Rodrigo Valdez puts Carlos Monzon on the deck, it was only the second time Monzon had been down in his entire career. It still brings me great joy to watch that piece of crap Monzon go down on one knee.
Danny Lopez, "Little Red", He earned his nickname because he had very heavy hands, he's ranked number 26 on Ring Magazine's hardest punchers list. He was of Ute Indian descent, with Irish and Mexican heritage as well. One of the most exciting fighters to ever enter the ring, he debuted in 1971 and went on to win his first 21 fights by knockout. He took his first loss against the great Bobby Chacon at the Sports Arena in a classic L.A. matchup but went back up the rankings with wins over Chucho Castillo and Ruben Olivares. He won the WBC featherweight title against David "Poison" Kotey in Ghana amidst a crowd estimated at 100,000. He stopped Kotey in the rematch and after making 7 more successful title defenses, he finally lost in 1980 to the great Salvador Sanchez. He finished with a record of 42-6, 39(KO). He was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 2010, a well deserved honor. Always love watching him on film, a beautiful boxer with brutal power, every punch he threw had sting on it. His defense wasn't that great, he was easy to hit, but he operated at the top of the sport so long because he was tough as nails, he would often take three or four just to get in position to land one of his bombs. He had the type of power where he didn't even need to connect flush to visibly damage and short-circuit his opponents. He pivoted and turned his shots over beautifully, and was a brutal straight puncher with good timing.
Danny Lopez was an extremely popular fighter, as one hardcore Lopez fan remembers.
One for the ages: The explosive Danny 'Little Red' Lopez
by John J. Raspanti
John J. Raspanti reminisces about Danny "Little Red" Lopez - through the eyes of his Grandpa
Danny Lopez and the author
In 1972 my grandfather started talking about Danny “Little Red” Lopez.
Grampa lived in Rosemead, CA, roughly 20 miles from The Olympic Auditorium, where Lopez fought 26 times from 1971-78.
In early 72, Lopez fought fellow hotshot, Arturo “Tury the Fury” Pineda, in what was billed as the “Battle of the Teeny-boppers.” Grampa was worried, but confident.
“That kid (Lopez) is tough,” said Grampa. “He takes punches to land his own, and when he does, they don’t get up.”
Grampa was right. Lopez entered the fight against Pineda with 10 knockouts in 10 fights. He exited it with his 11th KO. Along the way, he was staggered a few times before sending Pineda to dreamland.
This pattern would repeat itself numerous times during the course of his career. Lopez would get staggered, go down, get up, and almost always knock out his opponent. It was like getting knocked down woke him up.
The spectacle was amazing to watch. Standing just over 5-foot-7, and weighing 126 pounds soaking wet, Lopez looked like a scarecrow with red hair, but his right hand was loaded with dynamite. He was impassive in the ring, stalking his prey, looking to launch his murderous punch.
I thought of this as I watched Danny make his way through a crowd of admirers at the fifth annual National Boxing Hall of Fame in Montebello, CA. last weekend. Everybody wanted to get their picture taken with him. So many of his fights are memorable.
At the time, Lopez was can’t miss TV. Most of his bouts were wars. He often said if he could hit a guy, he’d knock him out. So true. Lopez was old school. He’d take three to land one. But that one would often end things. Deadly, but, for boxing fans, exciting to watch.
In 1974, Lopez fought fellow unbeaten featherweight Bobby “Schoolboy” Chacon. The sold-out crowd at the Los Angeles Sports Arena was buzzing with excitement as the two phenoms met up. Their records were close to identical. Lopez was 23-0, with 22 knockouts. Chacon had scored 23 wins in 24 fights, knocking out 21 foes. His single loss was to the legendary Rueben Olivares.
Thirty-nine years later, I interviewed Chacon at a café near Staples Center in Los Angeles. I asked him what he remembered about the fight.
“I used to spar with Danny and he’d whup me all the time,” Chacon recalled. “Then my manager said we were going to fight him. When we were sparring, I was learning so much about Danny. All that sparring made me a better fighter. So, when we fought, I was ready. I knew where he was. My right hand kept finding him.”
Yes it did—and his left. Chacon, smaller, but quicker, stopped Lopez in round nine. The loss could have derailed Lopez’s career, but as always, his heart propelled him forward. Grampa took his loss pretty hard, but he kept telling me that Lopez would be a champ someday.
After two more losses (one avenged) and knock out victories over former champions Chu Chu Castillo, and Olivares, that day came in 1976, when Lopez traveled to Accra, Ghana to face WBC featherweight champion David Kotay.
The odds seemed against him, but Lopez stalked and rocked, winning the title by unanimous decision. He gave Kotay a rematch, and stopped the former champ in round six.
In 1979, Lopez engaged in “The Ring Fight of the Year” with tough Mike Ayala. The battle was a war of attrition as each fighter landed hellacious blows. Lopez broke Ayala’s nose, winning by stoppage in the 15th and final round.
The year before he fought cagey challenger Juan Domingo Malvarez at the Silverdome in New Orleans, LA. Malvarez, winner of 26 fights in succession, knocked Lopez was down in the first round, and staggered him a few minutes later. He was winning right? No. As always with Lopez, all it took was one. That one landed in the second round and crumbled Malvarez. The Argentina native didn’t get up for five minutes.
In total, Lopez defended his title eight times. His reign as featherweight champion ended in 1980 when he faced future Hall of Famer Salvador Sanchez.
The fight was brutal, with Sanchez stopping Lopez. Sanchez repeated the feat four months later. Lopez retired.
An ill-advised comeback happened 12 years later. His logic, that he “had to know,” made sense. Grampa talked about Lopez till his dying day. He’d laugh, and shake his head, and mutter, "What a fighter he was."
The love boxing fans have for Lopez is deep and heartfelt. He was the ultimate warrior, who put it on the line in every one of his fights. Everytime I see him, I shake his hand, not only for me, but for my Gramps.
Here's the article from his famous Sports Illustrated cover, with Lopez sitting with the Native American headdress on. Coming up through the ranks, he was a terror for his opponents.
YOU CAN'T KEEP A GOOD MAN DOWN
AT LEAST NOT FEATHERWEIGHT CHAMPION LITTLE RED LOPEZ, WHO GOES ON THE WARPATH EVERY TIME HE HITS THE DECK
The first thing you look for on the kid is a bulge, or a bump, or something that might look vaguely like a muscle. What you find instead is a body built like a mailman's arches. The guy doesn't even have knobby knees, and the only things skinnier than his legs are his arms. It just doesn't seem right. If Danny (Little Red) Lopez were not the WBC featherweight champion of the world, you would probably call him scrawny, even if you wouldn't say it to his face.
Not that there is a rule that says all boxers have to look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Sandy Saddler, who was the featherweight champ off and on from 1948 to 1957, was built to have sand kicked in his face. There is also no rule that equates physique with power. Saddler knocked out 103 of 162 opponents, and Lopez may well be one of the hardest hitters in the game. "Pound for pound, Danny is the hardest puncher in all of boxing today," says Don Chargin, the veteran matchmaker at Los Angeles' Olympic Auditorium. Lopez has 39 victories in 42 fights, 36 of them by knockout. Even more remarkable is his ability to absorb punishment. By his own manager's estimate, Little Red has been knocked down in as many as a dozen fights—and then has gotten up and knocked out his opponent.
The hoary "pound for pound" claim is admittedly impossible to prove. For one thing, 126-pound featherweights and 220-pound heavyweights never get into the ring together. World lightweight champion Roberto Duran, he of the fabled stone hands, has knocked out 79.6% of his opponents compared with 85.7% for Lopez. Bantamweight champ Carlos Zarate has knocked out 52 opponents in 53 fights, but it has been suggested that Zarate has fattened his record on an assortment of adagio dancers and tamale makers. "A lot of the experts rate Danny as the third or fourth alltime greatest puncher—based on knockouts—and he ain't finished yet," says Bennie Georgino, Lopez' manager and trainer. "He don't fight stiffs off the street the way Zarate does. Danny fights legitimate challengers, and he sends 'em to the hospital."
Lopez first began packing them off to the wards in 1971 at the Olympic, the venerable downtown boxing cathedral that sits beside the San Bernardino Freeway like some squat stucco troll. The Olympic is a sanctuary for the hundreds of pepperpot Latin fighters who come out of the Los Angeles barrios. After a good fight at the Olympic, coins rain down on the ring from the stands, and both the victor and the vanquished kneel to retrieve their tribute. These are boxing's little guys, and in this country Danny Lopez is their proud little monarch.
It didn't take Lopez long to build his following. By his 11th professional fight he was already so popular that the Olympic sold out its 10,000 seats in one day, and had to turn away 5,000 more customers at the door. Lopez has always been a favorite of the Latin fight fans, many of whom may have mistakenly assumed because of his name that he is of Mexican descent. More than that, however, his popularity derives from his toe-to-toe slugging style.
"The little guys are the great fighters," says Georgino, who handles six fighters, all in the lighter weight classes. "They punch fast, hit hard," he says. "The heavyweights don't do that; usually they give you the worst show. People in these local arenas love the little guys, but the TV networks don't understand that."
Georgino first saw Lopez fight as a 16-year-old amateur in Las Vegas, and even then Bennie's brother, the late Al Georgino, could see the kid had potential. "Danny was just a puny 115-pounder then," Bennie says, "but Al could see something in him nobody else could see, that someday he was going to be a champion." Then as now, the big punch and the revolving-door defense set Lopez apart, and if the refinement of his boxing skills at age 26 is any indication, he must have been a total brawler at 16.
One of seven brothers and sisters, Lopez grew up on a Ute Indian reservation in Fort Duquesne, Utah. His father, who left home when Lopez was young, was a Mission Indian from northern California. Lopez' maternal grandmother was three-quarters Ute, and his maternal grandfather was part Irish.
The family lived in a two-bedroom shack with only a wood-burning stove to stave off the cold of the Utah winters. Danny hunted rabbits and other small game with a bow and arrow (Hollywood, are you listening?); with only a government welfare check to be spread eight ways, rabbit meat was often a luxury. "I remember eating mostly powdered eggs," Lopez says. "My sister Carol and I used to eat sugar sandwiches. We thought that was a great delicacy."
When his mother could no longer afford to support the family, she was forced to place several of her children in foster homes. Along with his brother Larry and Carol, Danny went to a family named Moon in Jensen, Utah. The Moons eventually adopted him legally, so from the time he was eight until he was 13, Little Red Lopez was legally Danny Moon. Later he would have his name changed back to Lopez.
Life was seldom peaceful for Danny, and sometimes it was downright harrowing. When he was 13, he was confronted in a shattering way with the dark side of the Moons. The Moons' son-in-law had beaten him severely for a trifling offense, and during a subsequent argument with Mrs. Moon, Danny heard his foster mother tell Larry to go fetch her son-in-law. Danny raced upstairs and pulled out a .22-caliber rifle, then announced that if the son-in-law came up after him there would be trouble. "I didn't have any shells in the gun," Danny says, "and my brother never went to get Mrs. Moon's son-in-law, so I never actually held the gun on anybody."
Mrs. Moon did call the cops, however, and the next day Danny was arrested for assault and battery. "They put me in jail for a month with a lot of older criminals," he says. "They shoved my food in through a hole in the door. It really began working on my mind, and I started to hear voices." Eventually, the charges were dropped, but by that time Lopez had become so embittered toward the Moons that he decided he could never go back to live with them, and moved in with an aunt and uncle on the reservation. Lopez has had a change of heart; he now considers the Moons to be his parents, and has even paid to fly them in to some of his fights.
Life did not go a great deal more smoothly for Lopez when he was living with his aunt and uncle, who tried to forcibly convert him from Mormonism to the Jehovah's Witnesses. Not surprisingly, Lopez was becoming slightly rebellious and soon began to get into trouble. "When I was in junior high everybody thought I was pretty tough even though I didn't weigh much," he says. "I started hanging around with all the mean guys. We'd get an old Indian to buy us some beer, then we'd go get drunk and cause trouble."
Once, after a street fight, he was hauled into court and told that if he were caught fighting again he wouldn't be allowed to box as an amateur in the town of Orem anymore. When word went out that Lopez was on probation, a local tough tried to take advantage of the situation by socking him in the face. "Before I knew what I was doing, I had hauled off and broken the guy's nose," Lopez says. Luckily, a friendly teacher happened by and got Lopez away from his stunned victim before the police arrived. "I guess I was a little hard to get along with in my younger days," he says.
Even between fights Lopez doesn't weigh much more than 130 pounds, but he walks thickly, his feet set apart and his shoulders rocking from side to side. His head is wedge-shaped, like the head of a tomahawk, and his face is lightly but earnestly freckled. Lopez' hair is more than just a little red and he parts it down the middle, like Mickey Walker, ex-middleweight champ. Lopez looks less like an Indian than the guy the cavalry used to send out to scout for Indians. When he vouchsafes one of his three-word speeches, he dishes it up tonelessly, smiles as if he's not sure he's glad he said anything, then nods his head once or twice as if to leave a couple of emphatic ellipses hanging in the air.
Lopez lives like a little guy, even though Georgino says his fighter earned more than half a million dollars in 1978. There is a little house in San Gabriel Valley, a little wife and three little sons. Danny even drives a 1977 Mustang, and has somehow resisted the most basic California extravagance, a vanity license plate. The only big thing on the premises is the trophy head of a six-point elk he shot last year in Colorado.
There are almost no marks on Lopez' face, which is astonishing in view of his style. "You look at his features," says Georgino. "He's had 42 pro fights, but his face ain't that messed up." Even Danny's hands are fragile-looking; like clouds, they seem wispy and frail, but within them lies the Lopez thunder. There is a small scar on the inside of his right index finger; it was operated on to remove bone chips after he won the title from David Kotey in Ghana in 1976. Some of Little Red's later victims have reason enough to believe the surgeon left his scalpel in the hand.
Lopez' victory over Kotey was remarkable in several respects, not the least of which was that it was the only time in his career he had gone 15 rounds. He had arrived in Accra, the capital of Ghana, two weeks before the fight, and was immediately dumped into a creaky old hotel with no hot running water, despite the fact that there were several first-class tourist hotels available. Lopez' manager at that time was Howie Steindler, but Steindler was ordered not to make the trip by his doctors, who feared it might bring about another heart attack. Cast almost totally adrift, Lopez trained four rounds a day in the tropical heat, suffered all the intestinal indignities inflicted upon visitors unaccustomed to African fare, and received subtle pressure from his hosts. Shortly before the fight, Ghana's president, General Ignatius Acheampong, told him, "You will not leave Ghana with our title."
"He wasn't fooling around, either," says Lopez. "I just told him, 'We'll see.' "
Lopez had Kotey in trouble at several points during the fight, but each time he did, the Ghandaian timekeeper rang the bell, allowing Kotey time to recover. "Some U.S. Marines who were stationed over there made videotapes of the fight and sent them to me," says Lopez. "I timed the rounds, and every time Kotey was about to go down, that round would be shorter than it was supposed to be. One round was only two minutes long."
Nonetheless, Lopez won the title. It took nearly two days for the word to get back to Steindler in Los Angeles that his fighter was the world champion. Steindler, who was 72, had waited 55 years to have a champion, but he never got to see Lopez defend his title. On March 10, 1977, four months after the Kotey fight, Steindler was kidnapped, beaten and smothered to death, then left in his car on the Ventura Freeway. Lopez heard of Steindler's death at 1 a.m. after the body was discovered by the police.
"At about six o'clock the same morning I got a phone call from a guy who I had thought was my friend," he says. "He said it was terrible what had happened to Howie and all, but that before I talked to anybody else about managing me, he would like me to consider him. I got a lot of calls like that before Howie was even in the ground."
Lopez turned to Georgino, a longtime L.A. fight fan and bail bondsman. Georgino at first hesitated to take on any responsibility that might keep him from flying to the Wednesday night fights in Las Vegas, but he finally relented. He has worked with Lopez on his defense to the point where the champ occasionally ducks a punch.
"In all the years I've been in boxing I've never seen anybody who could knock somebody out with a left hook, a left jab or a right hand the way Danny can," Georgino says. "I've seen him when I would have sworn he just tapped a guy on the chin and—boom!—the guy went down like he'd been shot dead. You can't teach that."
Still, Georgino can't help but be troubled by Lopez' willingness to let a lot of people pound on his face. Among the luminaries who have done the above is one Masanao Toyoshima, who was then the No. 1 man in Japan. In 1974, he had Lopez out on his feet in the third round. Rubber-legged and seemingly barely conscious, Lopez somehow contrived to knock out Toyoshima in the same round.
"Danny don't go into the ring thinking he's going to get hit," insists Georgino, "but there's something within him that you have to wake up somehow before he gets mad enough to fight back. That's why he has to get knocked around for a while before he knows he's in a fight. It's almost as if he needed a slap in the face to wake him up. And if that's what it takes, I may slap him."
It has also been suggested, as a less obvious measure, that Lopez should spar two or three wakeup rounds in his dressing room before going out to do battle. It has now been four months since his last fight, in which Juan Malvarez knocked him down in the first round and staggered him again in the second. Typically, Lopez rallied to knock out his man in the same round. Two weeks ago Lopez began serious training for a March 10 title defense in Salt Lake City against the WBC's No. 2-ranked featherweight, Roberto Castanon of Spain. The serious training includes sneaking away occasionally to the mountains for a bit of skiing. Needless to say, this does not thrill Georgino. "Every time he gets on those skis, I can just see the money flying away," he says. Still, Lopez is one of those rare creatures who trains diligently; he honestly loves gymnasiums.
"Sometimes I'll get Danny a workout in the gym with guys nowhere near him in ability—real amateurs—and they'll knock him around for a while," Georgino says. "Eventually he'll wake up and pound on 'em, but even then he'll come back to the corner and ask me if he's being too rough on a guy." Georgino is puzzled by this temperamental flaw. "Sometimes the kid's just too nice for his own good," he says. And almost all of the time he's too good for the good of his opponents.
After being downed again, the up-again Lopez knocked out Juan Malvarez (above), then went back to his guitar and his low-key life-style.
Danny Lopez was in some great fights, most guys when they are down in the trenches infighting are trying to survive, but Lopez lived there, he actually preferred it up close and personal, which is a bit surprising considering Lopez was tall and had a long reach. Danny Lopez vs Mike Ayala was the fight of the year in 1979, a real showcase of brutality between two tough son of bi....., it's no wonder Danny Lopez retired at the age of 27 after fights like this.
Mike Ayala catches Danny Lopez with a right hand in the 1979 fight of the year.
Greatest fights of the 1970s
Mike Ayala vs Danny Lopez
The 1970s were the Golden era of boxing for me, maybe because it was because I was a very young boy and loved watching the fights were, in a word, special. My father is with whom I got my love for boxing, and Danny”Little Red” Lopez was one of our favorites. You always knew you would get your money’s worth when Little Red fought. Even better, we got to watch him on free television, so it cost us nothing. We watched the fights on a 19-inch T.V., and yes, it was color, you had to hope it wouldn’t storm because if it did, the reception could be spotty, but it was awesome.
Despite being from Utah, Danny “Little Red” Lopez was one of the most loved fighters to fight in Los Angeles. Danny fought 32 of his 34 first pro fights in Los Angeles after following his brother Ernie “Red” Lopez (welterweight contender). Los Angeles fight fans loved Danny’s aggressive and assertive punching style. Danny, a tall 5’8″ man, prefers to fight inside rather than using his superior height of 126 pounds and fighting from the outside. The 26-year-old Lopez defeated David Kotey in Kotey’s native Ghana to win WBC Featherweight. He then traveled to San Antonio, Texas, to defend the title against Mike Ayala, a native of San Antonio.
Ayala was a talented boxer and had lost only one of his 22 professional fights. Even being an underdog, Ayala’s movement could frustrate Lopez, as Lopez is an all-offense and no-defense boxer. My father was right to predict that Ayala would frustrate Lopez, but not in the manner my father expected.
Both boxers were able to land solid combinations in the first round. Ayala tried to box from the outside, but in round two, she decided to use the “rope a dope” strategy. Ayala repeatedly hurt Lopez in rounds two, four, and five with a counter left hook from the ropes. He would then sit on the ropes to counter Lopez’s aggressive ways. Lopez’s tremendous hooks harmed Ayala in round 3. Round three was the only round Lopez clearly won early on. After the fifth round.
Lopez continued to body punch the next two rounds. Lopez kept digging right into Ayala’s ribcage, causing severe injuries to Ayala. Lopez finished the seventh round by knocking Ayala to the ground with vicious punches to the chin. At that point, it was obvious Ayala wouldn’t be able to last. Ayala proved me wrong, as he repeatedly hurt Lopez with left hooks that landed on the ropes. After a furious exchange, Ayala hit Lopez with a right cross that was a real pain. As both men pounded each other with power punches, the 10th round was a raging war. Ayala couldn’t keep up with the pace.
Lopez hit a huge left hook early in round 11. This dropped Ayala. Referee Carlos Padilla incorrectly counted Ayala out. Tony, Ayala’s father and trainer, argued with Padilla about the fact that his son had stood before the count of 10. Padilla ordered that the fight be restarted after discussing the matter with WBC representatives at the ringside. Padilla declared the end of the round after the timekeeper lost track of the remaining time. It was the first time I had seen a ref change his ruling.
The war continued as if it had never ended when the action was resumed. Rounds 12-14 saw a furious exchange. Ayala was still fighting with a broken nose, but he gave as much as he got. Lopez smashed Ayala with his wicked left hook in the 15th round. Lopez beat Ayala against the ropes, before finally knocking him out using a dynamic right cross.
After that fight, Lopez was forever changed. He lost his title eight months later and was relegated to a one-sided but competitive fight against future legend Salvador Sanchez. After his second fight against Sanchez, Lopez was 28 years old when he retired. Twelve years later, Lopez made an unwise comeback against a different fighter named Sanchez, a fighter with a record of 11 victories and 27 losses. That club fighter knocked out Lopez in the second round. Wisely, Lopez went back into permanent retirement.
Ayala said that he was under the influence of heroin during training and during the fight. Perhaps that is why he stayed on the ropes for most of the fight. Ayala would be awarded two more world title shots in his career. He was knocked out in both. At 33 years old, he retired.
The highlights of the Danny Lopez vs Mike Ayala fight, Sports Illustrated would tag this fight a mini Ali-Frazier, Lopez broke Ayala's nose early in the fight, floored Ayala in the 7th and 11th rounds, and stopped Ayala in the 15th and final round, the fight had a lot of back and forth momentum shifts. Lopez had to walk through some serious punishment to deliver his own brand of mayhem, this fight really put Lopez in the map.
In 1976 Danny Lopez travelled to Ghana to fight David "Poison" Kotey for the WBC featherweight strap. David Kotey was a powerfully built Featherweight from Ghana. The 24 year-old Kotey came to California from Ghana as a complete unknown with a record of 29-2-2 (18 KO's) compiled in Africa, snuck into the 'The Forum' on September 20, 1975, floored Ruben Olivares in the 1st round, and pounded away, taking away the WBC Featherweight Championship
from Ruben Olivares by a 15 Round Split-Decision. David Kotey was supposed to be nothing more than a tune-up title defense
for Ruben, who was supposed to fight Bobby Chacon in a rematch in December 1975. But Kotey obviously had other plans, he was one tough son of a gun and he could fight. It's a shame Kotey pretty much disappeared after his two fights with Lopez. He was called "Poison" due to the contagious nature of his punches.
David "Poison" Kotey
On the night of Nov. 5, 1976, a mass of humanity in the sum of 122,000 people wedged its way into the Sports Stadium in Accra, Ghana.
They came to see Ghana’s own David Kotey defend his WBC featherweight title against American challenger Danny Lopez.
The boxing ring sat in the middle of the Sports Stadium, an 80,000-seat soccer arena. Temporary seats set up on the soccer field increased the stadium’s capacity by 50 percent.
The two combatants were supposed to square off at 8 p.m., but the fight was delayed by almost five hours. Even after midnight, the temperature hovered in the mid-80s and the humidity remained at steam-bath levels.
The huge pro-Kotey throng pounded on tribal drums throughout the night as Lopez waited patiently in his locker room.
“We were supposed to go in the ring at 8 o’clock and we didn’t go in until 1 in the morning,” Lopez said, recalling the event. “I never got an answer for why. Maybe it was a ploy to throw me off.
“I just sat back and waited and waited and waited.”
Lopez-Kotey draws a crowd
Danny “Little Red” Lopez put together a 42-6 record in his 10-year professional boxing career. He recorded 39 wins via knockout, a KO percentage higher than all but four members of the International Boxing Hall of Fame.
He claimed the WBC featherweight title, appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated and went on to defend his crown eight times. He defeated the likes of Sean O’Grady, Ruben Olivares, Art Hafey and Jose Torres.
But the highlight of his career came on Nov. 5, 1976, when he took the title away from Kotey.
At the time, the attendance figure of 122,000 fans marked the largest crowd to witness a boxing match in the sport’s history. It still remains as the second-biggest crowd in boxing, exceeded by only the 1993 match between Julio Cesar Chavez and Greg Haugen, which drew 136,274 fans to the Estadio Azteca in Mexico City.
In front of such a large crowd in Kotey’s homeland, Lopez knew he had to do more than any challenger in the history of the sport to wrest the title away from the champion.
“I wanted that title,” Lopez said. “I knew I had to beat him good or I wouldn’t get out of there with it. I had more drive for that fight than most any fight I had.”
A knockout from the start
Lopez was born in Utah. His mother had eight kids and was living off welfare on the Roosevelt Indian Reservation.
“She couldn’t take care of all of us,” Lopez said. “I was 8 years old when the welfare people came and took me, my sister and my brother, Larry, to a foster home.”
Lopez grew up in foster homes until moving to Los Angeles when he was 16 years old to live with his older brother, Ernie. Ernie “Indian Red” Lopez had taken up boxing and forged a solid reputation in the L.A. area. Danny followed his big brother into the ring.
Danny Lopez turned pro at the age of 18. He started his pro career with 21 consecutive knockouts.
On Aug. 6, 1976, Lopez knocked out Hafey, the No. 1 ranked contender in the featherweight division, to earn a shot at reigning champion David “Poison” Kotey’s title.
The Los Angeles Forum wanted the Lopez-Kotey bout. Lopez, with his exciting and aggressive style, had developed a large following in Southern California.
However, Kotey was the current champion. An estimated crowd of 600,000 people had lined the streets of Accra when Kotey returned to his homeland after beating Olivares for the title in September of 1975.
Ghanan officials put together an effort to out-bid Los Angeles for the rights to host the fight.
The Lopez-Kotey fight would be held at the 80,000-seat Sports Stadium.
“I didn’t know what to expect,” Lopez said. “I went over not knowing if it was going to be like you see on Tarzan or what. I just went knowing that’s where I had to go to get a shot at his title.”
Don't drink the water
Lopez arrived in Ghana three weeks before the fight to get used to the climate.
“The first day I got there, I drank some ice water and I had diarrhea from then until the day of the fight,” Lopez said.
A small group of U.S. military personnel at the American embassy in Accra and some Peace Corps volunteers saved Lopez.
“They got all their food shipped in from the United States,” Lopez said. “So the rest of the time I was there, I drank their water and ate their food.”
Lopez took a small traveling party to Ghana. Only his trainer, a cut-man and a sparring partner went with him. His wife, Bonnie, remained back in L.A.
“She wanted to go,” said Lopez, “but there was fighting in that area. I didn’t want her along.”
Lopez, however, experienced no problems with the Ghanans.
“The people in Ghana treated me really well,” he said. “The only problem was when I tried to take pictures with the people and they saw the camera as evil or something. They didn’t want their picture taken.”
The cultural differences turned a well-meaning gesture from Lopez into a pre-fight brouhaha.
Lopez attended a press conference with Kotey and presented his opponent with an authentic Native American head-dress, the same kind that Lopez usually wore into the ring. Kotey took the head-dress, threw it to the floor and stomped on it.
“Man, that’s kind of rude,” Lopez thought. Later, he learned that feathers are sometimes perceived as evil in Ghana. “I didn’t know it meant evil to them.”
Otherwise, Lopez spent the weeks leading up to the fight in the usual manner of boxers. He stayed in a hotel. He went for runs at a local golf course, taking care to avoid the alligators that took up residency in the course’s ponds.
“My first day of running, I ran in my sweats,” Lopez said. “It was so hot, I dropped six pounds in one run.”
Lopez worked out in the same gym that Kotey used, the two steering clear of each other with separate schedules.
Finally, the day of the fight arrived. He got to the stadium well before the 8 p.m. bell.
“I got dressed to fight,” he said. “Then I just sat in the dressing room and waited.”
Lopez silences a nation
Lopez jogged/shuffled his way from the dressing to the ring in the middle of the soccer pitch.
“To see all those people,” Lopez said, “was an incredible sight.”
Lopez had earned a reputation as a slow starter. Sometimes it seemed that he needed to take a few punches or lose a few rounds to get his engine started. He knew that he could ill afford to give Kotey a single round. No judge would give the challenger the benefit of the doubt in front of that crowd.
“I stayed on him and kept pressure on him,” Lopez said. “He hit me a few shots, but he never hurt me. I just stayed on him throughout the fight.”
According to accounts of the fight, Lopez dominated the action. Several times he came close to finishing off Kotey only to have the round end.
Lopez contends that he later viewed tapes of the fight and some of those rounds were shortened in order to save the champ.
“I had him on the ropes,” Lopez said. “They shortened three different rounds.”
Kotey survived. Lopez had opened up a cut on Kotey’s lower lip that would require 17 stitches. Kotey would need 20 more stitches for other cuts he sustained at the hands of Lopez.
Still, after 15 brutal rounds, the outcome remained in the hands of the judges. The three judges awarded Lopez the unanimous decision. So convincing was Lopez’s victory that the crowd did not protest, much less riot.
“The whole stadium was quiet,” Lopez said. “It was kind of scary.”
The only cheers, the only sound really, came from a small pocket of Lopez supporters, the members of the Peace Corps and the U.S. military personnel who had fed Lopez during his stay in Ghana.
Lopez was escorted from the ring into a waiting ambulance, which took off with sirens blaring and lights flashing.
When Lopez boarded a plane, a Ghanan general said to him, “Danny, we will get our title back.”
“Come and get it,” Lopez replied.
After Ghana
David Kotey would have to wait more than a year before getting the opportunity to reclaim his title from Lopez.
He had suffered bone chips in his right hand during the fight with Kotey. He underwent an operation and didn’t enter the ring again for eight months. He fought non-title bouts in July and August of 1977, winning both by knockout.
Then, in his first official defense of the WBC featherweight crown, he took on top challenger Jose Torres on Sept. 13, 1977 at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles.
He pummeled Torres with punches. Torres withdrew after seven rounds, but the champion’s onslaught nearly cost Lopez the fight.
“Thank god, he didn’t come out for the eighth round,” Lopez said. “My hand was so sore. I couldn’t throw my right hand anymore. If Torres had come out for the eighth, I would’ve had just one hand.”
When Lopez’s handlers removed his gloves after the fight, his right hand immediately swelled to the size of the glove itself. He would remain out of the ring until February 1978 when he engaged Kotey in a rematch.
At the Hilton Hotel in Las Vegas, Lopez won the second fight with Kotey via a sixth-round TKO.
Lopez would hold onto the featherweight belt for two more years. He finally lost the crown to Salvador Sanchez in 1980. He lost the rematch with Sanchez and then retired.
But Lopez will always remember how he took the title from Kotey in the champion’s home country in front of 122,000 fans.
“It was an unbelievable experience,” Lopez said. “I haven’t seen that many people before or since.”
In the rematch with David Kotey, Danny Lopez stopped Kotey in the 6th round, he was just too much for Kotey. Like I said, it was a shame that Kotey pretty much disappeared after this, he was a good fighter.
Danny Lopez unleashes an attack in the 6th round just prior to the stoppage.
This brings us to the first Danny Lopez vs Salvador Sanchez fight, I profiled Salvador Sanchez earlier in the thread, but you can never talk about the greatness of Salvador Sanchez enough. He was nicknamed"Chava", and "The Invincible Eagle", and he was damn near invincible in the ring, sadly he passed away in a car accident at the age of only 22 years old, but at the time of his death he had already amassed a record of 44-1-1, and had beaten all-time greats Azumah Nelson, Wilfredo "Bazooka" Gomez, and Danny Lopez twice, that is mind boggling considering he was only 22 years old. Sanchez thrived when the heat was turned up, against the best competition, he was tougher than a $2 steak, you could pepper spray him in the face and he would somehow overcome it, and he was eerily calm under pressure. At the time of the first Lopez vs Sanchez fight, Salvador was still lacking a real signature win and this fight put Sanchez on the map, most people thought Lopez would walk right through Sanchez and knock him out, they were wrong, they were yet to see what Salvador Sanchez really was. But I'll tell you what, Danny Lopez was one tough SOB himself, the type of guy that just kept coming after you until he physically couldn't anymore or until the referee saved him from himself.
A bloody Danny Lopez on the cover of Boxing Digest after his tough loss to Salvador Sanchez.
Feb. 2, 1980: Sanchez vs Lopez I
Danny “Little Red” Lopez had won the WBC version of the featherweight crown in 1976 and no one begrudged him the title. This was because Lopez, contrary to the stereotype of the merciless, one-punch knockout artist, was as nice a guy as you could ever meet in boxing. Respectful and unassuming, “Little Red” quietly went about his business which involved dishing out some shattering right hands to his opponents, though often not before getting a bit roughed up himself.
In the late 70’s Lopez was one of the game’s more popular fighters.
The story of Danny Lopez is one we’ve heard many times before, one that almost redeems the brutal and heartbreaking racket called prizefighting. Boxing gave Danny a means by which to make something of himself, to rise above his impoverished childhood. He grew up living with seven siblings in a two-room shack on a native reservation and spent time in jail for assault and battery before being shuffled off to a foster home. His older brother Ernie boxed and would eventually challenge the great Jose Napoles for the welterweight world title, so when Danny was sixteen, he simply made up his mind to follow the same path. He embraced all the discipline and hard work the profession demands and ever after, there was no more trouble with the law. Five years after he turned pro, and with wins over Chucho Castillo and Ruben Olivares on his record, there he was, in Ghana of all places, overwhelming David Kotey for the featherweight championship of the world.
Lopez defeats Kotey for the title.
The title reign of Lopez was distinguished by the thrills he gave fight fans, both when he was taking punishment and then dishing it out. A slow starter, Danny usually looked vulnerable in the first round or two, eating punch after punch, before he found his rhythm and started making the other guy pay dearly for his transgressions. Soon enough a thunderbolt knockout followed, courtesy of his vaunted right cross, prime examples being his bouts with Kenji Endo or Juan Malvares. Before his Waterloo in the first Sanchez vs Lopez match, Danny defended his title eight times, in the process becoming one of the most popular boxers in America, his bouts earning high ratings on national television. No one expected anything different for Danny’s ninth title defense, broadcast live on CBS from Phoenix, Arizona. Another obscure challenger, surely another knockout for “Little Red,” right?
Sanchez calmly repelled the champion’s aggression.
But it didn’t work out that way. No one north of the border could know it at the time, but the 21-year-old Salvador Sanchez was much more than just another contender. A gifted counter-puncher, Sanchez had patience and maturity beyond his years, along with quick hands, exceptional stamina, and a rock-solid chin. As early as the second round, it looked like it was going to be a long and painful afternoon for Lopez as the challenger connected far too frequently with damaging power shots, especially the counter right. The loyal fans of “Little Red” waited patiently for his trademark comeback, but by round four Danny’s left eye was swelling shut and by the sixth a bad cut had opened over the right.
Lopez lands a jab, but the vast majority of clean shots came the other way.
The battle was fast-paced but one-sided. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Sanchez would move in with the cool efficiency of a remorseless assassin to land his left hook or counter right and then, just as swiftly and smoothly, move out of range. Lopez never stopped trying, but he lacked the quickness to connect with force and consistency. In round seven the action heated up as Sanchez, with no fear of the Danny’s power, elected to stand and trade and “Little Red,” game as ever, took the fight to the challenger. But while both men were throwing big punches, the only one scoring clean shots was Sanchez. At the end of the round an overhand right buckled the champion’s knees.
It was more of the same in rounds eight and nine before Lopez finally asserted himself in the tenth, backing Sanchez up and timing his right hand better. But he couldn’t hurt the unflappable challenger and the following round saw a return to a clinical beat-down from Sanchez. The sheer number of clean, sharp blows Lopez was taking had to be alarming for both his fans and his corner, not to mention the millions watching on live television, but, as everyone knew, there was no quit in “Little Red.” His only hope now was that Sanchez might tire, but the Mexican appeared just as sharp in round twelve as he did in the first. By this point he was hurting Lopez in almost every exchange, but Danny never stopped trying to land the one big shot that might turn things around.
In round thirteen two clean rights staggered the champion yet again and the referee, knowing Lopez had to be saved from his own courage, stepped between the fighters to raise the hand of Sanchez. The gifted boxer they called “Chava,” perhaps the greatest of all the great Mexican boxers, would then embark on an extraordinary run, ten title defenses in fewer than eighteen months, including a rematch win over Lopez and victories against such formidable battlers and champions as Ruben Castillo, Juan Laporte, Wilfredo Gomez and Azumah Nelson. Killed in a car accident in 1982, the title he took from Lopez with such authority was his until the day he died and Salvador Sanchez will forever be regarded as one of the greatest champions in featherweight history.
Just look at the expression on Salvador Sanchez's face as he catches Danny Lopez with a left hand, it's unbelievable how calm under pressure he was, Salvador Sanchez had freakin' Gatorade running through his veins.
At the conclusion of the first fight, talk of a rematch began, Danny Lopez wanted the rematch, Lopez was that kind of guy, there was just no quit in him. In the rematch Danny Lopez was a more competitive but Salvador Sanchez slowly broke him down and stopped him in round 14. Watching Sanchez is like watching a violent ballet, such beautiful motion and grace but so brutal and punishing.
Again, look at the expression on Sanchez's face, so calm, it's like he's not even in a fight, it's like he's cooking a burger and checking to see if it's done.
Even though Lopez lost to Salvador Sanchez twice, he did go 27 brutal rounds with the guy, and that says a lot about Danny Lopez and how tough he was. Make no mistake about it, Danny Lopez was one of the most devastating punchers in featherweight history, his punches just didn't have the effect everyone thought they would on Salvador Sanchez because Sanchez was difficult to hit cleanly and some guys are just made of granite, Sanchez was an immovable object.
Danny Lopez lands a right hook to the chin of Salvador Sanchez.
After his two fights with Salvador Sanchez, Danny Lopez retired at the age of 27, he had been through some wars in his career and he decided to call it a day. He would make an ill-advised comeback 10 years later and lose by knockout and hang it up for good. Danny Lopez is one of my all-time favorite fighters, in his prime he was exciting to watch, a guy that would walk through hell in a gasoline suit rather than surrender, a devastating puncher, and a beautiful overall fighter to watch operate. Ring magazine interviewed him and asked him about the best competition he faced in his career, I love this stuff.
BEST I FACED: DANNY ‘LITTLE RED’ LOPEZ
The hugely popular Danny Lopez was featherweight champion for over three years in the late-1970s, making eight successful defenses, only to lose the title to the legendary Salvador Sanchez.
Lopez was born in Fort Duchesne, Utah on July 6, 1952, of mixed Ute Indian, Mexican and Irish heritage. He had a difficult childhood and was taken into care when he was eight years-old.
“My father left my mother with eight kids and the state took the three youngest ones. I was one of them,” Lopez told RingTV. “They placed us in foster care. I lived with different aunts and uncles in Utah on the reservation.
“My brother Leonard boxed in the Marines and my brother Ernie boxed at Stans Boxing Club. It was because of them that I wanted to box. I took it up when I was 16.”
During a his amateur career, Lopez won regional Golden Gloves tournaments and estimates he had around 50 amateur contests. He migrated to Los Angeles and turned pro in 1971.
He became a popular local attraction over the next couple of years, regularly fighting at the Olympic Auditorium and, later, the Forum. His older brother, Ernie, was also a talented boxer who twice unsuccessfully challenged Jose Napoles for the welterweight title.
Other than a bad spell from 1974 into early 1975, when he lost three of four, including a war with Bobby Chacon, Lopez won all his bouts. He had beaten four-time world title challenger Chucho Castillo (TKO 2), former 118-pound kingpin Ruben Olivares (KO 7) and seasoned contender Art Hafey (TKO 7).
Those victories set him up to challenge and win the WBC title in the fall of 1976.
“Probably winning the (WBC) featherweight title over in Ghana, Africa, from David Kotey, that was my proudest moment,” Lopez said. “I had to run at 4:00 a.m. morning; it was hotter than heck over there. The people were nice. I think the people thought he was going to beat me.
“When they announced I had won the title, you could hear 15 Americans stand up and cheer for me out of 100,000 people in the soccer stadium.”
His most notable defense was a hellacious war with Mike Ayala. It took place in his challenger’s backyard of San Antonio, Texas. “Little Red” dropped Ayala twice before stopping his rival in the 15th round in The Ring Magazine’s “Fight of The Year” for 1979.
In early 1980, Lopez yielded his title to Sanchez in a terrific all-action encounter, in the 13th round. They met in a rematch that summer. Lopez again tried to use his methodical pressure to break down the Mexican, who was able to outbox him and stop him in the penultimate round.
“Salvador was a smart fighter,” he said of the 27 frenetic rounds he shared with Sanchez. “He could move; he could punch. I never could hit the guy. He was a special fighter.”
Lopez retired before making an ill-advised one-off comeback that ended in defeat, leaving his record at (42-6, 39 knockouts) In 2010, Lopez was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame.
Lopez, now 66, is married to Bonnie; they live in Chino Hills, California and have three sons and six grandchildren. He enjoys playing in golf tournaments, going for walks, watching movies and using Facebook.
He graciously took time to speak to RingTV about the best he fought in 10 key categories.
BEST JAB
Salvador Sanchez: As far as I can remember, most guys I fought had a good jab. Salvador Sanchez would be the main one; his jab was always in my face (Laughs). Bobby Chacon had a good jab.
BEST DEFENSE
Sanchez: That would be Salvador Sanchez again. I never could hit him. If I could have landed a shot on him, I might have knocked him out but I couldn’t land a shot on him.
FASTEST HANDS
Bobby Chacon: Bobby Chacon had good hand speed. He was very quick and kept me off-balance.
BEST FOOTWORK
Sanchez: That would be Salvador again. He could go back and forward. He was always moving and I could never hit him.
BEST CHIN
Ruben Olivares: I never hit Salvador so I don’t know if he had a good chin. Ruben Olivares was one of them. He had a pretty good chin. He knocked me down and came in for the kill and that’s when I hit him with a sharp right hand and I won the fight.
SMARTEST
Sanchez: Salvador was the smartest I fought. He had a lot of movement. He was able to do things others weren’t able to do; he set traps.
STRONGEST
Chacon: I hit him with some mighty good shots and they never fazed him and he came back with his shots.
BEST PUNCHER
Chacon: Ruben Olivares was one of the hardest punchers I fought. I felt every shot he landed on me. Also, Bobby Chacon was a good puncher. I’d probably pick Bobby.
BEST BOXING SKILLS
Sanchez: Probably between Bobby and Salvador Sanchez. Salvador had excellent boxing skills, so did Bobby. I’d probably pick Salvador.
BEST OVERALL
Sanchez: He was so sharp and he’d be out the way before I could land on him. I fought him twice and he beat me twice.
Danny Lopez connects with a left hand to Ruben Olivares, Olivares was an all-time great, dangerous guy, they didn't call him "Rock-a-bye" Ruben for nothing, he was famous for putting people to sleep, out of the 89 fighters Olivares beat in his career, only 10 made it to the final bell.
Danny Lopez "Little Red" in his prime. It's unbelievable how heavy his hands were, he didn't even throw his punches very hard but the power was just devastating, it's like he had chunks of brick in his gloves.
This next story is one of the craziest stories that I've ever read in my entire life, some call it the greatest newspaper story ever written. In 1997, an L.A. Times journalist named J.R. Moehringer received a tip that a Santa Ana homeless man was really the legendary Battlin' Bob Satterfield, a 1950s light heavyweight/heavyweight that had murderous punching power. The iron chinned Jake Lamotta once said that out of all the fighters he faced, Bob Satterfield hit him the hardest, that's quite a compliment considering Jake Lamotta had maybe the greatest chin in boxing history. Anyway, Moehringer became totally obsessed with trying to prove that this homeless man was Battlin' Bob Satterfield. This story is a descent into total madness. Here's a preview.
Tommy Tomlinson
WHY'S THIS SO GOOD?
“Why’s this so good?” No. 26: Moehringer KO's a mystery
ARTICLE BY Tommy Tomlinson
The hell with my lede. Let’s start with his:
I’m sitting in a hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, waiting for a call from a man who doesn’t trust me, hoping he’ll have answers about a man I don’t trust, which may clear the name of a man no one gives a damn about.
That’s how J.R. Moehringer begins “Resurrecting the Champ,” the greatest newspaper story ever written, and if you’re not hooked by the time the period slams that sentence shut, God knows why you’re here.
I’ve read this story at least 100 times since it appeared in the L.A. Times Magazine* in 1997, and my bones still ache with envy. Moehringer has command of all the storyteller’s tools here – rhythm, pacing, metaphor – and I’ve spent many an hour taking the story apart like an old radio.
But what I love about this story the most is a simple thing that shows up in far too few nonfiction narratives:
Mystery.
That lede echoes Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett and all those noir movies of the ’40s (Fred MacMurray in “Double Indemnity”: I killed him for money. And for a woman. And I didn’t get the money. And I didn’t get the woman.)
Moehringer gets a tip: A former heavyweight contender named Bob Satterfield – known for jackhammer punches and a tinfoil chin – is walking the streets of Santa Ana, homeless. Moehringer goes looking for him, almost gives up, then sees an old man, toothless and filthy – but with hands so big they hang from his sides like bowling balls. Moehringer approaches him.
“You’re Bob Satterfield, aren’t you?” I said.
“Battlin’ Bob Satterfield!” he said, delighted at being recognized.
And then what happens is…
Well, here’s the problem. I can’t tell you.
Every great mystery has twists and turns. There are at least three places in this story where I still drop the printout (or now, the laptop) in disbelief. To paraphrase that great literary figure Rowdy Roddy Piper, just when you think you’ve got all the answers, the story changes the questions.
To explain the whole thing, I’d need spoiler alerts. When was the last time you read a story that required spoiler alerts?
I’ll tell you this much: To find out just who Bob Satterfield is, and to find out how that man ended up on the Santa Ana streets, Moehringer has to navigate false clues and blind alleys and several people who might or might not be lying to him. There’s a key conversation with Jake LaMotta (the boxer De Niro played in “Raging Bull”). There’s a meeting in that hotel in Columbus. There are things Moehringer wants to see that he doesn’t. There are things he doesn’t want to see that he does.
Moehringer is a main character, right there in the first person, dealing with (among other things) major daddy issues. One thing I’ve wondered over the years is if the story would work without him in it. I’ve decided he has to be in there – above all, this is a detective story, and he’s the gumshoe who bumbles through the story, trying to solve the mystery.
By God, he solves it.
And then – as in the very best mysteries – there’s one more scene. We’re back on the California streets, our two main characters are talking…
And the very last line of the story hits you like a left hook to the gut.
It’s the best last line I know of. Every time I read the story, it stays with me for days.
Journalists often work on different kinds of mysteries. We’re great at doing the forensics on a failed campaign and pinpointing just where it went sour. We’re great at dissecting a game-winning TD and showing exactly how the receiver got open.
But those are mysteries where the reader already knows the ending – we’re just revealing the why and the how. The best mysteries start with a what – or, more to the point, a WHAT!?! – and take readers from there to places they’d never expect.
It’s easier when you can make stuff up – whoever created “Matlock” owns half of Malibu by now. But to pull it off in nonfiction – to find the story, track it down and write it – that’s jumping off the high dive.
J.R. Moehringer has done all right for himself. He won a Pulitzer. He wrote a well-loved memoir. He collaborated on a best-seller – Andre Agassi’s autobiography.
But in my mind, he’s the guy who chased a tip, found a mystery, and ended up with the greatest newspaper story of all time.
They made a movie out of it “Resurrecting the Champ,” starring Josh Hartnett and Samuel L. Jackson. I’ve never watched it. It’s not as good as the newspaper story. It can’t possibly be.
———
*Yeah, maybe it’s technically a magazine story – it does run nearly 12,000 words. But to me, if it comes bundled with the comics and the coupons, it’s a newspaper story.
So here we go, one of the greatest stories I've ever read, it's a long one so I'm going to run it in different parts.
PART ONE
The author J.R. Moehringer
The Santa Ana homeless man believed to be Battlin' Bob Satterfield
RESURRECTING THE CHAMP
By J.R. Moehringer
May 4, 1997 12 AM PT
I’m sitting in a hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, waiting for a call from a man who doesn’t trust me, hoping he’ll have answers about a man I don’t trust, which may clear the name of a man no one gives a damn about. To distract myself from this uneasy vigil--and from the phone that never rings, and from the icy rain that never stops pelting the window--I light a cigar and open a 40-year-old newspaper. * “Greatest puncher they ever seen,” the paper says in praise of Bob Satterfield, a ferocious fighter of the 1940s and 1950s. “The man of hope--and the man who crushed hope like a cookie in his fist.” Once again, I’m reminded of Satterfield’s sorry luck, which dogged him throughout his life, as I’m dogging him now. * I’ve searched high and low for Satterfield. I’ve searched the sour-smelling homeless shelters of Santa Ana. I’ve searched the ancient and venerable boxing gyms of Chicago. I’ve searched the eerily clear memory of one New York City fighter who touched Satterfield’s push-button chin in 1946 and never forgot the panic on Satterfield’s face as he fell. I’ve searched cemeteries, morgues, churches, museums, slums, jails, courts, libraries, police blotters, scrapbooks, phone books and record books. Now I’m searching this dreary, sleet-bound Midwestern city, where all the streets look like melting Edward Hopper paintings and the sky like a storm-whipped sea. * Maybe it’s fatigue, maybe it’s caffeine, maybe it’s the fog rolling in behind the rain, but I feel as though Satterfield has become my own 180-pound Moby Dick. Like Ahab’s obsession, he casts a harsh light on his pursuer. Stalking him from town to town and decade to decade, I’ve learned almost everything there is to know about him, along with valuable lessons about boxing, courage and the eternal tension between fathers and sons. But I’ve learned more than I bargained for about myself, and for that I owe him a debt. I can’t repay the debt unless the phone rings.
We met because a co-worker got the urge to clean. It was early January, 1996. The cop reporter who sits near me at the Orange County edition of The Times was straightening her desk when she came across an old tip, something about a once-famous boxer sleeping on park benches in Santa Ana. Passing the tip along, she deflected my thank-you with an off-the-cuff caveat, “He might be dead.”
The tipster had no trouble recalling the boxer when I phoned. “Yeah, Bob Satterfield,” he said. “A contender from the 1950s. I used to watch him when I watched the fights on TV.” Forty years later, though, Satterfield wasn’t contending anymore, except with cops. When last seen, the old boxer was wandering the streets, swilling whiskey and calling himself Champ. “Just a guy that lived too long,” the tipster said, though he feared this compassion might be outdated. There was a better-than-even chance, he figured, that Satterfield was dead.
If Satterfield was alive, finding him would require a slow tour of Santa Ana’s seediest precincts. I began with one of the city’s largest men’s shelters. Several promising candidates lingered inside the shelter and out, but none matched my sketchy notion of an elderly black man with a boxer’s sturdy body. From there I drove to 1st Street, a wide boulevard of taco stands and bus stops that serves as a promenade for homeless men. Again, nothing. Next I cruised the alleys and side streets of nearby McFadden Avenue, where gutters still glistened with tinsel from discarded Christmas trees. On a particularly lively corner I parked the car and walked, stopping passersby and asking where I might find the fighter from the 1950s, the one who called himself Champ, the one who gave the cops all they could handle. No one knew, no one cared, and I was ready to knock off when I heard someone cry out, “Hiya, Champ!”
Wheeling around, I saw an elderly black man pushing a grocery cart full of junk down the middle of the street. Rancid clothes, vacant stare, sooty face, he looked like every other homeless man in America. Then I noticed his hands, the largest hands I’d ever seen, each one so heavy and unwieldy that he held it at his side like a bowling ball. Hands such as these were not just unusual, they were natural phenomena. Looking closer, however, I saw that they complemented the meaty plumpness of his shoulders and the brick-wall thickness of his chest, exceptional attributes in a man who couldn’t be getting three squares a day. To maintain such a build on table scraps and handouts, he must have been immense back when.
More than his physique, what distinguished him was a faint suggestion of style. Despite the cast-off clothes, despite the caked-on dirt, there was a vague sense that he clung to some vestigial pride in his appearance. Under his grimy ski parka he wore an almost professorial houndstooth vest. Atop his crown of graying hair was a rakish brown hat with a pigeon feather tucked jauntily in its brim.
His skin was a rich cigar color and smooth for an ex-boxer’s, except for one bright scar between his eyebrows that resembled a character in the Chinese alphabet. Beneath a craggy 5 o’clock shadow, his face was pleasant: Dark eyes and high cheekbones sat astride a strong, well-formed nose, and each feature followed the lead of his firm, squared-off chin. He was someone’s heartthrob once. His teeth, however, were long gone, save for some stubborn spikes along the mandible.
I smiled and strolled toward him.
“Hey, Champ,” I said.
“Heyyy, Champ,” he said, looking up and smiling as though we were old friends. I half expected him to hug me.
“You’re Bob Satterfield, aren’t you?” I said.
“Battlin’ Bob Satterfield!” he said, delighted at being recognized. “I’m the Champ, I fought ‘em all, Ezzard Charles, Floyd Patterson--”
I told him I was a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, that I wanted to write a story about his life.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“I count my age as 66,” he said. “But ‘The Ring Record Book,’ they say 72.”
“Did you ever fight for the title They just didn’t give me the break to fight for the title,” he said woefully. “If they’d given me the break, I believe I’d be the champ.”
“Why didn’t they give you the break?”
“You got to be in the right clique,” he said, “to get the right fight at the right time.”
His voice was weak and raspy, no more than a child’s whisper, his words filled with the blurred vowels and squishy consonants of someone rendered senseless any number of times by liquor and fists. He stuttered slightly, humming his “m,” gargling his “l,” tripping over his longer sentences. By contrast, his eyes and memories were clear. When I asked about his biggest fights, he rattled them off one by one, naming every opponent, every date, every arena. He groaned at the memory of all those beatings, but it was a proud noise, to let me know he’d held his own with giants. He’d even broken the nose of Rocky Marciano, the only undefeated heavyweight champion in history He was strooong, I want to tell you,” Champ said, chuckling immodestly.
It happened during a sparring session, Champ said, demonstrating how he moved in close, slipping an uppercut under Marciano’s left. Marciano shivered, staggered back, and Champ pressed his advantage with another uppercut. Then another. And another. Blood flowed.
“I busted his nose!” Champ shouted, staring at the sidewalk where Marciano lay, forever vanquished. “They rushed in and called off the fight and took Rock away!”
Now he was off to get some free chow at a nearby community center. “Would you care for some?” he asked, and I couldn’t decide which was more touching, his largess or his mannerly diction.
*
“I was born Tommy Harrison,” he said, twirling a chicken leg in his toothless mouth. “That’s what you call my legal name. But I fought as Bob Satterfield.” His handlers, he explained, didn’t want him confused with another fighter, Tommy “Hurricane” Jackson, so they gave him an alias. I asked how they chose Bob Satterfield and he shrugged.
As a boy in and around Chicago, he built his shoulders by lifting ice blocks, a job that paid pennies at first but huge dividends years later in the ring. At 15, he ran away from home, fleeing a father who routinely whipped him. For months he rode the rails as a hobo, then joined the Army. Too young to enlist, he pretended to be his older brother, George, paying a prostitute to pose as his mother at the induction center.
He learned to box in the Army as a way of eating better and avoiding strenuous duty. Faced with older and tougher opponents, he developed a slithery, punch-and-move style, which must have impressed Marciano, who was collecting talented young fighters to help him prepare for a title shot against Jersey Joe Walcott. Upon his discharge, Champ became chief sparring partner to the man who would soon become the Zeus of modern boxing. Flicking his big fists in the air, each one glimmering with chicken grease, Champ again re-created the sequence of punches that led to Marciano’s broken nose, and we laughed about the blood, all that blood.
When he left Marciano’s camp and
struck out on his own, Champ won a few fights, and suddenly the world treated him like a spoiled prince. Women succumbed, celebrities vied to sit at his side. The mountaintop was within view. “I never really dreamed of being champ,” he said, “but as I would go through life, I would think, if I ever get a chance at the title, I’m going to win that fight!”
Instead, he lost. It was February, 1953. Ezzard Charles, the formidable ex-champion, was trying to mount a comeback. Champ was trying to become the nation’s top-ranked contender. They met in Detroit before a fair-sized crowd, and Champ proved himself game in the early going. But after eight rounds, his eye swollen shut and his mouth spurting blood, he crumbled under Charles’ superior boxing skills. The fateful punch was a slow-motion memory four decades later. Its force was so great that Champ bit clean through his mouthpiece. At the bell, he managed to reach his corner. But when the ninth started, he couldn’t stand.
Nothing would ever be the same. A procession of bums and semi-bums made him look silly. Floyd Patterson dismantled him in one round. One day he was invincible, the next he was retired.
As with so many fighters, he’d saved nothing. He got $34,000 for the Charles fight, a handsome sum for the 1950s, but he frittered it on good times and “tutti-frutti” Cadillacs. With no money and few prospects, he drifted to California, where he met a woman, raised a family and hoped for the best. The worst came instead. He broke his ankle on a construction job and didn’t rest long enough for it to heal. The injury kept him from working steadily. Then, the punch he never saw coming. His son was killed.
“My son,” Champ said, his voice darkening. “He was my heart.”
“Little Champ” fell in with the wrong people. An angry teenager, he got on somebody’s bad side, and one night he walked into an ambush. “My heart felt sad and broke,” Champ said. “But I figured this happened because he was so hotheaded.”
Racked with pain, Champ left the boy’s mother, who still lived in the house they once shared, not far from where we sat. “Sometimes I go see her,” he said. “It’s kind of hard, but somehow I make it.”
Park benches were his beds, though sometimes he slept at the shelter and sometimes in the backseat of a periwinkle and navy blue Cadillac he bought with his last bit of money. He missed the good life but not the riches, the fame or the women. He missed knowing that he was the boss, his body the servant. “The hard work,” he whispered. “Sparring with the bags, skipping rope. Every night after a workout we’d go for a big steak and a half a can of beer. Aaah.”
Finishing his lunch, Champ wrapped the leftovers in a napkin and carefully stowed them in a secret compartment of his grocery cart. We shook hands, mine like an infant’s in his. When we unclasped, he looked at the five-dollar bill I’d slipped him.
“Heyyy,” he said soulfully. “Thanks, amigo. All right, thank you.”
My car was down the block. When I reached it, I turned to look over my shoulder. Champ was still waving his massive right hand, still groping for words. “Thank you, Champ!” he called. “All right? Thank you!”
*
Like Melville’s ocean, or Twain’s Mississippi, boxing calls to a young man. Its victims are not only those who forfeit their wits and dive into the ring. The sport seduces writers, too, dragging them down with its powerful undertow of testosterone. Many die a hideous literary death, drowning in their own hyperbole. Only a few--Ernest Hemingway, Jimmy Cannon, A.J. Liebling--cross to safety. Awash in all that blood, they become more buoyant.
For most Americans, however, boxing makes no sense. The sport that once defined the nation now seems hopelessly archaic, like jousting or pistols at six paces. The uninitiated, the cultivated, the educated don’t accept that boxing has existed since pre-Hellenic Greece, and possibly since the time of the pharaohs, because it concedes one musky truth about masculinity: Hitting a man is sometimes the most satisfying response to being a man. Disturbing, maybe, but there it is.
Just the sight of two fighters belting each other around the ring triggers a soothing response, a womb-like reassurance that everything is less complicated than we’ve been led to believe. From brutality, clarity. As with the first taste of cold beer on a warm day, the first kiss of love in the dark, the first meaningful victory over an evenly matched foe, the brain’s simplest part is appeased. Colors become brighter, shapes grow deeper, the world slides into smoother focus. And focus was what I craved the day I went searching for Champ. Focus was what made a cop reporter’s moth-eaten tip look to me like the Hope diamond. Focus was what I feared I’d lost on the job.
As a newspaper writer, you spend much of your time walking up dirty steps to talk to dirty people about dirty things. Then, once in a great while, you meet an antidote to all that dirt. Champ wasn’t the cleanest of men--he may have been the dirtiest man I ever met--but he was pure of heart. He wasn’t the first homeless heavyweight either, not by a longshot. Another boxer lands on Skid Row every day, bug-eyed and scrambled. But none has a resume to compare with Champ’s, or a memory. He offered a return to the unalloyed joy of daily journalism, not to mention the winning ticket in the Literary Lottery. He was that rarest of rare birds, a people-watcher’s version of the condor: Pugilisticum luciditas. He was noble. He was innocent. He was all mine.
I phoned boxing experts throughout the nation. To my astonishment, they not only remembered Champ, they worshiped him. “Hardest hitter who ever lived.” “Dynamite puncher.” “One of the greatest punchers of all time.” Boxing people love to exaggerate, but there was a persuasive sameness to their praise. Bob Satterfield was a beast who slouched toward every opponent with murder in his eye. He could have, should have, would have been champion, except for one tiny problem. He couldn’t take a punch.
“He was a bomber,” said boxing historian Burt Sugar. “But he had a chin. If he didn’t take you out with the first punch, he was out with the second.”
Every fighter, being human, has one glaring weakness. For some, it’s a faint heart. For others, a lack of discipline. Satterfield’s shortcoming was more comic, therefore more melodramatic. Nobody dished it out better, but few were less able to take it. He knocked out seven of his first 12 opponents in the first round, a terrifying boxing blitzkrieg. But over the course of his 12-year professional career he suffered many first-round knockouts himself. The skinny on Satterfield spliced together a common male fantasy with the most common male fear: Loaded with raw talent, he was doomed to fail because of one factory-installed flaw.
Rob Mainwaring, a researcher at boxing’s publication of record, The Ring magazine, faxed me a fat Satterfield file, rife with vivid accounts of his fragility and prowess. Three times, Satterfield destroyed all comers and put himself in line for a title shot. But each time, before the big fight could be set, Satterfield fell at the feet of some nobody. In May, 1954, for instance, Satterfield tangled with an outsized Cuban fighter named Julio Mederos, banging him with five fast blows in the second round. When Mederos came to, he told a translator: “Nobody ever hit me that hard before. I didn’t know any man could hit that hard.” Satterfield appeared unstoppable. Six months later, however, he was stopped by an also-ran named Marty Marshall, who found Satterfield’s flukish chin before some fans could find their seats.
Viewed as a literary artifact, the Satterfield file was a lovely sampler of overwrought prose. “The Chicago sleep-inducer,” one fight writer called him. “Embalming fluid in either hand,” said another. Then, in the next breath, came the qualifiers: “Boxing’s Humpty-Dumpty.” “A chin of Waterford.” “Chill-or-be-chilled.” It was a prankish God who connected that dainty jaw and that sledgehammer arm to one man’s body, and it was the same almighty jokester who put those Hemingway wannabes in charge of chronicling his rise and fall.
Mainwaring faxed me several photos of Satterfield and one of a wife named Iona, whom he divorced in 1952. The library at The Times, meanwhile, unearthed still more Satterfield clippings, including a brief 1994 profile by Orange County Register columnist Bill Johnson. (“Bob Satterfield, one of the top six heavyweight fighters in the world from 1950 to 1956, today is homeless, living in old, abandoned houses in Santa Ana.”) From Chicago newspapers, the library culled glowing mentions of Satterfield, including one describing his nightmarish blood bath with middleweight Jake LaMotta, the fighter portrayed by Robert De Niro in Martin Scorsese’s 1980 “Raging Bull.” Midway through the film, Satterfield’s name fills the screen--then, as the name dissolves, LaMotta-De Niro smashes him in the face.
*
“Mr. LaMotta,” I said. “I’m writing a story about an old opponent of yours, Bob Satterfield.”
Hold on,” he said. “I’m eating a meatball.”
I’d phoned the former champion in Manhattan, where he was busy launching his new spaghetti sauce company, LaMotta’s Tomatta. His voice was De Niro’s from the film--nasal, pugnacious, phlegm-filled, a cross between Don Corleone and Donald Duck. At last he swallowed and said, “Bob Satterfield was one of the hardest punchers who ever lived.”
Reluctantly, I told LaMotta the bad news. Satterfield was sleeping on park benches in Santa Ana.
“You sure it’s him?” he said. “I heard he was dead.”
“No,” I assured him, “I just talked to him yesterday.”
“Awww,” he said, “that’s a shame. He put three bumps on my head before I knocked him out. Besides Bob Satterfield, the only ones who ever hurt me were my ex-wives.”
LaMotta began to reminisce about his old nemesis, a man so dangerous that no one dared spar with him. “He hit me his best punch,” he said wistfully. “He hit me with plenty of lefts. But I was coming into him. He hit me with a right hand to the top of the head. I thought I’d fall down. Then he did it again. He did it three times, and when nothing happened he sort of gave up. I knocked him on his face. Flat on his face.”
LaMotta asked me to say hello to Satterfield, and I promised that I would. “There but for the grace of God go I,” he said. “God dealt me a different hand.”
I visited Champ that day to deliver LaMotta’s best wishes. I visited him many times in the days ahead, always with some specific purpose in mind. Flesh out the details of his life. Ask a few more questions. See how he was faring. Each time the drill was the same. I’d give him $5 and he’d give me a big tumble, making such a fuss over me that I’d turn red.
“A boxer, like a writer, must stand alone,” Liebling wrote, inadvertently explaining the kinship between Champ and me. To my mind, anyone who flattened Rocky Marciano and put three bumps on Jake LaMotta’s melon ranked between astronaut and Lakota warrior on the delicately calibrated scale of bad asses, and thus deserved at least a Sunday profile. To Champ’s mind, anyone willing to listen to 40-year-old boxing stories could only be a bored writer or a benevolent Martian. Still, there was something more basic about our connection. As a man, I couldn’t get enough of his hyper-virile aura. As a homeless man, he couldn’t get enough of my patient silence. Between his prattling and my scribbling, we became something like fast friends.
Our mutual admiration caused me to sputter with indignation when my editors asked what hard evidence I had that Champ was Satterfield. What more hard evidence do you need, I asked, besides Champ’s being the man in these old newspaper photos--allowing for 40 years of high living and several hundred quarts of cheap whiskey? Better yet, how about Champ’s being able to name every opponent, and the dates on which he fought them--allowing for an old man’s occasional memory lapses?
If the evidence of our senses won’t suffice, I continued, let’s use common sense: Champ is telling the truth because he has no reason to lie. For being Bob Satterfield, he gets no money, no glory, no extra chicken legs at senior centers and soup kitchens. Pretending to be a fighter forgotten by all but a few boxing experts? Pretending in such convincing fashion? He’d have to be crazy. Or brilliant. And I could say with some confidence that he was neither. Even so, the editors said, get something harder.
Champ’s old house in Santa Ana sat along a bleak cul-de-sac, its yard bursting with cowlick-shaped weeds, its walls shedding great slices of paint. It looked like a guard shack at the border crossing of some desolate and impoverished nation.
An unhappy young woman scowled when I asked to see Champ’s ex-girlfriend. “Wait here,” she said.
Minutes later, she returned with a message: Go away. Champ’s things have been burned, and no one has any interest in talking to you.
Next I tried the Orange County courthouse, hoping arrest records would authenticate Champ. Sure enough, plenty of data existed in the courthouse ledger. Finding various minor offenses under Thomas Harrison, alias Bob Satterfield, I rejoiced. Here was proof, stamped with the official seal of California, that Champ was Satterfield. A scoundrel, yes, but a truthful one.
Then I saw something bad. Two felony arrests, one in 1969, one in 1975. Champ had been candid about his misdemeanors, but he had never mentioned these more serious offenses. “Oh, God,” I said, scanning the arrest warrant: “Thomas Harrison, also known as Bob Satterfield . . . lewd and lascivious act upon and with the body . . . child under the age of 14 years.” Champ molesting his girlfriend’s 10-year-old daughter. Champ punching the little girl’s aunt in the mouth.
“Did you know [Champ] to be a professional prize fighter?” a prosecutor asked the aunt during a hearing.
“Yes,” she said.
“Did you know that he was once a contender for the heavyweight boxing championship of the world?”
Before she could answer, Champ’s lawyer raised an objection, which the judge sustained.
Champ pleaded guilty to assaulting the aunt--for which he received probation--and the molestation charge was dropped.
Then, six years later, it happened again. Same girlfriend, different daughter.
“Thomas Harrison, also known as Tommy Satterfield, also known as Bobby Satterfield . . . lewd and lascivious act.”
Again, Champ avowed his innocence, but a jury found him guilty. In May 1976, Champ wrote the judge from jail, begging for a second chance. He signed the letter, “Yours truly, Thomas Harrison. Also Known as Bob Satterfield, Ex-Boxer, 5th in the World.”
This is how it happens, I thought. This is how a newspaper writer learns to hate the world. I could feel the cynicism setting inside me like concrete. My reprieve from the dirtiness of everyday journalism had turned into a reaffirmation of everything I loathed and feared. My noble warrior, my male idol, my friend, was a walking, talking horror show, a homeless Humbert Humbert.
*
He greeted me with his typical good cheer, doffing his hat.
“Hey, Champ, whaddya say!?” he cried. “Long time no see, amigo.”
“Hey, Champ,” I said, glum. “Let’s sit down here and have a talk.”
I led him over to some bleachers in a nearby baseball field. We passed the afternoon talking about all the major characters of his life--Marciano, Charles, Little Champ. Abruptly, I mentioned the ex-girlfriend.
Now that I’m on the outside looking in,” he mumbled, “I see she wasn’t 100% in my corner.”
“Because she accused you of doing those awful things to her baby?”
He lifted his head, startled. He was spent, punch drunk, permanently hung over, but he knew what I was saying. “They just took her word for it,” he said of the jury. “The only regret I have in life is that case she made against me with the baby.” Only a monster would hurt a child, Champ said. He begged his ex-girlfriend to recant those false accusations, which he blamed on her paranoia and jealousy. And she did recant, he said, but not to the judge.
More than this he didn’t want to say. He wanted to talk about Chicago, sweet home, and all the other way-off places where he knew folks. How he yearned for friendly faces, especially his sister, Lily, with whom he’d left his scrapbook and other papers for safekeeping. He told me her address in Columbus, Ohio, and her phone number. He wanted to see her before he died. See anyone. “Get me some money and head on down the road,” he said, eyes lowered, half to himself.
A cold winter night was minutes off, and Champ needed to find a bed, fast. This posed a problem, since taking leave of Champ was never fast. It was hard for him to overcome the inertia that crept into his bones while he sat, harder still to break away from anyone willing to listen. Watching him get his grocery cart going was like seeing an ocean liner off at the dock. The first movement was imperceptible. “See you later, Champ,” I said, hurrying him along, shaking that catcher’s mitt of a hand. Then I accidentally looked into his eyes, and I couldn’t help myself. I believed him.
Maybe it was faith born of guilt. Maybe it was my way of atoning. After all, I was the latest in a long line of people--managers, promoters, opponents--who wanted something from Champ. I wanted his aura, I wanted his story, I wanted his friendship. As partial restitution, the least I could give him was the benefit of the doubt.
Also, he was right. Only a monster would commit the crimes described in those court files, and I didn’t see any monster before me. Just a toothless boxer with a glass chin and a pigeon feather in his hat. Shaking his hand, I heard myself say, “Go get warm, Champ,” and I watched myself slip him another five-dollar bill.
*
LaMotta would not let up. He refused to let me write. Each time I tried, he swatted me around my subconscious. “Besides Bob Satterfield,” he’d said, “the only ones who ever hurt me were my ex-wives.” Men seldom speak of other men with such deference, such reverence, particularly men like LaMotta. One of the brashest fighters ever, he discussed Satterfield with all the bluster of a curtsy. “You sure it’s him?” he’d asked, distressed. “I heard he was dead.”
You sure it’s him? The courts were sure, the cops were sure, the editors were pretty sure. But I was getting ready to tell several million people that Bob Satterfield was a homeless wreck and a convicted child molester. Was I sure?
I phoned more boxing experts and historians, promoters and managers, libraries and clubs, referees and retired fighters, and that’s when I found Ernie Terrell, former heavyweight champion. I reached him in Chicago at the South Side offices of his janitorial business.
“You remember Bob Satterfield?” I asked.
“One of the hardest punchers who ever lived,” he said.
I’ve been hanging out with Satterfield, I said, and I need someone who can vouch for his identity. A long silence followed. A tingly silence, a harrowing silence, the kind of silence that precedes the bloodcurdling scream in a horror film. “Bob Satterfield is dead,” Terrell said.
“No, he’s not,” I said, laughing. “I just talked to him.”
“You talked to Bob Satterfield.”
“Yes. He sleeps in a park not 10 minutes from here.”
“Bob Satterfield?” he said. “Bob Satterfield the fighter? Bob Satterfield’s dead.”
Now it was my turn to be silent. When I felt the saliva returning to my mouth, I asked Terrell what made him so sure.
“Did you go to his funeral?” I asked.
He admitted that he had not.
“Do you have a copy of his obituary?”
Again, no.
“Then how do you know he’s dead?” I asked.
Suddenly, he seemed less sure.
“Hold on,” he said. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
He opened a third phone line and began conference-calling veteran corner men and trainers on the South Side. The voices that joined us on the line were disjointed and indistinct, as though recorded on scratchy vinyl records. Rather than a conference call, we were conducting a seance, summoning the spirits of boxing’s past. He dialed a gym where the phone rang and rang. When someone finally answered, Terrell asked to speak with D.D. The phone went dead for what seemed a week. In the background, I heard speed bags being thrummed and ropes being skipped, a sound like cicadas on a summer day. At last, a scruffy and querulous voice came on the line, more blues man than corner man.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Ernie.”
“Ernie?”
Ernie.”
“Ernie?”
“Ernie!”
“Yeah, Ernie, yeah.”
“I got a guy here on the other line from the Los Angeles Times, in California, says he’s writing a story about Bob Satterfield. You remember Bob Satterfield.”
“Suuure.”
“Says he just talked to Satterfield and Satterfield’s sleeping in a park out there in Santa Ana.”
“Bob Satterfield’s dead.”
“No,” I said.
I told them about Champ’s encyclopedic knowledge of his career. I told them about Champ’s well-documented reputation among cops, judges and reporters. I told them about Champ’s face matching old Satterfield photos.
“Then I will come out there and shoot that dude,” D.D. said. “Because Bob Satterfield is dead.”
Ten minutes later I was in Santa Ana, where I found Champ sweeping someone’s sidewalk for the price of a whiskey bottle. It was a hot spring day, and he looked spent from the hard work.
“Look,” I said, “a lot of people say you’re dead.”
“I’m the one,” he said, bouncing on his feet, shadowboxing playfully with me. “Battlin’ Bob Satterfield. I fought ‘em all. Ezzard Charles, Rocky Marciano--”
“Don’t you have any identification?” I said, exasperated. “A birth certificate? A union card? A Social Security card?”
He patted his pockets, nothing. We’d been through this.
“In that case,” I said, “I’m going to have to give you a test.”
Far from offended, he couldn’t wait. Leaning into me, he cocked his head to one side and closed his eyes, to aid concentration.
“Who was Jack Kearns?” I asked, knowing that “Doc” Kearns, who managed Jack Dempsey in the 1920s, briefly managed Satterfield’s early career.
“Jack Kearns,” Champ said. “He was the first manager I ever had.”
“All right,” I said. “Who’s this?”
I held before his nose a 45- 45-year-old wire photo of Iona Satterfield. Champ touched her face gingerly and said, “That’s Iona. That’s the only woman I ever loved.”
*
Asked to explain myself, I usually start with my father, who disappeared when I was 7 months old, walked away from his only son the way some people leave a party that’s grown dull. At precisely the moment I learned to crawl, he ran. An unfair head start, I always felt.
As a boy, I could repress all stirrings of curiosity about him, because I knew what he sounded like, and this seemed sufficient. A well-known radio man in New York City, he often came floating out of my grandmother’s olive-drab General Electric clock-radio, cracking jokes and doing bits, until an adult passing through the room would lunge for the dial. It was thought that The Voice upset me. No one realized that The Voice nourished me. My father was invisible, therefore mythic. He was whatever I wanted him to be, and his rumbling baritone inspired mental pictures of every male archetype, from Jesus to Joe Namath to Baloo the bear in “The Jungle Book.”
Over time, I grew impatient with the mystery surrounding him, the not knowing, particularly when he changed his name and vanished altogether. (Seeing fatherhood and child support as a maximum-security prison, he took a fugitive’s pains to cover his tracks once he escaped.) As his absence came to feel more like a constant presence, I spent long hours puzzling about the potential intersections between his identity and mine. My predecessor in the generational parade, my accursed precursor, was a voice. It unnerved me. It unmanned me. One day, shortly before my 17th birthday, I made what felt like a conscious decision to find him. At least, that’s what I thought until I met Champ, who forced me to see that no such conscious decision ever took place, that I’d been trying to find my father all my life, that every man is trying to find his father.
True, a love of boxing and a budding disenchantment with daily journalism sparked my original interest in Champ. Then a genuine fondness made me befriend him. But what made me study him like an insect under a microscope was my inescapable fascination with anyone who disappears, dissolves his identity, walks away from fame and family. When pushed to deconstruct my relationship with Champ, I saw that we were trading more than fivers and fellowship. Champ was using me as a surrogate for his dead son, and I was using him as a stand-in for my own deep-voiced demon, whom I met after a brief, furious search.
We sat in an airport coffee shop and talked like strangers. Strangers who had the same nose and chin. I remember random things. I remember that he was the first man I ever made nervous. I remember that he wore a black leather coat, ordered eggs Benedict and flirted relentlessly with the waitress, asking like some fussy lord if the chef made his own Hollandaise sauce. I remember that he was portly and jovial, with wild eyebrows that forked straight out from his head. I remember laughing at his stories, laughing against my will because he could be painfully funny. I remember breathing in his peppery scent, a uniquely male cocktail of rubbing alcohol, hair spray and Marlboro 100s. I remember the hug when we parted, the first time I ever hugged another man.
But what we said to each other over the hours we sat together, I don’t know. The meeting was so emotionally high-watt that it shorted my memory circuits. My only other impression of that night is one of all-pervasive awe. My father, my mythic father, had boozed away his future and parlayed his considerable talents into a pile of unpaid bills. I saw none of that. If losing him was a hardship, losing my mythic idea of him would have been torture. So I chose to see him as a fallen god, an illusion he fostered with a few white lies. I loved him in the desperate way you love someone when you need to.
Now, months after meeting Champ, I asked myself if I wasn’t viewing this poor homeless man through the same hopeful myopia. If so, why? The answer dawned one day while I was reading “Moby-Dick,” the bible of obsession, which provides a special sort of reading pleasure when you substitute the word “father” for “whale”: “It is a thing most sorrowful, nay shocking, to expose the fall of valor in the soul. . . . That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves . . . bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man.”
When the valor-ruined man is your father, the anguish quadruples and the manliness hemorrhages. Sometimes the anguish reaches such a crescendo that you simply disobey your eyes. Anything to stanch the bleeding.
Because he recalled the specter of my father and his equally enigmatic cop-out, Champ might have revived that early talent I showed for self-deception. He also either benefited or suffered from the trinity of habits that constitutes my father’s legacy. An obsession with questions of identity. A tendency to overestimate men. And an inability to leave the past alone.
*
Not every homeless man can look nonchalant speaking into a cellular phone, but Champ acclimated himself to the technology, even if he did aim the phone at that part of the heavens where he imagined Ohio to be. He told his sister he was fine, getting by, and urged her to cooperate. “Please,” he said, handing me the phone, “let this man look at my scrapbook.”
Establishing Champ’s credibility was one thing. Establishing mine with his sister was another. Lily couldn’t imagine what I wanted from her poor brother, and I couldn’t blame her. I tried to explain that Champ merited a newspaper story because he’d contended for the title.
“You remember your brother fighting,” I said, “as Bob Satterfield?”
“Yes,” she said casually.
“And you have a scrapbook with clippings and photos?”
“I’ve had that scrapbook for years.”
I asked her to mail me the book, but she refused. She wasn’t about to ship a family heirloom to someone she’d never met. Again, I couldn’t blame her.
It was then that I heard from a former boxing writer. He’d been watching TV recently when he hit on something called the Classic Sports Network, which was airing a prehistoric episode of Rocky Marciano’s TV show, wherein Marciano analyzed a 1951 bout at Madison Square Garden between Rex Layne and Bob Satterfield.
When the tape arrived the next morning, I cradled it like a newborn to the nearest VCR. There was Marciano, pudgy and past his prime, a real-life version of Fred Flintstone. Beside him sat his guest, comic Jimmy Durante. After several excruciating minutes of idle chitchat, Marciano turned to Durante and said, “I want to show you the Bob Satterfield-Rex Layne fight.”
Durante’s eyes widened.
“Satterfield?!” he said.
You remember him?” Marciano asked.
“So help me,” Durante said, “he’s my favorite. A great, great fighter. I thought he’d be a champion.”
“He had the punch, Jim,” Marciano said, shaking his head.
The screen went dark. A ring appeared. In the foreground stood a man in a hooded robe, his back to the camera. On either side of him stood corner men in cardigan sweaters, “SATTERFIELD” emblazoned across their backs. Doffing his robe, the fighter started forward, his torso atremble with muscles. Slowly he turned toward the camera, and I saw that he was not Champ. The resemblance was strong, as the resemblance between Champ and old photos of Satterfield had been strong. But they were different men.
My stomach tightened as the “real” Satterfield threw a walloping right. Layne dropped to one knee and shook his head, not knowing what hit him. I knew exactly how he felt.
Champ a fake. Somehow I felt less betrayed when I thought he was a child molester. It made me sick. It made no sense. He knew too much about Satterfield. He knew the record. He knew Doc Kearns. He recognized Iona. Plus, he was built like a fighter--that body, those hands. Yes, I thought, he’s built like a fighter.
I phoned The Ring and asked Mainwaring to check his records for a heavyweight named Tommy Harrison. Minutes later, he faxed me the file. There, at long last, was Champ. This time, no allowance needed to be made for the passage of years and the corrosive effects of whiskey. That body, those hands.
Besides his name, it seemed, Champ was frequently telling the truth. Not only did he break Marciano’s nose, the injury postponed a storied rematch with Walcott. Like Satterfield, he had been a highly touted contender, a guy within striking distance of the championship. Like Satterfield, he had fought Ezzard Charles. In fact, Harrison and Satterfield had fought many of the same men.
Opponents weren’t the only thing they had in common. Both were Army veterans. Both were right-handers. Both were built like light-heavyweights. Both were anxious to break into the heavyweight division. Both were clobbered when they tried. Both retired in the mid-1950s. Both were born in November; their birthdays were one day apart.
“He’s fast,” Marciano said of Harrison in one clipping. “Has a great ring future. In a year or so, if I’m still champ, I expect trouble from him.”
The file proved that Champ was a fraud, or delusional, or something in between. But it couldn’t explain his motives, nor account for his corroborative sister. In fact, it raised more questions than it answered, including the most pressing question of all: If Champ wasn’t Satterfield, who was?
Ernie Terrell said Satterfield was dead. But I couldn’t find an obituary--not even in Chicago. How did a fighter of Satterfield’s stature not rate a death notice in his native city?
Phone directories in scores of area codes listed hundreds of Satterfields, too many to dial. A search of databases throughout the Midwest found one Illinois death certificate in the name of Robert Satterfield, a truck driver buried in Restvale Cemetery, Worth, Ill. Under next of kin, a son on the South Side of Chicago.
“Robert Satterfield Junior?” I asked when the son answered the phone.
“Yes?”
“I’m writing a story about Bob Satterfield, the heavyweight of the 1950s, and I was wondering if you might be any--”
“That’s my father,” he said proudly.
*
The neighborhood was dodgy, some houses well kept and others falling down. Few addresses were visible and some street signs were gone, so I drove in circles, getting lost twice, doubling back, and that’s when I saw him. Bob Satterfield. In the flesh.
After staring at old newspaper photos and studying the tape of his fight with Rex Layne, I’d committed Satterfield’s face to memory--never realizing he might have bequeathed that face to his son. Seeing Satterfield Jr. outside his house, the resemblance fooled me like a mirage, and I did what anyone in my shoes would have done: I backed straight into his neighbor’s truck.
The first time I ever laid eyes on Bob Satterfield, therefore, he flinched, as though bracing for a punch.
After making sure I’d left no visible dent, we shook hands and went inside his brick house, the nicest on the block. The living room was neat and intensely bright, morning sunlight practically shattering the glass windows. He introduced me to his wife, Elaine, who took my hand somewhat timidly. Together, they waved me toward the couch, then sat far away, grimacing.
They were visibly afraid of me, but they did everything possible to make me feel welcome. She was all smiles and bottled-up energy; he was old-school polite, verging on courtly. He’d just finished a double shift at O’Hare, where he loaded cargo for a living, and he actually apologized for his exhaustion. I looked into his basset-hound eyes and cringed, knowing I’d soon add to his burdens.
I started by acknowledging their apprehension. As far as they knew, I’d come all the way from California to ask questions about a fighter few people remembered. It seemed suspicious.
“But the first time I heard the name Bob Satterfield,” I said, “was when I met this man.”
I dealt them several photos of Champ, like gruesome playing cards, then court papers and clippings describing Champ as Satterfield. Another profile had recently appeared in a college newspaper, and I laid this atop the pile. Lastly, I outlined Champ’s criminal past. They looked at each other gravely.
“I hate this man,” Elaine blurted.
Satterfield Jr. lit a cigarette and gazed at Champ. He murmured something about a resemblance, then walked to a sideboard, from which he pulled a crumbling scrapbook. Returning to his chair, he balanced the book on one knee and began assembling photos, clippings, documents, anything to help me recognize that Champ’s impersonation was no victimless crime.
While I scrutinized the scrapbook, Satterfield Jr. talked about his father’s life. He told me about his father’s close friends, Miles Davis and Muhammad Ali, who met his first wife through Satterfield. He told me about his father’s triumphs in the ring and the difficult decision to retire. (After suffering a detached retina in 1958, Satterfield fled to Paris and studied painting.) He told me about his father’s ancestry, back, back, back, and I understood the desperation seeping into his voice, a desperation that made him stammer badly. He’d opened his door to a total stranger who repaid the hospitality by declaring that countless other strangers believed his beloved father was “a valor-ruined man.” I’d walked up clean steps to talk to clean people and made them feel dirty.
Lastly, Satterfield Jr. produced his father’s birth certificate, plus a 1977 obituary from a now-defunct Chicago newspaper. To these precious items he added a photo of his parents strolling arm in arm, kissing. When I told Satterfield Jr. about Champ pointing to Iona and calling her “the only woman I ever loved,” I thought he might eat the coffee table.
“That somebody would intrude on his memory like this,” Elaine said. “My father-in-law was a man. He was a man’s man, nothing like the men of today. He was a prideful man. He continued to work up until his operation for cancer. If a person knows he’s dying, and he still gets up to go to work, that says a lot about him as a man, and if he knew some homeless man sleeping on a park bench was impersonating him--”
She stopped herself and went to the window, struggling to keep her composure. Satterfield Jr. now began phoning family. "I’m sitting here with a reporter from the Los Angeles Times,” he shouted into the phone, “and he says there’s a man in California who’s telling everybody he’s Bob Satterfield the fighter. He’s homeless and he has a very bad record, and he’s been molesting children and he’s using Pop’s name. Yeah. Uh huh. Now, now, don’t cry...”
An old boxing hand once said, “You never learn anything until you’re tired,” and by that criterion I’m capable of learning plenty right now. After the overnight flight, after the cab ride through the rainy dawn to this downtown Columbus hotel, I’m tired enough to understand why Champ’s sister doesn’t trust me, and why she’s turned me over to Champ’s nephew, Gregory Harrison, who trusts me even less. I left word for him two hours ago saying I’d arrived, but he seems like a guy who’d rather give me a stiff beating than a straight answer, so the chance of seeing Champ’s scrapbook seems remote.
Above all, I’m tired enough to understand that Champ isn’t Satterfield, never was Satterfield, never will be, no matter how hard I try. But I’m also tired enough to understand why he pretended to be Satterfield. He became Satterfield because he didn’t like being Tommy Harrison.
It was Satterfield Jr. who made me appreciate how ripe his father was for imitation. Fast, stylish, pretty, Satterfield was Champ’s superior in every way. He was the ballyhooed one, the better one. Yes, he had the famously weak chin. But he led with it, time after time, meaning he had one hellacious heart. Champ must have studied Satterfield from afar, longingly, as I did. He must have gone to school on Satterfield, devouring facts about his life, as I did. He must have viewed Satterfield as a model, an ideal, as I also did. One day, Champ must have spied Satterfield across a musty gym, perhaps with Doc Kearns, or a smoky nightclub, where Iona was the prettiest girl in the joint, and said, “Ah, to be him.” From there, it was a short, dizzy trip to “I am him.”
As a man, you need someone to instruct you in the masculine verities. Your father is your first choice, but when he drops out, you search for someone else. If you’re careless, the search creeps into your psyche and everyone becomes a candidate, from homeless men to dead boxers. If you’re careless and unlucky, the search devours you. That doppelganger eats you up.
“One of the primary things boxing is about is lying,” Joyce Carol Oates writes in “On Boxing.” “It’s about systematically cultivating a double personality: the self in society, the self in the ring.”
What Champ did, I think, was sprout a third self, a combination of the two, which may be what Champ has been trying to tell me all along.
After Chicago, I wanted to scold him about the people his lies were hurting. But when I found him wearing a 10-gallon cowboy hat and a polo shirt with toothbrushes stuffed in the breast pocket, my anger drained away.
“Champ,” I said, “when you pretended to be Bob Satterfield, weren’t you afraid the other Bob Satterfield would find out?”
Without hesitating, he put a hand to his chin and said, “I always figured the other Bob Satterfield knew about me. As long as everyone got paid, I didn’t think the other Bob Satterfield would mind."
"What?”
“This is just you and me talking,” he said. “But my manager, George Parnassus, he told me like this here: ‘If you go to fight in Sioux City, Iowa, and you say you is Bob Satterfield, then you get a big crowd, see? But if you say you is Tommy Harrison, and like that, you only get a medium-size crowd.’ ”
Champ’s manager had been dead 20 years. But his son, Msgr. George Parnassus, was pastor of St. Victor’s Roman Catholic Church in West Hollywood. I phoned Parnassus and told him about Champ, then asked if his father might have staged bogus fights in the 1950s. Before TV came along, I ventured, most fighters were faceless names in the dark, so it might have been easy, and it might have been highly profitable, to promote look-alike fighters in out-of-the-way places. Say, Sioux City.
“Why do you say Sioux City?” he demanded.
“Because Champ said Sioux City.”
“My father moved to Sioux City in the 1950s and staged fights there for a number of years.”
Which is why I’m in Columbus this morning. I owed it to Champ to take one last stab at the truth. I owed it to myself. More than anyone, I owed it to Satterfield, whose absence I’ve come to feel like a constant presence.
“I’ve had a lot of disappointments,” Satterfield told a reporter in 1958, sitting in a hospital with his detached retina. “I don’t remember all the disappointments I’ve had.” Maybe, 40 years later, he’s still disappointed. Maybe he knows someone swiped the only shiny prize he ever had--his good name--and he can’t rest until he gets it back. All this time, I’ve been casting Satterfield as Moby Dick, myself as Ahab. Now I’m wondering if Satterfield is the real Ahab, and Champ the whale. Which makes me the harpoon.
The phone rings.
“I’m downstairs.”
*
Champ’s nephew is sitting in the middle of the lobby, unaware or pretending to be unaware that people are staring. It’s not that he looks out of place, with his floor-length black leather overcoat and gold-rimmed sunglasses. It’s that he looks famous. He also looks like a younger, fitter, toothier version of Champ.
He shakes my hand tentatively and we duck into the hotel restaurant. The place is closed, but a waiter says we’re welcome to have coffee. We sit by a rain-streaked window. I thank him for meeting me, but he whips off his sunglasses and stares.
“I’m not here for you,” he says. “I’m here for my Uncle Tommy. And before I tell you anything you need to know, I need to know from you why you would get on a plane and fly all night, come all the way from California, to Columbus, Ohio, to write a story about my uncle?”
I try explaining my complicated relationship with his uncle, but the subject makes me more mumbly than Champ. Interrupting, he says softly: “Uncle Tommy was the father I should have had.”
He tells me about the only time he met his uncle, a meeting so charged that it defined his life, and I wonder if he notices the strange look on my face.
“My Uncle Tommy was like the Last Action Hero,” he says. “I wanted to be just like him.”
“You were a boxer,” I say.
I was a sparring partner of Buster Douglas,” he says, sitting straighter.
His nickname was Capital City Lip, but everyone nowadays calls him Lip. With the waiters watching, he throws his right, jabs his left, bobs away from an invisible opponent, taking me through several hard-won fights, and I’m reminded of the many times his uncle broke Marciano’s nose for my enjoyment.
“When you hit a guy,” he says dreamily, “when you hit him in the body, you demean his manner, you know? You sap his strength, you impose your will on him. I was in the tippy-top physical shape of my life! No one could beat me! I was good!”
“What happened?”
He purses his lips. His story is Champ’s story, Satterfield’s story, every fighter’s story. One day, there was someone he just couldn’t beat.
“Now I race drag bikes,” he says.
“Drag bikes? Why?”
“Because someday I want to be world champion of something.”
His father got him interested, he says, mentioning the man in a curious way. “My father walks down the street, people part ways,” he says. “Big George, that’s what everyone in Columbus calls my father. He was a boxer, too, although he didn’t go as far as Uncle Tommy.”
Feeling an opening, I try to tell Lip about my father. He seems confused at first, then instantly empathetic. He understands the link between boxing and growing up fatherless. Maybe only a boxer can fathom that kind of fear.
“Have you ever heard the name Bob Satterfield?” I ask.
“Yes, I have heard that name.”
As a boy, Lip often heard that Uncle Tommy fought as Bob Satterfield, but he never knew why.
He promises to bring me Champ’s scrapbook tomorrow, then take me to meet his father. I walk him outside to his Jeep, which is double-parked in a tow zone, hazard lights flashing, just as he left it three hours ago.
*
White shirt, white pants, white shoes, Lip comes for me the next morning looking like an angel of the streets. As we zoom away from the hotel, I scan the backseat, floor, dashboard. No scrapbook. The angel shakes his head.
“Aunt Lily just doesn’t trust you,” he says. “I was over there all morning, but she won’t let that book out of her house.”
I groan.
“I looked through the book myself, though,” he says, lighting a cigarette, “and I don’t think it has what you want. This Bob Satterfield, the book has lots of newspaper articles about his career, and there’s a picture of him with my uncle--”
I wince.
“--and an article saying Satterfield and my uncle Tommy were scheduled to fight."
Disconsolate, I stare at the bullet hole in the windshield.
We drive to Lip’s father’s house, where a candy-apple red Cadillac the size of a fire engine sits outside, license plate “BIG GEO.” Lip takes a deep breath, then knocks. Whole minutes crawl by before the door flies open and Champ’s brother appears. He looks nothing like Champ, mainly because of old burn scars across his face. But wrapped in a baby blue bathrobe and glowering hard, he does look like an old boxer. He turns and disappears inside the house. Meekly, we follow.
Off to the left is a small room crammed with trophies and boxing memorabilia. To the right seems to be the living room, though it’s impossible to tell because all the lights are off. Big George keeps moving until he reaches a high-backed chair. Despite the oceanic darkness of the place, he remains clearly visible, as if lit from within by his own anger. I can see why he’s such a force in Lip’s life. He scares the wits out of me.
Rubbing his palms together, Lip tells his father I’m writing a story about Uncle Tommy.
“Hmph,” Big George scoffs. “Tommy. He’s a stranger to me. He’s my brother and I love him, but he’s a stranger.”
“Have you ever heard the name Bob Satterfield?” I ask.
“Bob Satterfield,” Big George says, “was one of the hardest punchers of all time--”
He coughs, a horrifying cough, then adds:
“--but he couldn’t take a punch.”
“Do you remember Tommy ever fighting as Bob Satterfield?” I ask.
“Tommy never fought as nobody else.”
He stands and goes to a sideboard, where he rifles through a stack of papers and bills. “Here,” he says, yanking loose a yellowed newspaper account of the night in 1953 when Champ’s life began its downward spiral.
“Tommy wasn’t ready for Ezzard Charles,” Big George says with sudden tenderness while Lip and I read over his shoulder. “They rushed him.”
The three of us stand together, silently, as though saying a prayer for Champ. Then, without warning, Lip breaks the mood, mentioning a beef he’s having with Big George. They start to argue, and I see that Lip brought me here for more than an interview. He’s hoping I can play referee. As with Champ, I was too busy using him to notice that he was using me.
Father and son argue for five minutes, each landing heavy verbal blows. Then Big George makes it plain that these will be the final words spoken on the subject.
“The Bible say this,” he bellows. “Honor your parents! Honor your mother and father! Regardless what they say, what they do, all mothers and dads love their children! All of them!”
“He’s lying to you,” Lip says when we get in the car.
I look at him, startled.
“About what?”
"He knows all about Satterfield."
We drive to a beloved old gym that former champion Buster Douglas helped rebuild after knocking down Mike Tyson. Inside, we find Douglas’ father, Bill, training a young featherweight. When Lip tells Douglas that I’m writing about his uncle, “a former heavyweight con-TEN-der,” Douglas nods his head several times, and I feel Lip’s self-worth balloon with each nod.
We watch the featherweight work the heavy bag, a black, water-filled sack that hangs from the ceiling. Each time he snaps a hard right, the bag swings like a man in a noose. His name is Andre Cray, and he’s 25. Rawboned and scowling, with a flat head and rubbery limbs, he looks like an angry Gumby. When his workout ends, we ask him why he chose boxing as a trade.
“To me it’s like an art,” he says quietly, unwinding the padded white tape from his fists.
But this isn’t the real reason, he admits. Growing up without money, without a father, boxing was the only straight path to manhood. Many of his friends chose the crooked path, a choice they didn’t always live to regret. Those who prospered in the crack trade often gave Cray money and begged him not to follow their lead. Some even bought him gloves and shoes, to make sure the streets didn’t claim another boxer.
He remembers those early patrons, uses their fate as inspiration. His future is bright, he figures, if he can just protect his chin and not lose heart. In 19 fights, he’s scored 17 wins. When he loses, he says, the anguish is more than he can stand.
“You have family?” Lip asks.
“Yeah,” Cray says. “I have a son. He’ll be 1 on Tuesday.”
“What’s his name?”
“Andre Cray Junior.”
“I imagine he inspires you a lot.”
“Yeah,” Cray says, looking down at his oversize hands.
Lip nods, solemn. Douglas nods. I nod.
*
Like a favorite movie, the one-reel “Satterfield Versus Layne” says something different every time I watch, each punch a line of multilayered dialogue. After several hundred viewings, the core theme emerges. It’s about pressing forward, I think. Ignoring your pain. Standing.
“Satterfield is out of this world,” Marciano says in his narrative voice-over. “He’s one of the hardest hitters I’ve ever seen.”
Satterfield lives up to his reputation in the very first minute, greeting Layne with a vicious second-clefter on the point of the chin. Kneeling, Layne takes the count, then staggers upright and hugs Satterfield until the bell.
Satterfield, in white trunks, with a pencil-thin mustache and muscles upon muscles, is a joy to look at. Decades before Nautilus, his biceps look like triple-scoop ice cream cones. By contrast, Layne looks like a soda jerk who’s wandered mistakenly into the ring. Over the first three rounds he does little more than push his black trunks and flabby belly back and forth while offering his square head as a stationary target.
Still, Layne seems the luckier man. In the sixth, Satterfield puts every one of his 180 pounds behind a right hook. He brings the fist from behind his back like a bouquet of flowers, but Layne weaves, avoiding the punch by half an inch. “Just missed!” Marciano shouts. “That would have done it!”
Had that punch landed, everything would be different. Layne would be stretched out on the canvas, Satterfield would be looking forward to the title shot he craves. Instead, the eighth begins, and Satterfield’s wondering what more he can do. It’s LaMotta all over again. No matter what you do, the other guy keeps coming--obdurate, snarling, fresh.
Far ahead on points, Satterfield can still win a decision, as long as he protects himself, covers up, plays it safe. He does just the opposite, charging forward, chin high, the only way he knows. In the kind of punch-for-punch exchange that went out with fedoras, Satterfield and Layne stand one inch apart, winging at each other from all directions, Satterfield trying frantically to turn out Layne’s dim bulb--until Layne lands a right hook on the magic chin.
“I don’t think [he] can get up,” Marciano says as Satterfield lies on his back, blinking at the house lights. “But look at this guy try.”
Boxing’s Humpty-Dumpty. The book on Satterfield proves true. Or does it? Always, this is the moment I hit the pause button and talk to Satterfield while he tries to tap some hidden wellspring of strength. Somehow, he taps it every time, a display of pure grit that never fails to make my heart beat faster.
“He’s hurt bad,” Marciano says, as Satterfield stands and signals the referee that he’s ready for another dose. Dutifully, Layne steps forward and sends a crashing left into Satterfield’s head. Then a right. And another right. Finally, the referee rushes forward and removes Satterfield’s mouthpiece. Corner men leap into the ring. Photographers with flashes the size of satellite dishes shoot the covers of tomorrow’s sports pages. Amid all the commotion, Layne takes a mincing step forward and does something shocking.
It’s hard to believe, in an age of end-zone dances and home-run trots, that boxers in a bygone era often hugged after their meanest fights. (Some actually kissed.) But Layne gives that post-fight tenderness a new twist. As Satterfield sags against the ropes, dead-eyed, Layne reaches out to touch him ever so lightly on the cheek.
It’s a haunting gesture, so intimate and unexpected that it begs imitation. Like Layne--like Champ--I want to reach out to Satterfield, to show my admiration. I want to tell him how glad I am to make his acquaintance, how grateful I am for the free instruction. More than all that, I suppose, I just want to thank him for the fight.
One day, after watching his greatest defeat, I visit his impostor.
“Heyyy,” Champ says, beaming, waving hello. “What do you know about that? Hey, your picture ran through my mind many times, and then I’d say, well, my friend, he give me up.”
He’s wearing a white karate uniform, mismatched sneakers and a shirt from the Orange County Jail. Clouds of flies swarm around his head and grocery cart this warm November afternoon, Champ’s 67th birthday. Tomorrow would have been Satterfield’s 73rd.
There are many things about Champ that I don’t know, things I’ll probably never know. He either got money to be Satterfield, then forgot to drop the con, or wished he were Satterfield, then let the wish consume him. Not knowing doesn’t bother me as I feared it would. Not getting his scrapbook doesn’t torment me as I thought it might. Every man is a mystery, because manhood itself is so mysterious; that’s what Champ taught me. Maturity means knowing when to solve another man's mystery, and when to respect it.
Been traveling,” I tell him. “And guess where I went?”
He cocks his head.
“Columbus. And guess who I saw? Your nephew, Gregory.”
“That’s my brother’s son!”
“Yep. And guess who else I met. Big George.”
He pulls a sour face, like his brother’s, and we both laugh.
We talk about George, Lily and Lip, and Champ grows heavy with nostalgia. He recalls his childhood, particularly his stern father, who hit him so hard one day that he flayed the muscle along Champ’s left bicep. Champ rolls up his sleeve to show me the mark, but I look away.
To cheer him up, to cheer us both up, I ask Champ to tell me once more about busting Marciano’s nose.
“Marciano and I were putting on an exhibition that day,” he says, crouching. “We were going good. But he had that long overhand right, and every time I seen it coming, I’d duck it. And I’d come up, and I’d keep hitting him on the tip of his nose."
He touches my nose with a gentle uppercut, flies trailing in the wake of his fist.
“On the tip, on the tip, I kept hitting,” he says. “Finally, his nose started bleeding, and they stopped the fight.”
Smiling now, more focused than I’ve ever seen him, Champ says he needs my advice. He’s been reviewing his life lately, wondering what next. Times are hard, he says, and maybe he should head on down the road, polish up the Cadillac and return to Columbus, though he fears the cold and what it does to an old boxer’s bones.
“What do you think?” he says.
“I think you should go be with people who love you and care about you,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s true, that’s true.”
We watch the cars whizzing by, jets roaring overhead, strangers walking past.
“Well, Champ,” I say, slipping him $5. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, stopping me. “Now, listen.”
He rests one of his heavy hands on my shoulder, a gesture that makes me swallow hard and blink for some reason. I look into his eyes, and from his uncommonly serious expression, I know he’s getting ready to say something important.
"I know you a long time,” he says warmly, flashing that toothless smile, groping for the words. “Tell me your name again.”
Like I said, that story about Bob Satterfield was a descent into total madness and one hell of a ride, and I'll leave it at that. Thank you Mr. Moehringer. As it so happens, Bob Satterfield is one of my all-time favorite fighters, for one simple reason, he was a apocalyptic puncher. Watching him on film, you can instantly tell he could bang by how hard he swings on his opponent.
Vicente Saldivar, "El Zurdo De Oro", aka "The Golden Lefty." He was one of the greatest featherweights and pound for pound fighters in the history of the sport. He was a southpaw, could box or brawl, but he was famous for endless stamina, he seemed to get stronger as a fight progressed into the later rounds, when most guys start to wear out, he would kick it into another gear, seven of his knockouts came after the 7th round, he was a real Terminator. It's hard to beat a guy when he gets stronger as a fight goes along, he just doesn't break down, Saldivar was known for that, it's like he was Popeye the Sailor Man and his corner was feeding him cans of Spinach in between rounds, this guy was no joke when it came to stamina, and his work rate was through the roof.
‘THE GOLDEN LEFTY’ – THE VICENTE SALDÍVAR STORY
Vicente Saldívar – A name often lost in the pantheon of great Mexican and featherweight champions. Standing at just 5-foot 3-inches tall, he punched his way to the top of the division and maintained one of the most significant championship reigns in the history of the 126-pound weight category. This is the story of his short life and celebrated career.
Growing up on the deprived outskirts of Mexico City, he was accustomed to fighting from an early age, building a reputation for street fighting and frequently disciplined by his school for aggressive behaviour.
Fearing his son was heading down the wrong path, Vicente’s father decided to take his son to a boxing gym, in an attempt to refocus his negative energy into a productive pursuit. It was at this gym where the child would meet veteran trainer, Jose Moreno.
Saldívar developed a burning passion for boxing and pursued what later became a successful amateur career. Having won the Mexican Golden Gloves title at bantamweight, he earned a spot in the 1960 Olympic Squad. Disappointingly, his trip to the summer games in Italy was short-lived, as he was eliminated in the first round of the tournament by Ernst Chervet.
Following the defeat, he made the bold decision to turn professional just a year later in 1961 and campaigned in the featherweight division. He adopted the nickname “The Golden Lefty” as his southpaw style was unique and immensely effective. He could effortlessly transition between boxing on the back-foot and pressing on the front-foot. His unusually low pulse rate enabled him to sustain an exceptional work-rate. The Mexican was often compared to Henry Armstrong for his seemingly limitless stamina.
During his early years in the paid ranks, he was still finding his feet and showed glimpses of immaturity, tasting his first defeat in the form of disqualification against Baby Luis in his seventh fight. The pair met again half a year later and Saldívar made no mistakes second time round, as he battered the Cuban into submission in the eighth round.
After three years competing for modest money on low-key shows, he was finally rewarded with his first big opportunity – taking on Juan Ramírez for the Mexican featherweight title. He quick dispatched his fellow countryman and snatched the title in just two rounds.
He successfully defended the national crown once, followed by his most impressive victory to date against future lightweight champion and Hall of Famer, Ismael Laguna. This propelled him to the status of a serious contender and earned him a dream opportunity to fight for world honours.
The fight was made against Sugar Ramos for the WBC and WBC featherweight straps. Fans were anticipating a classic Cuba vs Mexico match-up, with most favouring the champion to use his experience to outsmart the younger challenger. Saldívar was fearless, though, knocking out anyone who stood in his way – and he wasn’t going to let this challenge stop him reaching the summit of his division.
It turned out to be an epic battle between two of the toughest men in the sport. The challenger shocked many onlookers by taking the early rounds and slowly breaking the will of the much-favoured champion. At the end of eleven gruelling rounds, Ramos retired on his stool and a new Mexican star was born.
HOWARD WINSTONE-VS-VICENTE SALDIVAR
The first of his world championship reigns would span three years, during which he would make eight successful defences of his belts, including the career-defining trilogy with Howard Winstone.
Winstone was a national hero in Wales and it was predicted by many that he was destined for greatness. However, there was a constant thorn in his side that frustrated his ambition of becoming a superstar. That thorn came in the shape of the diminutive Vicente Saldívar.
Howard had established himself as the outstanding contender in the division, and a world title was all he needed to elevate himself to the highest echelon of the sport. Whilst Saldívar was ruling the division and was ready to resist any challenges to his hard-earned position of dominance.
The pair ended up clashing three times in a short two-year period. Saldívar vs Winstone was a classic case of skill vs brutality. In all three of their fights, Winstone was superior in the early stages, out-boxing his rival while staying out of punching distance for the most part. However, he would repeatedly fade in the latter stages, allowing Saldívar to wrest control. Although the champion was victorious on all three occasions, Winston certainly gave him a run for his money.
Their first two meetings took place in the UK and after two extremely competitive fights that ended in close scorecard decisions for Saldívar, they returned to Mexico for one final dance. This time, though, Saldívar’s power and work-rate prevailed and the challenger succumbed to a stoppage victory in the twelfth round.
Having watched the three encounters, I feel that if the fights had been only 10 rounds, they would have potentially resulted in a different outcome. The challenger was the better fighter for the first nine or ten rounds in each fight, but he would struggle to retain composure in the later stages, which is when Saldívar would unleash his heavy body shots and ramp-up the inside pressure.
What made the Mexican special was his ability to stay in the fight during the early rounds and utilise his superior stamina, in the confidence that he could drag his opponents into deep waters and suffocate them in the later rounds; truly a hallmark of a championship fighter.
Although the trilogy is an important part of his legacy, Saldívar beat other top contenders and world class fighters during his reign, such as: Raul Rojas and Mitsunori Seki (whom he beat twice).
The Mexican hero then took a twenty-one month break away from the squared-circle and relinquished his titles. During his sabbatical, he frequently assessed whether he still had the ability and hunger to compete at the highest level of the sport.
He eventually opted back into the game and returned with a routine ten round decision over José Legra, before taking on Johnny Famechon in a battle to reclaim his WBC crown. He would take back his title with a unanimous decision victory, however, his second reign would be brief, as he was defeated seven months later in his first defence, by Kuniaki Shibata.
Saldívar would fight once more before retiring again in 1971. Once again, he found himself missing the sport that had become his life and passion. So, at the age of thirty and having been inactive for two years and three months, he challenged fellow Hall of Famer and former Bantamweight champion, Éder Jofre. It was a sad night in Salvador, Brazil, as the boxing fraternity witnessed the once unstoppable Saldívar get dismantled inside four rounds. The Mexican’s skills had diminished completely and he proved a shadow of his former self. This spelled the end of what was a phenomenal career.
He finished his professional campaign with a record of 37-3-0 with 26 KO’s – and to this day – he is still the record holder for most wins in unified featherweight title bouts – and the longest unified featherweight championship reign in history.
Unfortunately, like most boxers, Vicente struggled to deal with the reality that he could no longer reach the heights to which he’d become accustomed. With the absence of boxing from his life, there was left a gaping void. Alcohol unfortunately filled that void and he tragically died in 1985, at just forty-two-years-old. Cancer was the cause of death.
Saldívar was later inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 1999. It was a well-deserved honour for one of the most accomplished and talented featherweight and Mexican pugilists of all-time.
He will also be remembered for competing in front of the fourth largest crowd in history, 90,000 people in the Estadio Azteca.
“The Golden Lefty” will rightfully be remembered for his dominance in the 126lbs division – and his name deserves to belong beside fellow great countryman Julio Cesar Chavez, Rubén Olivares, Salvador Sanchez and many more.
This is a true hardcore scientific analysis of Vicente Saldivar, he truly was one of the greatest and most complex fighters in the history of the boxing. I apologize for not being able to post the videos that go along with this article, but this stuff is Gold even without the videos, god I love this sport.
Vicente Saldivar: The Subtle Storm
Within the annals of boxing history, even the greatest fighters tend to be forgotten. Regarding discussions of the greatest southpaws or Mexican pugilists to ever compete, featherweight great Vicente Saldivar is, in this writer’s opinion, not given the credence he truly deserves. Although Saldivar’s inherent aggression was fueled into a passion for boxing at a young age, his first round loss in the 1960s Olympics brought a halt to his streak. Over a decade later, however, and the Mexican had smashed his ticket into the historical legends of the 126-weight-class lexicon with a scorched earth fury that saw even the most veteran and determined of fighters wilt.
It’s here that I have to offer a disclaimer: Out of all the boxers I have covered so far, Saldivar is genuinely difficult to define stylistically. Not only was he dynamic, but he had an uncanny ability to build, could operate on a slow pace, build into a nigh-unstoppable terminator - and was as battle tested as any top fighter could be.
In simpler terms: Saldivar would do the bare minimum and then he would land the most accurate nine-punch combination you could find out of nowhere.
This article will, therefore, attempt to address three questions:
1) What is Saldivar’s process for winning fights?
2) How is Saldivar able to accomplish the above sequences?
3) What fighter archetype can we classify Saldivar as?
Ultimately, working upon any analysis of Saldivar’s game begins at how he starts any bout. He will work on the outside or neutral changes, applying a feeler jab.
I have already talked about the versatility of a jab at length before, though it bears repeating here: The jab is the building block for a boxer because it can operate as any sort of tool. And Saldivar’s entire game would not be possible without it.
In this compilation, the lead hand can be seen doing a bit of everything: It starts an exchange or combination, it can counter, it can close the door, it establishes a threat, and so on. Saldivar will use it in tandem with half-steps and subtle positional tactics (i.e. see how he baits outside or inside foot position in some of these clips?) to create a new angle, but being able to jab at nearly at all times is a massive priority for him. His jab is what establishes his ring generalship.
Perhaps the most pertinent function of the jab here is how Saldivar uses it as a feeler. Feeler jabs are, in a word, throwaway jabs meant to test the distance or mess with rhythm. They will help the boxer take a quick read of the spacing between them and their opponent, though it can also act as a feint to draw responses out. A feeler jab’s potency, ergo, relies upon how much it can create reads and threats respectively. This punch is thrown frequently in the early phases of the match for Saldivar to establish basic control while paying attention to the tendencies of the man across from him. It’s equally important to note that Saldivar never abandons this tactic either. It is his most accessible, consistent tendency.
While he throws around his jab, Saldivar pairs his actions with his own brand of feinting.
Suffice it to say, this is the most difficult part of Saldivar’s game to dissect. What he is doing on the feet appears to be superficial waiting and the bare minimum (though I will note he is fond changing directions to make bigger, taller fighters follow). That would actually be correct - though with a twist.
In short, Saldivar’s entire game is predicated upon his ability to break rhythm, both his and his opponents’, in order to craft longer or favorable exchanges.
Again, I have written about rhythm before, but I’ll restate:
“To control rhythm is essential to controlling a fight. [The] fighter wants to [establish] their [own] sense of rhythm while trivializing [their] opponent’s. [To manipulate rhythm efficiently] involves having versatile mixups or approaches. [Once] rhythm is [established, greater offensive] capabilities [can] emerge exponentially.”
Let’s explain how Saldivar uses rhythm. The above clips demonstrate that Saldivar does not intentionally give a whole lot of ‘input’ for his opponent outside of the jab - again, said jab arguably is working more for his distance measurements than it is making his man reconsider. The implication is that Saldivar is wanting to counter. Obviously, there’s a question of “Is the bare minimum enough? At some point the other fighter is going to see he’s not offering many threats and attack first, right?”
This is a fair question to ask. If you are working on the outside with minimalist action, it stands to reason to think that you’re being reactive; your actions as a fighter are being dictated by what the other fighter does and how you respond to it. Most counterpunchers will apply rapid feinting or work with their combinations and footwork proactively in order to create moments where they can fight reactively. Yet, here is Saldivar, whose work at distance is ostensibly nominal and seems to be all about being reactive without much proactivity. At some point, the other boxer will notice and start to work more, especially when they notice that Saldivar doesn’t seem to respond to feints that often either.
I want to backtrack a slight bit as there are some things we haven’t pointed out.
If there’s two words I can point to with Saldivar, it’s subtle and deceptive. For one thing, look at Saldivar’s feet and upper-body. It isn’t easily discernible, but he is feinting level changes and changing directions constantly - and is always using half-steps. What’s happening is simple: Saldivar is giving the perception that he is just waiting, though, in reality, he is always on the hair trigger and operating to make his opponent think - or better yet, overthink.
In other words, one of two things (or both at some situations) is bound to happen here:
1) The opponent may not notice the feints and might underestimate Saldivar’s potency as a counterpuncher or think he’s more susceptible than he appears.
2) The opponent spots one isolatory feint continuously - maybe more than that - and starts to reconsider their options. They may ask if there is far more to Saldivar than meets the eye (Hint: They’re very, very right.)
That is to say, Saldivar is always watching and reacting, but he doesn’t seem to be overreacting; it is unclear to his opponent or even the viewer if he’s looking to initiate or react. The answer is actually a bit of both. How Saldivar establishes rhythm is that he creates subtle movements with even less responses to make his intentions unclear. He is observing his fellow pugilist with a surgeon’s eye, identifying the intricacies of their style all while not giving away the slightest amount of hesitation. In that regard, it is a subtle amount of pressure. The real reason Saldivar’s jab is so effective is because of the expectations.
I forgot to mention one extremely important detail, however: All of the above facets are present mostly in the first few rounds of the fight. Saldivar’s rhythm-breaking game has an entirely different gear that I have yet to cover. You see, Saldivar’s true goal is to gradually overwhelm his adversary. Like many greats, he is one of the quintessential long-game fighters.
To break rhythm means that the fighter takes the expectations of their opponent and completely subverts them by doing something else. Vicente Saldivar embodies this idea in spades. Saldivar will start as slow and minimalist as possible, but he is always making reads through the littlest of actions*. And then, Saldivar will blitz in and unleash his patented combination work
Let’s visit an earlier collection of clips. Watch the jab and feints and then how he breaks rhythm and just goes off. It’s all done and built upon responses and expectations - and the consequences are always harshly delivered.
*To be perfectly frank, I have no explanation for how Saldivar is so accurate or can read his opponents as well as he can. I’m not even sure anyone can. All I do know is that his understanding of rhythm stands among the best I’ve seen just by virtue of being able to consistently do this.
Once the exchanges start occurring, Saldivar’s threats increase exponentially because he can and will attempt and commit to an exchange at any time. How the pocket exchanges do occur though, occurs through feints and throwaways.
As stated, the bread-and-butter feints of Saldivar are his feeler jab and his subtle level changes. Again, the jab is being used here to measure distance and to determine responses. I’ll extrapolate further: Determining opponent responses also means you identify and make them have a reaction. I shouldn’t have to point out Saldivar is not a one-speed, same-timing sort of boxer and can manipulate how much he actually puts into his strikes or feints to break rhythm - and that this feature of his game extenuates itself the more a fight goes on. Saldivar’s jab won’t just act as a feeler then, it also acts a “feeder” to the opponent. At some point, Saldivar’s jab is seen as a liability and an easy opportunity. That is precisely when the trap is sprung: when the opponent throws, Saldivar’s counters are immediate and merciless.
Worth noting is how Saldivar’s high guard is uniquely compressed to his chest. He isn’t exactly a large featherweight, so keeping his forearms so uniform is an interesting choice. My theory is to draw the opponent in and try to break his shell.
Say the opponent becomes more passive and works on the outside though? Saldivar won’t be afraid to touch his way in or continue to draw responses out. Essentially, he makes his intention to step inside clear and that he will find a route to be there consistently. For the other fighter, this makes Saldivar a terror to go against because he will ruthlessly exploit any opportunity to pour the volume on or to make those exchanges where he can hit them even longer.
And once he starts to work in combination? Saldivar becomes a nigh-undeniable storm that devalues any illegitimacy of his prowess.
Again, I cannot fully specify what allows Saldivar to land so much with so much accuracy beyond effective reads and rhythm manipulation. Though I did notice certain tricks that reinforce the above tactics and open the opponent up.
Offensively-speaking, the footage shows that Saldivar’s shot selection also has an incredibly similar telegraph for his hooks and jabs off of one another. In tandem with feints and rhythm manipulation and Saldivar will be closing the door and counterjabbing his man all day long.
Moreover, Saldivar’s level changes were certainly not there for the sake of exhibition. The impression they left was only enhanced by Saldivar’s horrific body punching attack.
In particular, Saldivar’s body work is done in flurries or in counters, even on the frontfoot. The sheer number alone means the attritional damage is going to be debilitating, though actual commitment to the body makes the other opponent hesitate to engage. Primarily, his choice of body punches also deserve mention, as they are mostly shovel uppercuts. Saldivar has a fairly compact build for a featherweight, ergo, he will have to step in no matter what. Therefore, when he does step in, he ensures each shot is going to be worth it. Compact, smaller fighters like Saldivar can leverage said shots because their lower center of gravity allows them to have a more stable base and, subsequently, more efficient weight transfer. That is to say, Saldivar may not be a massive puncher by trade, but his dimensions will allow him to keep the opponent nervous and, arguably, could be attributive to his otherworldly accuracy and volume.
And like the most effective body punchers, Saldivar will alternate between the body and head with tremendous regularity to ensure he has just enough space to keep attacking. That or he can hurt his opponent out of nowhere by taking a slight redirective angle. Pay attention to how he baits an attack or uses a level change and then has his posture hunched just enough to guard or cover up from any return fire.
Saldivar’s inside game isn’t as nuanced or complicated as a Ruben Olivares, though he will apply subtle tactics to maintain control there.
Just as he keeps his opponent moving on the outside, Saldivar will intentionally position his shoulder and forearms to turn his opponent or to create separations and continue attacking from a different angle by pivoting out. If he can’t, Saldivar is content to smother with the clinch. In this author’s opinion, Saldivar did have the luxury of never truly fighting an infighter better than him, though I’ve no doubt that his abilities against tested competition are indicative that he would give those fighters immense trouble. If anything else, this article ought to suggest that he is an incredibly unique, dynamic threat.
What is different about Saldivar than any other boxer I’ve covered is that he will treat any punch as a throwaway if it misses.
The Mexican is a variant on the opportunist sort of fighter. An opportunist fighter will discover an opening and ruthlessly exploit it until they win. Saldivar’s opportunism builds upon that principle by being willing to counter anything and everything even if it means it misses. If he does, it isn’t a big deal - he backed them up. If the opposing fighter throws back, that’s fine, more chances to punch them.
There’s even more: Saldivar will also intentionally target the other man’s torso, gloves, or arms at random just to keep them guessing where he will hit next whilst opening up another target and force them to cover desperately.
In summary, Saldivar crafts endless collisions and offense regardless of what his opponent does. To beat him, you will have to deny him entries, compete in phases and exchanges, and be able to maintain the pace - and fight with rhythm too.
Otherwise, one of the most terrifying featherweights to ever step into the ring will drag his opponent into the most extensive beating of their careers.
‘Sugar’ Ramos, a physical monster so potent he left most bruised and battered, found himself figured out and finished in the eleventh to the crowning of a new champion. A rival of ‘Sugar’s’, Floyd Robertson, who previously had brought Ramos to the brink in a fifteen-round war, was decimated in two.
Mitsunari Seki, a fellow southpaw and perennially underachieving contender, gave Saldivar a run for his money in an all-time classic, though the effort had its costs and any respect the Mexican may have had was nonexistent in the rematch- where Seki was mercilessly stopped.
Howard Winstone was an excellent technician and strategist from Great Britain, tailoring his game to engage at pace and deny Saldivar’s terms consistently. Each time, his early efforts were eventually outdone and outwitted and he was decisively beaten by the time Saldivar’s hand was raised.
Despite being well-deserving of his nickname, The Golden Lefty, and for being as battle-tested a boxing champion could have been, though Saldivar was certainly without flaws.
Before winning the belt from ‘Sugar’ Ramos, Saldivar edged future lightweight champion and great Ismael Laguna in one of the finest two-way technical bouts on footage. The Panamanian would have many more answers than many of Saldivar’s foes, though never could take control the way the dynamic Mexican could.
Even past his best, Saldivar’s return from an early retirement saw him beat crafty, accomplished pugilists in Jose Legra and Johnny Famechon.
The biggest weakness is inherently the most expected: Because Saldivar is willing to engage so much, he is liable to be hit on entry and often. This is exactly why he was to control rhythm to make exchanges occur on his terms. Ergo, it should come as zero surprise that Saldivar’s worst moments are when his opponent can set up for a devastating shot when he repositions (esp. on his dips) or play with rhythm themselves.
Ismael Laguna’s successes against the Mexican number quite a few (namely being able to fight Saldivar in several of his strongest phases), though his biggest is a recognition and control of range. Saldivar is used to the fencing battle with lead hands and will always have to blitz in. He can be dangerous on the counter; however, Laguna establishes that his hair-trigger for punishing expectations can be used against him. Laguna applies his own feints and looks to blitz in behind rights to catch Saldivar (without inside/outside foot advantages) and then close the door on exchanges with his longer left hook. If he has to engage more, then he pairs the right straight and left hook together to begin and end exchanges on his terms. That said, this requires careful mitigation of Saldivar’s entries and constant energy expenditure to pull off.
Howard Winstone didn’t have the power or speed to back Saldivar off; therefore, his efforts required him to fight with consistency and discipline. Effectively, Winstone noted how Saldivar was only as dangerous as he could be if he had control of rhythm and entries. His efforts, consequently, were dictated to shutting down Saldivar’s ringcraft. For one thing, Saldivar benefited from being the more proactive fighter and forcing reactions. Winstone chose not to let himself react and instead be the proactive feinter. When it came to making exchanges, Winstone chose to punctuate to the body and step out; he would begin and end every engagement behind a consistent, savvy jab.
Mitsunari Seki was the most prominent southpaw in Saldivar’s storied reign. Immediately, a closed stance matchup changes the dynamic. For one thing, the fight can favor Saldivar because more exchanges can open, but the fact that rear punches can land in closer, quicker proximity and that his lead hand can’t close the door immediately puts both men on an even playing field. Seki quickly exposes this dynamic by drawing Saldivar towards his power hand (versus lead hand in an open-stance matchup) to score a knockdown. Saldivar’s level changes and dips also get viciously punished here as the lack of a lead-hand fencing battle means he has to close more dangerous space - a notion that Seki takes advantage of by drawing him into uppercuts repeatedly.
Ultimately, it is a testament to Saldivar’s own championship mettle and sheer arsenal of options that he could still overcome opponents who tested him at and after the peak of his powers. Trying to describe Saldivar’s adjustments to specific problems is an exercise in repetition - that is, how Saldivar dealt with his weaknesses was to try something different and build from there. It sincerely is that simple: Saldivar was as definitive a trial-and-error, tactile learner in the ring as you could find.
Against an imposingly physical ‘Sugar’ Ramos, the unyielding discipline of Howard Winstone, or the grit and tricks of Mitsunori Seki, Saldivar was forced into more uncomfortable backfoot fighting. His solutions involved doubling down on his jab and directionalities on the outside to create those favorable angles and entries. If he found himself outexchanged, he altered his selection and timing anew. And if his mortal chin still was tagged, he made ends meet with an immortal will to win each and every time.
I struggle to define what sort of archetype ‘The Golden Lefty’ truly fits under when all’s said and done. Tenets of a pressure fighter are all there though his ringcraft derives itself differently; he has the versatility to compete on the outside and inside without committing to either phase; like the boxer-puncher, he is at his strongest in pocket exchanges; and, like a swarmer, he overwhelms. He isn’t quite any of these, but he isn’t not any of them either. What is clear is that his game incorporates a bit of each built to fulfill his specific attributes and strengths - and that, again, all of these demand control of rhythm. At some point, I had to raise my hands and admit that he’s an exception to many rules that I do know. His in-cage work and generalship is indicative of mastery just by success alone.
I shouldn’t have to say why this is as impressive as it is enigmatic.
What does need to be said is: Vicente Saldivar is one of the most formidable pugilists I’ve ever witnessed. Even with the research and writing that I’ve put in, I don’t quite understand him well enough to be confident in all of my reads here. I will say, though, despite thinking that some monsters below the 130-pound-limit should beat him, Saldivar’s ability to defy so many conventions gives me the slightest pause.
All said and done, he’s a grandstanding mark in boxing history and has an argument for being the greatest boxer Mexico has ever produced. I think his talent speaks for itself.
I think Vicente Saldivar's fights were pretty well covered in the above posts, but one of his most impressive wins came against Ultiminio "Sugar" Ramos, Sugar Ramos was a brutal puncher, he could really bang, everywhere he went destruction was sure to follow, but this demonstrates the kind of fighter Saldivar was, most people thought Ramos would lay waste to Saldivar, but Saldivar got stronger as the fight wore on, figured him out, and broke him down.
Vicente Saldivar puts Sugar Ramos on the deck.
SALDIVAR TAKES RAMOS'S CROWN; Featherweight Halts Rival in 12th Round in Mexico
MEXICO CITY, Sept. 26—Vicente Saldivar, a 21‐year‐old Mexico City southpaw, won the world featherweight championship in a smashing upset tonight by stopping Sugar Ramos in the 12th round.
Saldivar was a 2–1 underdog at the packed 24,000‐seat El Toreo bull ring. He wore down the 24‐year‐old Ramos, who was making his fourth title defense, and administered a thorough beating in the 10th and 11th rounds.
Ramos was saved by the bell in the 10th. He was bleeding profusely from the mouth. The 11th was all Saldivar's as the fast‐moving youngster pounded Ramos relentlessly. Ramos was out on his feet at the bell and was unable to come out for the 12th. Saldivar was then declared the winner by a technical knockout.
The Vicente Saldivar vs Howard Winstone trilogy was right up there with the best trilogies of all-time, Howard Winstone was nicknamed "The Welsh Wizard" and he earned that nickname because he was a brilliant fighter, beautiful jab, great technical boxer, watching Winstone on film you would never know that he lost the tips of three fingers on his right hand, they were sheared off while operating a power-press at a toy factory when he was 15 years old, despite that he became a damn fine fighter. I'll profile Winstone later in the thread.
Howard Winstone throws a left at Saldivar during their trilogy.
Solid Gold Classics: The Saldivar-Winstone Trilogy
Who can beat Vicente Saldivar? That was the question being posed at the outset of 1967 after the tireless, barrel-chested Mexican ace had swept away the challenge of Japan's leading challenger, Mitsunori Seki.
It was a very pertinent question to which few could furnish a valid reply. Saldivar was picking off his featherweight challengers with such class and relish that the field of possible successors was shrinking to the point of threatening to disappear.
He was relentless, this man Saldivar. He was smart, deceptively skillful, pounded the body mercilessly and set a formidable pace. He was born to fight and ultimately drank himself to death when he could fight no more.
Saldivar overpowered boxers and out-fought fighters. He was the first truly great featherweight since the golden days of Sandy Saddler and Willie Pep.
How I admired this glorious fighting man when I was a boy. For it was Saldivar who set the exceptional benchmark for the Mexican fighters of the future. Following hot on the heels of former bantamweight champion, Jose Joe Becerra, Vicente was better and more durable than his predecessor and paved the way for such future legends as Ruben Olivares, Julio Cesar Chavez, Erik Morales and Marco Antonio Barrera.
This is what I did, Saldivar might well have said to his successors. Now see if you can beat it.
Vicente, alas, was also responsible for severely testing my allegiance. For there was another brilliant boxer in his world, a sublime and gifted matador who came to test the bull in a magnificent trilogy of fights. I speak of that wonderful wizard from Merthyr Tydfil, Wales: Howard Winstone.
What a beautifully gifted boxer Winstone was. He possessed the natural skills that legions of men can't acquire in a lifetime of trying. On his best nights, his every move was so wonderfully fluid and perfect that even his opponents couldn't help but marvel at his talent.
I believe it was Jimmy Anderson, the former British junior-lightweight champion, who remarked that his punches had repeatedly missed Winstone by fractions of inches due to Howard's innate ability to deftly move his head at the right moment.
Watching the Welshman at his best was akin to seeing a top class Brazilian soccer ace threading a ball through a sea of befuddled players. Great soccer players and footballers don't run, they glide. Great boxers don't consciously plan their moves, they simply let them happen. Every punch, every tactical manoeuvre, comes across to the observer as a completely natural reaction. Howard Winstone was such a boxer.
His left jab alone was a thing of beauty, a rapier-like weapon that bruised and bewildered a succession of opponents. Combined with his many other skills, that rare jab helped to make Howard unbeatable in Britain and Europe from 1961 to 1967.
He became the idol of his native Welshmen, one of the few to bear the honour of being compared to his legendary compatriot, Peerless Jim Driscoll, whose brilliance had dazzled such titans of the game as Abe Attell and Owen Moran some 50 years before.
The one ingredient missing in Winstone's otherwise flawless make-up was a knockout punch. Perhaps that was God's way of giving his opponents a fair chance. It was often said that if Winstone had been able to marry his skills to true punching power, he would have been virtually invincible, perhaps one of the greatest featherweights.
Yet there was another obstacle that prevented him from attaining such heights, in the form of an omnipresent whirlwind of a man who persistently surfaced to frustrate him. That man was Saldivar.
It was cruel luck on Winstone's part that by the time he had established himself as an outstanding contender for the world crown, Saldivar was the champion. For Vicente was Howard's nemesis.
Clashed
The two fighters clashed three times over a two-year period, and had their bouts been ten-rounders, Howard would have won them all. On each occasion he had the beating of Saldivar in the early going, only to be overhauled in the later stages. To this day, traditionalists still regard the 15-round distance as being the true test of world championship quality, and Saldivar seemed to relish that crucial trio of closing rounds that mortal men of his era dreaded.
The tough Mexican was a throwback to Henry Armstrong, a precursor of Roberto Duran. Blessed like Armstrong with a slow heartbeat, Saldivar was a tireless puncher who seemed to grow stronger as the rounds wore on. He defended his title against Winstone at Earl's Court, at Ninian Park and at Mexico City, and all three fights followed the same pattern where strength and superior punching power eventually prevailed over skill.
Those fortunate enough to have witnessed the three epic battles will have their own ideas as to which was the best. For my money, the second Saldivar-Winstone fight at Ninian Park on June 15, 1967, was the most thrilling.
It was the first world championship fight to be staged in Wales for more than 20 years and marked the resumption of a rivalry that had first exploded in glorious fashion nearly two years before at Earl's Court in London. Then the two mighty little men had waged war for 15 fierce rounds, with Saldivar carving out a narrow points win.
I can remember listening to the radio commentary of that first terrific fight and feeling a growing sense of elation as Winstone appeared to be on the way to victory. Then came the decision and the disappointment that one feels when a gamecock has failed by an eyelash.
By the time Howard had steered his way back into contention, he had added six impressive victories to his record, including three European title defences. During this phase of his glittering career, only Saldivar was a superior featherweight and only then by the narrowest margin.
In more than 60 fights, Winstone had lost to only two other men and even those blots on his record looked curiously unreal: a crushing second round defeat to American puncher Leroy Jefferey and a points loss to the world ranked Don Johnson.
To this day, the many men who struggled vainly to lay a glove on Winstone must marvel at Jeffery's achievement. The close and controversial defeat to Johnson, whom Howard subsequently twice defeated, is easier to comprehend since the Californian was an able and shrewd ring mechanic. At the time, however, it was hard to believe that someone had actually outpointed the Welsh boxing master!
From the time of embarking on his professional career in 1959, Winstone had exuded that special quality that separates great fighters from the rest. In just two years he sailed to 23 successive victories, and when he mesmerised Terry Spinks into a tenth round defeat to win the British featherweight title in 1961, Howard began his rapid ascent into world class.
He relieved Italy's Alberto Serti of the European crown and reigned supreme in that capacity for more than four years, turning back seven challengers before eventually relinquishing the title.
Winstone dazzled the cream of domestic and international competition during his peak years as a world title contender, defeating such class men as Rafiu King, Yves Desmarets, Lalo Guerrero, Jose Legra and Richard Sue.
Instalments
Some 21 months elapsed between the first and second instalments of the Saldivar-Winstone saga, but for Howard the wait was worthwhile. For the venue of Ninian Park presented him with a wonderful chance of revenge in the land of his fathers. But even with home advantage, his task was daunting.
During the interim period, Saldivar had added to his already glowing reputation, winning the respect of the critics as an outstanding world champion. At first glance, his record looked lean and almost insignificant alongside Winstone's, until one measured the rate of Vicente's progress and the quality of the opponents he had conquered. Forty years ago, it was still fairly uncommon for young fighters of limited experience to win world titles. And we are talking about undisputed world titles here!
The boxing world stood up and took good notice of Saldivar when, at the tender age of 21, he battered the featherweight championship from the talented Sugar Ramos.
The young Mexican slugger was having only his 24th professional fight on that night of September 26, 1964, yet he fought with tremendous authority as he wore down and finally stopped Ramos in the eleventh round with a punishing body attack.
Saldivar at once showed himself to be a highly accomplished champion and a typically tough and menacing product of the Mexican fight school. Powerful, rugged and a damaging puncher, he pressured his opponents with a constant attack and his great stamina made him a dangerous man from the first bell to the last.
His early record was studded with a succession of quick victories. He stopped the dangerous Dwight Hawkins in five rounds, Eloy Sanchez in one and needed less than two rounds to wrest the Mexican featherweight title from Juan Ramirez.
In later fights, Vicente proved he was no less effective over long distances. Indeed, he relished the marathon duel. Prior to lifting the world title from Ramos, Saldivar outscored Lalo Guerrero and future lightweight champion Ismael Laguna in hard-fought contests. In his first defence of the world championship, Vicente came through a vicious war with the tough Raul Rojas to post a stoppage victory in the fifteenth and final round.
A miniature powerhouse of a man with the upper body of a welterweight, Saldivar imposed his presence on opponents from the outset, daring them to challenge his authority as he bulled and punched his way forward. Like any great champion, he had his share of worrying moments during his reign, but his strength and his great will always saw him through. Saldivar refused to be denied in any circumstances, whether being tormented by the ringcraft of Winstone or forced to the limit by that fiery Japanese warrior, Mitsunori Seki.
It was Seki who gave Vicente his most torrid fight, with a performance that surpassed even Winstone's spirited Earl's Court challenge. Fighting before Saldivar's home crowd in Mexico City, Seki matched Vicente punch for punch through 15 hard rounds before losing a unanimous but desperately close decision. It was a verdict that many neutral ringside observers disputed.
Saldivar knew he had a point to prove to his critics, and in a return match just four months later he removed any doubts about his supremacy over Seki by stopping the brave challenger in seven rounds. In doing so, Vicente gave one of his top performances, an exhibition of destructive punching that re-established him as the undisputed leader of his division and left him with a near perfect record.
He had avenged his sole professional loss, a disqualification in the early part of his career against Baby Luis, and Vicente knew that a second victory over Winstone would make that record shine even brighter.
Ninian Park
When Saldivar and Winstone came together again at Ninian Park, they were greeted by an emotion-charged crowd of 30,000 and the atmosphere was pulsating. Wales had not enjoyed such a feast of boxing since Ike Williams defended his lightweight championship against Ronnie James at Cardiff in 1946, and while the many thousands of Welshman who longed for a Winstone victory welcomed their hero with a tremendous roar, they sportingly cheered the mighty little Mexican as he approached the ring. They knew they were in the presence of a true fighting champion, a man who had defended his title against the best men in the division and beaten them all.
Soon the fight was on: Saldivar, the 24-year old bull, against Winstone, the 28-year old matador. The roles were well assigned, although on this occasion the matador did his own share of charging.
Winstone must have surprised even his most ardent fans as he immediately carried the fight to Saldivar in a confident and almost arrogant manner. Three left jabs, released with speed and grace, snapped into Saldivar's face, and a following right brought a look of mild surprise from the champion. It seemed that Howard's intention was to play his cards aggressively and utilise his full repertoire of skills to unsettle Vicente. And for the first half of the fight, Winstone's cards were all aces wild.
He had an almost contemptuous air about him as he swept forward. Countless jabs found Saldivar's face and perfectly timed right crosses reddened his nose.
Frustrated and angry, Saldivar lashed back with heavy hooks to the body, but many of his punches missed as Winstone glided out of range with almost balletic moves that took one's breath away.
But Saldivar, wonderful Saldivar, always had that ominous look about him. The few punches he was landing were solid and quietly menacing. There were times when Winstone's aggression forced Saldivar to the ropes, each attack accompanied by a mighty roar from the crowd, but the determined champion was always slamming back with those bronzed and perfectly muscled arms. Howard was supremely fit, but even the fittest men were eventually weakened by the masterful body punching that was Saldivar's speciality.
The roar of a crowd can do funny things and certainly blur one's perception of a fight. Much of Saldivar's quiet industry went unnoticed to the many who were entranced by Winstone's brilliance. Howard was ghosting around Vicente, flashing out punches with amazing speed and not seeming to be greatly disturbed by the return fire.
Had Winstone finally found the key to defeating his arch-rival? Saldivar's frustration was clearly visible in the fifth round as he momentarily dropped his arms and stood still, as if taking time out to revise his game plan.
But Vicente was a rare bird, possessed of great mental toughness. Regardless of how the gods were treating him, he just kept punching. He was struck by a gorgeous left-right combination in the sixth round, but still his piston-like arms kept pumping away and Winstone was forced to give ground after taking a couple of hefty blows to the body.
Howard's pace didn't slacken and he upped the tempo in the eighth round as he jabbed fast and accurately to have Saldivar on the retreat. Both men began to show the marks of the taxing encounter and Winstone appeared to slow a little in the ninth round as the champion bulled forward and slammed him about the body.
As the fight swung into its later stages, Saldivar began to catch Howard much more frequently, but the battle was full of twists. Each time Winstone appeared to be fading a little, he would rally gloriously. There was a golden moment in the tenth round when he tagged the champion with a perfect combination and quickly followed up with a burst of rapid-fire jabs.
However, the tide was most definitely turning. The crowd held its breath in the eleventh round as Saldivar shifted into top gear and winged in powerful hooks to the body. A big left hook hurt Winstone and a right to the jaw sent him to the ropes. Suddenly Howard looked weary and Vicente seemed to pick up the scent as he drew on his phenomenal stamina and increased his punch rate.
The following rounds were agonising for Winstone's fans as Saldivar pounded away furiously. Too often Howard elected to trade punches with Vicente instead of retreating, and while these adventurous tactics had reaped dividends in the earlier rounds, they were now proving to be Winstone's undoing. In his worst moments, though, the courageous Welshman refused to be overwhelmed. From somewhere, during one of those hectic bouts of slugging, he produced a stinging right that sent Saldivar reeling back, and the crowd thundered its approval.
Thrilling
The fight was approaching its climax and had flared into an absolute thriller, full of quality, courage and skill. While Winstone was beginning to wilt, he had carved out such a commanding lead with his whirlwind start that the battle was still an even affair. But the going was now tough for Howard. Like a golfer trying to maintain a fragile, one-stroke lead in a major championship, he was suddenly flagging and looking on the verge of being swamped by the immensity of the task.
In the fourteenth round, Winstone nearly went under as Saldivar stormed forward with a punishing two-fisted attack. A flurry of hard blows suddenly cut Winstone down and sent his supporters into a state of panic. Gutsily he scrambled to his feet, but the following seconds were tortuous for the Welshman as he was driven every which way by Vicente's ceaseless onslaught.
Lost in the wonderful romance that comes from boxing, I pleaded silently for Winstone's survival, trying to balance my bias with the contention that any man who has fought so magnificently for so long doesn't deserve to get knocked out right at the death. Something or someone took Howard by the hand and guided him through the wilderness, but the gut feeling was that the fight had slipped from his grasp as he sat wearily in his corner and awaited the final bell.
Somehow Howard managed to pull himself together during his precious sixty seconds of rest. He fought valiantly throughout the last three minutes, even though he was sent scurrying all around the ring by Saldivar's violent rushes. The champion was a revelation in that final round as he ripped home punches with a rare ferocity, and it was a measure of Winstone's mettle that he was still able to fight back.
The crowd let out a deafening cheer at the bell and the optimists prayed for referee Wally Thom to raise Howard's hand. But the decision was Saldivar's, and for the second time in his career Howard Winstone was left to reflect on the tantalisingly narrow gap in class that separated him from the great little Mexican. This time the gallant Welsh maestro had failed by half a point to seal that gap and win the one title that had eluded him.
Dream
Undeterred, Winstone chose to pursue his dream. Four months later, his fascinating rivalry with Saldivar entered its third and final chapter in the fierce heat of Mexico City. Winstone boxed brilliantly for ten rounds, but Saldivar's wave-like attacks proved even more debilitating in the heat and high altitude. Brave Howard was eventually ground down and stopped in the twelfth round.
Three defeats against the same stubborn and ferocious man would have broken the will of many other fighters, but the proud Winstone couldn't leave it at that. The unexpected retirement of Saldivar as undefeated world champion imbued Howard with fresh ambition and encouraged him to try for the big prize one more time. In January 1968 his persistence finally paid off when he won the WBC version of the vacant title by stopping Mitsunori Seki in the ninth round at the Royal Albert Hall in London.
Much of the old magic was missing in Howard's work that night, but that was of little importance to his supporters. Winstone was at last a world champion and nothing else seemed to matter.
One final word on Vicente Saldivar, he has one heck of a resume, he beat the great Ismael Laguna, Jose Legra who was known as "The Pocket Cassius Clay" because he fought similar to a young Cassius Clay, he beat the legendary Johnny "Fammo" Famechon, Howard Winstone x3, Sugar Ramos, Mitsunori Seki, Raul Rojas, amazing career. I love Saldivar, he's one of my top favorites, the guy was just an animal that most fighters weren't prepared to deal with, his stamina, he had a 15-round engine, his ability to drag his opponents into deep waters and drown them. He was patient with his prey, the last 5 rounds of a fight was where Saldivar really came alive as his early body attack and accurate precise punching began to take its toll and he upped his pace. Just an amazing fighter to observe.
Of course I collect Vicente Saldivar, been looking for this sticker for years now with no luck, 1968 Mira Tuttosport Vicente Saldivar. Interestingly, his first name is misspelled "Vincente." It is a multi-sport set of stickers that came in packs and were meant to be put into an album, they were produced in Italy, the set features a handful of boxers, for some reason certain ones are plentiful while others are impossible to find. I saw a Mira Tuttosport Saldivar on eBay Italy about four years ago but it had heavy back damage having been pulled from an album so I passed on it, if I had known how rare it was at the time I would have bought it.
One more rundown on Vicente Saldivar's outstanding career.
Vicente Saldivar on the cover of Boxing News after his victory over Raul Rojas.
Vicente Saldivar: A Mexican legend
The 1960s spawned many great fighters – Dick Tiger, Jose Torres, Emile Griffith, Luis Rodriguiz and Carlos Ortiz, just to name a few. One of the best of this era was a 5'3″ southpaw from Mexico City named Vicente Saldivar. He ruled the featherweight division for three years and then retired. He decided to come back two and a half years after he gave up his crown, to reclaim it another time.
This boxing legend was born on March 5, 1943. He started his professional career in 1961 and quickly showed that he was a budding star. Saldivar won his first sixteen fights and scored thirteen knockouts. He suffered his first loss in December of 1962 when he was disqualified in a bout against Baby Luis.
The year 1963 saw Saldivar make great strides in the rankings. He halted the respected Dwight Hawkins in five rounds. He avenged his loss by stopping Baby Luis in eight rounds. There was also an impressive one round win over Eloy Sanchez.
On February 8, 1964 Saldivar captured the Mexican featherweight title by knocking out Juan Ramirez in two rounds. He defended the title with a twelve round points win over tough Eduardo “Lalo” Guerrero. Then on June 1st Vicente won a very important bout against future lightweight champion Ismael Laguna. Saldivar outscored the clever Laguna in ten rounds.
On September 26, 1964 Vicente Saldivar won the featherweight championship of the world.
He battered the great champion Sugar Ramos and the bout ended in the twelfth round with a new champion being crowned. Saldivar was about to begin a campaign that eliminated all opposition to his throne. He started in 1965 by wearing down and finally stopping his game challenger Raul Rojas in the final round. In his next defense Vicente turned back the fierce challenge of Welshman Howard Winstone in fifteen rounds. These two would get to know each other very well over the next few years.
Saldivar opened 1966 with a two round kayo over Floyd Robertson. Next Vicente faced the stern challenge of Japan's Mitsunori Seki. For the Japanese tiger, it would be his third shot at a world's title. He failed in a 1961 bid to dethrone flyweight champion Pone Kingpetch and in 1964 he was beaten in six rounds by featherweight king Sugar Ramos. Seki gave Saldivar all he could handle but in the end Vicente pounded out a decision victory.
Seki and Saldivar would meet again in 1967 and this time Vicente left no doubt as to his claim to the title. He ended Seki's challenge in the seventh round. Next was some unfinished business with Mr. Winstone. Again the spry and crafty Welshman traveled the fifteen round distance, but in the end he fell short. The two bouts between Saldivar and Winstone were close enough to justify a third meeting. This time Saldivar ruled supreme ending Winstone's dream in the twelfth round.
With really no one left to seriously challenge Vicente, he decided to retire. Quickly the WBC matched Saldivar's two toughest challengers, Howard Winstone and Mitsunori Seki, to fight for the vacant title. On January 23, 1968 Howard Winstone finally got his championship, beating Seki in nine rounds. Howard's stay at the top was short lived as he lost the title to Spain's Jose Legra in five rounds.
Finally there was some new blood in the division. Legra in turn would lose his crown by decision to Australia's Johnny Famechon. Saldivar still felt he was the best featherweight in the world, so he embarked on a comeback. To prove he was worthy of a title shot he out-fought Legra to win a ten round verdict. Then on May 9, 1970 in Rome, Italy Vicente met the champion Famechon. The Aussie was a very good fighter who had just sent the great Fighting Harada into retirement with a brutal fourteenth round kayo. Against Saldivar he was out-boxed and out-fought but gamely went the distance. The great Saldivar was king again.
It all came crashing down in his next fight. Vicente took on Japan's Kuniaki Shibata – and it seemed like he grew old overnight. At times Saldivar boxed well and punched sharply, but at other times he seemed overwhelmed by the force of Shibata's attacks. The Japanese fighter was very strong, and try as he might Vicente was unable to hold him off. Finally it was over. It ended in the thirteenth round. The reign of Saldivar was over.
Maybe Vicente was not yet convinced he was through or maybe he wanted to go out a winner. In any event, Saldivar returned to the ring seven months later and outpointed the always tough Frankie Crawford. Two years later Saldivar again emerged to attempt to regain his throne. Former bantamweight champion Eder Jofre of Brazil had won recognition by the WBC as featherweight champion by winning a majority decision over Jose Legra in May of 1973. Vicente would meet Jofre on October 21, 1973 in Brazil. What looked to be a great matchup on paper turned out to be a bitter disappointment. Saldivar had nothing left. His great skills had eroded. Jofre was too strong and too powerful for the shell of this once great fighting machine. It ended in the fourth round . . . and so did Saldivar's career. There would be no more comebacks.
Vicente only had forty fights in his career. He won thirty-seven of them. He was a knockout winner on twenty-six occasions. He was the whole package in his prime. Pound-for-pound he was one of the best fighters of the 60s.
Mike McCallum, aka "The Bodysnatcher", a legitimate, certified, all-time great middleweight, it is said that he was avoided like the plague in his day. He earned that nickname because he went hard to the body of his opponents, one of the greatest body punchers in the history of the fight game was McCallum. A chin made of Ivory, he was never stopped in his career. He was a superb ring technician, the guy could do it all, defend, box, turn your lights out, McCallum checked all the boxes, he was a complete fighter.
Forgotten Legends Of The Ring – The Bodysnatcher Mike McCallum
Two weight World Champion Steve Collins speaking to Ringtv.com on the Best boxer he faced ‘The best boxer was definitely Mike McCallum. He was in his prime at 33 years old and I was 26 and still learning. Mike had beaten some of the very best fighters in the world at that point and guys like Sugar Ray Leonard wouldn’t go anywhere near him because he was so slick. I learned more in one fight with Mike McCallum than I did in my five previous fights combined, do you understand? He was skillful, a master at combination punching and he had everything at his disposal. He was the smartest guy I ever fought. I learned a lot from him and he educated me. Every once in a while you face a guy who is a bit special and they either finish you or make you. When Prince Naseem stepped up a level (to face Marco Antonio Barrera in 2001) he lost and that was basically the end of him. I fought McCallum and although I lost it made me a better fighter because he was the best in his time. Sugar Ray Leonard told me personally that there was no money in facing McCallum and it was a fight he could lose. I asked him that during a Q&A and he admitted it to an entire audience. I stepped up to the elite level and traded with one of the best fighters around, so I knew I would get better and I knew I would become a world champion after that. McCallum didn’t get the credit he deserved but just look at his record and you see the guys he beat’.
Three weight World Champion and one of the greatest ever defensive fighters James Toney on the Best fighter he shared the ring with: ‘Mike McCallum — That’s an easy choice, right off the top of my head it’s the Body Snatcher. He was the best fighter I fought at middleweight, super middleweight and cruiserweight. Out of all the fighters I fought, I respect him the most because he made me think about everything I tried to do. Before McCallum I was just runnin’ in on everyone, but he made me slow down and think for the first time’.
And the best boxer Toney faced…’McCallum — Yup, it’s him again. It’s between McCallum and Michael Nunn, but I gotta go with McCallum because he was a master boxer who wasn’t afraid to stand his ground. Nunn was mostly fast. I admit that he outboxed me for about nine rounds, but my body shots slowed him down. I told him during the fight ‘I’m gonna catch you!’ And I did. I fought my share of boxers who thought they were clever like Roy Jones, Michael Nunn, Montell Griffin, and Reggie Johnson, but they were all scared to really fight. McCallum boxed, he fought, he defended, and he didn’t run all over the ring. He could do all that because he was smart’.
We’ve just read the views of two world champions, James Toney has fought legends such as Roy Jones Jr and Evander Holyfield, Steve Collins has beaten great boxers such as Chris Eubank Snr and Nigel Benn, yet both are in agreement when it comes to the best boxer they have faced – Mike McCallum. So who is he and why haven’t you heard about him?
Before Gennady Golovkin, arguably the most avoided fighter in the sport today, there was Mike McCallum, underrated and avoided, his nickname was ‘The Bodysnatcher’ due to his ability to land hurtful body shots, over a 55 fight career, The Bodysnatcher would go on to beat 7 world champions en route to becoming a three weight World Champion himself. Amongst his wins were also two of Britains finest middleweights, Herol ‘The Bomber’ Graham and Michael Watson whom he dismantled over 11 rounds. If you want to watch a Boxing masterclass, this is one of the fights I would recommend viewing.
McCallum was born in 1956 in Kingston, Jamaica, turning professional in 1981. His 1st ‘Big’ fight was against Julian ‘The Hawk’ Jackson, a dangerous opponent with a huge punch, a future World Champion who would rank at no.25 by Ring Magazine in their 2003 list of ‘100 Greatest Punchers’. Jackson was quickly dismissed in Round 2. But it would be the following year in 1987 when the world would finally sit up and take notice of McCallum when he knocked out former WBC champion Milton McCrory followed by former undisputed champion Donald Curry with a picture perfect left hook. They may have taken too much notice, it may have been McCallums bad luck he was fighting in an era of the ‘Four Kings’ Sugar Ray Leonard, Roberto Duran, Tommy Hearns and Marvin Hagler, all four are legends in the squared circle, and as their careers were winding down to an end or their best years were slipping by, none were too keen on taking on the risk of fighting the bodysnatcher. The late great Johnny Tocco, who ran the Ringside Gym on Charleston and Main in Las Vegas from 1952 until the mid to late 1990s, Tocco was to have said that ‘Ray Leonard, Tommy Hearns, Roberto Duran, yes even Marvin Hagler, none of them wanted any part of Mike McCallum’. The ‘Hitman’ Hearns would have been well aware of Mike McCallum’s prowess, both trained at the famous Kronk gym in Detroit under legendary trainer Emmanuel Steward and both would often spar against each other under Stewards watchful eye. Unfortunately for McCallum, the Super fight would always evade him, Roberto Duran famously declined to fight him having been presented with a contract, instead choosing to fight his stable mate Tommy Hearns. Hardly surprising when the match would net Duran $5million whereas a fight with McCallum would ‘only’ make Duran $500k, high risk low reward.
Steward was high in praise for the Bodysnatcher, a nickname he himself coined for McCallum ‘he never got the recognition or the super fight with Leonard, Duran, Hagler-none of those guys-which I think he’d have been 50-50 to beat any of them! He just fought anybody, anywhere, under whatever conditions and prevailed all the way ’till he was really never beaten. His age really only caught up with him. He was a great champion.’
Mike McCallum finished his career with 49 wins and 5 losses with 1 draw, 3 of those losses came in his last 4 fights as age got the better of him, including losses against 2 legends of the ring, Roy Jones Jnr and James Toney, finally retiring after the Toney defeat at age 40 in 1997. An unsung hero and a forgotten legend of the ring, he was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 2003 and currently works as a trainer in Las Vegas.
One more quick write up on Mike McCallum and then we'll look at a few of his fights.
Mike McCallum gets his hands taped up by his trainer Eddie Futch.
Mike McCallum: Inch By Inch A Master
What’s the best way to win a fight, fights – rounds? By using the least amount of energy as possible, while taking the least amount of punishment as possible, while at the same time inflicting as much damage as possible. And who was an absolute master at this? The great, the untouchable, the avoided Mike McCallum, that’s who. Known as “The Body Snatcher,” Jamaica’s McCallum was that and a whole lot more. During his 55 fight pro career – McCallum also enjoying a stellar, standout amateur boxing career – McCallum took on all manner of styles: be it monster punchers, slick boxers, relentless stamina machines or all-round tough guys. And make no mistake, each and every guy McCallum fought had a tough time with him; even those rare few who actually managed to beat him. Arguably, McCallum lost just once when he was in his prime. Yeah, the born-exquisite James Toney fully deserved the decision he got in his second and third fights with McCallum, both of these fights going to the wire and both of them testing both men to the limit. And the once “Superman,” Roy Jones Jr had his way with a way past his best, but still enormously respected, McCallum in their 1996 bout (this being Mike’s penultimate ring appearance, before the third go with “Lights Out”). And one could argue how Sumbu Kalambay scored the most decisive win anyone ever managed when he got a decision over “The Snatcher” in his native Italy in 1988. But aide from that, when he was in his prime, and even a few years before and afterwards, nobody – as in nobody – could live with McCallum and his bag of tricks. See wins over: Ayub Kalule, Sean Mannion, Luigi Minchillo, Julian Jackson (a stoppage win over the KO machine), Milton McCrory, Donald Curry, Herol Graham (who admittedly pushed McCallum close, in so doing perhaps pulling off one of the most underrated displays of British boxing talent of the last 40 years), Steve Collins, Michael Watson, Kalambay in a revenge meeting, and Jeff Harding. No wonder the great Marvin Hagler wanted no part of McCallum (or so the legend tells us). It was on this day, July 18, in 1987, that McCallum perhaps scored his most sensational and eye-catching win. Going in with former undisputed welterweight king Curry, McCallum, defending his 154 pound crown, iced the hot one in dramatic, one-punch fashion. It was in the fifth-round, when Curry, thinking he was safely out of distance, was cracked by a perfect left hook to the jaw; the blow instantly sending him down and out. Curry wore a dazed, ‘what hit me’ look as he lay on the mat inside an equally mesmerised Caesars Palace in Vegas. Curry would never be the same again (plenty said he never had been what he once was after being ravaged by Lloyd Honeyghan a couple of years before), and McCallum would not be, either. No-one wanted much to do with the slick, tough, hard as nails champ from that chilled out island. At least McCallum was never able to come closer than sniffing range to a genuine super-fight opportunity. McCallum never wasted a thing when he was in the ring, yet it could be argued that the superpowers of the sport ruined his chances of being deified the way Hagler, Leonard and Hearns are today. Maybe McCallum was better than all of them. Maybe.
In 1984, Mike McCallum won his first championship when he defeated Sean Mannion for the vacant WBA Junior Middleweight title. If you're not familiar with Sean Mannion, he was one tough Irish son of a gun from Boston who used to trade like hell with Marvelous Marvin Hagler in sparring and not once did Mannion ever taste the canvas, as a matter of fact, Mannion was never knocked down in his entire 57 fight career. This is a man who once lost 7 lbs in 90 minutes to make weight for a fight, that was Sean Mannion, balls to the wall toughness. Anyway, McCallum fought Mannion in 1984, Mannion put up a good effort but McCallum controlled the fight and was just too good, too technically sound and McCallum won the WBA Junior Middleweight title by unanimous decision.
One more quick thing about Sean Mannion, I have to give him a lot of credit, he was around a lot of organized crime figures in South Boston in the late 70s and 80s, they hung around the gym where he trained, that was when Irish mob boss and psychopath Whitey Bulger was running things, and Sean Mannion made it a point to steer clear of all that crap and focus on his boxing career. Mannion had some friends that were with Whitey Bulger and they wanted Mannion to meet with Bulger but Mannion declined because he knew what that life was about and didn't want any part of it, I give Sean Mannion all the credit in the world for that. The last I read Sean Mannion was working construction and living a good life in Boston, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone that speaks negatively about Sean Mannion these days.
Comments
Valdez lands a vicious right hand.
Valdez sitting in his corner.
Valdez shows off his left hand.
Rodrigo Valdez lands a body shot, love the background, reminds me of the ancient Rome Colosseum.
Valdez gives a wave.
Valdez vs Briscoe 2, it was the 1974 fight of the year, an epic 7 round battle.
Valdez throws a right hand at Carlos Monzon.
Rodrigo Valdez puts Carlos Monzon on the deck, it was only the second time Monzon had been down in his entire career. It still brings me great joy to watch that piece of crap Monzon go down on one knee.
Rodrigo Valdez, a dangerous bloke.
Danny Lopez, "Little Red", He earned his nickname because he had very heavy hands, he's ranked number 26 on Ring Magazine's hardest punchers list. He was of Ute Indian descent, with Irish and Mexican heritage as well. One of the most exciting fighters to ever enter the ring, he debuted in 1971 and went on to win his first 21 fights by knockout. He took his first loss against the great Bobby Chacon at the Sports Arena in a classic L.A. matchup but went back up the rankings with wins over Chucho Castillo and Ruben Olivares. He won the WBC featherweight title against David "Poison" Kotey in Ghana amidst a crowd estimated at 100,000. He stopped Kotey in the rematch and after making 7 more successful title defenses, he finally lost in 1980 to the great Salvador Sanchez. He finished with a record of 42-6, 39(KO). He was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 2010, a well deserved honor. Always love watching him on film, a beautiful boxer with brutal power, every punch he threw had sting on it. His defense wasn't that great, he was easy to hit, but he operated at the top of the sport so long because he was tough as nails, he would often take three or four just to get in position to land one of his bombs. He had the type of power where he didn't even need to connect flush to visibly damage and short-circuit his opponents. He pivoted and turned his shots over beautifully, and was a brutal straight puncher with good timing.
Lopez had devastating power.
Danny Lopez was an extremely popular fighter, as one hardcore Lopez fan remembers.
One for the ages: The explosive Danny 'Little Red' Lopez
by John J. Raspanti
John J. Raspanti reminisces about Danny "Little Red" Lopez - through the eyes of his Grandpa
Danny Lopez and the author
In 1972 my grandfather started talking about Danny “Little Red” Lopez.
Grampa lived in Rosemead, CA, roughly 20 miles from The Olympic Auditorium, where Lopez fought 26 times from 1971-78.
In early 72, Lopez fought fellow hotshot, Arturo “Tury the Fury” Pineda, in what was billed as the “Battle of the Teeny-boppers.” Grampa was worried, but confident.
“That kid (Lopez) is tough,” said Grampa. “He takes punches to land his own, and when he does, they don’t get up.”
Grampa was right. Lopez entered the fight against Pineda with 10 knockouts in 10 fights. He exited it with his 11th KO. Along the way, he was staggered a few times before sending Pineda to dreamland.
This pattern would repeat itself numerous times during the course of his career. Lopez would get staggered, go down, get up, and almost always knock out his opponent. It was like getting knocked down woke him up.
The spectacle was amazing to watch. Standing just over 5-foot-7, and weighing 126 pounds soaking wet, Lopez looked like a scarecrow with red hair, but his right hand was loaded with dynamite. He was impassive in the ring, stalking his prey, looking to launch his murderous punch.
I thought of this as I watched Danny make his way through a crowd of admirers at the fifth annual National Boxing Hall of Fame in Montebello, CA. last weekend. Everybody wanted to get their picture taken with him. So many of his fights are memorable.
At the time, Lopez was can’t miss TV. Most of his bouts were wars. He often said if he could hit a guy, he’d knock him out. So true. Lopez was old school. He’d take three to land one. But that one would often end things. Deadly, but, for boxing fans, exciting to watch.
In 1974, Lopez fought fellow unbeaten featherweight Bobby “Schoolboy” Chacon. The sold-out crowd at the Los Angeles Sports Arena was buzzing with excitement as the two phenoms met up. Their records were close to identical. Lopez was 23-0, with 22 knockouts. Chacon had scored 23 wins in 24 fights, knocking out 21 foes. His single loss was to the legendary Rueben Olivares.
Thirty-nine years later, I interviewed Chacon at a café near Staples Center in Los Angeles. I asked him what he remembered about the fight.
“I used to spar with Danny and he’d whup me all the time,” Chacon recalled. “Then my manager said we were going to fight him. When we were sparring, I was learning so much about Danny. All that sparring made me a better fighter. So, when we fought, I was ready. I knew where he was. My right hand kept finding him.”
Yes it did—and his left. Chacon, smaller, but quicker, stopped Lopez in round nine. The loss could have derailed Lopez’s career, but as always, his heart propelled him forward. Grampa took his loss pretty hard, but he kept telling me that Lopez would be a champ someday.
After two more losses (one avenged) and knock out victories over former champions Chu Chu Castillo, and Olivares, that day came in 1976, when Lopez traveled to Accra, Ghana to face WBC featherweight champion David Kotay.
The odds seemed against him, but Lopez stalked and rocked, winning the title by unanimous decision. He gave Kotay a rematch, and stopped the former champ in round six.
In 1979, Lopez engaged in “The Ring Fight of the Year” with tough Mike Ayala. The battle was a war of attrition as each fighter landed hellacious blows. Lopez broke Ayala’s nose, winning by stoppage in the 15th and final round.
The year before he fought cagey challenger Juan Domingo Malvarez at the Silverdome in New Orleans, LA. Malvarez, winner of 26 fights in succession, knocked Lopez was down in the first round, and staggered him a few minutes later. He was winning right? No. As always with Lopez, all it took was one. That one landed in the second round and crumbled Malvarez. The Argentina native didn’t get up for five minutes.
In total, Lopez defended his title eight times. His reign as featherweight champion ended in 1980 when he faced future Hall of Famer Salvador Sanchez.
The fight was brutal, with Sanchez stopping Lopez. Sanchez repeated the feat four months later. Lopez retired.
An ill-advised comeback happened 12 years later. His logic, that he “had to know,” made sense. Grampa talked about Lopez till his dying day. He’d laugh, and shake his head, and mutter, "What a fighter he was."
The love boxing fans have for Lopez is deep and heartfelt. He was the ultimate warrior, who put it on the line in every one of his fights. Everytime I see him, I shake his hand, not only for me, but for my Gramps.
Danny "Little Red" Lopez is one for the ages.
Here's the article from his famous Sports Illustrated cover, with Lopez sitting with the Native American headdress on. Coming up through the ranks, he was a terror for his opponents.
YOU CAN'T KEEP A GOOD MAN DOWN
AT LEAST NOT FEATHERWEIGHT CHAMPION LITTLE RED LOPEZ, WHO GOES ON THE WARPATH EVERY TIME HE HITS THE DECK
The first thing you look for on the kid is a bulge, or a bump, or something that might look vaguely like a muscle. What you find instead is a body built like a mailman's arches. The guy doesn't even have knobby knees, and the only things skinnier than his legs are his arms. It just doesn't seem right. If Danny (Little Red) Lopez were not the WBC featherweight champion of the world, you would probably call him scrawny, even if you wouldn't say it to his face.
Not that there is a rule that says all boxers have to look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Sandy Saddler, who was the featherweight champ off and on from 1948 to 1957, was built to have sand kicked in his face. There is also no rule that equates physique with power. Saddler knocked out 103 of 162 opponents, and Lopez may well be one of the hardest hitters in the game. "Pound for pound, Danny is the hardest puncher in all of boxing today," says Don Chargin, the veteran matchmaker at Los Angeles' Olympic Auditorium. Lopez has 39 victories in 42 fights, 36 of them by knockout. Even more remarkable is his ability to absorb punishment. By his own manager's estimate, Little Red has been knocked down in as many as a dozen fights—and then has gotten up and knocked out his opponent.
The hoary "pound for pound" claim is admittedly impossible to prove. For one thing, 126-pound featherweights and 220-pound heavyweights never get into the ring together. World lightweight champion Roberto Duran, he of the fabled stone hands, has knocked out 79.6% of his opponents compared with 85.7% for Lopez. Bantamweight champ Carlos Zarate has knocked out 52 opponents in 53 fights, but it has been suggested that Zarate has fattened his record on an assortment of adagio dancers and tamale makers. "A lot of the experts rate Danny as the third or fourth alltime greatest puncher—based on knockouts—and he ain't finished yet," says Bennie Georgino, Lopez' manager and trainer. "He don't fight stiffs off the street the way Zarate does. Danny fights legitimate challengers, and he sends 'em to the hospital."
Lopez first began packing them off to the wards in 1971 at the Olympic, the venerable downtown boxing cathedral that sits beside the San Bernardino Freeway like some squat stucco troll. The Olympic is a sanctuary for the hundreds of pepperpot Latin fighters who come out of the Los Angeles barrios. After a good fight at the Olympic, coins rain down on the ring from the stands, and both the victor and the vanquished kneel to retrieve their tribute. These are boxing's little guys, and in this country Danny Lopez is their proud little monarch.
It didn't take Lopez long to build his following. By his 11th professional fight he was already so popular that the Olympic sold out its 10,000 seats in one day, and had to turn away 5,000 more customers at the door. Lopez has always been a favorite of the Latin fight fans, many of whom may have mistakenly assumed because of his name that he is of Mexican descent. More than that, however, his popularity derives from his toe-to-toe slugging style.
"The little guys are the great fighters," says Georgino, who handles six fighters, all in the lighter weight classes. "They punch fast, hit hard," he says. "The heavyweights don't do that; usually they give you the worst show. People in these local arenas love the little guys, but the TV networks don't understand that."
Georgino first saw Lopez fight as a 16-year-old amateur in Las Vegas, and even then Bennie's brother, the late Al Georgino, could see the kid had potential. "Danny was just a puny 115-pounder then," Bennie says, "but Al could see something in him nobody else could see, that someday he was going to be a champion." Then as now, the big punch and the revolving-door defense set Lopez apart, and if the refinement of his boxing skills at age 26 is any indication, he must have been a total brawler at 16.
One of seven brothers and sisters, Lopez grew up on a Ute Indian reservation in Fort Duquesne, Utah. His father, who left home when Lopez was young, was a Mission Indian from northern California. Lopez' maternal grandmother was three-quarters Ute, and his maternal grandfather was part Irish.
The family lived in a two-bedroom shack with only a wood-burning stove to stave off the cold of the Utah winters. Danny hunted rabbits and other small game with a bow and arrow (Hollywood, are you listening?); with only a government welfare check to be spread eight ways, rabbit meat was often a luxury. "I remember eating mostly powdered eggs," Lopez says. "My sister Carol and I used to eat sugar sandwiches. We thought that was a great delicacy."
When his mother could no longer afford to support the family, she was forced to place several of her children in foster homes. Along with his brother Larry and Carol, Danny went to a family named Moon in Jensen, Utah. The Moons eventually adopted him legally, so from the time he was eight until he was 13, Little Red Lopez was legally Danny Moon. Later he would have his name changed back to Lopez.
Life was seldom peaceful for Danny, and sometimes it was downright harrowing. When he was 13, he was confronted in a shattering way with the dark side of the Moons. The Moons' son-in-law had beaten him severely for a trifling offense, and during a subsequent argument with Mrs. Moon, Danny heard his foster mother tell Larry to go fetch her son-in-law. Danny raced upstairs and pulled out a .22-caliber rifle, then announced that if the son-in-law came up after him there would be trouble. "I didn't have any shells in the gun," Danny says, "and my brother never went to get Mrs. Moon's son-in-law, so I never actually held the gun on anybody."
Mrs. Moon did call the cops, however, and the next day Danny was arrested for assault and battery. "They put me in jail for a month with a lot of older criminals," he says. "They shoved my food in through a hole in the door. It really began working on my mind, and I started to hear voices." Eventually, the charges were dropped, but by that time Lopez had become so embittered toward the Moons that he decided he could never go back to live with them, and moved in with an aunt and uncle on the reservation. Lopez has had a change of heart; he now considers the Moons to be his parents, and has even paid to fly them in to some of his fights.
Life did not go a great deal more smoothly for Lopez when he was living with his aunt and uncle, who tried to forcibly convert him from Mormonism to the Jehovah's Witnesses. Not surprisingly, Lopez was becoming slightly rebellious and soon began to get into trouble. "When I was in junior high everybody thought I was pretty tough even though I didn't weigh much," he says. "I started hanging around with all the mean guys. We'd get an old Indian to buy us some beer, then we'd go get drunk and cause trouble."
Once, after a street fight, he was hauled into court and told that if he were caught fighting again he wouldn't be allowed to box as an amateur in the town of Orem anymore. When word went out that Lopez was on probation, a local tough tried to take advantage of the situation by socking him in the face. "Before I knew what I was doing, I had hauled off and broken the guy's nose," Lopez says. Luckily, a friendly teacher happened by and got Lopez away from his stunned victim before the police arrived. "I guess I was a little hard to get along with in my younger days," he says.
Even between fights Lopez doesn't weigh much more than 130 pounds, but he walks thickly, his feet set apart and his shoulders rocking from side to side. His head is wedge-shaped, like the head of a tomahawk, and his face is lightly but earnestly freckled. Lopez' hair is more than just a little red and he parts it down the middle, like Mickey Walker, ex-middleweight champ. Lopez looks less like an Indian than the guy the cavalry used to send out to scout for Indians. When he vouchsafes one of his three-word speeches, he dishes it up tonelessly, smiles as if he's not sure he's glad he said anything, then nods his head once or twice as if to leave a couple of emphatic ellipses hanging in the air.
Lopez lives like a little guy, even though Georgino says his fighter earned more than half a million dollars in 1978. There is a little house in San Gabriel Valley, a little wife and three little sons. Danny even drives a 1977 Mustang, and has somehow resisted the most basic California extravagance, a vanity license plate. The only big thing on the premises is the trophy head of a six-point elk he shot last year in Colorado.
There are almost no marks on Lopez' face, which is astonishing in view of his style. "You look at his features," says Georgino. "He's had 42 pro fights, but his face ain't that messed up." Even Danny's hands are fragile-looking; like clouds, they seem wispy and frail, but within them lies the Lopez thunder. There is a small scar on the inside of his right index finger; it was operated on to remove bone chips after he won the title from David Kotey in Ghana in 1976. Some of Little Red's later victims have reason enough to believe the surgeon left his scalpel in the hand.
Lopez' victory over Kotey was remarkable in several respects, not the least of which was that it was the only time in his career he had gone 15 rounds. He had arrived in Accra, the capital of Ghana, two weeks before the fight, and was immediately dumped into a creaky old hotel with no hot running water, despite the fact that there were several first-class tourist hotels available. Lopez' manager at that time was Howie Steindler, but Steindler was ordered not to make the trip by his doctors, who feared it might bring about another heart attack. Cast almost totally adrift, Lopez trained four rounds a day in the tropical heat, suffered all the intestinal indignities inflicted upon visitors unaccustomed to African fare, and received subtle pressure from his hosts. Shortly before the fight, Ghana's president, General Ignatius Acheampong, told him, "You will not leave Ghana with our title."
"He wasn't fooling around, either," says Lopez. "I just told him, 'We'll see.' "
Lopez had Kotey in trouble at several points during the fight, but each time he did, the Ghandaian timekeeper rang the bell, allowing Kotey time to recover. "Some U.S. Marines who were stationed over there made videotapes of the fight and sent them to me," says Lopez. "I timed the rounds, and every time Kotey was about to go down, that round would be shorter than it was supposed to be. One round was only two minutes long."
Nonetheless, Lopez won the title. It took nearly two days for the word to get back to Steindler in Los Angeles that his fighter was the world champion. Steindler, who was 72, had waited 55 years to have a champion, but he never got to see Lopez defend his title. On March 10, 1977, four months after the Kotey fight, Steindler was kidnapped, beaten and smothered to death, then left in his car on the Ventura Freeway. Lopez heard of Steindler's death at 1 a.m. after the body was discovered by the police.
"At about six o'clock the same morning I got a phone call from a guy who I had thought was my friend," he says. "He said it was terrible what had happened to Howie and all, but that before I talked to anybody else about managing me, he would like me to consider him. I got a lot of calls like that before Howie was even in the ground."
Lopez turned to Georgino, a longtime L.A. fight fan and bail bondsman. Georgino at first hesitated to take on any responsibility that might keep him from flying to the Wednesday night fights in Las Vegas, but he finally relented. He has worked with Lopez on his defense to the point where the champ occasionally ducks a punch.
"In all the years I've been in boxing I've never seen anybody who could knock somebody out with a left hook, a left jab or a right hand the way Danny can," Georgino says. "I've seen him when I would have sworn he just tapped a guy on the chin and—boom!—the guy went down like he'd been shot dead. You can't teach that."
Still, Georgino can't help but be troubled by Lopez' willingness to let a lot of people pound on his face. Among the luminaries who have done the above is one Masanao Toyoshima, who was then the No. 1 man in Japan. In 1974, he had Lopez out on his feet in the third round. Rubber-legged and seemingly barely conscious, Lopez somehow contrived to knock out Toyoshima in the same round.
"Danny don't go into the ring thinking he's going to get hit," insists Georgino, "but there's something within him that you have to wake up somehow before he gets mad enough to fight back. That's why he has to get knocked around for a while before he knows he's in a fight. It's almost as if he needed a slap in the face to wake him up. And if that's what it takes, I may slap him."
It has also been suggested, as a less obvious measure, that Lopez should spar two or three wakeup rounds in his dressing room before going out to do battle. It has now been four months since his last fight, in which Juan Malvarez knocked him down in the first round and staggered him again in the second. Typically, Lopez rallied to knock out his man in the same round. Two weeks ago Lopez began serious training for a March 10 title defense in Salt Lake City against the WBC's No. 2-ranked featherweight, Roberto Castanon of Spain. The serious training includes sneaking away occasionally to the mountains for a bit of skiing. Needless to say, this does not thrill Georgino. "Every time he gets on those skis, I can just see the money flying away," he says. Still, Lopez is one of those rare creatures who trains diligently; he honestly loves gymnasiums.
"Sometimes I'll get Danny a workout in the gym with guys nowhere near him in ability—real amateurs—and they'll knock him around for a while," Georgino says. "Eventually he'll wake up and pound on 'em, but even then he'll come back to the corner and ask me if he's being too rough on a guy." Georgino is puzzled by this temperamental flaw. "Sometimes the kid's just too nice for his own good," he says. And almost all of the time he's too good for the good of his opponents.
After being downed again, the up-again Lopez knocked out Juan Malvarez (above), then went back to his guitar and his low-key life-style.
Danny Lopez was in some great fights, most guys when they are down in the trenches infighting are trying to survive, but Lopez lived there, he actually preferred it up close and personal, which is a bit surprising considering Lopez was tall and had a long reach. Danny Lopez vs Mike Ayala was the fight of the year in 1979, a real showcase of brutality between two tough son of bi....., it's no wonder Danny Lopez retired at the age of 27 after fights like this.
Mike Ayala catches Danny Lopez with a right hand in the 1979 fight of the year.
Greatest fights of the 1970s
Mike Ayala vs Danny Lopez
The 1970s were the Golden era of boxing for me, maybe because it was because I was a very young boy and loved watching the fights were, in a word, special. My father is with whom I got my love for boxing, and Danny”Little Red” Lopez was one of our favorites. You always knew you would get your money’s worth when Little Red fought. Even better, we got to watch him on free television, so it cost us nothing. We watched the fights on a 19-inch T.V., and yes, it was color, you had to hope it wouldn’t storm because if it did, the reception could be spotty, but it was awesome.
Despite being from Utah, Danny “Little Red” Lopez was one of the most loved fighters to fight in Los Angeles. Danny fought 32 of his 34 first pro fights in Los Angeles after following his brother Ernie “Red” Lopez (welterweight contender). Los Angeles fight fans loved Danny’s aggressive and assertive punching style. Danny, a tall 5’8″ man, prefers to fight inside rather than using his superior height of 126 pounds and fighting from the outside. The 26-year-old Lopez defeated David Kotey in Kotey’s native Ghana to win WBC Featherweight. He then traveled to San Antonio, Texas, to defend the title against Mike Ayala, a native of San Antonio.
Ayala was a talented boxer and had lost only one of his 22 professional fights. Even being an underdog, Ayala’s movement could frustrate Lopez, as Lopez is an all-offense and no-defense boxer. My father was right to predict that Ayala would frustrate Lopez, but not in the manner my father expected.
Both boxers were able to land solid combinations in the first round. Ayala tried to box from the outside, but in round two, she decided to use the “rope a dope” strategy. Ayala repeatedly hurt Lopez in rounds two, four, and five with a counter left hook from the ropes. He would then sit on the ropes to counter Lopez’s aggressive ways. Lopez’s tremendous hooks harmed Ayala in round 3. Round three was the only round Lopez clearly won early on. After the fifth round.
Lopez continued to body punch the next two rounds. Lopez kept digging right into Ayala’s ribcage, causing severe injuries to Ayala. Lopez finished the seventh round by knocking Ayala to the ground with vicious punches to the chin. At that point, it was obvious Ayala wouldn’t be able to last. Ayala proved me wrong, as he repeatedly hurt Lopez with left hooks that landed on the ropes. After a furious exchange, Ayala hit Lopez with a right cross that was a real pain. As both men pounded each other with power punches, the 10th round was a raging war. Ayala couldn’t keep up with the pace.
Lopez hit a huge left hook early in round 11. This dropped Ayala. Referee Carlos Padilla incorrectly counted Ayala out. Tony, Ayala’s father and trainer, argued with Padilla about the fact that his son had stood before the count of 10. Padilla ordered that the fight be restarted after discussing the matter with WBC representatives at the ringside. Padilla declared the end of the round after the timekeeper lost track of the remaining time. It was the first time I had seen a ref change his ruling.
The war continued as if it had never ended when the action was resumed. Rounds 12-14 saw a furious exchange. Ayala was still fighting with a broken nose, but he gave as much as he got. Lopez smashed Ayala with his wicked left hook in the 15th round. Lopez beat Ayala against the ropes, before finally knocking him out using a dynamic right cross.
After that fight, Lopez was forever changed. He lost his title eight months later and was relegated to a one-sided but competitive fight against future legend Salvador Sanchez. After his second fight against Sanchez, Lopez was 28 years old when he retired. Twelve years later, Lopez made an unwise comeback against a different fighter named Sanchez, a fighter with a record of 11 victories and 27 losses. That club fighter knocked out Lopez in the second round. Wisely, Lopez went back into permanent retirement.
Ayala said that he was under the influence of heroin during training and during the fight. Perhaps that is why he stayed on the ropes for most of the fight. Ayala would be awarded two more world title shots in his career. He was knocked out in both. At 33 years old, he retired.
The highlights of the Danny Lopez vs Mike Ayala fight, Sports Illustrated would tag this fight a mini Ali-Frazier, Lopez broke Ayala's nose early in the fight, floored Ayala in the 7th and 11th rounds, and stopped Ayala in the 15th and final round, the fight had a lot of back and forth momentum shifts. Lopez had to walk through some serious punishment to deliver his own brand of mayhem, this fight really put Lopez in the map.
In 1976 Danny Lopez travelled to Ghana to fight David "Poison" Kotey for the WBC featherweight strap. David Kotey was a powerfully built Featherweight from Ghana. The 24 year-old Kotey came to California from Ghana as a complete unknown with a record of 29-2-2 (18 KO's) compiled in Africa, snuck into the 'The Forum' on September 20, 1975, floored Ruben Olivares in the 1st round, and pounded away, taking away the WBC Featherweight Championship
from Ruben Olivares by a 15 Round Split-Decision. David Kotey was supposed to be nothing more than a tune-up title defense
for Ruben, who was supposed to fight Bobby Chacon in a rematch in December 1975. But Kotey obviously had other plans, he was one tough son of a gun and he could fight. It's a shame Kotey pretty much disappeared after his two fights with Lopez. He was called "Poison" due to the contagious nature of his punches.
David "Poison" Kotey
On the night of Nov. 5, 1976, a mass of humanity in the sum of 122,000 people wedged its way into the Sports Stadium in Accra, Ghana.
They came to see Ghana’s own David Kotey defend his WBC featherweight title against American challenger Danny Lopez.
The boxing ring sat in the middle of the Sports Stadium, an 80,000-seat soccer arena. Temporary seats set up on the soccer field increased the stadium’s capacity by 50 percent.
The two combatants were supposed to square off at 8 p.m., but the fight was delayed by almost five hours. Even after midnight, the temperature hovered in the mid-80s and the humidity remained at steam-bath levels.
The huge pro-Kotey throng pounded on tribal drums throughout the night as Lopez waited patiently in his locker room.
“We were supposed to go in the ring at 8 o’clock and we didn’t go in until 1 in the morning,” Lopez said, recalling the event. “I never got an answer for why. Maybe it was a ploy to throw me off.
“I just sat back and waited and waited and waited.”
Lopez-Kotey draws a crowd
Danny “Little Red” Lopez put together a 42-6 record in his 10-year professional boxing career. He recorded 39 wins via knockout, a KO percentage higher than all but four members of the International Boxing Hall of Fame.
He claimed the WBC featherweight title, appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated and went on to defend his crown eight times. He defeated the likes of Sean O’Grady, Ruben Olivares, Art Hafey and Jose Torres.
But the highlight of his career came on Nov. 5, 1976, when he took the title away from Kotey.
At the time, the attendance figure of 122,000 fans marked the largest crowd to witness a boxing match in the sport’s history. It still remains as the second-biggest crowd in boxing, exceeded by only the 1993 match between Julio Cesar Chavez and Greg Haugen, which drew 136,274 fans to the Estadio Azteca in Mexico City.
In front of such a large crowd in Kotey’s homeland, Lopez knew he had to do more than any challenger in the history of the sport to wrest the title away from the champion.
“I wanted that title,” Lopez said. “I knew I had to beat him good or I wouldn’t get out of there with it. I had more drive for that fight than most any fight I had.”
A knockout from the start
Lopez was born in Utah. His mother had eight kids and was living off welfare on the Roosevelt Indian Reservation.
“She couldn’t take care of all of us,” Lopez said. “I was 8 years old when the welfare people came and took me, my sister and my brother, Larry, to a foster home.”
Lopez grew up in foster homes until moving to Los Angeles when he was 16 years old to live with his older brother, Ernie. Ernie “Indian Red” Lopez had taken up boxing and forged a solid reputation in the L.A. area. Danny followed his big brother into the ring.
Danny Lopez turned pro at the age of 18. He started his pro career with 21 consecutive knockouts.
On Aug. 6, 1976, Lopez knocked out Hafey, the No. 1 ranked contender in the featherweight division, to earn a shot at reigning champion David “Poison” Kotey’s title.
The Los Angeles Forum wanted the Lopez-Kotey bout. Lopez, with his exciting and aggressive style, had developed a large following in Southern California.
However, Kotey was the current champion. An estimated crowd of 600,000 people had lined the streets of Accra when Kotey returned to his homeland after beating Olivares for the title in September of 1975.
Ghanan officials put together an effort to out-bid Los Angeles for the rights to host the fight.
The Lopez-Kotey fight would be held at the 80,000-seat Sports Stadium.
“I didn’t know what to expect,” Lopez said. “I went over not knowing if it was going to be like you see on Tarzan or what. I just went knowing that’s where I had to go to get a shot at his title.”
Don't drink the water
Lopez arrived in Ghana three weeks before the fight to get used to the climate.
“The first day I got there, I drank some ice water and I had diarrhea from then until the day of the fight,” Lopez said.
A small group of U.S. military personnel at the American embassy in Accra and some Peace Corps volunteers saved Lopez.
“They got all their food shipped in from the United States,” Lopez said. “So the rest of the time I was there, I drank their water and ate their food.”
Lopez took a small traveling party to Ghana. Only his trainer, a cut-man and a sparring partner went with him. His wife, Bonnie, remained back in L.A.
“She wanted to go,” said Lopez, “but there was fighting in that area. I didn’t want her along.”
Lopez, however, experienced no problems with the Ghanans.
“The people in Ghana treated me really well,” he said. “The only problem was when I tried to take pictures with the people and they saw the camera as evil or something. They didn’t want their picture taken.”
The cultural differences turned a well-meaning gesture from Lopez into a pre-fight brouhaha.
Lopez attended a press conference with Kotey and presented his opponent with an authentic Native American head-dress, the same kind that Lopez usually wore into the ring. Kotey took the head-dress, threw it to the floor and stomped on it.
“Man, that’s kind of rude,” Lopez thought. Later, he learned that feathers are sometimes perceived as evil in Ghana. “I didn’t know it meant evil to them.”
Otherwise, Lopez spent the weeks leading up to the fight in the usual manner of boxers. He stayed in a hotel. He went for runs at a local golf course, taking care to avoid the alligators that took up residency in the course’s ponds.
“My first day of running, I ran in my sweats,” Lopez said. “It was so hot, I dropped six pounds in one run.”
Lopez worked out in the same gym that Kotey used, the two steering clear of each other with separate schedules.
Finally, the day of the fight arrived. He got to the stadium well before the 8 p.m. bell.
“I got dressed to fight,” he said. “Then I just sat in the dressing room and waited.”
Lopez silences a nation
Lopez jogged/shuffled his way from the dressing to the ring in the middle of the soccer pitch.
“To see all those people,” Lopez said, “was an incredible sight.”
Lopez had earned a reputation as a slow starter. Sometimes it seemed that he needed to take a few punches or lose a few rounds to get his engine started. He knew that he could ill afford to give Kotey a single round. No judge would give the challenger the benefit of the doubt in front of that crowd.
“I stayed on him and kept pressure on him,” Lopez said. “He hit me a few shots, but he never hurt me. I just stayed on him throughout the fight.”
According to accounts of the fight, Lopez dominated the action. Several times he came close to finishing off Kotey only to have the round end.
Lopez contends that he later viewed tapes of the fight and some of those rounds were shortened in order to save the champ.
“I had him on the ropes,” Lopez said. “They shortened three different rounds.”
Kotey survived. Lopez had opened up a cut on Kotey’s lower lip that would require 17 stitches. Kotey would need 20 more stitches for other cuts he sustained at the hands of Lopez.
Still, after 15 brutal rounds, the outcome remained in the hands of the judges. The three judges awarded Lopez the unanimous decision. So convincing was Lopez’s victory that the crowd did not protest, much less riot.
“The whole stadium was quiet,” Lopez said. “It was kind of scary.”
The only cheers, the only sound really, came from a small pocket of Lopez supporters, the members of the Peace Corps and the U.S. military personnel who had fed Lopez during his stay in Ghana.
Lopez was escorted from the ring into a waiting ambulance, which took off with sirens blaring and lights flashing.
When Lopez boarded a plane, a Ghanan general said to him, “Danny, we will get our title back.”
“Come and get it,” Lopez replied.
After Ghana
David Kotey would have to wait more than a year before getting the opportunity to reclaim his title from Lopez.
He had suffered bone chips in his right hand during the fight with Kotey. He underwent an operation and didn’t enter the ring again for eight months. He fought non-title bouts in July and August of 1977, winning both by knockout.
Then, in his first official defense of the WBC featherweight crown, he took on top challenger Jose Torres on Sept. 13, 1977 at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles.
He pummeled Torres with punches. Torres withdrew after seven rounds, but the champion’s onslaught nearly cost Lopez the fight.
“Thank god, he didn’t come out for the eighth round,” Lopez said. “My hand was so sore. I couldn’t throw my right hand anymore. If Torres had come out for the eighth, I would’ve had just one hand.”
When Lopez’s handlers removed his gloves after the fight, his right hand immediately swelled to the size of the glove itself. He would remain out of the ring until February 1978 when he engaged Kotey in a rematch.
At the Hilton Hotel in Las Vegas, Lopez won the second fight with Kotey via a sixth-round TKO.
Lopez would hold onto the featherweight belt for two more years. He finally lost the crown to Salvador Sanchez in 1980. He lost the rematch with Sanchez and then retired.
But Lopez will always remember how he took the title from Kotey in the champion’s home country in front of 122,000 fans.
“It was an unbelievable experience,” Lopez said. “I haven’t seen that many people before or since.”
In the rematch with David Kotey, Danny Lopez stopped Kotey in the 6th round, he was just too much for Kotey. Like I said, it was a shame that Kotey pretty much disappeared after this, he was a good fighter.
Danny Lopez unleashes an attack in the 6th round just prior to the stoppage.
This brings us to the first Danny Lopez vs Salvador Sanchez fight, I profiled Salvador Sanchez earlier in the thread, but you can never talk about the greatness of Salvador Sanchez enough. He was nicknamed"Chava", and "The Invincible Eagle", and he was damn near invincible in the ring, sadly he passed away in a car accident at the age of only 22 years old, but at the time of his death he had already amassed a record of 44-1-1, and had beaten all-time greats Azumah Nelson, Wilfredo "Bazooka" Gomez, and Danny Lopez twice, that is mind boggling considering he was only 22 years old. Sanchez thrived when the heat was turned up, against the best competition, he was tougher than a $2 steak, you could pepper spray him in the face and he would somehow overcome it, and he was eerily calm under pressure. At the time of the first Lopez vs Sanchez fight, Salvador was still lacking a real signature win and this fight put Sanchez on the map, most people thought Lopez would walk right through Sanchez and knock him out, they were wrong, they were yet to see what Salvador Sanchez really was. But I'll tell you what, Danny Lopez was one tough SOB himself, the type of guy that just kept coming after you until he physically couldn't anymore or until the referee saved him from himself.
A bloody Danny Lopez on the cover of Boxing Digest after his tough loss to Salvador Sanchez.
Feb. 2, 1980: Sanchez vs Lopez I
Danny “Little Red” Lopez had won the WBC version of the featherweight crown in 1976 and no one begrudged him the title. This was because Lopez, contrary to the stereotype of the merciless, one-punch knockout artist, was as nice a guy as you could ever meet in boxing. Respectful and unassuming, “Little Red” quietly went about his business which involved dishing out some shattering right hands to his opponents, though often not before getting a bit roughed up himself.
In the late 70’s Lopez was one of the game’s more popular fighters.
The story of Danny Lopez is one we’ve heard many times before, one that almost redeems the brutal and heartbreaking racket called prizefighting. Boxing gave Danny a means by which to make something of himself, to rise above his impoverished childhood. He grew up living with seven siblings in a two-room shack on a native reservation and spent time in jail for assault and battery before being shuffled off to a foster home. His older brother Ernie boxed and would eventually challenge the great Jose Napoles for the welterweight world title, so when Danny was sixteen, he simply made up his mind to follow the same path. He embraced all the discipline and hard work the profession demands and ever after, there was no more trouble with the law. Five years after he turned pro, and with wins over Chucho Castillo and Ruben Olivares on his record, there he was, in Ghana of all places, overwhelming David Kotey for the featherweight championship of the world.
Lopez defeats Kotey for the title.
The title reign of Lopez was distinguished by the thrills he gave fight fans, both when he was taking punishment and then dishing it out. A slow starter, Danny usually looked vulnerable in the first round or two, eating punch after punch, before he found his rhythm and started making the other guy pay dearly for his transgressions. Soon enough a thunderbolt knockout followed, courtesy of his vaunted right cross, prime examples being his bouts with Kenji Endo or Juan Malvares. Before his Waterloo in the first Sanchez vs Lopez match, Danny defended his title eight times, in the process becoming one of the most popular boxers in America, his bouts earning high ratings on national television. No one expected anything different for Danny’s ninth title defense, broadcast live on CBS from Phoenix, Arizona. Another obscure challenger, surely another knockout for “Little Red,” right?
Sanchez calmly repelled the champion’s aggression.
But it didn’t work out that way. No one north of the border could know it at the time, but the 21-year-old Salvador Sanchez was much more than just another contender. A gifted counter-puncher, Sanchez had patience and maturity beyond his years, along with quick hands, exceptional stamina, and a rock-solid chin. As early as the second round, it looked like it was going to be a long and painful afternoon for Lopez as the challenger connected far too frequently with damaging power shots, especially the counter right. The loyal fans of “Little Red” waited patiently for his trademark comeback, but by round four Danny’s left eye was swelling shut and by the sixth a bad cut had opened over the right.
Lopez lands a jab, but the vast majority of clean shots came the other way.
The battle was fast-paced but one-sided. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Sanchez would move in with the cool efficiency of a remorseless assassin to land his left hook or counter right and then, just as swiftly and smoothly, move out of range. Lopez never stopped trying, but he lacked the quickness to connect with force and consistency. In round seven the action heated up as Sanchez, with no fear of the Danny’s power, elected to stand and trade and “Little Red,” game as ever, took the fight to the challenger. But while both men were throwing big punches, the only one scoring clean shots was Sanchez. At the end of the round an overhand right buckled the champion’s knees.
It was more of the same in rounds eight and nine before Lopez finally asserted himself in the tenth, backing Sanchez up and timing his right hand better. But he couldn’t hurt the unflappable challenger and the following round saw a return to a clinical beat-down from Sanchez. The sheer number of clean, sharp blows Lopez was taking had to be alarming for both his fans and his corner, not to mention the millions watching on live television, but, as everyone knew, there was no quit in “Little Red.” His only hope now was that Sanchez might tire, but the Mexican appeared just as sharp in round twelve as he did in the first. By this point he was hurting Lopez in almost every exchange, but Danny never stopped trying to land the one big shot that might turn things around.
In round thirteen two clean rights staggered the champion yet again and the referee, knowing Lopez had to be saved from his own courage, stepped between the fighters to raise the hand of Sanchez. The gifted boxer they called “Chava,” perhaps the greatest of all the great Mexican boxers, would then embark on an extraordinary run, ten title defenses in fewer than eighteen months, including a rematch win over Lopez and victories against such formidable battlers and champions as Ruben Castillo, Juan Laporte, Wilfredo Gomez and Azumah Nelson. Killed in a car accident in 1982, the title he took from Lopez with such authority was his until the day he died and Salvador Sanchez will forever be regarded as one of the greatest champions in featherweight history.
Just look at the expression on Salvador Sanchez's face as he catches Danny Lopez with a left hand, it's unbelievable how calm under pressure he was, Salvador Sanchez had freakin' Gatorade running through his veins.
Danny Lopez vs Salvador Sanchez II
At the conclusion of the first fight, talk of a rematch began, Danny Lopez wanted the rematch, Lopez was that kind of guy, there was just no quit in him. In the rematch Danny Lopez was a more competitive but Salvador Sanchez slowly broke him down and stopped him in round 14. Watching Sanchez is like watching a violent ballet, such beautiful motion and grace but so brutal and punishing.
Again, look at the expression on Sanchez's face, so calm, it's like he's not even in a fight, it's like he's cooking a burger and checking to see if it's done.
Even though Lopez lost to Salvador Sanchez twice, he did go 27 brutal rounds with the guy, and that says a lot about Danny Lopez and how tough he was. Make no mistake about it, Danny Lopez was one of the most devastating punchers in featherweight history, his punches just didn't have the effect everyone thought they would on Salvador Sanchez because Sanchez was difficult to hit cleanly and some guys are just made of granite, Sanchez was an immovable object.
Danny Lopez lands a right hook to the chin of Salvador Sanchez.
After his two fights with Salvador Sanchez, Danny Lopez retired at the age of 27, he had been through some wars in his career and he decided to call it a day. He would make an ill-advised comeback 10 years later and lose by knockout and hang it up for good. Danny Lopez is one of my all-time favorite fighters, in his prime he was exciting to watch, a guy that would walk through hell in a gasoline suit rather than surrender, a devastating puncher, and a beautiful overall fighter to watch operate. Ring magazine interviewed him and asked him about the best competition he faced in his career, I love this stuff.
BEST I FACED: DANNY ‘LITTLE RED’ LOPEZ
The hugely popular Danny Lopez was featherweight champion for over three years in the late-1970s, making eight successful defenses, only to lose the title to the legendary Salvador Sanchez.
Lopez was born in Fort Duchesne, Utah on July 6, 1952, of mixed Ute Indian, Mexican and Irish heritage. He had a difficult childhood and was taken into care when he was eight years-old.
“My father left my mother with eight kids and the state took the three youngest ones. I was one of them,” Lopez told RingTV. “They placed us in foster care. I lived with different aunts and uncles in Utah on the reservation.
“My brother Leonard boxed in the Marines and my brother Ernie boxed at Stans Boxing Club. It was because of them that I wanted to box. I took it up when I was 16.”
During a his amateur career, Lopez won regional Golden Gloves tournaments and estimates he had around 50 amateur contests. He migrated to Los Angeles and turned pro in 1971.
He became a popular local attraction over the next couple of years, regularly fighting at the Olympic Auditorium and, later, the Forum. His older brother, Ernie, was also a talented boxer who twice unsuccessfully challenged Jose Napoles for the welterweight title.
Other than a bad spell from 1974 into early 1975, when he lost three of four, including a war with Bobby Chacon, Lopez won all his bouts. He had beaten four-time world title challenger Chucho Castillo (TKO 2), former 118-pound kingpin Ruben Olivares (KO 7) and seasoned contender Art Hafey (TKO 7).
Those victories set him up to challenge and win the WBC title in the fall of 1976.
“Probably winning the (WBC) featherweight title over in Ghana, Africa, from David Kotey, that was my proudest moment,” Lopez said. “I had to run at 4:00 a.m. morning; it was hotter than heck over there. The people were nice. I think the people thought he was going to beat me.
“When they announced I had won the title, you could hear 15 Americans stand up and cheer for me out of 100,000 people in the soccer stadium.”
His most notable defense was a hellacious war with Mike Ayala. It took place in his challenger’s backyard of San Antonio, Texas. “Little Red” dropped Ayala twice before stopping his rival in the 15th round in The Ring Magazine’s “Fight of The Year” for 1979.
In early 1980, Lopez yielded his title to Sanchez in a terrific all-action encounter, in the 13th round. They met in a rematch that summer. Lopez again tried to use his methodical pressure to break down the Mexican, who was able to outbox him and stop him in the penultimate round.
“Salvador was a smart fighter,” he said of the 27 frenetic rounds he shared with Sanchez. “He could move; he could punch. I never could hit the guy. He was a special fighter.”
Lopez retired before making an ill-advised one-off comeback that ended in defeat, leaving his record at (42-6, 39 knockouts) In 2010, Lopez was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame.
Lopez, now 66, is married to Bonnie; they live in Chino Hills, California and have three sons and six grandchildren. He enjoys playing in golf tournaments, going for walks, watching movies and using Facebook.
He graciously took time to speak to RingTV about the best he fought in 10 key categories.
BEST JAB
Salvador Sanchez: As far as I can remember, most guys I fought had a good jab. Salvador Sanchez would be the main one; his jab was always in my face (Laughs). Bobby Chacon had a good jab.
BEST DEFENSE
Sanchez: That would be Salvador Sanchez again. I never could hit him. If I could have landed a shot on him, I might have knocked him out but I couldn’t land a shot on him.
FASTEST HANDS
Bobby Chacon: Bobby Chacon had good hand speed. He was very quick and kept me off-balance.
BEST FOOTWORK
Sanchez: That would be Salvador again. He could go back and forward. He was always moving and I could never hit him.
BEST CHIN
Ruben Olivares: I never hit Salvador so I don’t know if he had a good chin. Ruben Olivares was one of them. He had a pretty good chin. He knocked me down and came in for the kill and that’s when I hit him with a sharp right hand and I won the fight.
SMARTEST
Sanchez: Salvador was the smartest I fought. He had a lot of movement. He was able to do things others weren’t able to do; he set traps.
STRONGEST
Chacon: I hit him with some mighty good shots and they never fazed him and he came back with his shots.
BEST PUNCHER
Chacon: Ruben Olivares was one of the hardest punchers I fought. I felt every shot he landed on me. Also, Bobby Chacon was a good puncher. I’d probably pick Bobby.
BEST BOXING SKILLS
Sanchez: Probably between Bobby and Salvador Sanchez. Salvador had excellent boxing skills, so did Bobby. I’d probably pick Salvador.
BEST OVERALL
Sanchez: He was so sharp and he’d be out the way before I could land on him. I fought him twice and he beat me twice.
A few photos of Danny Lopez during his career.
Danny Lopez knocks out Juan Malvarez.
Danny Lopez with his WBC featherweight Championship strap.
Danny Lopez connects with a left hand to Ruben Olivares, Olivares was an all-time great, dangerous guy, they didn't call him "Rock-a-bye" Ruben for nothing, he was famous for putting people to sleep, out of the 89 fighters Olivares beat in his career, only 10 made it to the final bell.
Danny Lopez connects against Salvador Sanchez.
Danny Lopez rests in between rounds.
Danny Lopez "Little Red" in his prime. It's unbelievable how heavy his hands were, he didn't even throw his punches very hard but the power was just devastating, it's like he had chunks of brick in his gloves.
This next story is one of the craziest stories that I've ever read in my entire life, some call it the greatest newspaper story ever written. In 1997, an L.A. Times journalist named J.R. Moehringer received a tip that a Santa Ana homeless man was really the legendary Battlin' Bob Satterfield, a 1950s light heavyweight/heavyweight that had murderous punching power. The iron chinned Jake Lamotta once said that out of all the fighters he faced, Bob Satterfield hit him the hardest, that's quite a compliment considering Jake Lamotta had maybe the greatest chin in boxing history. Anyway, Moehringer became totally obsessed with trying to prove that this homeless man was Battlin' Bob Satterfield. This story is a descent into total madness. Here's a preview.
Tommy Tomlinson
WHY'S THIS SO GOOD?
“Why’s this so good?” No. 26: Moehringer KO's a mystery
ARTICLE BY Tommy Tomlinson
The hell with my lede. Let’s start with his:
I’m sitting in a hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, waiting for a call from a man who doesn’t trust me, hoping he’ll have answers about a man I don’t trust, which may clear the name of a man no one gives a damn about.
That’s how J.R. Moehringer begins “Resurrecting the Champ,” the greatest newspaper story ever written, and if you’re not hooked by the time the period slams that sentence shut, God knows why you’re here.
I’ve read this story at least 100 times since it appeared in the L.A. Times Magazine* in 1997, and my bones still ache with envy. Moehringer has command of all the storyteller’s tools here – rhythm, pacing, metaphor – and I’ve spent many an hour taking the story apart like an old radio.
But what I love about this story the most is a simple thing that shows up in far too few nonfiction narratives:
Mystery.
That lede echoes Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett and all those noir movies of the ’40s (Fred MacMurray in “Double Indemnity”: I killed him for money. And for a woman. And I didn’t get the money. And I didn’t get the woman.)
Moehringer gets a tip: A former heavyweight contender named Bob Satterfield – known for jackhammer punches and a tinfoil chin – is walking the streets of Santa Ana, homeless. Moehringer goes looking for him, almost gives up, then sees an old man, toothless and filthy – but with hands so big they hang from his sides like bowling balls. Moehringer approaches him.
“You’re Bob Satterfield, aren’t you?” I said.
“Battlin’ Bob Satterfield!” he said, delighted at being recognized.
And then what happens is…
Well, here’s the problem. I can’t tell you.
Every great mystery has twists and turns. There are at least three places in this story where I still drop the printout (or now, the laptop) in disbelief. To paraphrase that great literary figure Rowdy Roddy Piper, just when you think you’ve got all the answers, the story changes the questions.
To explain the whole thing, I’d need spoiler alerts. When was the last time you read a story that required spoiler alerts?
I’ll tell you this much: To find out just who Bob Satterfield is, and to find out how that man ended up on the Santa Ana streets, Moehringer has to navigate false clues and blind alleys and several people who might or might not be lying to him. There’s a key conversation with Jake LaMotta (the boxer De Niro played in “Raging Bull”). There’s a meeting in that hotel in Columbus. There are things Moehringer wants to see that he doesn’t. There are things he doesn’t want to see that he does.
Moehringer is a main character, right there in the first person, dealing with (among other things) major daddy issues. One thing I’ve wondered over the years is if the story would work without him in it. I’ve decided he has to be in there – above all, this is a detective story, and he’s the gumshoe who bumbles through the story, trying to solve the mystery.
By God, he solves it.
And then – as in the very best mysteries – there’s one more scene. We’re back on the California streets, our two main characters are talking…
And the very last line of the story hits you like a left hook to the gut.
It’s the best last line I know of. Every time I read the story, it stays with me for days.
Journalists often work on different kinds of mysteries. We’re great at doing the forensics on a failed campaign and pinpointing just where it went sour. We’re great at dissecting a game-winning TD and showing exactly how the receiver got open.
But those are mysteries where the reader already knows the ending – we’re just revealing the why and the how. The best mysteries start with a what – or, more to the point, a WHAT!?! – and take readers from there to places they’d never expect.
It’s easier when you can make stuff up – whoever created “Matlock” owns half of Malibu by now. But to pull it off in nonfiction – to find the story, track it down and write it – that’s jumping off the high dive.
J.R. Moehringer has done all right for himself. He won a Pulitzer. He wrote a well-loved memoir. He collaborated on a best-seller – Andre Agassi’s autobiography.
But in my mind, he’s the guy who chased a tip, found a mystery, and ended up with the greatest newspaper story of all time.
They made a movie out of it “Resurrecting the Champ,” starring Josh Hartnett and Samuel L. Jackson. I’ve never watched it. It’s not as good as the newspaper story. It can’t possibly be.
———
*Yeah, maybe it’s technically a magazine story – it does run nearly 12,000 words. But to me, if it comes bundled with the comics and the coupons, it’s a newspaper story.
So here we go, one of the greatest stories I've ever read, it's a long one so I'm going to run it in different parts.
PART ONE
The author J.R. Moehringer
The Santa Ana homeless man believed to be Battlin' Bob Satterfield
RESURRECTING THE CHAMP
By J.R. Moehringer
May 4, 1997 12 AM PT
I’m sitting in a hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, waiting for a call from a man who doesn’t trust me, hoping he’ll have answers about a man I don’t trust, which may clear the name of a man no one gives a damn about. To distract myself from this uneasy vigil--and from the phone that never rings, and from the icy rain that never stops pelting the window--I light a cigar and open a 40-year-old newspaper. * “Greatest puncher they ever seen,” the paper says in praise of Bob Satterfield, a ferocious fighter of the 1940s and 1950s. “The man of hope--and the man who crushed hope like a cookie in his fist.” Once again, I’m reminded of Satterfield’s sorry luck, which dogged him throughout his life, as I’m dogging him now. * I’ve searched high and low for Satterfield. I’ve searched the sour-smelling homeless shelters of Santa Ana. I’ve searched the ancient and venerable boxing gyms of Chicago. I’ve searched the eerily clear memory of one New York City fighter who touched Satterfield’s push-button chin in 1946 and never forgot the panic on Satterfield’s face as he fell. I’ve searched cemeteries, morgues, churches, museums, slums, jails, courts, libraries, police blotters, scrapbooks, phone books and record books. Now I’m searching this dreary, sleet-bound Midwestern city, where all the streets look like melting Edward Hopper paintings and the sky like a storm-whipped sea. * Maybe it’s fatigue, maybe it’s caffeine, maybe it’s the fog rolling in behind the rain, but I feel as though Satterfield has become my own 180-pound Moby Dick. Like Ahab’s obsession, he casts a harsh light on his pursuer. Stalking him from town to town and decade to decade, I’ve learned almost everything there is to know about him, along with valuable lessons about boxing, courage and the eternal tension between fathers and sons. But I’ve learned more than I bargained for about myself, and for that I owe him a debt. I can’t repay the debt unless the phone rings.
We met because a co-worker got the urge to clean. It was early January, 1996. The cop reporter who sits near me at the Orange County edition of The Times was straightening her desk when she came across an old tip, something about a once-famous boxer sleeping on park benches in Santa Ana. Passing the tip along, she deflected my thank-you with an off-the-cuff caveat, “He might be dead.”
The tipster had no trouble recalling the boxer when I phoned. “Yeah, Bob Satterfield,” he said. “A contender from the 1950s. I used to watch him when I watched the fights on TV.” Forty years later, though, Satterfield wasn’t contending anymore, except with cops. When last seen, the old boxer was wandering the streets, swilling whiskey and calling himself Champ. “Just a guy that lived too long,” the tipster said, though he feared this compassion might be outdated. There was a better-than-even chance, he figured, that Satterfield was dead.
If Satterfield was alive, finding him would require a slow tour of Santa Ana’s seediest precincts. I began with one of the city’s largest men’s shelters. Several promising candidates lingered inside the shelter and out, but none matched my sketchy notion of an elderly black man with a boxer’s sturdy body. From there I drove to 1st Street, a wide boulevard of taco stands and bus stops that serves as a promenade for homeless men. Again, nothing. Next I cruised the alleys and side streets of nearby McFadden Avenue, where gutters still glistened with tinsel from discarded Christmas trees. On a particularly lively corner I parked the car and walked, stopping passersby and asking where I might find the fighter from the 1950s, the one who called himself Champ, the one who gave the cops all they could handle. No one knew, no one cared, and I was ready to knock off when I heard someone cry out, “Hiya, Champ!”
Wheeling around, I saw an elderly black man pushing a grocery cart full of junk down the middle of the street. Rancid clothes, vacant stare, sooty face, he looked like every other homeless man in America. Then I noticed his hands, the largest hands I’d ever seen, each one so heavy and unwieldy that he held it at his side like a bowling ball. Hands such as these were not just unusual, they were natural phenomena. Looking closer, however, I saw that they complemented the meaty plumpness of his shoulders and the brick-wall thickness of his chest, exceptional attributes in a man who couldn’t be getting three squares a day. To maintain such a build on table scraps and handouts, he must have been immense back when.
More than his physique, what distinguished him was a faint suggestion of style. Despite the cast-off clothes, despite the caked-on dirt, there was a vague sense that he clung to some vestigial pride in his appearance. Under his grimy ski parka he wore an almost professorial houndstooth vest. Atop his crown of graying hair was a rakish brown hat with a pigeon feather tucked jauntily in its brim.
His skin was a rich cigar color and smooth for an ex-boxer’s, except for one bright scar between his eyebrows that resembled a character in the Chinese alphabet. Beneath a craggy 5 o’clock shadow, his face was pleasant: Dark eyes and high cheekbones sat astride a strong, well-formed nose, and each feature followed the lead of his firm, squared-off chin. He was someone’s heartthrob once. His teeth, however, were long gone, save for some stubborn spikes along the mandible.
I smiled and strolled toward him.
“Hey, Champ,” I said.
“Heyyy, Champ,” he said, looking up and smiling as though we were old friends. I half expected him to hug me.
“You’re Bob Satterfield, aren’t you?” I said.
“Battlin’ Bob Satterfield!” he said, delighted at being recognized. “I’m the Champ, I fought ‘em all, Ezzard Charles, Floyd Patterson--”
I told him I was a reporter from the Los Angeles Times, that I wanted to write a story about his life.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“I count my age as 66,” he said. “But ‘The Ring Record Book,’ they say 72.”
“Did you ever fight for the title They just didn’t give me the break to fight for the title,” he said woefully. “If they’d given me the break, I believe I’d be the champ.”
“Why didn’t they give you the break?”
“You got to be in the right clique,” he said, “to get the right fight at the right time.”
His voice was weak and raspy, no more than a child’s whisper, his words filled with the blurred vowels and squishy consonants of someone rendered senseless any number of times by liquor and fists. He stuttered slightly, humming his “m,” gargling his “l,” tripping over his longer sentences. By contrast, his eyes and memories were clear. When I asked about his biggest fights, he rattled them off one by one, naming every opponent, every date, every arena. He groaned at the memory of all those beatings, but it was a proud noise, to let me know he’d held his own with giants. He’d even broken the nose of Rocky Marciano, the only undefeated heavyweight champion in history He was strooong, I want to tell you,” Champ said, chuckling immodestly.
It happened during a sparring session, Champ said, demonstrating how he moved in close, slipping an uppercut under Marciano’s left. Marciano shivered, staggered back, and Champ pressed his advantage with another uppercut. Then another. And another. Blood flowed.
“I busted his nose!” Champ shouted, staring at the sidewalk where Marciano lay, forever vanquished. “They rushed in and called off the fight and took Rock away!”
Now he was off to get some free chow at a nearby community center. “Would you care for some?” he asked, and I couldn’t decide which was more touching, his largess or his mannerly diction.
*
“I was born Tommy Harrison,” he said, twirling a chicken leg in his toothless mouth. “That’s what you call my legal name. But I fought as Bob Satterfield.” His handlers, he explained, didn’t want him confused with another fighter, Tommy “Hurricane” Jackson, so they gave him an alias. I asked how they chose Bob Satterfield and he shrugged.
As a boy in and around Chicago, he built his shoulders by lifting ice blocks, a job that paid pennies at first but huge dividends years later in the ring. At 15, he ran away from home, fleeing a father who routinely whipped him. For months he rode the rails as a hobo, then joined the Army. Too young to enlist, he pretended to be his older brother, George, paying a prostitute to pose as his mother at the induction center.
He learned to box in the Army as a way of eating better and avoiding strenuous duty. Faced with older and tougher opponents, he developed a slithery, punch-and-move style, which must have impressed Marciano, who was collecting talented young fighters to help him prepare for a title shot against Jersey Joe Walcott. Upon his discharge, Champ became chief sparring partner to the man who would soon become the Zeus of modern boxing. Flicking his big fists in the air, each one glimmering with chicken grease, Champ again re-created the sequence of punches that led to Marciano’s broken nose, and we laughed about the blood, all that blood.
When he left Marciano’s camp and
struck out on his own, Champ won a few fights, and suddenly the world treated him like a spoiled prince. Women succumbed, celebrities vied to sit at his side. The mountaintop was within view. “I never really dreamed of being champ,” he said, “but as I would go through life, I would think, if I ever get a chance at the title, I’m going to win that fight!”
Instead, he lost. It was February, 1953. Ezzard Charles, the formidable ex-champion, was trying to mount a comeback. Champ was trying to become the nation’s top-ranked contender. They met in Detroit before a fair-sized crowd, and Champ proved himself game in the early going. But after eight rounds, his eye swollen shut and his mouth spurting blood, he crumbled under Charles’ superior boxing skills. The fateful punch was a slow-motion memory four decades later. Its force was so great that Champ bit clean through his mouthpiece. At the bell, he managed to reach his corner. But when the ninth started, he couldn’t stand.
Nothing would ever be the same. A procession of bums and semi-bums made him look silly. Floyd Patterson dismantled him in one round. One day he was invincible, the next he was retired.
As with so many fighters, he’d saved nothing. He got $34,000 for the Charles fight, a handsome sum for the 1950s, but he frittered it on good times and “tutti-frutti” Cadillacs. With no money and few prospects, he drifted to California, where he met a woman, raised a family and hoped for the best. The worst came instead. He broke his ankle on a construction job and didn’t rest long enough for it to heal. The injury kept him from working steadily. Then, the punch he never saw coming. His son was killed.
“My son,” Champ said, his voice darkening. “He was my heart.”
“Little Champ” fell in with the wrong people. An angry teenager, he got on somebody’s bad side, and one night he walked into an ambush. “My heart felt sad and broke,” Champ said. “But I figured this happened because he was so hotheaded.”
Racked with pain, Champ left the boy’s mother, who still lived in the house they once shared, not far from where we sat. “Sometimes I go see her,” he said. “It’s kind of hard, but somehow I make it.”
Park benches were his beds, though sometimes he slept at the shelter and sometimes in the backseat of a periwinkle and navy blue Cadillac he bought with his last bit of money. He missed the good life but not the riches, the fame or the women. He missed knowing that he was the boss, his body the servant. “The hard work,” he whispered. “Sparring with the bags, skipping rope. Every night after a workout we’d go for a big steak and a half a can of beer. Aaah.”
Finishing his lunch, Champ wrapped the leftovers in a napkin and carefully stowed them in a secret compartment of his grocery cart. We shook hands, mine like an infant’s in his. When we unclasped, he looked at the five-dollar bill I’d slipped him.
“Heyyy,” he said soulfully. “Thanks, amigo. All right, thank you.”
My car was down the block. When I reached it, I turned to look over my shoulder. Champ was still waving his massive right hand, still groping for words. “Thank you, Champ!” he called. “All right? Thank you!”
*
Like Melville’s ocean, or Twain’s Mississippi, boxing calls to a young man. Its victims are not only those who forfeit their wits and dive into the ring. The sport seduces writers, too, dragging them down with its powerful undertow of testosterone. Many die a hideous literary death, drowning in their own hyperbole. Only a few--Ernest Hemingway, Jimmy Cannon, A.J. Liebling--cross to safety. Awash in all that blood, they become more buoyant.
For most Americans, however, boxing makes no sense. The sport that once defined the nation now seems hopelessly archaic, like jousting or pistols at six paces. The uninitiated, the cultivated, the educated don’t accept that boxing has existed since pre-Hellenic Greece, and possibly since the time of the pharaohs, because it concedes one musky truth about masculinity: Hitting a man is sometimes the most satisfying response to being a man. Disturbing, maybe, but there it is.
Just the sight of two fighters belting each other around the ring triggers a soothing response, a womb-like reassurance that everything is less complicated than we’ve been led to believe. From brutality, clarity. As with the first taste of cold beer on a warm day, the first kiss of love in the dark, the first meaningful victory over an evenly matched foe, the brain’s simplest part is appeased. Colors become brighter, shapes grow deeper, the world slides into smoother focus. And focus was what I craved the day I went searching for Champ. Focus was what made a cop reporter’s moth-eaten tip look to me like the Hope diamond. Focus was what I feared I’d lost on the job.
As a newspaper writer, you spend much of your time walking up dirty steps to talk to dirty people about dirty things. Then, once in a great while, you meet an antidote to all that dirt. Champ wasn’t the cleanest of men--he may have been the dirtiest man I ever met--but he was pure of heart. He wasn’t the first homeless heavyweight either, not by a longshot. Another boxer lands on Skid Row every day, bug-eyed and scrambled. But none has a resume to compare with Champ’s, or a memory. He offered a return to the unalloyed joy of daily journalism, not to mention the winning ticket in the Literary Lottery. He was that rarest of rare birds, a people-watcher’s version of the condor: Pugilisticum luciditas. He was noble. He was innocent. He was all mine.
I phoned boxing experts throughout the nation. To my astonishment, they not only remembered Champ, they worshiped him. “Hardest hitter who ever lived.” “Dynamite puncher.” “One of the greatest punchers of all time.” Boxing people love to exaggerate, but there was a persuasive sameness to their praise. Bob Satterfield was a beast who slouched toward every opponent with murder in his eye. He could have, should have, would have been champion, except for one tiny problem. He couldn’t take a punch.
“He was a bomber,” said boxing historian Burt Sugar. “But he had a chin. If he didn’t take you out with the first punch, he was out with the second.”
Every fighter, being human, has one glaring weakness. For some, it’s a faint heart. For others, a lack of discipline. Satterfield’s shortcoming was more comic, therefore more melodramatic. Nobody dished it out better, but few were less able to take it. He knocked out seven of his first 12 opponents in the first round, a terrifying boxing blitzkrieg. But over the course of his 12-year professional career he suffered many first-round knockouts himself. The skinny on Satterfield spliced together a common male fantasy with the most common male fear: Loaded with raw talent, he was doomed to fail because of one factory-installed flaw.
Rob Mainwaring, a researcher at boxing’s publication of record, The Ring magazine, faxed me a fat Satterfield file, rife with vivid accounts of his fragility and prowess. Three times, Satterfield destroyed all comers and put himself in line for a title shot. But each time, before the big fight could be set, Satterfield fell at the feet of some nobody. In May, 1954, for instance, Satterfield tangled with an outsized Cuban fighter named Julio Mederos, banging him with five fast blows in the second round. When Mederos came to, he told a translator: “Nobody ever hit me that hard before. I didn’t know any man could hit that hard.” Satterfield appeared unstoppable. Six months later, however, he was stopped by an also-ran named Marty Marshall, who found Satterfield’s flukish chin before some fans could find their seats.
Viewed as a literary artifact, the Satterfield file was a lovely sampler of overwrought prose. “The Chicago sleep-inducer,” one fight writer called him. “Embalming fluid in either hand,” said another. Then, in the next breath, came the qualifiers: “Boxing’s Humpty-Dumpty.” “A chin of Waterford.” “Chill-or-be-chilled.” It was a prankish God who connected that dainty jaw and that sledgehammer arm to one man’s body, and it was the same almighty jokester who put those Hemingway wannabes in charge of chronicling his rise and fall.
Mainwaring faxed me several photos of Satterfield and one of a wife named Iona, whom he divorced in 1952. The library at The Times, meanwhile, unearthed still more Satterfield clippings, including a brief 1994 profile by Orange County Register columnist Bill Johnson. (“Bob Satterfield, one of the top six heavyweight fighters in the world from 1950 to 1956, today is homeless, living in old, abandoned houses in Santa Ana.”) From Chicago newspapers, the library culled glowing mentions of Satterfield, including one describing his nightmarish blood bath with middleweight Jake LaMotta, the fighter portrayed by Robert De Niro in Martin Scorsese’s 1980 “Raging Bull.” Midway through the film, Satterfield’s name fills the screen--then, as the name dissolves, LaMotta-De Niro smashes him in the face.
*
“Mr. LaMotta,” I said. “I’m writing a story about an old opponent of yours, Bob Satterfield.”
Hold on,” he said. “I’m eating a meatball.”
I’d phoned the former champion in Manhattan, where he was busy launching his new spaghetti sauce company, LaMotta’s Tomatta. His voice was De Niro’s from the film--nasal, pugnacious, phlegm-filled, a cross between Don Corleone and Donald Duck. At last he swallowed and said, “Bob Satterfield was one of the hardest punchers who ever lived.”
Reluctantly, I told LaMotta the bad news. Satterfield was sleeping on park benches in Santa Ana.
“You sure it’s him?” he said. “I heard he was dead.”
“No,” I assured him, “I just talked to him yesterday.”
“Awww,” he said, “that’s a shame. He put three bumps on my head before I knocked him out. Besides Bob Satterfield, the only ones who ever hurt me were my ex-wives.”
LaMotta began to reminisce about his old nemesis, a man so dangerous that no one dared spar with him. “He hit me his best punch,” he said wistfully. “He hit me with plenty of lefts. But I was coming into him. He hit me with a right hand to the top of the head. I thought I’d fall down. Then he did it again. He did it three times, and when nothing happened he sort of gave up. I knocked him on his face. Flat on his face.”
LaMotta asked me to say hello to Satterfield, and I promised that I would. “There but for the grace of God go I,” he said. “God dealt me a different hand.”
I visited Champ that day to deliver LaMotta’s best wishes. I visited him many times in the days ahead, always with some specific purpose in mind. Flesh out the details of his life. Ask a few more questions. See how he was faring. Each time the drill was the same. I’d give him $5 and he’d give me a big tumble, making such a fuss over me that I’d turn red.
“A boxer, like a writer, must stand alone,” Liebling wrote, inadvertently explaining the kinship between Champ and me. To my mind, anyone who flattened Rocky Marciano and put three bumps on Jake LaMotta’s melon ranked between astronaut and Lakota warrior on the delicately calibrated scale of bad asses, and thus deserved at least a Sunday profile. To Champ’s mind, anyone willing to listen to 40-year-old boxing stories could only be a bored writer or a benevolent Martian. Still, there was something more basic about our connection. As a man, I couldn’t get enough of his hyper-virile aura. As a homeless man, he couldn’t get enough of my patient silence. Between his prattling and my scribbling, we became something like fast friends.
Our mutual admiration caused me to sputter with indignation when my editors asked what hard evidence I had that Champ was Satterfield. What more hard evidence do you need, I asked, besides Champ’s being the man in these old newspaper photos--allowing for 40 years of high living and several hundred quarts of cheap whiskey? Better yet, how about Champ’s being able to name every opponent, and the dates on which he fought them--allowing for an old man’s occasional memory lapses?
If the evidence of our senses won’t suffice, I continued, let’s use common sense: Champ is telling the truth because he has no reason to lie. For being Bob Satterfield, he gets no money, no glory, no extra chicken legs at senior centers and soup kitchens. Pretending to be a fighter forgotten by all but a few boxing experts? Pretending in such convincing fashion? He’d have to be crazy. Or brilliant. And I could say with some confidence that he was neither. Even so, the editors said, get something harder.
*
RESURRECTING THE CHAMP
By: J.R. Moehringer
PART TWO
Champ’s old house in Santa Ana sat along a bleak cul-de-sac, its yard bursting with cowlick-shaped weeds, its walls shedding great slices of paint. It looked like a guard shack at the border crossing of some desolate and impoverished nation.
An unhappy young woman scowled when I asked to see Champ’s ex-girlfriend. “Wait here,” she said.
Minutes later, she returned with a message: Go away. Champ’s things have been burned, and no one has any interest in talking to you.
Next I tried the Orange County courthouse, hoping arrest records would authenticate Champ. Sure enough, plenty of data existed in the courthouse ledger. Finding various minor offenses under Thomas Harrison, alias Bob Satterfield, I rejoiced. Here was proof, stamped with the official seal of California, that Champ was Satterfield. A scoundrel, yes, but a truthful one.
Then I saw something bad. Two felony arrests, one in 1969, one in 1975. Champ had been candid about his misdemeanors, but he had never mentioned these more serious offenses. “Oh, God,” I said, scanning the arrest warrant: “Thomas Harrison, also known as Bob Satterfield . . . lewd and lascivious act upon and with the body . . . child under the age of 14 years.” Champ molesting his girlfriend’s 10-year-old daughter. Champ punching the little girl’s aunt in the mouth.
“Did you know [Champ] to be a professional prize fighter?” a prosecutor asked the aunt during a hearing.
“Yes,” she said.
“Did you know that he was once a contender for the heavyweight boxing championship of the world?”
Before she could answer, Champ’s lawyer raised an objection, which the judge sustained.
Champ pleaded guilty to assaulting the aunt--for which he received probation--and the molestation charge was dropped.
Then, six years later, it happened again. Same girlfriend, different daughter.
“Thomas Harrison, also known as Tommy Satterfield, also known as Bobby Satterfield . . . lewd and lascivious act.”
Again, Champ avowed his innocence, but a jury found him guilty. In May 1976, Champ wrote the judge from jail, begging for a second chance. He signed the letter, “Yours truly, Thomas Harrison. Also Known as Bob Satterfield, Ex-Boxer, 5th in the World.”
This is how it happens, I thought. This is how a newspaper writer learns to hate the world. I could feel the cynicism setting inside me like concrete. My reprieve from the dirtiness of everyday journalism had turned into a reaffirmation of everything I loathed and feared. My noble warrior, my male idol, my friend, was a walking, talking horror show, a homeless Humbert Humbert.
*
He greeted me with his typical good cheer, doffing his hat.
“Hey, Champ, whaddya say!?” he cried. “Long time no see, amigo.”
“Hey, Champ,” I said, glum. “Let’s sit down here and have a talk.”
I led him over to some bleachers in a nearby baseball field. We passed the afternoon talking about all the major characters of his life--Marciano, Charles, Little Champ. Abruptly, I mentioned the ex-girlfriend.
Now that I’m on the outside looking in,” he mumbled, “I see she wasn’t 100% in my corner.”
“Because she accused you of doing those awful things to her baby?”
He lifted his head, startled. He was spent, punch drunk, permanently hung over, but he knew what I was saying. “They just took her word for it,” he said of the jury. “The only regret I have in life is that case she made against me with the baby.” Only a monster would hurt a child, Champ said. He begged his ex-girlfriend to recant those false accusations, which he blamed on her paranoia and jealousy. And she did recant, he said, but not to the judge.
More than this he didn’t want to say. He wanted to talk about Chicago, sweet home, and all the other way-off places where he knew folks. How he yearned for friendly faces, especially his sister, Lily, with whom he’d left his scrapbook and other papers for safekeeping. He told me her address in Columbus, Ohio, and her phone number. He wanted to see her before he died. See anyone. “Get me some money and head on down the road,” he said, eyes lowered, half to himself.
A cold winter night was minutes off, and Champ needed to find a bed, fast. This posed a problem, since taking leave of Champ was never fast. It was hard for him to overcome the inertia that crept into his bones while he sat, harder still to break away from anyone willing to listen. Watching him get his grocery cart going was like seeing an ocean liner off at the dock. The first movement was imperceptible. “See you later, Champ,” I said, hurrying him along, shaking that catcher’s mitt of a hand. Then I accidentally looked into his eyes, and I couldn’t help myself. I believed him.
Maybe it was faith born of guilt. Maybe it was my way of atoning. After all, I was the latest in a long line of people--managers, promoters, opponents--who wanted something from Champ. I wanted his aura, I wanted his story, I wanted his friendship. As partial restitution, the least I could give him was the benefit of the doubt.
Also, he was right. Only a monster would commit the crimes described in those court files, and I didn’t see any monster before me. Just a toothless boxer with a glass chin and a pigeon feather in his hat. Shaking his hand, I heard myself say, “Go get warm, Champ,” and I watched myself slip him another five-dollar bill.
*
LaMotta would not let up. He refused to let me write. Each time I tried, he swatted me around my subconscious. “Besides Bob Satterfield,” he’d said, “the only ones who ever hurt me were my ex-wives.” Men seldom speak of other men with such deference, such reverence, particularly men like LaMotta. One of the brashest fighters ever, he discussed Satterfield with all the bluster of a curtsy. “You sure it’s him?” he’d asked, distressed. “I heard he was dead.”
You sure it’s him? The courts were sure, the cops were sure, the editors were pretty sure. But I was getting ready to tell several million people that Bob Satterfield was a homeless wreck and a convicted child molester. Was I sure?
I phoned more boxing experts and historians, promoters and managers, libraries and clubs, referees and retired fighters, and that’s when I found Ernie Terrell, former heavyweight champion. I reached him in Chicago at the South Side offices of his janitorial business.
“You remember Bob Satterfield?” I asked.
“One of the hardest punchers who ever lived,” he said.
I’ve been hanging out with Satterfield, I said, and I need someone who can vouch for his identity. A long silence followed. A tingly silence, a harrowing silence, the kind of silence that precedes the bloodcurdling scream in a horror film. “Bob Satterfield is dead,” Terrell said.
“No, he’s not,” I said, laughing. “I just talked to him.”
“You talked to Bob Satterfield.”
“Yes. He sleeps in a park not 10 minutes from here.”
“Bob Satterfield?” he said. “Bob Satterfield the fighter? Bob Satterfield’s dead.”
Now it was my turn to be silent. When I felt the saliva returning to my mouth, I asked Terrell what made him so sure.
“Did you go to his funeral?” I asked.
He admitted that he had not.
“Do you have a copy of his obituary?”
Again, no.
“Then how do you know he’s dead?” I asked.
Suddenly, he seemed less sure.
“Hold on,” he said. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
He opened a third phone line and began conference-calling veteran corner men and trainers on the South Side. The voices that joined us on the line were disjointed and indistinct, as though recorded on scratchy vinyl records. Rather than a conference call, we were conducting a seance, summoning the spirits of boxing’s past. He dialed a gym where the phone rang and rang. When someone finally answered, Terrell asked to speak with D.D. The phone went dead for what seemed a week. In the background, I heard speed bags being thrummed and ropes being skipped, a sound like cicadas on a summer day. At last, a scruffy and querulous voice came on the line, more blues man than corner man.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Ernie.”
“Ernie?”
Ernie.”
“Ernie?”
“Ernie!”
“Yeah, Ernie, yeah.”
“I got a guy here on the other line from the Los Angeles Times, in California, says he’s writing a story about Bob Satterfield. You remember Bob Satterfield.”
“Suuure.”
“Says he just talked to Satterfield and Satterfield’s sleeping in a park out there in Santa Ana.”
“Bob Satterfield’s dead.”
“No,” I said.
I told them about Champ’s encyclopedic knowledge of his career. I told them about Champ’s well-documented reputation among cops, judges and reporters. I told them about Champ’s face matching old Satterfield photos.
“Then I will come out there and shoot that dude,” D.D. said. “Because Bob Satterfield is dead.”
Ten minutes later I was in Santa Ana, where I found Champ sweeping someone’s sidewalk for the price of a whiskey bottle. It was a hot spring day, and he looked spent from the hard work.
“Look,” I said, “a lot of people say you’re dead.”
“I’m the one,” he said, bouncing on his feet, shadowboxing playfully with me. “Battlin’ Bob Satterfield. I fought ‘em all. Ezzard Charles, Rocky Marciano--”
“Don’t you have any identification?” I said, exasperated. “A birth certificate? A union card? A Social Security card?”
He patted his pockets, nothing. We’d been through this.
“In that case,” I said, “I’m going to have to give you a test.”
Far from offended, he couldn’t wait. Leaning into me, he cocked his head to one side and closed his eyes, to aid concentration.
“Who was Jack Kearns?” I asked, knowing that “Doc” Kearns, who managed Jack Dempsey in the 1920s, briefly managed Satterfield’s early career.
“Jack Kearns,” Champ said. “He was the first manager I ever had.”
“All right,” I said. “Who’s this?”
I held before his nose a 45- 45-year-old wire photo of Iona Satterfield. Champ touched her face gingerly and said, “That’s Iona. That’s the only woman I ever loved.”
*
Asked to explain myself, I usually start with my father, who disappeared when I was 7 months old, walked away from his only son the way some people leave a party that’s grown dull. At precisely the moment I learned to crawl, he ran. An unfair head start, I always felt.
As a boy, I could repress all stirrings of curiosity about him, because I knew what he sounded like, and this seemed sufficient. A well-known radio man in New York City, he often came floating out of my grandmother’s olive-drab General Electric clock-radio, cracking jokes and doing bits, until an adult passing through the room would lunge for the dial. It was thought that The Voice upset me. No one realized that The Voice nourished me. My father was invisible, therefore mythic. He was whatever I wanted him to be, and his rumbling baritone inspired mental pictures of every male archetype, from Jesus to Joe Namath to Baloo the bear in “The Jungle Book.”
Over time, I grew impatient with the mystery surrounding him, the not knowing, particularly when he changed his name and vanished altogether. (Seeing fatherhood and child support as a maximum-security prison, he took a fugitive’s pains to cover his tracks once he escaped.) As his absence came to feel more like a constant presence, I spent long hours puzzling about the potential intersections between his identity and mine. My predecessor in the generational parade, my accursed precursor, was a voice. It unnerved me. It unmanned me. One day, shortly before my 17th birthday, I made what felt like a conscious decision to find him. At least, that’s what I thought until I met Champ, who forced me to see that no such conscious decision ever took place, that I’d been trying to find my father all my life, that every man is trying to find his father.
True, a love of boxing and a budding disenchantment with daily journalism sparked my original interest in Champ. Then a genuine fondness made me befriend him. But what made me study him like an insect under a microscope was my inescapable fascination with anyone who disappears, dissolves his identity, walks away from fame and family. When pushed to deconstruct my relationship with Champ, I saw that we were trading more than fivers and fellowship. Champ was using me as a surrogate for his dead son, and I was using him as a stand-in for my own deep-voiced demon, whom I met after a brief, furious search.
We sat in an airport coffee shop and talked like strangers. Strangers who had the same nose and chin. I remember random things. I remember that he was the first man I ever made nervous. I remember that he wore a black leather coat, ordered eggs Benedict and flirted relentlessly with the waitress, asking like some fussy lord if the chef made his own Hollandaise sauce. I remember that he was portly and jovial, with wild eyebrows that forked straight out from his head. I remember laughing at his stories, laughing against my will because he could be painfully funny. I remember breathing in his peppery scent, a uniquely male cocktail of rubbing alcohol, hair spray and Marlboro 100s. I remember the hug when we parted, the first time I ever hugged another man.
But what we said to each other over the hours we sat together, I don’t know. The meeting was so emotionally high-watt that it shorted my memory circuits. My only other impression of that night is one of all-pervasive awe. My father, my mythic father, had boozed away his future and parlayed his considerable talents into a pile of unpaid bills. I saw none of that. If losing him was a hardship, losing my mythic idea of him would have been torture. So I chose to see him as a fallen god, an illusion he fostered with a few white lies. I loved him in the desperate way you love someone when you need to.
Now, months after meeting Champ, I asked myself if I wasn’t viewing this poor homeless man through the same hopeful myopia. If so, why? The answer dawned one day while I was reading “Moby-Dick,” the bible of obsession, which provides a special sort of reading pleasure when you substitute the word “father” for “whale”: “It is a thing most sorrowful, nay shocking, to expose the fall of valor in the soul. . . . That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves . . . bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man.”
When the valor-ruined man is your father, the anguish quadruples and the manliness hemorrhages. Sometimes the anguish reaches such a crescendo that you simply disobey your eyes. Anything to stanch the bleeding.
Because he recalled the specter of my father and his equally enigmatic cop-out, Champ might have revived that early talent I showed for self-deception. He also either benefited or suffered from the trinity of habits that constitutes my father’s legacy. An obsession with questions of identity. A tendency to overestimate men. And an inability to leave the past alone.
*
Not every homeless man can look nonchalant speaking into a cellular phone, but Champ acclimated himself to the technology, even if he did aim the phone at that part of the heavens where he imagined Ohio to be. He told his sister he was fine, getting by, and urged her to cooperate. “Please,” he said, handing me the phone, “let this man look at my scrapbook.”
Establishing Champ’s credibility was one thing. Establishing mine with his sister was another. Lily couldn’t imagine what I wanted from her poor brother, and I couldn’t blame her. I tried to explain that Champ merited a newspaper story because he’d contended for the title.
“You remember your brother fighting,” I said, “as Bob Satterfield?”
“Yes,” she said casually.
“And you have a scrapbook with clippings and photos?”
“I’ve had that scrapbook for years.”
I asked her to mail me the book, but she refused. She wasn’t about to ship a family heirloom to someone she’d never met. Again, I couldn’t blame her.
It was then that I heard from a former boxing writer. He’d been watching TV recently when he hit on something called the Classic Sports Network, which was airing a prehistoric episode of Rocky Marciano’s TV show, wherein Marciano analyzed a 1951 bout at Madison Square Garden between Rex Layne and Bob Satterfield.
When the tape arrived the next morning, I cradled it like a newborn to the nearest VCR. There was Marciano, pudgy and past his prime, a real-life version of Fred Flintstone. Beside him sat his guest, comic Jimmy Durante. After several excruciating minutes of idle chitchat, Marciano turned to Durante and said, “I want to show you the Bob Satterfield-Rex Layne fight.”
Durante’s eyes widened.
“Satterfield?!” he said.
You remember him?” Marciano asked.
“So help me,” Durante said, “he’s my favorite. A great, great fighter. I thought he’d be a champion.”
“He had the punch, Jim,” Marciano said, shaking his head.
The screen went dark. A ring appeared. In the foreground stood a man in a hooded robe, his back to the camera. On either side of him stood corner men in cardigan sweaters, “SATTERFIELD” emblazoned across their backs. Doffing his robe, the fighter started forward, his torso atremble with muscles. Slowly he turned toward the camera, and I saw that he was not Champ. The resemblance was strong, as the resemblance between Champ and old photos of Satterfield had been strong. But they were different men.
My stomach tightened as the “real” Satterfield threw a walloping right. Layne dropped to one knee and shook his head, not knowing what hit him. I knew exactly how he felt.
Champ a fake. Somehow I felt less betrayed when I thought he was a child molester. It made me sick. It made no sense. He knew too much about Satterfield. He knew the record. He knew Doc Kearns. He recognized Iona. Plus, he was built like a fighter--that body, those hands. Yes, I thought, he’s built like a fighter.
I phoned The Ring and asked Mainwaring to check his records for a heavyweight named Tommy Harrison. Minutes later, he faxed me the file. There, at long last, was Champ. This time, no allowance needed to be made for the passage of years and the corrosive effects of whiskey. That body, those hands.
Besides his name, it seemed, Champ was frequently telling the truth. Not only did he break Marciano’s nose, the injury postponed a storied rematch with Walcott. Like Satterfield, he had been a highly touted contender, a guy within striking distance of the championship. Like Satterfield, he had fought Ezzard Charles. In fact, Harrison and Satterfield had fought many of the same men.
Opponents weren’t the only thing they had in common. Both were Army veterans. Both were right-handers. Both were built like light-heavyweights. Both were anxious to break into the heavyweight division. Both were clobbered when they tried. Both retired in the mid-1950s. Both were born in November; their birthdays were one day apart.
“He’s fast,” Marciano said of Harrison in one clipping. “Has a great ring future. In a year or so, if I’m still champ, I expect trouble from him.”
The file proved that Champ was a fraud, or delusional, or something in between. But it couldn’t explain his motives, nor account for his corroborative sister. In fact, it raised more questions than it answered, including the most pressing question of all: If Champ wasn’t Satterfield, who was?
Ernie Terrell said Satterfield was dead. But I couldn’t find an obituary--not even in Chicago. How did a fighter of Satterfield’s stature not rate a death notice in his native city?
Phone directories in scores of area codes listed hundreds of Satterfields, too many to dial. A search of databases throughout the Midwest found one Illinois death certificate in the name of Robert Satterfield, a truck driver buried in Restvale Cemetery, Worth, Ill. Under next of kin, a son on the South Side of Chicago.
“Robert Satterfield Junior?” I asked when the son answered the phone.
“Yes?”
“I’m writing a story about Bob Satterfield, the heavyweight of the 1950s, and I was wondering if you might be any--”
“That’s my father,” he said proudly.
*
The neighborhood was dodgy, some houses well kept and others falling down. Few addresses were visible and some street signs were gone, so I drove in circles, getting lost twice, doubling back, and that’s when I saw him. Bob Satterfield. In the flesh.
After staring at old newspaper photos and studying the tape of his fight with Rex Layne, I’d committed Satterfield’s face to memory--never realizing he might have bequeathed that face to his son. Seeing Satterfield Jr. outside his house, the resemblance fooled me like a mirage, and I did what anyone in my shoes would have done: I backed straight into his neighbor’s truck.
The first time I ever laid eyes on Bob Satterfield, therefore, he flinched, as though bracing for a punch.
After making sure I’d left no visible dent, we shook hands and went inside his brick house, the nicest on the block. The living room was neat and intensely bright, morning sunlight practically shattering the glass windows. He introduced me to his wife, Elaine, who took my hand somewhat timidly. Together, they waved me toward the couch, then sat far away, grimacing.
They were visibly afraid of me, but they did everything possible to make me feel welcome. She was all smiles and bottled-up energy; he was old-school polite, verging on courtly. He’d just finished a double shift at O’Hare, where he loaded cargo for a living, and he actually apologized for his exhaustion. I looked into his basset-hound eyes and cringed, knowing I’d soon add to his burdens.
I started by acknowledging their apprehension. As far as they knew, I’d come all the way from California to ask questions about a fighter few people remembered. It seemed suspicious.
“But the first time I heard the name Bob Satterfield,” I said, “was when I met this man.”
I dealt them several photos of Champ, like gruesome playing cards, then court papers and clippings describing Champ as Satterfield. Another profile had recently appeared in a college newspaper, and I laid this atop the pile. Lastly, I outlined Champ’s criminal past. They looked at each other gravely.
“I hate this man,” Elaine blurted.
Satterfield Jr. lit a cigarette and gazed at Champ. He murmured something about a resemblance, then walked to a sideboard, from which he pulled a crumbling scrapbook. Returning to his chair, he balanced the book on one knee and began assembling photos, clippings, documents, anything to help me recognize that Champ’s impersonation was no victimless crime.
While I scrutinized the scrapbook, Satterfield Jr. talked about his father’s life. He told me about his father’s close friends, Miles Davis and Muhammad Ali, who met his first wife through Satterfield. He told me about his father’s triumphs in the ring and the difficult decision to retire. (After suffering a detached retina in 1958, Satterfield fled to Paris and studied painting.) He told me about his father’s ancestry, back, back, back, and I understood the desperation seeping into his voice, a desperation that made him stammer badly. He’d opened his door to a total stranger who repaid the hospitality by declaring that countless other strangers believed his beloved father was “a valor-ruined man.” I’d walked up clean steps to talk to clean people and made them feel dirty.
Lastly, Satterfield Jr. produced his father’s birth certificate, plus a 1977 obituary from a now-defunct Chicago newspaper. To these precious items he added a photo of his parents strolling arm in arm, kissing. When I told Satterfield Jr. about Champ pointing to Iona and calling her “the only woman I ever loved,” I thought he might eat the coffee table.
“That somebody would intrude on his memory like this,” Elaine said. “My father-in-law was a man. He was a man’s man, nothing like the men of today. He was a prideful man. He continued to work up until his operation for cancer. If a person knows he’s dying, and he still gets up to go to work, that says a lot about him as a man, and if he knew some homeless man sleeping on a park bench was impersonating him--”
She stopped herself and went to the window, struggling to keep her composure. Satterfield Jr. now began phoning family. "I’m sitting here with a reporter from the Los Angeles Times,” he shouted into the phone, “and he says there’s a man in California who’s telling everybody he’s Bob Satterfield the fighter. He’s homeless and he has a very bad record, and he’s been molesting children and he’s using Pop’s name. Yeah. Uh huh. Now, now, don’t cry...”
*
RESURRECTING THE CHAMP
By: J.R. Moehringer
PART 3
An old boxing hand once said, “You never learn anything until you’re tired,” and by that criterion I’m capable of learning plenty right now. After the overnight flight, after the cab ride through the rainy dawn to this downtown Columbus hotel, I’m tired enough to understand why Champ’s sister doesn’t trust me, and why she’s turned me over to Champ’s nephew, Gregory Harrison, who trusts me even less. I left word for him two hours ago saying I’d arrived, but he seems like a guy who’d rather give me a stiff beating than a straight answer, so the chance of seeing Champ’s scrapbook seems remote.
Above all, I’m tired enough to understand that Champ isn’t Satterfield, never was Satterfield, never will be, no matter how hard I try. But I’m also tired enough to understand why he pretended to be Satterfield. He became Satterfield because he didn’t like being Tommy Harrison.
It was Satterfield Jr. who made me appreciate how ripe his father was for imitation. Fast, stylish, pretty, Satterfield was Champ’s superior in every way. He was the ballyhooed one, the better one. Yes, he had the famously weak chin. But he led with it, time after time, meaning he had one hellacious heart. Champ must have studied Satterfield from afar, longingly, as I did. He must have gone to school on Satterfield, devouring facts about his life, as I did. He must have viewed Satterfield as a model, an ideal, as I also did. One day, Champ must have spied Satterfield across a musty gym, perhaps with Doc Kearns, or a smoky nightclub, where Iona was the prettiest girl in the joint, and said, “Ah, to be him.” From there, it was a short, dizzy trip to “I am him.”
As a man, you need someone to instruct you in the masculine verities. Your father is your first choice, but when he drops out, you search for someone else. If you’re careless, the search creeps into your psyche and everyone becomes a candidate, from homeless men to dead boxers. If you’re careless and unlucky, the search devours you. That doppelganger eats you up.
“One of the primary things boxing is about is lying,” Joyce Carol Oates writes in “On Boxing.” “It’s about systematically cultivating a double personality: the self in society, the self in the ring.”
What Champ did, I think, was sprout a third self, a combination of the two, which may be what Champ has been trying to tell me all along.
After Chicago, I wanted to scold him about the people his lies were hurting. But when I found him wearing a 10-gallon cowboy hat and a polo shirt with toothbrushes stuffed in the breast pocket, my anger drained away.
“Champ,” I said, “when you pretended to be Bob Satterfield, weren’t you afraid the other Bob Satterfield would find out?”
Without hesitating, he put a hand to his chin and said, “I always figured the other Bob Satterfield knew about me. As long as everyone got paid, I didn’t think the other Bob Satterfield would mind."
"What?”
“This is just you and me talking,” he said. “But my manager, George Parnassus, he told me like this here: ‘If you go to fight in Sioux City, Iowa, and you say you is Bob Satterfield, then you get a big crowd, see? But if you say you is Tommy Harrison, and like that, you only get a medium-size crowd.’ ”
Champ’s manager had been dead 20 years. But his son, Msgr. George Parnassus, was pastor of St. Victor’s Roman Catholic Church in West Hollywood. I phoned Parnassus and told him about Champ, then asked if his father might have staged bogus fights in the 1950s. Before TV came along, I ventured, most fighters were faceless names in the dark, so it might have been easy, and it might have been highly profitable, to promote look-alike fighters in out-of-the-way places. Say, Sioux City.
“Why do you say Sioux City?” he demanded.
“Because Champ said Sioux City.”
“My father moved to Sioux City in the 1950s and staged fights there for a number of years.”
Which is why I’m in Columbus this morning. I owed it to Champ to take one last stab at the truth. I owed it to myself. More than anyone, I owed it to Satterfield, whose absence I’ve come to feel like a constant presence.
“I’ve had a lot of disappointments,” Satterfield told a reporter in 1958, sitting in a hospital with his detached retina. “I don’t remember all the disappointments I’ve had.” Maybe, 40 years later, he’s still disappointed. Maybe he knows someone swiped the only shiny prize he ever had--his good name--and he can’t rest until he gets it back. All this time, I’ve been casting Satterfield as Moby Dick, myself as Ahab. Now I’m wondering if Satterfield is the real Ahab, and Champ the whale. Which makes me the harpoon.
The phone rings.
“I’m downstairs.”
*
Champ’s nephew is sitting in the middle of the lobby, unaware or pretending to be unaware that people are staring. It’s not that he looks out of place, with his floor-length black leather overcoat and gold-rimmed sunglasses. It’s that he looks famous. He also looks like a younger, fitter, toothier version of Champ.
He shakes my hand tentatively and we duck into the hotel restaurant. The place is closed, but a waiter says we’re welcome to have coffee. We sit by a rain-streaked window. I thank him for meeting me, but he whips off his sunglasses and stares.
“I’m not here for you,” he says. “I’m here for my Uncle Tommy. And before I tell you anything you need to know, I need to know from you why you would get on a plane and fly all night, come all the way from California, to Columbus, Ohio, to write a story about my uncle?”
I try explaining my complicated relationship with his uncle, but the subject makes me more mumbly than Champ. Interrupting, he says softly: “Uncle Tommy was the father I should have had.”
He tells me about the only time he met his uncle, a meeting so charged that it defined his life, and I wonder if he notices the strange look on my face.
“My Uncle Tommy was like the Last Action Hero,” he says. “I wanted to be just like him.”
“You were a boxer,” I say.
I was a sparring partner of Buster Douglas,” he says, sitting straighter.
His nickname was Capital City Lip, but everyone nowadays calls him Lip. With the waiters watching, he throws his right, jabs his left, bobs away from an invisible opponent, taking me through several hard-won fights, and I’m reminded of the many times his uncle broke Marciano’s nose for my enjoyment.
“When you hit a guy,” he says dreamily, “when you hit him in the body, you demean his manner, you know? You sap his strength, you impose your will on him. I was in the tippy-top physical shape of my life! No one could beat me! I was good!”
“What happened?”
He purses his lips. His story is Champ’s story, Satterfield’s story, every fighter’s story. One day, there was someone he just couldn’t beat.
“Now I race drag bikes,” he says.
“Drag bikes? Why?”
“Because someday I want to be world champion of something.”
His father got him interested, he says, mentioning the man in a curious way. “My father walks down the street, people part ways,” he says. “Big George, that’s what everyone in Columbus calls my father. He was a boxer, too, although he didn’t go as far as Uncle Tommy.”
Feeling an opening, I try to tell Lip about my father. He seems confused at first, then instantly empathetic. He understands the link between boxing and growing up fatherless. Maybe only a boxer can fathom that kind of fear.
“Have you ever heard the name Bob Satterfield?” I ask.
“Yes, I have heard that name.”
As a boy, Lip often heard that Uncle Tommy fought as Bob Satterfield, but he never knew why.
He promises to bring me Champ’s scrapbook tomorrow, then take me to meet his father. I walk him outside to his Jeep, which is double-parked in a tow zone, hazard lights flashing, just as he left it three hours ago.
*
White shirt, white pants, white shoes, Lip comes for me the next morning looking like an angel of the streets. As we zoom away from the hotel, I scan the backseat, floor, dashboard. No scrapbook. The angel shakes his head.
“Aunt Lily just doesn’t trust you,” he says. “I was over there all morning, but she won’t let that book out of her house.”
I groan.
“I looked through the book myself, though,” he says, lighting a cigarette, “and I don’t think it has what you want. This Bob Satterfield, the book has lots of newspaper articles about his career, and there’s a picture of him with my uncle--”
I wince.
“--and an article saying Satterfield and my uncle Tommy were scheduled to fight."
Disconsolate, I stare at the bullet hole in the windshield.
We drive to Lip’s father’s house, where a candy-apple red Cadillac the size of a fire engine sits outside, license plate “BIG GEO.” Lip takes a deep breath, then knocks. Whole minutes crawl by before the door flies open and Champ’s brother appears. He looks nothing like Champ, mainly because of old burn scars across his face. But wrapped in a baby blue bathrobe and glowering hard, he does look like an old boxer. He turns and disappears inside the house. Meekly, we follow.
Off to the left is a small room crammed with trophies and boxing memorabilia. To the right seems to be the living room, though it’s impossible to tell because all the lights are off. Big George keeps moving until he reaches a high-backed chair. Despite the oceanic darkness of the place, he remains clearly visible, as if lit from within by his own anger. I can see why he’s such a force in Lip’s life. He scares the wits out of me.
Rubbing his palms together, Lip tells his father I’m writing a story about Uncle Tommy.
“Hmph,” Big George scoffs. “Tommy. He’s a stranger to me. He’s my brother and I love him, but he’s a stranger.”
“Have you ever heard the name Bob Satterfield?” I ask.
“Bob Satterfield,” Big George says, “was one of the hardest punchers of all time--”
He coughs, a horrifying cough, then adds:
“--but he couldn’t take a punch.”
“Do you remember Tommy ever fighting as Bob Satterfield?” I ask.
“Tommy never fought as nobody else.”
He stands and goes to a sideboard, where he rifles through a stack of papers and bills. “Here,” he says, yanking loose a yellowed newspaper account of the night in 1953 when Champ’s life began its downward spiral.
“Tommy wasn’t ready for Ezzard Charles,” Big George says with sudden tenderness while Lip and I read over his shoulder. “They rushed him.”
The three of us stand together, silently, as though saying a prayer for Champ. Then, without warning, Lip breaks the mood, mentioning a beef he’s having with Big George. They start to argue, and I see that Lip brought me here for more than an interview. He’s hoping I can play referee. As with Champ, I was too busy using him to notice that he was using me.
Father and son argue for five minutes, each landing heavy verbal blows. Then Big George makes it plain that these will be the final words spoken on the subject.
“The Bible say this,” he bellows. “Honor your parents! Honor your mother and father! Regardless what they say, what they do, all mothers and dads love their children! All of them!”
“He’s lying to you,” Lip says when we get in the car.
I look at him, startled.
“About what?”
"He knows all about Satterfield."
We drive to a beloved old gym that former champion Buster Douglas helped rebuild after knocking down Mike Tyson. Inside, we find Douglas’ father, Bill, training a young featherweight. When Lip tells Douglas that I’m writing about his uncle, “a former heavyweight con-TEN-der,” Douglas nods his head several times, and I feel Lip’s self-worth balloon with each nod.
We watch the featherweight work the heavy bag, a black, water-filled sack that hangs from the ceiling. Each time he snaps a hard right, the bag swings like a man in a noose. His name is Andre Cray, and he’s 25. Rawboned and scowling, with a flat head and rubbery limbs, he looks like an angry Gumby. When his workout ends, we ask him why he chose boxing as a trade.
“To me it’s like an art,” he says quietly, unwinding the padded white tape from his fists.
But this isn’t the real reason, he admits. Growing up without money, without a father, boxing was the only straight path to manhood. Many of his friends chose the crooked path, a choice they didn’t always live to regret. Those who prospered in the crack trade often gave Cray money and begged him not to follow their lead. Some even bought him gloves and shoes, to make sure the streets didn’t claim another boxer.
He remembers those early patrons, uses their fate as inspiration. His future is bright, he figures, if he can just protect his chin and not lose heart. In 19 fights, he’s scored 17 wins. When he loses, he says, the anguish is more than he can stand.
“You have family?” Lip asks.
“Yeah,” Cray says. “I have a son. He’ll be 1 on Tuesday.”
“What’s his name?”
“Andre Cray Junior.”
“I imagine he inspires you a lot.”
“Yeah,” Cray says, looking down at his oversize hands.
Lip nods, solemn. Douglas nods. I nod.
*
Like a favorite movie, the one-reel “Satterfield Versus Layne” says something different every time I watch, each punch a line of multilayered dialogue. After several hundred viewings, the core theme emerges. It’s about pressing forward, I think. Ignoring your pain. Standing.
“Satterfield is out of this world,” Marciano says in his narrative voice-over. “He’s one of the hardest hitters I’ve ever seen.”
Satterfield lives up to his reputation in the very first minute, greeting Layne with a vicious second-clefter on the point of the chin. Kneeling, Layne takes the count, then staggers upright and hugs Satterfield until the bell.
Satterfield, in white trunks, with a pencil-thin mustache and muscles upon muscles, is a joy to look at. Decades before Nautilus, his biceps look like triple-scoop ice cream cones. By contrast, Layne looks like a soda jerk who’s wandered mistakenly into the ring. Over the first three rounds he does little more than push his black trunks and flabby belly back and forth while offering his square head as a stationary target.
Still, Layne seems the luckier man. In the sixth, Satterfield puts every one of his 180 pounds behind a right hook. He brings the fist from behind his back like a bouquet of flowers, but Layne weaves, avoiding the punch by half an inch. “Just missed!” Marciano shouts. “That would have done it!”
Had that punch landed, everything would be different. Layne would be stretched out on the canvas, Satterfield would be looking forward to the title shot he craves. Instead, the eighth begins, and Satterfield’s wondering what more he can do. It’s LaMotta all over again. No matter what you do, the other guy keeps coming--obdurate, snarling, fresh.
Far ahead on points, Satterfield can still win a decision, as long as he protects himself, covers up, plays it safe. He does just the opposite, charging forward, chin high, the only way he knows. In the kind of punch-for-punch exchange that went out with fedoras, Satterfield and Layne stand one inch apart, winging at each other from all directions, Satterfield trying frantically to turn out Layne’s dim bulb--until Layne lands a right hook on the magic chin.
“I don’t think [he] can get up,” Marciano says as Satterfield lies on his back, blinking at the house lights. “But look at this guy try.”
Boxing’s Humpty-Dumpty. The book on Satterfield proves true. Or does it? Always, this is the moment I hit the pause button and talk to Satterfield while he tries to tap some hidden wellspring of strength. Somehow, he taps it every time, a display of pure grit that never fails to make my heart beat faster.
“He’s hurt bad,” Marciano says, as Satterfield stands and signals the referee that he’s ready for another dose. Dutifully, Layne steps forward and sends a crashing left into Satterfield’s head. Then a right. And another right. Finally, the referee rushes forward and removes Satterfield’s mouthpiece. Corner men leap into the ring. Photographers with flashes the size of satellite dishes shoot the covers of tomorrow’s sports pages. Amid all the commotion, Layne takes a mincing step forward and does something shocking.
It’s hard to believe, in an age of end-zone dances and home-run trots, that boxers in a bygone era often hugged after their meanest fights. (Some actually kissed.) But Layne gives that post-fight tenderness a new twist. As Satterfield sags against the ropes, dead-eyed, Layne reaches out to touch him ever so lightly on the cheek.
It’s a haunting gesture, so intimate and unexpected that it begs imitation. Like Layne--like Champ--I want to reach out to Satterfield, to show my admiration. I want to tell him how glad I am to make his acquaintance, how grateful I am for the free instruction. More than all that, I suppose, I just want to thank him for the fight.
One day, after watching his greatest defeat, I visit his impostor.
“Heyyy,” Champ says, beaming, waving hello. “What do you know about that? Hey, your picture ran through my mind many times, and then I’d say, well, my friend, he give me up.”
He’s wearing a white karate uniform, mismatched sneakers and a shirt from the Orange County Jail. Clouds of flies swarm around his head and grocery cart this warm November afternoon, Champ’s 67th birthday. Tomorrow would have been Satterfield’s 73rd.
There are many things about Champ that I don’t know, things I’ll probably never know. He either got money to be Satterfield, then forgot to drop the con, or wished he were Satterfield, then let the wish consume him. Not knowing doesn’t bother me as I feared it would. Not getting his scrapbook doesn’t torment me as I thought it might. Every man is a mystery, because manhood itself is so mysterious; that’s what Champ taught me. Maturity means knowing when to solve another man's mystery, and when to respect it.
Been traveling,” I tell him. “And guess where I went?”
He cocks his head.
“Columbus. And guess who I saw? Your nephew, Gregory.”
“That’s my brother’s son!”
“Yep. And guess who else I met. Big George.”
He pulls a sour face, like his brother’s, and we both laugh.
We talk about George, Lily and Lip, and Champ grows heavy with nostalgia. He recalls his childhood, particularly his stern father, who hit him so hard one day that he flayed the muscle along Champ’s left bicep. Champ rolls up his sleeve to show me the mark, but I look away.
To cheer him up, to cheer us both up, I ask Champ to tell me once more about busting Marciano’s nose.
“Marciano and I were putting on an exhibition that day,” he says, crouching. “We were going good. But he had that long overhand right, and every time I seen it coming, I’d duck it. And I’d come up, and I’d keep hitting him on the tip of his nose."
He touches my nose with a gentle uppercut, flies trailing in the wake of his fist.
“On the tip, on the tip, I kept hitting,” he says. “Finally, his nose started bleeding, and they stopped the fight.”
Smiling now, more focused than I’ve ever seen him, Champ says he needs my advice. He’s been reviewing his life lately, wondering what next. Times are hard, he says, and maybe he should head on down the road, polish up the Cadillac and return to Columbus, though he fears the cold and what it does to an old boxer’s bones.
“What do you think?” he says.
“I think you should go be with people who love you and care about you,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s true, that’s true.”
We watch the cars whizzing by, jets roaring overhead, strangers walking past.
“Well, Champ,” I say, slipping him $5. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, stopping me. “Now, listen.”
He rests one of his heavy hands on my shoulder, a gesture that makes me swallow hard and blink for some reason. I look into his eyes, and from his uncommonly serious expression, I know he’s getting ready to say something important.
"I know you a long time,” he says warmly, flashing that toothless smile, groping for the words. “Tell me your name again.”
Like I said, that story about Bob Satterfield was a descent into total madness and one hell of a ride, and I'll leave it at that. Thank you Mr. Moehringer. As it so happens, Bob Satterfield is one of my all-time favorite fighters, for one simple reason, he was a apocalyptic puncher. Watching him on film, you can instantly tell he could bang by how hard he swings on his opponent.
Vicente Saldivar, "El Zurdo De Oro", aka "The Golden Lefty." He was one of the greatest featherweights and pound for pound fighters in the history of the sport. He was a southpaw, could box or brawl, but he was famous for endless stamina, he seemed to get stronger as a fight progressed into the later rounds, when most guys start to wear out, he would kick it into another gear, seven of his knockouts came after the 7th round, he was a real Terminator. It's hard to beat a guy when he gets stronger as a fight goes along, he just doesn't break down, Saldivar was known for that, it's like he was Popeye the Sailor Man and his corner was feeding him cans of Spinach in between rounds, this guy was no joke when it came to stamina, and his work rate was through the roof.
‘THE GOLDEN LEFTY’ – THE VICENTE SALDÍVAR STORY
Vicente Saldívar – A name often lost in the pantheon of great Mexican and featherweight champions. Standing at just 5-foot 3-inches tall, he punched his way to the top of the division and maintained one of the most significant championship reigns in the history of the 126-pound weight category. This is the story of his short life and celebrated career.
Growing up on the deprived outskirts of Mexico City, he was accustomed to fighting from an early age, building a reputation for street fighting and frequently disciplined by his school for aggressive behaviour.
Fearing his son was heading down the wrong path, Vicente’s father decided to take his son to a boxing gym, in an attempt to refocus his negative energy into a productive pursuit. It was at this gym where the child would meet veteran trainer, Jose Moreno.
Saldívar developed a burning passion for boxing and pursued what later became a successful amateur career. Having won the Mexican Golden Gloves title at bantamweight, he earned a spot in the 1960 Olympic Squad. Disappointingly, his trip to the summer games in Italy was short-lived, as he was eliminated in the first round of the tournament by Ernst Chervet.
Following the defeat, he made the bold decision to turn professional just a year later in 1961 and campaigned in the featherweight division. He adopted the nickname “The Golden Lefty” as his southpaw style was unique and immensely effective. He could effortlessly transition between boxing on the back-foot and pressing on the front-foot. His unusually low pulse rate enabled him to sustain an exceptional work-rate. The Mexican was often compared to Henry Armstrong for his seemingly limitless stamina.
During his early years in the paid ranks, he was still finding his feet and showed glimpses of immaturity, tasting his first defeat in the form of disqualification against Baby Luis in his seventh fight. The pair met again half a year later and Saldívar made no mistakes second time round, as he battered the Cuban into submission in the eighth round.
After three years competing for modest money on low-key shows, he was finally rewarded with his first big opportunity – taking on Juan Ramírez for the Mexican featherweight title. He quick dispatched his fellow countryman and snatched the title in just two rounds.
He successfully defended the national crown once, followed by his most impressive victory to date against future lightweight champion and Hall of Famer, Ismael Laguna. This propelled him to the status of a serious contender and earned him a dream opportunity to fight for world honours.
The fight was made against Sugar Ramos for the WBC and WBC featherweight straps. Fans were anticipating a classic Cuba vs Mexico match-up, with most favouring the champion to use his experience to outsmart the younger challenger. Saldívar was fearless, though, knocking out anyone who stood in his way – and he wasn’t going to let this challenge stop him reaching the summit of his division.
It turned out to be an epic battle between two of the toughest men in the sport. The challenger shocked many onlookers by taking the early rounds and slowly breaking the will of the much-favoured champion. At the end of eleven gruelling rounds, Ramos retired on his stool and a new Mexican star was born.
HOWARD WINSTONE-VS-VICENTE SALDIVAR
The first of his world championship reigns would span three years, during which he would make eight successful defences of his belts, including the career-defining trilogy with Howard Winstone.
Winstone was a national hero in Wales and it was predicted by many that he was destined for greatness. However, there was a constant thorn in his side that frustrated his ambition of becoming a superstar. That thorn came in the shape of the diminutive Vicente Saldívar.
Howard had established himself as the outstanding contender in the division, and a world title was all he needed to elevate himself to the highest echelon of the sport. Whilst Saldívar was ruling the division and was ready to resist any challenges to his hard-earned position of dominance.
The pair ended up clashing three times in a short two-year period. Saldívar vs Winstone was a classic case of skill vs brutality. In all three of their fights, Winstone was superior in the early stages, out-boxing his rival while staying out of punching distance for the most part. However, he would repeatedly fade in the latter stages, allowing Saldívar to wrest control. Although the champion was victorious on all three occasions, Winston certainly gave him a run for his money.
Their first two meetings took place in the UK and after two extremely competitive fights that ended in close scorecard decisions for Saldívar, they returned to Mexico for one final dance. This time, though, Saldívar’s power and work-rate prevailed and the challenger succumbed to a stoppage victory in the twelfth round.
Having watched the three encounters, I feel that if the fights had been only 10 rounds, they would have potentially resulted in a different outcome. The challenger was the better fighter for the first nine or ten rounds in each fight, but he would struggle to retain composure in the later stages, which is when Saldívar would unleash his heavy body shots and ramp-up the inside pressure.
What made the Mexican special was his ability to stay in the fight during the early rounds and utilise his superior stamina, in the confidence that he could drag his opponents into deep waters and suffocate them in the later rounds; truly a hallmark of a championship fighter.
Although the trilogy is an important part of his legacy, Saldívar beat other top contenders and world class fighters during his reign, such as: Raul Rojas and Mitsunori Seki (whom he beat twice).
The Mexican hero then took a twenty-one month break away from the squared-circle and relinquished his titles. During his sabbatical, he frequently assessed whether he still had the ability and hunger to compete at the highest level of the sport.
He eventually opted back into the game and returned with a routine ten round decision over José Legra, before taking on Johnny Famechon in a battle to reclaim his WBC crown. He would take back his title with a unanimous decision victory, however, his second reign would be brief, as he was defeated seven months later in his first defence, by Kuniaki Shibata.
Saldívar would fight once more before retiring again in 1971. Once again, he found himself missing the sport that had become his life and passion. So, at the age of thirty and having been inactive for two years and three months, he challenged fellow Hall of Famer and former Bantamweight champion, Éder Jofre. It was a sad night in Salvador, Brazil, as the boxing fraternity witnessed the once unstoppable Saldívar get dismantled inside four rounds. The Mexican’s skills had diminished completely and he proved a shadow of his former self. This spelled the end of what was a phenomenal career.
He finished his professional campaign with a record of 37-3-0 with 26 KO’s – and to this day – he is still the record holder for most wins in unified featherweight title bouts – and the longest unified featherweight championship reign in history.
Unfortunately, like most boxers, Vicente struggled to deal with the reality that he could no longer reach the heights to which he’d become accustomed. With the absence of boxing from his life, there was left a gaping void. Alcohol unfortunately filled that void and he tragically died in 1985, at just forty-two-years-old. Cancer was the cause of death.
Saldívar was later inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 1999. It was a well-deserved honour for one of the most accomplished and talented featherweight and Mexican pugilists of all-time.
He will also be remembered for competing in front of the fourth largest crowd in history, 90,000 people in the Estadio Azteca.
“The Golden Lefty” will rightfully be remembered for his dominance in the 126lbs division – and his name deserves to belong beside fellow great countryman Julio Cesar Chavez, Rubén Olivares, Salvador Sanchez and many more.
This is a true hardcore scientific analysis of Vicente Saldivar, he truly was one of the greatest and most complex fighters in the history of the boxing. I apologize for not being able to post the videos that go along with this article, but this stuff is Gold even without the videos, god I love this sport.
Vicente Saldivar: The Subtle Storm
Within the annals of boxing history, even the greatest fighters tend to be forgotten. Regarding discussions of the greatest southpaws or Mexican pugilists to ever compete, featherweight great Vicente Saldivar is, in this writer’s opinion, not given the credence he truly deserves. Although Saldivar’s inherent aggression was fueled into a passion for boxing at a young age, his first round loss in the 1960s Olympics brought a halt to his streak. Over a decade later, however, and the Mexican had smashed his ticket into the historical legends of the 126-weight-class lexicon with a scorched earth fury that saw even the most veteran and determined of fighters wilt.
It’s here that I have to offer a disclaimer: Out of all the boxers I have covered so far, Saldivar is genuinely difficult to define stylistically. Not only was he dynamic, but he had an uncanny ability to build, could operate on a slow pace, build into a nigh-unstoppable terminator - and was as battle tested as any top fighter could be.
In simpler terms: Saldivar would do the bare minimum and then he would land the most accurate nine-punch combination you could find out of nowhere.
This article will, therefore, attempt to address three questions:
1) What is Saldivar’s process for winning fights?
2) How is Saldivar able to accomplish the above sequences?
3) What fighter archetype can we classify Saldivar as?
Ultimately, working upon any analysis of Saldivar’s game begins at how he starts any bout. He will work on the outside or neutral changes, applying a feeler jab.
I have already talked about the versatility of a jab at length before, though it bears repeating here: The jab is the building block for a boxer because it can operate as any sort of tool. And Saldivar’s entire game would not be possible without it.
In this compilation, the lead hand can be seen doing a bit of everything: It starts an exchange or combination, it can counter, it can close the door, it establishes a threat, and so on. Saldivar will use it in tandem with half-steps and subtle positional tactics (i.e. see how he baits outside or inside foot position in some of these clips?) to create a new angle, but being able to jab at nearly at all times is a massive priority for him. His jab is what establishes his ring generalship.
Perhaps the most pertinent function of the jab here is how Saldivar uses it as a feeler. Feeler jabs are, in a word, throwaway jabs meant to test the distance or mess with rhythm. They will help the boxer take a quick read of the spacing between them and their opponent, though it can also act as a feint to draw responses out. A feeler jab’s potency, ergo, relies upon how much it can create reads and threats respectively. This punch is thrown frequently in the early phases of the match for Saldivar to establish basic control while paying attention to the tendencies of the man across from him. It’s equally important to note that Saldivar never abandons this tactic either. It is his most accessible, consistent tendency.
While he throws around his jab, Saldivar pairs his actions with his own brand of feinting.
Suffice it to say, this is the most difficult part of Saldivar’s game to dissect. What he is doing on the feet appears to be superficial waiting and the bare minimum (though I will note he is fond changing directions to make bigger, taller fighters follow). That would actually be correct - though with a twist.
In short, Saldivar’s entire game is predicated upon his ability to break rhythm, both his and his opponents’, in order to craft longer or favorable exchanges.
Again, I have written about rhythm before, but I’ll restate:
“To control rhythm is essential to controlling a fight. [The] fighter wants to [establish] their [own] sense of rhythm while trivializing [their] opponent’s. [To manipulate rhythm efficiently] involves having versatile mixups or approaches. [Once] rhythm is [established, greater offensive] capabilities [can] emerge exponentially.”
Let’s explain how Saldivar uses rhythm. The above clips demonstrate that Saldivar does not intentionally give a whole lot of ‘input’ for his opponent outside of the jab - again, said jab arguably is working more for his distance measurements than it is making his man reconsider. The implication is that Saldivar is wanting to counter. Obviously, there’s a question of “Is the bare minimum enough? At some point the other fighter is going to see he’s not offering many threats and attack first, right?”
This is a fair question to ask. If you are working on the outside with minimalist action, it stands to reason to think that you’re being reactive; your actions as a fighter are being dictated by what the other fighter does and how you respond to it. Most counterpunchers will apply rapid feinting or work with their combinations and footwork proactively in order to create moments where they can fight reactively. Yet, here is Saldivar, whose work at distance is ostensibly nominal and seems to be all about being reactive without much proactivity. At some point, the other boxer will notice and start to work more, especially when they notice that Saldivar doesn’t seem to respond to feints that often either.
I want to backtrack a slight bit as there are some things we haven’t pointed out.
If there’s two words I can point to with Saldivar, it’s subtle and deceptive. For one thing, look at Saldivar’s feet and upper-body. It isn’t easily discernible, but he is feinting level changes and changing directions constantly - and is always using half-steps. What’s happening is simple: Saldivar is giving the perception that he is just waiting, though, in reality, he is always on the hair trigger and operating to make his opponent think - or better yet, overthink.
In other words, one of two things (or both at some situations) is bound to happen here:
1) The opponent may not notice the feints and might underestimate Saldivar’s potency as a counterpuncher or think he’s more susceptible than he appears.
2) The opponent spots one isolatory feint continuously - maybe more than that - and starts to reconsider their options. They may ask if there is far more to Saldivar than meets the eye (Hint: They’re very, very right.)
That is to say, Saldivar is always watching and reacting, but he doesn’t seem to be overreacting; it is unclear to his opponent or even the viewer if he’s looking to initiate or react. The answer is actually a bit of both. How Saldivar establishes rhythm is that he creates subtle movements with even less responses to make his intentions unclear. He is observing his fellow pugilist with a surgeon’s eye, identifying the intricacies of their style all while not giving away the slightest amount of hesitation. In that regard, it is a subtle amount of pressure. The real reason Saldivar’s jab is so effective is because of the expectations.
I forgot to mention one extremely important detail, however: All of the above facets are present mostly in the first few rounds of the fight. Saldivar’s rhythm-breaking game has an entirely different gear that I have yet to cover. You see, Saldivar’s true goal is to gradually overwhelm his adversary. Like many greats, he is one of the quintessential long-game fighters.
To break rhythm means that the fighter takes the expectations of their opponent and completely subverts them by doing something else. Vicente Saldivar embodies this idea in spades. Saldivar will start as slow and minimalist as possible, but he is always making reads through the littlest of actions*. And then, Saldivar will blitz in and unleash his patented combination work
Let’s visit an earlier collection of clips. Watch the jab and feints and then how he breaks rhythm and just goes off. It’s all done and built upon responses and expectations - and the consequences are always harshly delivered.
*To be perfectly frank, I have no explanation for how Saldivar is so accurate or can read his opponents as well as he can. I’m not even sure anyone can. All I do know is that his understanding of rhythm stands among the best I’ve seen just by virtue of being able to consistently do this.
Once the exchanges start occurring, Saldivar’s threats increase exponentially because he can and will attempt and commit to an exchange at any time. How the pocket exchanges do occur though, occurs through feints and throwaways.
As stated, the bread-and-butter feints of Saldivar are his feeler jab and his subtle level changes. Again, the jab is being used here to measure distance and to determine responses. I’ll extrapolate further: Determining opponent responses also means you identify and make them have a reaction. I shouldn’t have to point out Saldivar is not a one-speed, same-timing sort of boxer and can manipulate how much he actually puts into his strikes or feints to break rhythm - and that this feature of his game extenuates itself the more a fight goes on. Saldivar’s jab won’t just act as a feeler then, it also acts a “feeder” to the opponent. At some point, Saldivar’s jab is seen as a liability and an easy opportunity. That is precisely when the trap is sprung: when the opponent throws, Saldivar’s counters are immediate and merciless.
Worth noting is how Saldivar’s high guard is uniquely compressed to his chest. He isn’t exactly a large featherweight, so keeping his forearms so uniform is an interesting choice. My theory is to draw the opponent in and try to break his shell.
Say the opponent becomes more passive and works on the outside though? Saldivar won’t be afraid to touch his way in or continue to draw responses out. Essentially, he makes his intention to step inside clear and that he will find a route to be there consistently. For the other fighter, this makes Saldivar a terror to go against because he will ruthlessly exploit any opportunity to pour the volume on or to make those exchanges where he can hit them even longer.
And once he starts to work in combination? Saldivar becomes a nigh-undeniable storm that devalues any illegitimacy of his prowess.
Again, I cannot fully specify what allows Saldivar to land so much with so much accuracy beyond effective reads and rhythm manipulation. Though I did notice certain tricks that reinforce the above tactics and open the opponent up.
Offensively-speaking, the footage shows that Saldivar’s shot selection also has an incredibly similar telegraph for his hooks and jabs off of one another. In tandem with feints and rhythm manipulation and Saldivar will be closing the door and counterjabbing his man all day long.
Moreover, Saldivar’s level changes were certainly not there for the sake of exhibition. The impression they left was only enhanced by Saldivar’s horrific body punching attack.
In particular, Saldivar’s body work is done in flurries or in counters, even on the frontfoot. The sheer number alone means the attritional damage is going to be debilitating, though actual commitment to the body makes the other opponent hesitate to engage. Primarily, his choice of body punches also deserve mention, as they are mostly shovel uppercuts. Saldivar has a fairly compact build for a featherweight, ergo, he will have to step in no matter what. Therefore, when he does step in, he ensures each shot is going to be worth it. Compact, smaller fighters like Saldivar can leverage said shots because their lower center of gravity allows them to have a more stable base and, subsequently, more efficient weight transfer. That is to say, Saldivar may not be a massive puncher by trade, but his dimensions will allow him to keep the opponent nervous and, arguably, could be attributive to his otherworldly accuracy and volume.
And like the most effective body punchers, Saldivar will alternate between the body and head with tremendous regularity to ensure he has just enough space to keep attacking. That or he can hurt his opponent out of nowhere by taking a slight redirective angle. Pay attention to how he baits an attack or uses a level change and then has his posture hunched just enough to guard or cover up from any return fire.
Saldivar’s inside game isn’t as nuanced or complicated as a Ruben Olivares, though he will apply subtle tactics to maintain control there.
Just as he keeps his opponent moving on the outside, Saldivar will intentionally position his shoulder and forearms to turn his opponent or to create separations and continue attacking from a different angle by pivoting out. If he can’t, Saldivar is content to smother with the clinch. In this author’s opinion, Saldivar did have the luxury of never truly fighting an infighter better than him, though I’ve no doubt that his abilities against tested competition are indicative that he would give those fighters immense trouble. If anything else, this article ought to suggest that he is an incredibly unique, dynamic threat.
What is different about Saldivar than any other boxer I’ve covered is that he will treat any punch as a throwaway if it misses.
The Mexican is a variant on the opportunist sort of fighter. An opportunist fighter will discover an opening and ruthlessly exploit it until they win. Saldivar’s opportunism builds upon that principle by being willing to counter anything and everything even if it means it misses. If he does, it isn’t a big deal - he backed them up. If the opposing fighter throws back, that’s fine, more chances to punch them.
There’s even more: Saldivar will also intentionally target the other man’s torso, gloves, or arms at random just to keep them guessing where he will hit next whilst opening up another target and force them to cover desperately.
In summary, Saldivar crafts endless collisions and offense regardless of what his opponent does. To beat him, you will have to deny him entries, compete in phases and exchanges, and be able to maintain the pace - and fight with rhythm too.
Otherwise, one of the most terrifying featherweights to ever step into the ring will drag his opponent into the most extensive beating of their careers.
‘Sugar’ Ramos, a physical monster so potent he left most bruised and battered, found himself figured out and finished in the eleventh to the crowning of a new champion. A rival of ‘Sugar’s’, Floyd Robertson, who previously had brought Ramos to the brink in a fifteen-round war, was decimated in two.
Mitsunari Seki, a fellow southpaw and perennially underachieving contender, gave Saldivar a run for his money in an all-time classic, though the effort had its costs and any respect the Mexican may have had was nonexistent in the rematch- where Seki was mercilessly stopped.
Howard Winstone was an excellent technician and strategist from Great Britain, tailoring his game to engage at pace and deny Saldivar’s terms consistently. Each time, his early efforts were eventually outdone and outwitted and he was decisively beaten by the time Saldivar’s hand was raised.
Despite being well-deserving of his nickname, The Golden Lefty, and for being as battle-tested a boxing champion could have been, though Saldivar was certainly without flaws.
Before winning the belt from ‘Sugar’ Ramos, Saldivar edged future lightweight champion and great Ismael Laguna in one of the finest two-way technical bouts on footage. The Panamanian would have many more answers than many of Saldivar’s foes, though never could take control the way the dynamic Mexican could.
Even past his best, Saldivar’s return from an early retirement saw him beat crafty, accomplished pugilists in Jose Legra and Johnny Famechon.
The biggest weakness is inherently the most expected: Because Saldivar is willing to engage so much, he is liable to be hit on entry and often. This is exactly why he was to control rhythm to make exchanges occur on his terms. Ergo, it should come as zero surprise that Saldivar’s worst moments are when his opponent can set up for a devastating shot when he repositions (esp. on his dips) or play with rhythm themselves.
Ismael Laguna’s successes against the Mexican number quite a few (namely being able to fight Saldivar in several of his strongest phases), though his biggest is a recognition and control of range. Saldivar is used to the fencing battle with lead hands and will always have to blitz in. He can be dangerous on the counter; however, Laguna establishes that his hair-trigger for punishing expectations can be used against him. Laguna applies his own feints and looks to blitz in behind rights to catch Saldivar (without inside/outside foot advantages) and then close the door on exchanges with his longer left hook. If he has to engage more, then he pairs the right straight and left hook together to begin and end exchanges on his terms. That said, this requires careful mitigation of Saldivar’s entries and constant energy expenditure to pull off.
Howard Winstone didn’t have the power or speed to back Saldivar off; therefore, his efforts required him to fight with consistency and discipline. Effectively, Winstone noted how Saldivar was only as dangerous as he could be if he had control of rhythm and entries. His efforts, consequently, were dictated to shutting down Saldivar’s ringcraft. For one thing, Saldivar benefited from being the more proactive fighter and forcing reactions. Winstone chose not to let himself react and instead be the proactive feinter. When it came to making exchanges, Winstone chose to punctuate to the body and step out; he would begin and end every engagement behind a consistent, savvy jab.
Mitsunari Seki was the most prominent southpaw in Saldivar’s storied reign. Immediately, a closed stance matchup changes the dynamic. For one thing, the fight can favor Saldivar because more exchanges can open, but the fact that rear punches can land in closer, quicker proximity and that his lead hand can’t close the door immediately puts both men on an even playing field. Seki quickly exposes this dynamic by drawing Saldivar towards his power hand (versus lead hand in an open-stance matchup) to score a knockdown. Saldivar’s level changes and dips also get viciously punished here as the lack of a lead-hand fencing battle means he has to close more dangerous space - a notion that Seki takes advantage of by drawing him into uppercuts repeatedly.
Ultimately, it is a testament to Saldivar’s own championship mettle and sheer arsenal of options that he could still overcome opponents who tested him at and after the peak of his powers. Trying to describe Saldivar’s adjustments to specific problems is an exercise in repetition - that is, how Saldivar dealt with his weaknesses was to try something different and build from there. It sincerely is that simple: Saldivar was as definitive a trial-and-error, tactile learner in the ring as you could find.
Against an imposingly physical ‘Sugar’ Ramos, the unyielding discipline of Howard Winstone, or the grit and tricks of Mitsunori Seki, Saldivar was forced into more uncomfortable backfoot fighting. His solutions involved doubling down on his jab and directionalities on the outside to create those favorable angles and entries. If he found himself outexchanged, he altered his selection and timing anew. And if his mortal chin still was tagged, he made ends meet with an immortal will to win each and every time.
I struggle to define what sort of archetype ‘The Golden Lefty’ truly fits under when all’s said and done. Tenets of a pressure fighter are all there though his ringcraft derives itself differently; he has the versatility to compete on the outside and inside without committing to either phase; like the boxer-puncher, he is at his strongest in pocket exchanges; and, like a swarmer, he overwhelms. He isn’t quite any of these, but he isn’t not any of them either. What is clear is that his game incorporates a bit of each built to fulfill his specific attributes and strengths - and that, again, all of these demand control of rhythm. At some point, I had to raise my hands and admit that he’s an exception to many rules that I do know. His in-cage work and generalship is indicative of mastery just by success alone.
I shouldn’t have to say why this is as impressive as it is enigmatic.
What does need to be said is: Vicente Saldivar is one of the most formidable pugilists I’ve ever witnessed. Even with the research and writing that I’ve put in, I don’t quite understand him well enough to be confident in all of my reads here. I will say, though, despite thinking that some monsters below the 130-pound-limit should beat him, Saldivar’s ability to defy so many conventions gives me the slightest pause.
All said and done, he’s a grandstanding mark in boxing history and has an argument for being the greatest boxer Mexico has ever produced. I think his talent speaks for itself.
I think Vicente Saldivar's fights were pretty well covered in the above posts, but one of his most impressive wins came against Ultiminio "Sugar" Ramos, Sugar Ramos was a brutal puncher, he could really bang, everywhere he went destruction was sure to follow, but this demonstrates the kind of fighter Saldivar was, most people thought Ramos would lay waste to Saldivar, but Saldivar got stronger as the fight wore on, figured him out, and broke him down.
Vicente Saldivar puts Sugar Ramos on the deck.
SALDIVAR TAKES RAMOS'S CROWN; Featherweight Halts Rival in 12th Round in Mexico
MEXICO CITY, Sept. 26—Vicente Saldivar, a 21‐year‐old Mexico City southpaw, won the world featherweight championship in a smashing upset tonight by stopping Sugar Ramos in the 12th round.
Saldivar was a 2–1 underdog at the packed 24,000‐seat El Toreo bull ring. He wore down the 24‐year‐old Ramos, who was making his fourth title defense, and administered a thorough beating in the 10th and 11th rounds.
Ramos was saved by the bell in the 10th. He was bleeding profusely from the mouth. The 11th was all Saldivar's as the fast‐moving youngster pounded Ramos relentlessly. Ramos was out on his feet at the bell and was unable to come out for the 12th. Saldivar was then declared the winner by a technical knockout.
Some more photos from the Saldivar vs Ramos fight.
The Vicente Saldivar vs Howard Winstone trilogy was right up there with the best trilogies of all-time, Howard Winstone was nicknamed "The Welsh Wizard" and he earned that nickname because he was a brilliant fighter, beautiful jab, great technical boxer, watching Winstone on film you would never know that he lost the tips of three fingers on his right hand, they were sheared off while operating a power-press at a toy factory when he was 15 years old, despite that he became a damn fine fighter. I'll profile Winstone later in the thread.
Howard Winstone throws a left at Saldivar during their trilogy.
Solid Gold Classics: The Saldivar-Winstone Trilogy
Who can beat Vicente Saldivar? That was the question being posed at the outset of 1967 after the tireless, barrel-chested Mexican ace had swept away the challenge of Japan's leading challenger, Mitsunori Seki.
It was a very pertinent question to which few could furnish a valid reply. Saldivar was picking off his featherweight challengers with such class and relish that the field of possible successors was shrinking to the point of threatening to disappear.
He was relentless, this man Saldivar. He was smart, deceptively skillful, pounded the body mercilessly and set a formidable pace. He was born to fight and ultimately drank himself to death when he could fight no more.
Saldivar overpowered boxers and out-fought fighters. He was the first truly great featherweight since the golden days of Sandy Saddler and Willie Pep.
How I admired this glorious fighting man when I was a boy. For it was Saldivar who set the exceptional benchmark for the Mexican fighters of the future. Following hot on the heels of former bantamweight champion, Jose Joe Becerra, Vicente was better and more durable than his predecessor and paved the way for such future legends as Ruben Olivares, Julio Cesar Chavez, Erik Morales and Marco Antonio Barrera.
This is what I did, Saldivar might well have said to his successors. Now see if you can beat it.
Vicente, alas, was also responsible for severely testing my allegiance. For there was another brilliant boxer in his world, a sublime and gifted matador who came to test the bull in a magnificent trilogy of fights. I speak of that wonderful wizard from Merthyr Tydfil, Wales: Howard Winstone.
What a beautifully gifted boxer Winstone was. He possessed the natural skills that legions of men can't acquire in a lifetime of trying. On his best nights, his every move was so wonderfully fluid and perfect that even his opponents couldn't help but marvel at his talent.
I believe it was Jimmy Anderson, the former British junior-lightweight champion, who remarked that his punches had repeatedly missed Winstone by fractions of inches due to Howard's innate ability to deftly move his head at the right moment.
Watching the Welshman at his best was akin to seeing a top class Brazilian soccer ace threading a ball through a sea of befuddled players. Great soccer players and footballers don't run, they glide. Great boxers don't consciously plan their moves, they simply let them happen. Every punch, every tactical manoeuvre, comes across to the observer as a completely natural reaction. Howard Winstone was such a boxer.
His left jab alone was a thing of beauty, a rapier-like weapon that bruised and bewildered a succession of opponents. Combined with his many other skills, that rare jab helped to make Howard unbeatable in Britain and Europe from 1961 to 1967.
He became the idol of his native Welshmen, one of the few to bear the honour of being compared to his legendary compatriot, Peerless Jim Driscoll, whose brilliance had dazzled such titans of the game as Abe Attell and Owen Moran some 50 years before.
The one ingredient missing in Winstone's otherwise flawless make-up was a knockout punch. Perhaps that was God's way of giving his opponents a fair chance. It was often said that if Winstone had been able to marry his skills to true punching power, he would have been virtually invincible, perhaps one of the greatest featherweights.
Yet there was another obstacle that prevented him from attaining such heights, in the form of an omnipresent whirlwind of a man who persistently surfaced to frustrate him. That man was Saldivar.
It was cruel luck on Winstone's part that by the time he had established himself as an outstanding contender for the world crown, Saldivar was the champion. For Vicente was Howard's nemesis.
Clashed
The two fighters clashed three times over a two-year period, and had their bouts been ten-rounders, Howard would have won them all. On each occasion he had the beating of Saldivar in the early going, only to be overhauled in the later stages. To this day, traditionalists still regard the 15-round distance as being the true test of world championship quality, and Saldivar seemed to relish that crucial trio of closing rounds that mortal men of his era dreaded.
The tough Mexican was a throwback to Henry Armstrong, a precursor of Roberto Duran. Blessed like Armstrong with a slow heartbeat, Saldivar was a tireless puncher who seemed to grow stronger as the rounds wore on. He defended his title against Winstone at Earl's Court, at Ninian Park and at Mexico City, and all three fights followed the same pattern where strength and superior punching power eventually prevailed over skill.
Those fortunate enough to have witnessed the three epic battles will have their own ideas as to which was the best. For my money, the second Saldivar-Winstone fight at Ninian Park on June 15, 1967, was the most thrilling.
It was the first world championship fight to be staged in Wales for more than 20 years and marked the resumption of a rivalry that had first exploded in glorious fashion nearly two years before at Earl's Court in London. Then the two mighty little men had waged war for 15 fierce rounds, with Saldivar carving out a narrow points win.
I can remember listening to the radio commentary of that first terrific fight and feeling a growing sense of elation as Winstone appeared to be on the way to victory. Then came the decision and the disappointment that one feels when a gamecock has failed by an eyelash.
By the time Howard had steered his way back into contention, he had added six impressive victories to his record, including three European title defences. During this phase of his glittering career, only Saldivar was a superior featherweight and only then by the narrowest margin.
In more than 60 fights, Winstone had lost to only two other men and even those blots on his record looked curiously unreal: a crushing second round defeat to American puncher Leroy Jefferey and a points loss to the world ranked Don Johnson.
To this day, the many men who struggled vainly to lay a glove on Winstone must marvel at Jeffery's achievement. The close and controversial defeat to Johnson, whom Howard subsequently twice defeated, is easier to comprehend since the Californian was an able and shrewd ring mechanic. At the time, however, it was hard to believe that someone had actually outpointed the Welsh boxing master!
From the time of embarking on his professional career in 1959, Winstone had exuded that special quality that separates great fighters from the rest. In just two years he sailed to 23 successive victories, and when he mesmerised Terry Spinks into a tenth round defeat to win the British featherweight title in 1961, Howard began his rapid ascent into world class.
He relieved Italy's Alberto Serti of the European crown and reigned supreme in that capacity for more than four years, turning back seven challengers before eventually relinquishing the title.
Winstone dazzled the cream of domestic and international competition during his peak years as a world title contender, defeating such class men as Rafiu King, Yves Desmarets, Lalo Guerrero, Jose Legra and Richard Sue.
Instalments
Some 21 months elapsed between the first and second instalments of the Saldivar-Winstone saga, but for Howard the wait was worthwhile. For the venue of Ninian Park presented him with a wonderful chance of revenge in the land of his fathers. But even with home advantage, his task was daunting.
During the interim period, Saldivar had added to his already glowing reputation, winning the respect of the critics as an outstanding world champion. At first glance, his record looked lean and almost insignificant alongside Winstone's, until one measured the rate of Vicente's progress and the quality of the opponents he had conquered. Forty years ago, it was still fairly uncommon for young fighters of limited experience to win world titles. And we are talking about undisputed world titles here!
The boxing world stood up and took good notice of Saldivar when, at the tender age of 21, he battered the featherweight championship from the talented Sugar Ramos.
The young Mexican slugger was having only his 24th professional fight on that night of September 26, 1964, yet he fought with tremendous authority as he wore down and finally stopped Ramos in the eleventh round with a punishing body attack.
Saldivar at once showed himself to be a highly accomplished champion and a typically tough and menacing product of the Mexican fight school. Powerful, rugged and a damaging puncher, he pressured his opponents with a constant attack and his great stamina made him a dangerous man from the first bell to the last.
His early record was studded with a succession of quick victories. He stopped the dangerous Dwight Hawkins in five rounds, Eloy Sanchez in one and needed less than two rounds to wrest the Mexican featherweight title from Juan Ramirez.
In later fights, Vicente proved he was no less effective over long distances. Indeed, he relished the marathon duel. Prior to lifting the world title from Ramos, Saldivar outscored Lalo Guerrero and future lightweight champion Ismael Laguna in hard-fought contests. In his first defence of the world championship, Vicente came through a vicious war with the tough Raul Rojas to post a stoppage victory in the fifteenth and final round.
A miniature powerhouse of a man with the upper body of a welterweight, Saldivar imposed his presence on opponents from the outset, daring them to challenge his authority as he bulled and punched his way forward. Like any great champion, he had his share of worrying moments during his reign, but his strength and his great will always saw him through. Saldivar refused to be denied in any circumstances, whether being tormented by the ringcraft of Winstone or forced to the limit by that fiery Japanese warrior, Mitsunori Seki.
It was Seki who gave Vicente his most torrid fight, with a performance that surpassed even Winstone's spirited Earl's Court challenge. Fighting before Saldivar's home crowd in Mexico City, Seki matched Vicente punch for punch through 15 hard rounds before losing a unanimous but desperately close decision. It was a verdict that many neutral ringside observers disputed.
Saldivar knew he had a point to prove to his critics, and in a return match just four months later he removed any doubts about his supremacy over Seki by stopping the brave challenger in seven rounds. In doing so, Vicente gave one of his top performances, an exhibition of destructive punching that re-established him as the undisputed leader of his division and left him with a near perfect record.
He had avenged his sole professional loss, a disqualification in the early part of his career against Baby Luis, and Vicente knew that a second victory over Winstone would make that record shine even brighter.
Ninian Park
When Saldivar and Winstone came together again at Ninian Park, they were greeted by an emotion-charged crowd of 30,000 and the atmosphere was pulsating. Wales had not enjoyed such a feast of boxing since Ike Williams defended his lightweight championship against Ronnie James at Cardiff in 1946, and while the many thousands of Welshman who longed for a Winstone victory welcomed their hero with a tremendous roar, they sportingly cheered the mighty little Mexican as he approached the ring. They knew they were in the presence of a true fighting champion, a man who had defended his title against the best men in the division and beaten them all.
Soon the fight was on: Saldivar, the 24-year old bull, against Winstone, the 28-year old matador. The roles were well assigned, although on this occasion the matador did his own share of charging.
Winstone must have surprised even his most ardent fans as he immediately carried the fight to Saldivar in a confident and almost arrogant manner. Three left jabs, released with speed and grace, snapped into Saldivar's face, and a following right brought a look of mild surprise from the champion. It seemed that Howard's intention was to play his cards aggressively and utilise his full repertoire of skills to unsettle Vicente. And for the first half of the fight, Winstone's cards were all aces wild.
He had an almost contemptuous air about him as he swept forward. Countless jabs found Saldivar's face and perfectly timed right crosses reddened his nose.
Frustrated and angry, Saldivar lashed back with heavy hooks to the body, but many of his punches missed as Winstone glided out of range with almost balletic moves that took one's breath away.
But Saldivar, wonderful Saldivar, always had that ominous look about him. The few punches he was landing were solid and quietly menacing. There were times when Winstone's aggression forced Saldivar to the ropes, each attack accompanied by a mighty roar from the crowd, but the determined champion was always slamming back with those bronzed and perfectly muscled arms. Howard was supremely fit, but even the fittest men were eventually weakened by the masterful body punching that was Saldivar's speciality.
The roar of a crowd can do funny things and certainly blur one's perception of a fight. Much of Saldivar's quiet industry went unnoticed to the many who were entranced by Winstone's brilliance. Howard was ghosting around Vicente, flashing out punches with amazing speed and not seeming to be greatly disturbed by the return fire.
Had Winstone finally found the key to defeating his arch-rival? Saldivar's frustration was clearly visible in the fifth round as he momentarily dropped his arms and stood still, as if taking time out to revise his game plan.
But Vicente was a rare bird, possessed of great mental toughness. Regardless of how the gods were treating him, he just kept punching. He was struck by a gorgeous left-right combination in the sixth round, but still his piston-like arms kept pumping away and Winstone was forced to give ground after taking a couple of hefty blows to the body.
Howard's pace didn't slacken and he upped the tempo in the eighth round as he jabbed fast and accurately to have Saldivar on the retreat. Both men began to show the marks of the taxing encounter and Winstone appeared to slow a little in the ninth round as the champion bulled forward and slammed him about the body.
As the fight swung into its later stages, Saldivar began to catch Howard much more frequently, but the battle was full of twists. Each time Winstone appeared to be fading a little, he would rally gloriously. There was a golden moment in the tenth round when he tagged the champion with a perfect combination and quickly followed up with a burst of rapid-fire jabs.
However, the tide was most definitely turning. The crowd held its breath in the eleventh round as Saldivar shifted into top gear and winged in powerful hooks to the body. A big left hook hurt Winstone and a right to the jaw sent him to the ropes. Suddenly Howard looked weary and Vicente seemed to pick up the scent as he drew on his phenomenal stamina and increased his punch rate.
The following rounds were agonising for Winstone's fans as Saldivar pounded away furiously. Too often Howard elected to trade punches with Vicente instead of retreating, and while these adventurous tactics had reaped dividends in the earlier rounds, they were now proving to be Winstone's undoing. In his worst moments, though, the courageous Welshman refused to be overwhelmed. From somewhere, during one of those hectic bouts of slugging, he produced a stinging right that sent Saldivar reeling back, and the crowd thundered its approval.
Thrilling
The fight was approaching its climax and had flared into an absolute thriller, full of quality, courage and skill. While Winstone was beginning to wilt, he had carved out such a commanding lead with his whirlwind start that the battle was still an even affair. But the going was now tough for Howard. Like a golfer trying to maintain a fragile, one-stroke lead in a major championship, he was suddenly flagging and looking on the verge of being swamped by the immensity of the task.
In the fourteenth round, Winstone nearly went under as Saldivar stormed forward with a punishing two-fisted attack. A flurry of hard blows suddenly cut Winstone down and sent his supporters into a state of panic. Gutsily he scrambled to his feet, but the following seconds were tortuous for the Welshman as he was driven every which way by Vicente's ceaseless onslaught.
Lost in the wonderful romance that comes from boxing, I pleaded silently for Winstone's survival, trying to balance my bias with the contention that any man who has fought so magnificently for so long doesn't deserve to get knocked out right at the death. Something or someone took Howard by the hand and guided him through the wilderness, but the gut feeling was that the fight had slipped from his grasp as he sat wearily in his corner and awaited the final bell.
Somehow Howard managed to pull himself together during his precious sixty seconds of rest. He fought valiantly throughout the last three minutes, even though he was sent scurrying all around the ring by Saldivar's violent rushes. The champion was a revelation in that final round as he ripped home punches with a rare ferocity, and it was a measure of Winstone's mettle that he was still able to fight back.
The crowd let out a deafening cheer at the bell and the optimists prayed for referee Wally Thom to raise Howard's hand. But the decision was Saldivar's, and for the second time in his career Howard Winstone was left to reflect on the tantalisingly narrow gap in class that separated him from the great little Mexican. This time the gallant Welsh maestro had failed by half a point to seal that gap and win the one title that had eluded him.
Dream
Undeterred, Winstone chose to pursue his dream. Four months later, his fascinating rivalry with Saldivar entered its third and final chapter in the fierce heat of Mexico City. Winstone boxed brilliantly for ten rounds, but Saldivar's wave-like attacks proved even more debilitating in the heat and high altitude. Brave Howard was eventually ground down and stopped in the twelfth round.
Three defeats against the same stubborn and ferocious man would have broken the will of many other fighters, but the proud Winstone couldn't leave it at that. The unexpected retirement of Saldivar as undefeated world champion imbued Howard with fresh ambition and encouraged him to try for the big prize one more time. In January 1968 his persistence finally paid off when he won the WBC version of the vacant title by stopping Mitsunori Seki in the ninth round at the Royal Albert Hall in London.
Much of the old magic was missing in Howard's work that night, but that was of little importance to his supporters. Winstone was at last a world champion and nothing else seemed to matter.
A few photos from the Vicente Saldivar vs Howard Winstone trilogy.
Saldivar throws a right at Winstone.
Winstone catches Saldivar with a left hook.
Saldivar knocks Winstone through the ropes.
One final word on Vicente Saldivar, he has one heck of a resume, he beat the great Ismael Laguna, Jose Legra who was known as "The Pocket Cassius Clay" because he fought similar to a young Cassius Clay, he beat the legendary Johnny "Fammo" Famechon, Howard Winstone x3, Sugar Ramos, Mitsunori Seki, Raul Rojas, amazing career. I love Saldivar, he's one of my top favorites, the guy was just an animal that most fighters weren't prepared to deal with, his stamina, he had a 15-round engine, his ability to drag his opponents into deep waters and drown them. He was patient with his prey, the last 5 rounds of a fight was where Saldivar really came alive as his early body attack and accurate precise punching began to take its toll and he upped his pace. Just an amazing fighter to observe.
Saldivar in his prime.
Of course I collect Vicente Saldivar, been looking for this sticker for years now with no luck, 1968 Mira Tuttosport Vicente Saldivar. Interestingly, his first name is misspelled "Vincente." It is a multi-sport set of stickers that came in packs and were meant to be put into an album, they were produced in Italy, the set features a handful of boxers, for some reason certain ones are plentiful while others are impossible to find. I saw a Mira Tuttosport Saldivar on eBay Italy about four years ago but it had heavy back damage having been pulled from an album so I passed on it, if I had known how rare it was at the time I would have bought it.
Vicente Saldivar on left with Jane Russell and Jose Legra.
Vicente Saldivar, one of the greatest pound for pound fighters to ever live.
One more rundown on Vicente Saldivar's outstanding career.
Vicente Saldivar on the cover of Boxing News after his victory over Raul Rojas.
Vicente Saldivar: A Mexican legend
The 1960s spawned many great fighters – Dick Tiger, Jose Torres, Emile Griffith, Luis Rodriguiz and Carlos Ortiz, just to name a few. One of the best of this era was a 5'3″ southpaw from Mexico City named Vicente Saldivar. He ruled the featherweight division for three years and then retired. He decided to come back two and a half years after he gave up his crown, to reclaim it another time.
This boxing legend was born on March 5, 1943. He started his professional career in 1961 and quickly showed that he was a budding star. Saldivar won his first sixteen fights and scored thirteen knockouts. He suffered his first loss in December of 1962 when he was disqualified in a bout against Baby Luis.
The year 1963 saw Saldivar make great strides in the rankings. He halted the respected Dwight Hawkins in five rounds. He avenged his loss by stopping Baby Luis in eight rounds. There was also an impressive one round win over Eloy Sanchez.
On February 8, 1964 Saldivar captured the Mexican featherweight title by knocking out Juan Ramirez in two rounds. He defended the title with a twelve round points win over tough Eduardo “Lalo” Guerrero. Then on June 1st Vicente won a very important bout against future lightweight champion Ismael Laguna. Saldivar outscored the clever Laguna in ten rounds.
On September 26, 1964 Vicente Saldivar won the featherweight championship of the world.
He battered the great champion Sugar Ramos and the bout ended in the twelfth round with a new champion being crowned. Saldivar was about to begin a campaign that eliminated all opposition to his throne. He started in 1965 by wearing down and finally stopping his game challenger Raul Rojas in the final round. In his next defense Vicente turned back the fierce challenge of Welshman Howard Winstone in fifteen rounds. These two would get to know each other very well over the next few years.
Saldivar opened 1966 with a two round kayo over Floyd Robertson. Next Vicente faced the stern challenge of Japan's Mitsunori Seki. For the Japanese tiger, it would be his third shot at a world's title. He failed in a 1961 bid to dethrone flyweight champion Pone Kingpetch and in 1964 he was beaten in six rounds by featherweight king Sugar Ramos. Seki gave Saldivar all he could handle but in the end Vicente pounded out a decision victory.
Seki and Saldivar would meet again in 1967 and this time Vicente left no doubt as to his claim to the title. He ended Seki's challenge in the seventh round. Next was some unfinished business with Mr. Winstone. Again the spry and crafty Welshman traveled the fifteen round distance, but in the end he fell short. The two bouts between Saldivar and Winstone were close enough to justify a third meeting. This time Saldivar ruled supreme ending Winstone's dream in the twelfth round.
With really no one left to seriously challenge Vicente, he decided to retire. Quickly the WBC matched Saldivar's two toughest challengers, Howard Winstone and Mitsunori Seki, to fight for the vacant title. On January 23, 1968 Howard Winstone finally got his championship, beating Seki in nine rounds. Howard's stay at the top was short lived as he lost the title to Spain's Jose Legra in five rounds.
Finally there was some new blood in the division. Legra in turn would lose his crown by decision to Australia's Johnny Famechon. Saldivar still felt he was the best featherweight in the world, so he embarked on a comeback. To prove he was worthy of a title shot he out-fought Legra to win a ten round verdict. Then on May 9, 1970 in Rome, Italy Vicente met the champion Famechon. The Aussie was a very good fighter who had just sent the great Fighting Harada into retirement with a brutal fourteenth round kayo. Against Saldivar he was out-boxed and out-fought but gamely went the distance. The great Saldivar was king again.
It all came crashing down in his next fight. Vicente took on Japan's Kuniaki Shibata – and it seemed like he grew old overnight. At times Saldivar boxed well and punched sharply, but at other times he seemed overwhelmed by the force of Shibata's attacks. The Japanese fighter was very strong, and try as he might Vicente was unable to hold him off. Finally it was over. It ended in the thirteenth round. The reign of Saldivar was over.
Maybe Vicente was not yet convinced he was through or maybe he wanted to go out a winner. In any event, Saldivar returned to the ring seven months later and outpointed the always tough Frankie Crawford. Two years later Saldivar again emerged to attempt to regain his throne. Former bantamweight champion Eder Jofre of Brazil had won recognition by the WBC as featherweight champion by winning a majority decision over Jose Legra in May of 1973. Vicente would meet Jofre on October 21, 1973 in Brazil. What looked to be a great matchup on paper turned out to be a bitter disappointment. Saldivar had nothing left. His great skills had eroded. Jofre was too strong and too powerful for the shell of this once great fighting machine. It ended in the fourth round . . . and so did Saldivar's career. There would be no more comebacks.
Vicente only had forty fights in his career. He won thirty-seven of them. He was a knockout winner on twenty-six occasions. He was the whole package in his prime. Pound-for-pound he was one of the best fighters of the 60s.
Vicente Saldivar, "El Zurdo De Oro."
Mike McCallum, aka "The Bodysnatcher", a legitimate, certified, all-time great middleweight, it is said that he was avoided like the plague in his day. He earned that nickname because he went hard to the body of his opponents, one of the greatest body punchers in the history of the fight game was McCallum. A chin made of Ivory, he was never stopped in his career. He was a superb ring technician, the guy could do it all, defend, box, turn your lights out, McCallum checked all the boxes, he was a complete fighter.
Forgotten Legends Of The Ring – The Bodysnatcher Mike McCallum
Two weight World Champion Steve Collins speaking to Ringtv.com on the Best boxer he faced ‘The best boxer was definitely Mike McCallum. He was in his prime at 33 years old and I was 26 and still learning. Mike had beaten some of the very best fighters in the world at that point and guys like Sugar Ray Leonard wouldn’t go anywhere near him because he was so slick. I learned more in one fight with Mike McCallum than I did in my five previous fights combined, do you understand? He was skillful, a master at combination punching and he had everything at his disposal. He was the smartest guy I ever fought. I learned a lot from him and he educated me. Every once in a while you face a guy who is a bit special and they either finish you or make you. When Prince Naseem stepped up a level (to face Marco Antonio Barrera in 2001) he lost and that was basically the end of him. I fought McCallum and although I lost it made me a better fighter because he was the best in his time. Sugar Ray Leonard told me personally that there was no money in facing McCallum and it was a fight he could lose. I asked him that during a Q&A and he admitted it to an entire audience. I stepped up to the elite level and traded with one of the best fighters around, so I knew I would get better and I knew I would become a world champion after that. McCallum didn’t get the credit he deserved but just look at his record and you see the guys he beat’.
Three weight World Champion and one of the greatest ever defensive fighters James Toney on the Best fighter he shared the ring with: ‘Mike McCallum — That’s an easy choice, right off the top of my head it’s the Body Snatcher. He was the best fighter I fought at middleweight, super middleweight and cruiserweight. Out of all the fighters I fought, I respect him the most because he made me think about everything I tried to do. Before McCallum I was just runnin’ in on everyone, but he made me slow down and think for the first time’.
And the best boxer Toney faced…’McCallum — Yup, it’s him again. It’s between McCallum and Michael Nunn, but I gotta go with McCallum because he was a master boxer who wasn’t afraid to stand his ground. Nunn was mostly fast. I admit that he outboxed me for about nine rounds, but my body shots slowed him down. I told him during the fight ‘I’m gonna catch you!’ And I did. I fought my share of boxers who thought they were clever like Roy Jones, Michael Nunn, Montell Griffin, and Reggie Johnson, but they were all scared to really fight. McCallum boxed, he fought, he defended, and he didn’t run all over the ring. He could do all that because he was smart’.
We’ve just read the views of two world champions, James Toney has fought legends such as Roy Jones Jr and Evander Holyfield, Steve Collins has beaten great boxers such as Chris Eubank Snr and Nigel Benn, yet both are in agreement when it comes to the best boxer they have faced – Mike McCallum. So who is he and why haven’t you heard about him?
Before Gennady Golovkin, arguably the most avoided fighter in the sport today, there was Mike McCallum, underrated and avoided, his nickname was ‘The Bodysnatcher’ due to his ability to land hurtful body shots, over a 55 fight career, The Bodysnatcher would go on to beat 7 world champions en route to becoming a three weight World Champion himself. Amongst his wins were also two of Britains finest middleweights, Herol ‘The Bomber’ Graham and Michael Watson whom he dismantled over 11 rounds. If you want to watch a Boxing masterclass, this is one of the fights I would recommend viewing.
McCallum was born in 1956 in Kingston, Jamaica, turning professional in 1981. His 1st ‘Big’ fight was against Julian ‘The Hawk’ Jackson, a dangerous opponent with a huge punch, a future World Champion who would rank at no.25 by Ring Magazine in their 2003 list of ‘100 Greatest Punchers’. Jackson was quickly dismissed in Round 2. But it would be the following year in 1987 when the world would finally sit up and take notice of McCallum when he knocked out former WBC champion Milton McCrory followed by former undisputed champion Donald Curry with a picture perfect left hook. They may have taken too much notice, it may have been McCallums bad luck he was fighting in an era of the ‘Four Kings’ Sugar Ray Leonard, Roberto Duran, Tommy Hearns and Marvin Hagler, all four are legends in the squared circle, and as their careers were winding down to an end or their best years were slipping by, none were too keen on taking on the risk of fighting the bodysnatcher. The late great Johnny Tocco, who ran the Ringside Gym on Charleston and Main in Las Vegas from 1952 until the mid to late 1990s, Tocco was to have said that ‘Ray Leonard, Tommy Hearns, Roberto Duran, yes even Marvin Hagler, none of them wanted any part of Mike McCallum’. The ‘Hitman’ Hearns would have been well aware of Mike McCallum’s prowess, both trained at the famous Kronk gym in Detroit under legendary trainer Emmanuel Steward and both would often spar against each other under Stewards watchful eye. Unfortunately for McCallum, the Super fight would always evade him, Roberto Duran famously declined to fight him having been presented with a contract, instead choosing to fight his stable mate Tommy Hearns. Hardly surprising when the match would net Duran $5million whereas a fight with McCallum would ‘only’ make Duran $500k, high risk low reward.
Steward was high in praise for the Bodysnatcher, a nickname he himself coined for McCallum ‘he never got the recognition or the super fight with Leonard, Duran, Hagler-none of those guys-which I think he’d have been 50-50 to beat any of them! He just fought anybody, anywhere, under whatever conditions and prevailed all the way ’till he was really never beaten. His age really only caught up with him. He was a great champion.’
Mike McCallum finished his career with 49 wins and 5 losses with 1 draw, 3 of those losses came in his last 4 fights as age got the better of him, including losses against 2 legends of the ring, Roy Jones Jnr and James Toney, finally retiring after the Toney defeat at age 40 in 1997. An unsung hero and a forgotten legend of the ring, he was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 2003 and currently works as a trainer in Las Vegas.
One more quick write up on Mike McCallum and then we'll look at a few of his fights.
Mike McCallum gets his hands taped up by his trainer Eddie Futch.
Mike McCallum: Inch By Inch A Master
What’s the best way to win a fight, fights – rounds? By using the least amount of energy as possible, while taking the least amount of punishment as possible, while at the same time inflicting as much damage as possible. And who was an absolute master at this? The great, the untouchable, the avoided Mike McCallum, that’s who. Known as “The Body Snatcher,” Jamaica’s McCallum was that and a whole lot more. During his 55 fight pro career – McCallum also enjoying a stellar, standout amateur boxing career – McCallum took on all manner of styles: be it monster punchers, slick boxers, relentless stamina machines or all-round tough guys. And make no mistake, each and every guy McCallum fought had a tough time with him; even those rare few who actually managed to beat him. Arguably, McCallum lost just once when he was in his prime. Yeah, the born-exquisite James Toney fully deserved the decision he got in his second and third fights with McCallum, both of these fights going to the wire and both of them testing both men to the limit. And the once “Superman,” Roy Jones Jr had his way with a way past his best, but still enormously respected, McCallum in their 1996 bout (this being Mike’s penultimate ring appearance, before the third go with “Lights Out”). And one could argue how Sumbu Kalambay scored the most decisive win anyone ever managed when he got a decision over “The Snatcher” in his native Italy in 1988. But aide from that, when he was in his prime, and even a few years before and afterwards, nobody – as in nobody – could live with McCallum and his bag of tricks. See wins over: Ayub Kalule, Sean Mannion, Luigi Minchillo, Julian Jackson (a stoppage win over the KO machine), Milton McCrory, Donald Curry, Herol Graham (who admittedly pushed McCallum close, in so doing perhaps pulling off one of the most underrated displays of British boxing talent of the last 40 years), Steve Collins, Michael Watson, Kalambay in a revenge meeting, and Jeff Harding. No wonder the great Marvin Hagler wanted no part of McCallum (or so the legend tells us). It was on this day, July 18, in 1987, that McCallum perhaps scored his most sensational and eye-catching win. Going in with former undisputed welterweight king Curry, McCallum, defending his 154 pound crown, iced the hot one in dramatic, one-punch fashion. It was in the fifth-round, when Curry, thinking he was safely out of distance, was cracked by a perfect left hook to the jaw; the blow instantly sending him down and out. Curry wore a dazed, ‘what hit me’ look as he lay on the mat inside an equally mesmerised Caesars Palace in Vegas. Curry would never be the same again (plenty said he never had been what he once was after being ravaged by Lloyd Honeyghan a couple of years before), and McCallum would not be, either. No-one wanted much to do with the slick, tough, hard as nails champ from that chilled out island. At least McCallum was never able to come closer than sniffing range to a genuine super-fight opportunity. McCallum never wasted a thing when he was in the ring, yet it could be argued that the superpowers of the sport ruined his chances of being deified the way Hagler, Leonard and Hearns are today. Maybe McCallum was better than all of them. Maybe.
In 1984, Mike McCallum won his first championship when he defeated Sean Mannion for the vacant WBA Junior Middleweight title. If you're not familiar with Sean Mannion, he was one tough Irish son of a gun from Boston who used to trade like hell with Marvelous Marvin Hagler in sparring and not once did Mannion ever taste the canvas, as a matter of fact, Mannion was never knocked down in his entire 57 fight career. This is a man who once lost 7 lbs in 90 minutes to make weight for a fight, that was Sean Mannion, balls to the wall toughness. Anyway, McCallum fought Mannion in 1984, Mannion put up a good effort but McCallum controlled the fight and was just too good, too technically sound and McCallum won the WBA Junior Middleweight title by unanimous decision.
One more quick thing about Sean Mannion, I have to give him a lot of credit, he was around a lot of organized crime figures in South Boston in the late 70s and 80s, they hung around the gym where he trained, that was when Irish mob boss and psychopath Whitey Bulger was running things, and Sean Mannion made it a point to steer clear of all that crap and focus on his boxing career. Mannion had some friends that were with Whitey Bulger and they wanted Mannion to meet with Bulger but Mannion declined because he knew what that life was about and didn't want any part of it, I give Sean Mannion all the credit in the world for that. The last I read Sean Mannion was working construction and living a good life in Boston, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone that speaks negatively about Sean Mannion these days.
Irish Sean Mannion on the right.