot of ex-athletes, seemed too powerful for the surroundings, like he might rip off his clothing at any moment and lope out into the night.Yet he signed everything put in front of him.  For Earnie, the lines were always nice and long. 

Earnie never won a championship, but he had something almost as good if not better: a sense of mystery. How did he do it? How did he hit so hard? He had the gunfighter mystique: it was was always high noon when Earnie was in the ring. It was either you or him.

There's no doubt that Earnie's right hand, when it landed, was as destructive as any punch ever thrown in a boxing ring. There was a stretch between August 1970 and June 1973  when Earnie rang up 32 consecutive wins, all but one ending with his opponent splattered on the canvas. "Sometimes," he once said of hitting a rival, "I can feel the flesh separating from the bone." 

Then he was matched against Jerry Quarry, already a bit washed up. When Earnie was stopped in a round, a new image prevailed. Earnie's better opponents knew they had only to wait him out, to let him launch his bombs, and then lay into him, usually resulting in the  game's hardest hitter face down on the canvas. He became one of boxing's great "If only" stories. If only had had a better chin. If only he had a better  defense, more stamina. Shavers was the stone upon which other fighters sharpened themselves. Boxing historian Jim Jacobs once said that Earnie was the most dangerous man in boxing for 15 minutes.

Earnie admitted his shortcomings. He told journalist Howard Brunt, "Because I could punch so hard, all the trainers wanted me to do was improve on my punching, not on my boxing skills. I never became a complete boxer, a complete fighter." 

Yet his admirers were all on record when it came to the shear bludgeoning power of his right hand. Holmes described the punch that dropped him as, "a blinding flash. I was sure a photographer's flash bulb had gone off right in my eyes." Ali claimed Shavers hit him so hard that he "shook up my kinfolk back in Africa." 

Earnie lingered on the fringes of the sport long after he should've retired. The money he'd earned by fighting was long gone, carved up by five divorces and nine children. He seemed to be another sad boxing story in the making, a man with impaired vision and no money. He surprised us, though.

For years he enjoyed success on the autograph circuit. He was a man of God now, a fellow who only wanted peace of mind. His favorite story to tell was about finding salvation in a small church in Ohio. "The minister preached that worldly values never pay what they promise, and I said to myself, How well do I know."

The funny thing about Earnie was the sense that he was telling tall tales. He presented himself so humbly that he was able to spread a good line of BS. 

He talked about his contract being owned by Cleveland mobsters, and million dollar ventures that never came off, all of which may or may not have been true. He talked about being in demand as a motivational speaker, though he never mentioned that many of his appearances were in shabby venues for tiny or non-existent audiences.

He also spent a lot of time in England where, to hear Earnie tell it, he was nearly as famous as Ali. If it seemed he was exaggerating, he probably was. 

His most unlikely revelation was that Don King kept him on a payroll that amounted to $200,000 per year. It was easier to believe Earnie had daily conversations with God than to believe King treated him to an astounding retirement fund. But he seemed so happy in retirement, no one dared burst his bubble.

Was Earnie revising his third act? Maybe. Why not? It was his story to tell. He wanted us to think he was rich, friendly with God and Don King.That was better than being thought of as a fighter  who tired out after five rounds.

Earnie Shavers died recently, one day after his 78th birthday. He died in the South, at the home of one of his children. He'd been a Cleveland fighter, but you wouldn't have known by the scant coverage in Cleveland newspapers. A few boxing websites gave the story some brief coverage, a paragraph or less.  Social media was a little better, with many of his old admirers posting clips of his best moments: the staggering of Ali, the wrecking of Jimmy Ellis and Ken Norton, the street war with Ron Lyle, and the time he put Holmes on the canvas.

It would've pleased Earnie to know they wrote about his punch, and also his second life as a motivational speaker. The stuff about his later years may not have been true. The punch was real, though. The punch is what we'll remember. 

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