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. It was as if the media was impatient to fill the vacuum left by the absences of Leonard and Marvelous Marvin Hagler. 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. 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 thorough was his fall to earth during the second leg of his career. Though he fought for a long time, he is mostly recalled 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 though one fight remained on their contract. “He’ll never be an attraction,” Arum said. 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. Then it ended. On May 10, 1991, in Davenport, Iowa, Nunn’s hometown of all places, he was KOd in 11 by James Toney. It was a newsreel knockout; the sort people watch with a sense of shock.
Yet this stunning episode was more than a defeat. It was a cautionary tale. Nunn became the symbol of fame’s fleeting nature. Toney’s punch landed, and Nunn’s heyday was over before his back hit the canvas. He never again seemed quite so quick or agile, as if the specialness had been knocked out of him.
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, 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, a cultish figure 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
