The Kid Brother

"Marvin is gone," the old woman said, "but I have another son." 

This is Brockton, Massachusetts. Marvelous Marvin Hagler used to live here. 

It is Sunday afternoon, May 23rd, Hagler's birthday. Hagler's been dead for two months, and the little crowd in Marciano Stadium is celebrating "Marvelous Marvin Hagler Day." 

The woman is Hagler's mother, Ida Mae. She has sat by quietly as a series of invited guests stood on a podium and paid tribute to Hagler, the former middleweight champion of the world. During a stifling hot afternoon, she has endured  some off-key singing from a choir, and a lot of talk from local politicians, none of whom were around when Hagler was fighting. A few well known figures from the boxing world dropped by to pay their respects. Those who couldn't make it sent video tributes that played on a big screen. Now Ida Mae is onstage, holding a bouquet of flowers, addressing the small audience.

She seems elegant, but wiry and tough. You think, yes, this is the sort of woman who could've raised Hagler. But now Ida Mae is talking about this other son.

"He has been so helpful to me since Marvin passed on...I  don't know what I'd do without him..."

In the distance one can see Robbie Sims, the half-brother of Hagler. He has spent the entire afternoon on the outer rim of the event, a plain red cap pulled down over his eyes. 

Watch any of Hagler's old fights on YouTube. Watch the Hagler team running to the ring to be introduced. Sims is always up front, clearing the path for his brother, the champion. 

"Marv was captain of the ship," Robbie once told me, "and I was the first mate."

Robbie had a pretty good career. Bob Arum used to call him "the gatekeeper," because he'd fight the middleweights who weren't deserving of a title shot. If they couldn't get past Robbie, they couldn't get to Marvin. When Marvin left the boxing scene, Robbie's career petered out. He spent the later part of it fighting in makeshift rings set up in local restaurants. Relieved of his gatekeeper duty, he spent more time getting high and chasing women. 

The Brockton cops grabbed him one night, shoved him in the backseat of a squad car, and told him point blank we don't give a damn about you or your brother. He spent the night crying in a jail cell, promising God that he would be a better man. 

He ended up in rehab. He cleaned himself up, found religion, felt the hand of God on his shoulder, and went to work as a truck driver. God was good for him. Now he's here, in Brockton, listening to people talk about Marvin.

Very late in the afternoon, the MC introduces Robbie by name. "Rockin' Robbie Sims!"  

Robbie looks startled. A woman takes his arm and guides him to a safe spot one hundred yards behind the stage. He watches the  rest of the presentation from this distance, an anonymous figure in a near empty football field. 

He looks surprisingly thin. His clothes are clean and pressed, but they hang as loosely on him as a scarecrow's rags. He gets bored and starts walking around the field. He walks with a limp, the left leg dragging. Now and then he makes a funny face, or breaks into a robot dance. I keep thinking this is strange behavior for the brother of a legend.

I met  Robbie a dozen years ago at a fundraiser where his brother was signing autographs for charity. Robbie was in a corner by himself, seated against the wall, almost hidden by a large potted plant.

He was visibly uneasy. He asked a photographer to snap a photo of him with Marv. Then he walked out. 

I saw him a week later at the Brockton gym where he and Marv used to train. He hit a bag,  worked up a sweat, talked about old times. He had a lot to say about God and Satan ("The devil always knew how to reach up and press my buttons") and how he didn't enjoy being in public ("Too many voices from the past; too many ghosts"). It wasn't so much an interview as a chance to let Robbie ramble.

When the interview was published, he didn't like it. He said it was strange to read about himself. Yet he wanted 20 copies to hand out to his friends and family. I still hear from people who know him. He's a sweetheart, they say, but weird. He doesn't own a phone.

On Marvelous Marvin Hagler Day, the gathering in Brockton is shrinking. People file out to avoid the crushing heat. By the time Ida Mae gets up to speak, she's addressing only a few dozen local people, her tinny voice echoing around the deserted  stadium. The small turnout is a jarring reminder that Marvin fought a long time ago, back when Reagan was president.

It doesn't appear that Robbie will speak. This is a shame because I remember him once telling me how much he enjoyed being Marvin's brother. 

"My career was over as soon as Marv retired," Robbie said. "It wasn't fun anymore." 

I remember Robbie giggling like a child, telling stories about his youthful days with Marvin, how they would stand together in front of a mirror, posing side by side like boxers,working on the techniques Goody had taught them that day, shadowboxing in total silence so they wouldn't wake up Ida Mae. Now, hot winds blow into his face, making him squint; empty water bottles roll by his feet like tumbleweeds in a dead western town.

"Marvin is gone," his mother was saying, "but I have another son."

Instead of bringing Robbie to the stage, she introduces some Italian fellow, Marvin's driver. 

Robbie stays in the background, looking on. The driver says a few words, unintelligible because of the cheap sound system and the rising wind. And that's it. 

The M.C. thanks everyone for coming. The politicians file out. Marvelous Marvin Hagler Day is over.

At the far end of the field, away from everybody, Robbie starts applauding, putting his hands together for his mother's other son. 

Perhaps he's wondering if life will ever be fun again now that the ship's captain is gone.

 

- Don Stradley