Between seven and eight

 

There were no injuries when the Hartford Civic Center’s roof collapsed in 1978, though the incident mirrored the breakdown of a city that had been crumbling since the 1950s. The state capital that had once been home to Mark Twain and Wallace Stevens had become one of the most dangerous spots in the country. Groups were formed to study the ongoing squalor and propose solutions. Federal grants were sought to help battle the escalating crime problems. Meanwhile, Hartford youths snatched purses and burglarized the city’s housing projects.

 

Charlie Newell had been one of those kids. He was one of six siblings raised by a single mother in Hartford’s North End, a slow-motion riot of drugs, prostitution, and violent street crime. By age 15 Newell had a police record. In 1977 he robbed a couple at gunpoint, getting away with $239. This earned him a six-to-12-year sentence at Somers State Prison. Newell immediately joined the prison’s boxing program.

 

The Somers boxing coach, Dave Musco, had created a furlough program where fighters on the prison team could compete on professional boxing shows. “A man has to know he’s something more than a number,” Musco told the Hartford Courant. “I’m not trying to make champion boxers. I’m trying to make better human beings.”

 

Newell was a quiet type, withdrawn, but serious about boxing. In 1979 he transferred to the minimum-security Enfield Correctional Institute. A strongly built welterweight, Newell was one of only two ECI fighters allowed to fight outside the prison. He probably thought his time had come. Crime and poverty may have brought Hartford to its knees, but it was fine fertilizer in which to grow fighters. 

 

Newell’s pro debut was in June of 1979 against Miguel Sanchez of Bridgeport. They fought at the Civic Center Assembly Hall, a 2,000-seat extension of the rickety main arena. The hall had been busy since the Civic Center’s roof fell in, hosting anything from “Italian nights” to Steve Martin lookalike contests, to boxing. No doubt thinking this was the beginning of a better life, Newell danced out of his corner. Sanchez KO’d him at 1:22 of the first. The Courant ran a photo of Sanchez hitting Newell in the face.

 

Meanwhile, another North End boxer was establishing himself. Marlon Starling was 22 years old and seemed special. He was mature, businesslike – by day he managed a Hartford gas station – and appeared destined for great things. As the Civic Center readied for its reopening, Hartford promoters saw Starling as a potential star who could make them all rich.

 

Starling had grown up in a North End housing project called Bellevue Square. He’d known Newell. Starling would say Newell had been a bully on the street, but they’d always gotten along. Like a storyline dreamed up by a Warner Bros. screenwriter in the 1930s, Starling became an acclaimed amateur boxer with a championship from the Junior Olympics, while Newell ended up in prison.

 

Starling was 5-0 when he was matched against Newell. Set for January 9, 1980, Starling-Newell was an eight-round semi-final of an assembly hall show. Newell was set to make a cool $350 bucks, a shade more than he’d made for the robbery that landed him at Somers.

 

At the press conference announcing the event, Newell wandered off to the buffet table. Starling, once he was done answering questions, joined him. The Courant noted how Starling and Newell “exchanged an intricate and prolonged handshake,” like a couple of buddies having fun on the street. Starling recalled later that they hadn’t discussed boxing. “We knew we had to fight, but we didn’t talk about it,” Starling said.  “We just talked about old friends.”

 

Once they were in the ring, the two North Enders put on a boring fight. The sparse Wednesday night crowd started booing early. Starling would later say that Newell acted strangely during the contest. He kept smiling and wouldn’t cover up.

 

In the seventh round, Starling landed a punch to the side of Newell’s head. Newell fell. He didn’t get up.

 

Newell died nine days later. He was 26.

 

***

 

No one could agree on what had happened. The truth may have been that no one on press row was paying attention.

 

They couldn’t agree on what sort of punch knocked Newell down, or whether he fell face first or was counted out on his back. There were even disputes over whether Newel’s head struck the canvas. One official told the Meridan Record-Journal that Newell got to his feet but fell again, a circus stunt no one else seemed to see. Courant reporter George Smith hadn’t been there but sought details from his colleagues. “People who were there have tried to tell me what they saw,” Smith wrote, “but I still don’t understand.” A state boxing inspector admitted that the fight had been so dull that he left ringside to do some paperwork.

 

Referee Lou Bogash Jr. recalled counting over Newell, and how the downed fighter’s eyes opened between the count of seven and eight. Then Newell’s eyes closed again.

Within a few minutes Newell was being carried out through the crowd. Starling made his way back to the dressing room where he saw Newell lying on a stretcher, unconscious. “I went over,” said Starling, “and touched him on the head.”

 

Newell died on the fourth floor of St. Francis Hospital. According to neurosurgeon John X.R. Basile, Newell died from injuries to his brain stem. Basile had been hired by the state to attend bouts because there’d been two recent boxing deaths, including a high-profile New York event where middleweight Willie Classen died after a bout with Wilford Scypion. Basile had even given classes to Connecticut referees where he explained the warning signs that might indicate a fighter is injured. Basile’s first night on the job found him trying to remove a blood clot from Newell’s brain.

 

Starling’s manager, F. Mac Buckley, applied some spin control. He said Starling had broken his right hand early in the bout, which was why there was such little action. That Starling fought again in 50 days suggests Buckley was lying. He added that he didn’t think a punch had killed Newell. He didn’t elaborate but announced that neither he nor Starling would discuss what happened. Buckley also managed a gym, the Nelson Memorial Club in Charter Oak Terrace. He encouraged the fighters who trained there to keep their mouths shut about Newell.

 

Buckley, who died in 2022, was one of the main players behind Hartford’s boxing rebirth, credited with keeping many different fight venues going. Moreover, he oversaw Starling. If Buckley wanted to keep things quiet, it was probably to protect a suddenly thriving fight business, and a young man who looked like a future star.

 

A colorful loudmouth with a cultish following in the city, Buckley wasn’t an especially noble character. He was a Mafia lawyer who would eventually do prison time for embezzling. He and Starling would fall out long before that. But in 1980, Buckley’s prime objective was protecting the image of Starling. And he wasn’t acting alone. There appeared to be a concerted effort among the city’s boxing people to circle the wagons around Hartford’s potential rainmaker.

 

Connecticut’s first ring death in nearly 30 years came at a bad time, and local officials stepped carefully in its aftermath. They acknowledged the usual rituals that follow all boxing fatalities: meaningless noise about a “full investigation,” and a possible ban on boxing. There was even talk of an “indefinite suspension” of boxing in Connecticut while the sport’s regulations were probed, which of course went nowhere. Only the prison suffered - the boxing furlough program ended immediately, and the boxing program at Somers was halted for three years. Meanwhile, the Civic Center was already selling tickets for its next boxing show.

 

The public was advised to stay calm. Willie Pep, the great featherweight who was now a state boxing inspector, joined the other officials to downplay the tragedy. It was as if they’d all emerged from a secret huddle with the same rehearsed speech about Newell’s death being no more than a freak accident. The Civic Center’s Executive Director, Frank E. Russo, called Newell’s fatal injury, “more or less fate.” The event was being depicted as a death without violence. It wasn’t one of those disastrous bouts where a hapless fighter is pummeled until he collapses, while bloodthirsty fans screamed for a knockout. Indeed, the public was assured that Newell’s death was a fluke. Nothing to see here, folks. Please move along…

 

As Newell lay in a coma, rumors about him were rampant at ECI, everything from his having drug problems to having a head injury. Musco played down the rumors, insisting Newell was in good shape and ready to fight.

 

Yet there was mystery surrounding Newell, particularly in the number of fights he’d had. His record was alternately given as 2-2, 3-3 and 3-4. In the final month of his life, he’d had four fights in 43 days. Just weeks before he fought Starling, the Courant wrote up Newell’s bout with a New York kid named Joe Fryer at Ottavio’s, a Fairfield restaurant known for hosting wedding receptions. Before a supper crowd of 500, Newell won a four-round split decision. The bout didn’t make it into the 1981 Ring Record Book, which suggests not all of Newell’s fights were being reported through the proper channels.

 

Strangest of all, the January bout that resulted in Newell’s death wasn’t even the first time he’d fought Starling. Connecticut newspapers had covered a previous meeting in September 1979 at the Bristol Polish Center where Starling defeated Newell on points. The fight was a drab four-rounder. Hartford sportswriter Jim Shea called it a “ho-hum decision.” Inexplicably, boxrec.com says Starling’s opponent that September night was a man named “Jerry North,” who had no record and is listed only as a male from Connecticut. (Was “North” a reference to the North End?) Meanwhile, The Ring Record Book of 1981 declares Starling fought “Jerry Worth.” This is curious because several Courant articles mention Starling beating Newell that night, and printings of Starling’s record during his heyday mention it as well. Starling, too, claimed he fought Newell more than once as a pro.

 

There is the possibility that not all prison-furlough bout were recorded, and the Connecticut commission was lax in keeping track of these bouts. It is also possible that Newell sometimes fought under a different name.

 

A 1987 investigation into fighters using aliases in several states turned up nearly 800 people. All used fake names to either help fatten the records of up-and-coming boxers, or to circumvent medical suspensions, most notably the recommended 30-day suspension after being knocked out. Could Newell have sometimes fought under a false name, explaining the “Jerry North/Jerry Worth” who appears in some records?

 

The rumor that Newell had a head injury, and Starling’s claim that he had acted strangely during the fight, makes one wonder if he was hurt going into the ring. Had desperate promoters and matchmakers simply contacted the prison during the final weeks of 1979 and said, Send us a welterweight, any welterweight, to fill out our next show? Is that why Newell, rumored to be hurt, fought so often in the last weeks of his life? Is it why a couple of his fights seemed to disappear and go unrecorded? Was that why the furlough program was shut down?

 

The stories piled up, including one where Newell was injured while sparring at ECI, and one where he’d been smashed in the head during a prison yard scuffle. Had he done some fighting under an assumed name to shield an injury?

 

There were many rumors attached to Newell. One of them might be true.

 

*

 

Starling attended the funeral and then left Hartford for 10 days, visiting relatives in Georgia. He would tell the Courant that he feared being called a “killer.” Starling insisted his final punch hadn’t been hard and wouldn’t have caused a man’s death. “There wasn’t enough force,” Starling said.

 

It was as if he were trying to convince people, or himself, that he hadn’t been responsible for Newell’s death.

 

Even Newell’s mother seemed to feel that way. At the funeral she gave Starling a rose from her son’s grave and encouraged him to keep fighting.

 

Starling fought again soon and scored a KO over Frank Minnigan in the same venue where he’d fought Newell. The customers cheered him. The Courant wrote that the tragedy had made Starling, “a sudden celebrity.” Hartford fans may have been influenced by the portrayal of Newell’s death as an accident, as if he’d slipped in a bathtub. Whether to help preserve the image of a rising young star, or to keep Hartford hot as a boxing center, the local officials had successfully convinced the customers that Newell’s end had been caused by something other than Starling’s hands. The prevailing attitude in Hartford was that Newell had loved boxing, and he’d died in his favorite place: a boxing ring.

 

Over time, Starling said less and less about the tragedy. “Charlie had heavy hands,” he once said. “It’s a shame.”

 

Starling didn’t become a superstar, but he had a couple of brief turns as a welterweight titlist and an eventual induction into the Connecticut Boxing Hall of Fame. He trains fighters now and works odd jobs. Newell’s death still baffles him. “I never got into this sport to kill nobody,” Starling told the Courant in 2020. “That scared me for a long time. I mean, dying? And I’m still here? That’s not a good fit.”

 

The North End still struggles with crime, but it has improved in recent years. The Civic Center was demolished in 2004 and rebuilt as the XL Center.

 

Hardly anyone in Hartford remembers Charlie Newell. His story is from another time, back when the North End was a sweltering, dangerous place, back when teen hoodlums robbed their neighbors for laughs, and the universe seemed so indifferent that it might swat a man down even as he reached for redemption. That’s how it must’ve seemed to Charlie Newell as his eyes fluttered between the count of seven and eight, and the last thing he saw on this sad sweet earth was a referee counting him out.

 

Did Newell really open his eyes? Or was it just an involuntarily reflex of a man nearing death?

 

Well, for the romantics among us, of which boxing has no shortage, let’s say he really did open his eyes. Let’s say he saw the referee counting. And let’s say Charlie Newell’s final thought was that the count wasn’t over yet. He still had a chance.

 

- Don Stradley

LITTLE GIANT

 

He spent his final days in a Los Angeles hospital barely able to breathe. That's how it ended for Israel Vazquez. He'd been one of the best little men the boxing business has ever produced, a fighter whose work should be preserved on Mount Olympus so the gods can watch and be inspired. Now he was dead at 46, chewed up by an illness that left him struggling to walk or speak.

 

Boxing people mourned. They remembered Izzy as a warrior, an overused word but one that is more than appropriate in his case.  Indeed, there was something magnificent about him, the way he'd storm out of his corner for the late rounds of a close fight, determined to close the show his way. In those moments, he was a 120-pound steamroller. At times it looked as if sparks flew from his gloves.

 

The last time most of us saw Vazquez was when he lost to Rafael Marquez 14 years ago.  Vazquez had won two  of the first three fights, all classics, and proof that he was a sort of star, but in this fourth bout he came up empty. The seemingly inexhaustible battery inside him had finally run out. He didn't make it out of the third round. That wasn't the way his career should've ended. He and Marquez should've kept fighting throughout eternity. The Vazquez-Marquez series was one of the rare things we could all count on. But by 2010, Izzy seemed done after 49 fights. There had already been talk of eye problems, and his endless reserve of energy seemed not so endless, after all. Just when we were falling in love with the guy, he was out of boxing.

There are a lot of excellent names on his record, hard-hitting, aggressive bantamweights, most of them Mexican, for  his career coincided with arguably the heyday of Mexican boxing. Those of us who were smart enough to pay attention in that first decade of the new century saw Izzy use his quick hands and ring smarts against Oscar Larios, from whom he won two of three,  Jhonny Gonzalez, Osvaldo Guerrero, Jorge Julio, Ivan Hernandez, Hector Velazquez, and Marquez. They were all smallish men, but in some ways, Izzy was the smallest. He was listed as 5' 5", but he appeared smaller, and always seemed to be punching up. Or maybe that's just how I remember him.

He was one of the great super bantams, winning portions of that title three times, but it was an era where titles were won and lost rapidly, with so many names and faces in those lighter divisions that they were impossible to keep in order. Who remembers that Izzy won the IBF super bantam belt by beating Jose Luis Valbuena in Los Angeles in 2004? Or that he did at it at the Olympic Auditorium, the dusky old place where Rocky and Raging Bull were filmed? Somehow, I remember isolated moments of his fights more than the actual fights  - Izzy sitting in his corner between rounds, leaning forward like a dog straining at his leash, or smiling mischievously after throwing a perfect combination. He was such a gutsy little brawler that we forget how good he was as a craftsman.  

He did most of his fighting in California, with occasional sorties into Las Vegas or Atlantic City. Izzy didn't seem right for those big gambling towns, as if he were too small for those bright lights and big spenders. After beginning his career in Mexico, he became a California fighter, the way Art Aragon and Tony "The Tiger" Lopez were California fighters. His biggest wins and his biggest losses were there. But win or lose, Izzy was Izzy.

 

We didn't know anything about him. He didn't come from a famous fighting family, didn't mingle with celebrities, didn't brag about his expensive cars, didn't train at glitzy gyms. He didn't record hip-hop tracks or have a YouTube channel, or talk trash on social media. He wasn't covered in tattoos and jewelry, and he didn't talk much about God, his family, or how he was being screwed by the business. He didn't want to be a promoter or a mogul or a politician. He just came to fight. Lots of boxers say that about themselves, but with Izzy it sounded true.   

It was easy to love him. Yet we forgot him quickly once he was gone. Some fighters vanish in  retirement, and that's how it was with Izzy. He was gone. He moved on. And we moved on.

The next we thing we heard was that doctors had removed his right eye. And we shook our heads, and talked about boxing being a brutal sport, and we wished him well. He was so tough that losing his eye didn't seem to bother him much. It was an accident, he said. He shrugged off losing an eye the way most of us shrug off a parking ticket.

Then we heard he was sick, and then we learned he died a few days ago. It wasn't the way his life should've ended, with his loved ones scrambling to raise money for his medical bills, and the internet buzzing briefly with hastily written tributes. But Izzy never asked for much, just a fair wage for his efforts, and he wouldn't have wanted us to say too much now that he's gone. Still, it's unsettling when fighters die young. Especially the ones who entertained us so much. We all start wondering, Who the hell can replace Izzy?

Izzy's passing puts a spotlight on how much boxing has changed in just the short time since he retired 14 years ago. Showtime, the network that showed most of Izzy's great fights, dropped boxing from its schedule. Most of the big fights take place in Saudi Arabia now. The most famous name in the business these days is  Jake Paul, a YouTube celebrity. Very few of today's fighters walk with Izzy's quiet dignity. Now they're like FM shock jocks, desperate for attention. Of course, 14 years is a long time in boxing. Think of Muhammad Ali in 1966. Now think of him in 1980. Things can fall a long way in 14 years.

Arenas around the world, and especially in California, should each give him ten bells the next time they host boxing. People should stand and bow their heads. At the 10th bell they should all cheer wildly and rattle the roof. Cheer as if the sound will bring us another Izzy Vazquez  to light things up for a while. And this time we'd pay more attention, and he wouldn't have to fight Marquez four times before we showed him some respect. Now we'd let him ride out of the arena on our shoulders  as we saluted "El Magnifico." Or maybe we'd just take him for granted all over again, the way we often do with fighters. 

Izzy didn't accept many visitors in his final days. He knew how he looked and didn't want to be seen that way. Remember me as a champion, was his unspoken message, remember the way I moved you. Did the staff looking after him realize a giant was in their midst? Or was he just another sick little man? Izzy died in a hospital only 13 minutes from the Olympic where he'd defeated Valbuena. Except it's not the Olympic, anymore. New owners bought it a year after Izzy won the title. Now it's a Korean church. 

At a time when there were bigger stars than Israel Vazquez, he was a perfect garnishment for the business, the tasty side dish that was often better than the main course. He was no-nonsense. He lived for boxing. When he died this week, he took a lot with him.

- Don Stradley

 

 

The True Crime Book You Need this Christmas!

READ BOSTON TABLOID by Don Stradley

The true story of a sex and murder scandal that rocked Boston! When a highly regarded university professor fell in love with a local sex-worker, the results were tragic, and fatal...  

 

"A thoughtful, compelling reexamination of an intriguing story of fatal obsession and its enduring mysteries."

—Kirkus Reviews

"Well-researched and a page-turner..."

—Library Journal

"An exceptionally well written, organized and presented study of a notorious homicide and the mysteries that surrounded it... A riveting read from cover to cover."

—Midwest Book Review

"Boston Tabloid answers the call to take to take true crime to the next level—a true page-turner, it brings the reality of Boston's underbelly to the forefront for perhaps the first time."

—M. William Phelps, New York Times bestselling author and host of iHeartMedia's podcasts Crossing the Line with M. William Phelps and Paper Ghosts

“Boston Tabloid is everything a top-notch true-crime book should be and more.”

—Linda Rosencrance, author of Murder at Morses Pond and co-author of The Mafia Hit Man's Daughter

 “Don Stradley has captured perfectly the addictive, exhilarating hopelessness and desperation embodied in a sunken part of Boston that no longer exists.  Taking no shortcuts and never showing off, Stradley’s restraint and interest in getting details right combine to elevate true crime writing to a level that turns it into something brand new.  Unsettling and unflinching, Boston Tabloid will stay with you whether or not you want it to.”

—Charles Farrell, author of (Low)life: A Memoir of Jazz, Fight-Fixing, and the Mob

 

 

 “Boston Tabloid is a remarkable book written by a gifted storyteller."

—Bob Batchelor, author of The Bourbon King: The Life and Crimes of George Remus, Prohibition’s Evil Genius

“With the panache of a tabloid newspaper scribe, Don Stradley recounts the sordid but undeniably fascinating case of the prostitute murdered by a renowned college professor. With a wealth of detail, Stradley traces the spiral of obsession and addiction that led to the death of Combat Zone hooker Robin Benedict at the hands of professor William Douglas. Even more fascinating are Stradley’s descriptions of the investigation and how the shifting tides of public perception in the 1980s could turn a perpetrator into a victim.”

 —Stephanie Schorow, author of Inside the Combat Zone: The Stripped Down Story of Boston's Most Notorious Neighborhood

"The author takes a deep dive into one of Boston's most notorious murders in the 1980s. He offers compelling theories related to the case's many unanswered questions. The book will reignite interest in a particularly vicious but nearly forgotten homicide, as well as the Combat Zone, a sleazy part of Boston that no longer exists. Excellent reporting in classic noir-like tabloid fashion made this a thoroughly enjoyable reading experience."

—Robert Mladinich, author of Case Files of the NYPD: More than 175 Years of Solved and Unsolved Crimes

*

Buy it here: https://tinyurl.com/2s379rz3

 

Is there room for Nunn in the IBHOF?

 

Michael Nunn. His name brings back memories of a tall, willowy left-hander, with a smile so bright that he was prematurely dubbed the next Sugar Ray. He certainly looked the part, and at times seemed to be auditioning for it.

 

“A lot of people think I’m just a Hollywood media creation,” Nunn said early in his career. “They figure a guy like me can’t be for real, that if you’re good-looking and well-spoken, you don’t belong in the boxing ring.”

 

As if to make the comparison complete, Nunn eventually linked up with Leonard’s old trainer, Angelo Dundee. Always the best cheerleader in the business, Dundee vowed that Nunn would be a superstar.

 

From the summer afternoon in 1988 when he overwhelmed Frank Tate for the IBF middleweight belt, the hype around Nunn was palpable. Nunn began his career when boxing was hot, when the major television networks were still interested, and HBO was becoming a powerhouse. Fighters were getting endorsement deals just like baseball players. It was the boxer’s moment; young and upbeat, the photogenic Nunn was fast as lightning and unbelievably smooth for a southpaw. Moreover, the media was impatient to fill the vacuum left by the absences of Leonard and Marvelous Marvin Hagler. By 1989, it seemed that a new middleweight era was upon us, and Nunn would lead the pack. Big money was calling.

 

I was surprised to see Nunn’s name on the ballot for this year’s International Boxing Hall of Fame class. His name rarely comes up now, so complete was his fall to earth during the second leg of his career. When he's recalled at all, he's remembered as just another product of that late-1980s era, one of several good boxers who rose to a certain level and then fizzled out. But to many observers, Nunn was a master in the making. He seemed more earthy than Leonard, more graceful than Hagler, and perfectly tailored to the networks’ idea of a champion. 

 

Viewed as an athlete, not an animal, Nunn’s appeal was partly because of what he wasn’t. The big boxing name in those days was Mike Tyson, but there was a sense that the TV market still hoped for a wholesome character who could be invited into America’s living room. Tyson was weird and not likely to last long with his unsavory habits and bad driving record. The unspoken mantra seemed to be, Let’s hope this Nunn kid can stay out of trouble and win a bunch of fights. For a while, he did exactly that. Tate, another bright young fighter, couldn’t last nine rounds in the Nunn whirlwind. Rugged Juan Roldan was stopped in eight. The stylish Sumbu Kalambay lasted 88 seconds. Nunn knocked him cold. That was when the media exploded, and the seas seemed to be parting for Nunn, for not even Tyson knocked opponents cold. A 12-round majority decision over Iran Barkley was anticlimactic, but Nunn was on a roll. He was slick; when he wanted to glide through a round, he was virtually untouchable. When he put his punches together, he was sharper than a rooftop sniper.  

 

Critics had their doubts, though. Nunn was too cautious, they’d say. A dispute with his management team made Nunn look like a cranky diva. Promoter Bob Arum severed ties with Nunn after the Barkley fight, even before their contract ended. “He’ll never be an attraction,” Arum said. "He runs like a thief." But Nunn kept winning.

 

By 1991 he’d won 36 in a row and had signed a multi-fight contract with the Mirage Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. The venue hoped to become the game’s new mecca, and it seemed wise to book the game’s hot young star for a long-term engagement, the way they might with Cher or Bette Midler. Nunn was 27 and at the height of his powers. But on May 10, 1991, in Davenport, Iowa, Nunn’s hometown of all places, it ended. James Toney landed a left hook in the 11th round and Nunn's heyday was over before his back hit the canvas.

 

It was a newsreel knockout; the sort people watch with a sense of shock. Yet it was more than a defeat. It was a cautionary tale. Nunn became the symbol of fame’s fleeting nature.

 

From then on, the stories were always about Nunn on the comeback trail, his mounting debts, his legal problems. He owed money to everybody, from Dundee to Don King. He filed for bankruptcy. He looked bad in fights, as if the specialness had been knocked out of him, but always promised to look better next time. He finished his career as a bloated cruiserweight fighting no-names in second-rate casinos, bringing what was left of his talents to boxing outposts like Elizabeth, Indiana, and Minot, North Dakota.

 

The professional record of 58-4 with 38 knockouts is better than one would expect after seeing Nunn in those final years. By then, reports were surfacing of his domestic problems and his cocaine use. There were embarrassing brawls with Davenport cops. They’d maced him like an unruly drunk.

 

In January 2004, three years after his final ring appearance, he was sentenced to 24 years in prison for drug trafficking. Perhaps he wasn’t so clean-cut, after all. He was released early for good behavior in 2019. Since then, Nunn has quietly eased back into the margins of the boxing scene. Some teeth are missing from the old megawatt smile, and the old brashness is replaced by a friendly humility. He’ll tell you that 15 years in prison wasn’t so bad, that he’s thankful to God that he got through it. He’ll say it was just something that happened in his life. He’s become one of those battered old survivors, like certain jazz players or rock stars. I’m still here, he says with every tired smile. I’m still here.

 

In the late 1980s, the boxing world searched for a new Ray Leonard, which turned out to be Oscar De La Hoya. But Nunn almost fit the role for a while. He was a good young boxer who’d wanted to show the people what he could do. He had poise and speed and most of the ingredients for greatness. When his career turned a corner, he could still win fights, and so he did for many more years, no longer spectacular but reliable. He’d gone from racehorse to workhorse.

 

This year, forty years after his professional debut, Nunn is on the IBHOF ballot. He’ll probably get some votes for the same reason he was put on the ballot to begin with: people like happy endings. Some may feel he deserves to be remembered for more than a humbling knockout loss and a trip to prison. But it is difficult to say if Nunn belongs in the International Boxing Hall of Fame. He’s not an obvious choice. Yet when I think of him, I think of 1988. The world was hardly perfect in those days, but for a few fights at least, Michael Nunn seemed to be.

 

- Don Stradley

 

BWAA 99th Annual Dinner June 6, 2024

This may look like a Jethro Tull reunion, but it is actually Bill Dettloff, Joe Santoliquito, Nigel Collins, and myself. It was great to see them all at the annual Boxing Writers dinner in NYC. These three fellows were all instrumental in my early days as a writer..
 

Nigel, Deb Harrison, myself, and Bill Dettloff

This year I received an award for Best News Story. Here I am with former BWAA president and one of my favorite people, Bernard Fernandez.

Fury-Usyk: Undisputed For Now

Late in the ninth round, when the fight still seemed up for grabs, Oleksandr Usyk landed a left on Tyson Fury's jaw. The punch had a nasty effect, as if Usyk had hit him with a sweat-sock full of ball bearings. Fury has been hurt many times in his career, but this time it looked worse than usual.

As Usyk tried to follow up with more punches, the 6' 9" Brit reeled from one side of the ring to the other, rocketing off the ropes pinball style. After one particular shot, Fury stumbled, holding his gloves out, but where he might've killed the round's few remaining seconds by clinching, his body and mind weren't in sync. His mind wanted to hold on; his body wanted to fall.  

Finally, Fury staggered into a corner. He was still on his feet, but referee Mark Nelson stepped in and started a count. The bell ended the formality and saved Fury. Boxing's clown prince seemed despondent, woozy, and now wary of his smaller opponent

It appeared the fight was over there and then. Granted, Fury went on to fight rounds 10, 11, and 12,  but the sight of the Gypsy giant wavering around the ring would be the fight's takeaway image. The extra point Usyk earned for the knockdown turned out to be the deciding factor in his winning a razor close split decision.

The other lasting memory of the fight would be Usyk's steady comportment all during the buildup and the 12 rounds of competition. This was no small feat considering the hype that went into this event being for the "undisputed heavyweight championship," with both men having having legit claims to the title.

Though Fury had tried to ruffle Usyk with his usual bawdy behavior - Fury's father actually headbutted one of Usyk's camp members last week, while Fury started a shoving match at the weigh-in, and did his usual clowning throughout the fight - Usyk stuck to business in the quiet, professional manner that is his trademark. 

Fury's career has been anything but quiet and professional. Even as he reaches his middle 30s and should acquire some kind of dignity or decorum, he's remained clownish. But even as his silliness remained, many were wondering how much he had left as a boxer. Did the 35-year-old  behemoth still have  the desire? Or had it been siphoned off by too much stardom, too many reality shows, too much celebrity posturing?

We received an answer of sorts. Fury was in good  condition and he fought 12 stiff rounds. When he was hurt, he shook it off and came back. Fury has all the championship qualities that his detractors don't wish to acknowledge. All he lacks is the championship. 

It was the most anticipated heavyweight bout in some time, with the four organizational belts spread out between the two fighters, three of which were owned by Usyk, and one by Fury. The Brit  had previously owned a bunch more but had retired briefly, which allowed Usyk to step in and grab some belts. With both men undefeated and the boxing audience clamoring for one undisputed titleholder in the heavyweight class, the fight had momentum. It was an easy sell.

There was even an effort among boxing writers to proclaim it an "important" fight,  that for the first time in a quarter century there would be a single man atop boxing's so-called "glamor division." Why this notion of an undisputed heavyweight champion gets people so giddy is hard to explain. The last one was  Lennox Lewis, a good but not very glamorous fighter who was not particularly popular. 

It's hard to say if the fight was important, though there was plenty of pomp and ceremony and it was entertaining enough. Moreover, it did seem to be a milestone of sorts in the boxing time frame, with a Brit versus a Ukrainian in the middle of Saudi Arabia. In another era, an important heavyweight fight would feature two Americans fighting in New York or Las Vegas. Those days are gone, though, along with Fury's undefeated record. 

The result might've been important for Usyk, but with the sanctioning bodies being the way they are, he won't be undisputed for long. The IBF, less than 24 hours after the bout, is already making noise about Usyk's next mandatory defense, saying he'll be stripped of that belt if he goes through with a contractually obligated rematch with Fury, which Fury has already penciled into his October calendar, no doubt in between singing gigs. There may not have been an undisputed heavyweight champion since 1999, but the boxing organizations haven't cared about such things in twice that time or longer. As for Fury, he's acting as if the rematch is a done deal. He doesn't think he lost last night, anyway.

“I was having fun in there," Fury said after the bout. "I was loving it. I thought it was great.”

He cited politics as the reason for the judges voting against him, but not boxing politics:

"I believe I won that fight, I believe he won some rounds but I won the majority of them...We both put on a good fight, best we could do. His country's at war, so people are siding with the country at war, but make no mistake, I won that fight and I'll be back. I've got a rematch clause."

Approximately a century before Riyadh, Saudi Arabia was a boxing capital, and long before there were such things as a WBC or WBO,  a retired heavyweight champion named James J. Corbett was discussing the sport with  a journalist. Even though he fought at a time before America had 50 states, he offered as poignant a fact as has ever been said about the boxing business, and what he said still stands today. He said, "Every fighter has a night where they are better than they  ever were,  and better than they will ever be  again."  It's a bittersweet idea to think our peak may be the first step in our downfall. But "Gentleman Jim" was probably right. The new champion might be wise to consider this theory.

Oleksandr Usyk is now undefeated in 22 professional fights. He also had 350 amateur bouts, and was an Olympic gold medalist in 2012.  Prior to beating Fury, he'd been the cruiserweight champion, and had scored  wins over Anthony Joshua and some other reputable heavyweights. At 37, he's older than Fury. It's no insult to say he's weather-beaten.

There's a sameness to Usyk's bouts. He's a steady operator. You'd never know if he lost a step because he is never especially exciting, just steady. That's part of what makes him a likeable champion. He's not magnetic, but he's dependable. 

There will be much written about Usyk being the first undisputed heavyweight champion of this ridiculous "four belt era," but the real achievement of the weekend is that he defeated Tyson Fury, a man who'd never lost a bout. For all of his buffoonery, Fury has been viewed as one of the legitimately great heavyweights of this century, a big man with charisma who can move around the ring. Despite wearing a fuzzy hat and quasi-military garb into the ring, Usyk will never star in a reality show, will never be known for his comic timing. Still, he has the sort of mental toughness that rattles a man like Fury, along with  sound fundamentals and nerves of steel.

Yet Usyk looked damaged after the bout, more busted up than the man he'd beaten, with some quickly applied patchwork over his right eye. He wept during his post-fight interview, talking about his late father, and the war between his country and Russia. It was stirring stuff. 

Yet we wonder if we've seen Usyk at his best, and if he'll ever be this good again. He needed to be extraordinary in Riyadh against Fury. The Brit was actually dominating in the first half of the fight, landing hard uppercuts on Usyk, hurting him, out-boxing him. There were rumors that Usyk had a broken jaw. If this was indeed  his greatest night, can he do it again?

It's not an easy thing, this slaying of giants. Some of them don't die right away. We'll find out if Usyk is indeed a giant killer, or if he was merely giving a peak performance on the night he defeated  boxing's best big man. 

- Don Stradley

 

 

 

 

BERSERK: The shocking life and death of Edwin Valero

 

"THE STORY IS CHILLING AND AMAZING!

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 "A GRITTY, ABSORBING ACCOUNT OF A BOXER WHO COULDN'T DEFEAT HIS INNER DEMONS." 

—Kirkus Reviews

Did he kill his wife?

Did he kill himself?

Will we ever solve the mysteries of Edwin Valero?

"Stradley does well to separate fact from fiction and to dismiss conspiracy theories while recognizing the limits of what we can really know about Valero and his relationships. It is a short sharp captivating read and one any boxing fan will find interesting. The punchy style of the book neatly matches Valero’s own relentless fighting style."

—All Sports Books Reviews

Available through Amazon, as well as Hamilcar Publications.