Harry Greb, "The Pittsburgh Windmill", many boxing fans and experts consider Harry Greb the greatest pound for pound fighter that ever lived, the greatest fighter in the history of boxing period. He has a case for it, a very strong case, he has the best resume in boxing history, it's almost unbelievable.
Tommy Gibbons x2
Gene Tunney x1
Maxie Rosenbloom x1
Kid Norfolk x1
Mickey Walker x1
Tommy Loughran x4
Jeff Smith x6
Mike McTigue x2
Tiger Flowers x1
Mike Gibbons x1
Billy Miske x2
Jimmy Slattery x1
Battling Levinsky x6
Leo Houck x3
Kid McCoy x2
Jack Dillon x2
George Chip x2
Johnny Wilson x3
Charlie Weinart x1
Tony Marullo x2
Art Weigand x1
Bob Moha x6
Quintin Rojas x1
Jack Renault x2
Allentown Joe Gans x1
Roland Todd x1
Frank Moody x1
Jimmy Delaney x3
Wins over top 10 rated fighters:
Tommy Gibbons x2, Gene Tunney x1, Kid Norfolk x1, Maxie Rosenbloom x1, Mickey Walker x1, Johnny Wilson x3, Jeff Smith x6, Tommy Loughran x4, Charley Weinert x1, Art Weigand x1, Allentown Joe Gans x1, Ted Moore x2, Tony Marullo x2, Martin Burke x1, Mike McTigue x2, Jimmy Slattery x1, Quintin Rojas x1, Jack Renault x2, Tiger Flowers x1, Jimmy Delaney x3, Roland Todd x1, Frank Moody x1 = 39 wins over top 10 rated fighters.
Wins over Hall of Famers :
Levinsky x6, Dillon x2, M. Gibbons x1, T. Gibbons x2, Loughran x4, Norfolk x1, Smith x6, Rosenbloom x1, Walker x1, Hauck x3, Slattery x1, Tunney x1, Miske x2, Flowers x1 = 32 wins over Hall of Famers.
It's even more amazing considering the fact that Harry Greb fought most of his career only being able to see out of one eye, early in his career he was thumbed in the eye and lost sight in one of his eyes. In the year 1919 he fought 45 times and went 45-0, insane. His overall career record is 261-17 with 19 draws and 1 no contest, he fought 299 fights in his career. Actual fight footage of Harry Greb is the Holy Grail of boxing, none exists, the only footage that exists of Harry Greb is training footage. If actual fight footage ever surfaces of Harry Greb, it would be priceless, boxing fans and experts have been relentlessly searching for it for years and years with no luck, we're hoping someone comes forward someday with footage. Harry Greb is mythical, his resume is known by all hardcore boxing fans, it's the best resume in boxing history, but we want to see how a fighter actually handles himself in a real fight. Footage of all the other GOAT candidates exists, Sugar Ray Robinson, Henry Armstrong, Ezzard Charles, Sam Langford, Bob Fitzsimmons footage of all those fighters exists, we know what those guys looked like on film, we want to know what the potential true GOAT looks like on film, his resume and reputation are so gargantuan. By the way, Greb is nicknamed "The Pittsburgh Windmill" due to his relentless, whirlwind style of fighting, characterized by a constant barrage of punches from all angles. He was known for his aggressive, non-stop attack, often described as a "human windmill" or a "perpetual-motion fighting machine". This style, combined with his impressive speed and stamina, made him a formidable and often unpredictable opponent.
October 16, 1909, Jack Johnson leans against the ropes after flattening Stanley Ketchel. Ketchel was the middleweight champion of the world and challenged the Heavyweight champion Jack Johnson, Ketchel had ridiculous punching power and had actually dropped Johnson earlier in the fight, this enraged Johnson and Johnson went nuclear on Ketchel and destroyed him.
Jack Johnson was the first Black heavyweight champion, he was nicknamed "The Galveston Giant" because he was from Galveston Texas and because of his size, he was a big, frightening guy to be in the ring with, extremely powerful.
Jack Johnson's story is incredible, he was world heavyweight champion from 1908-15, seven years, and he was one of the greatest ever, and he was despised every second of those years because of the color of his skin. People would attend his fights just because they wanted to see him get beat. He had enemies at every turn of his life those years just because of his skin color, yet he did things his way and basically told them all to stick it. This is great Ken Burns documentary about his life.
Julian "The Hawk" Jackson. He might be the scariest puncher boxing has ever seen, some of his knockouts were genuinely frightening to witness, he would hit guys and they would be out before they hit the canvas, they would fall over like a chopped down tree, and he didn't even need to load up to knock you out, he could flatten you with just a half effort punch.
Julian Jackson was one of those fighters that was never out of a fight, no matter how far behind we was on the judges scorecards, because all it took from him was one punch, you were never safe against him, you always had to be very careful not to make even the slightest mistake. Case in point, Herol Graham was outboxing Jackson, and it looked like Graham was on his way to a win, and then Graham made one little mistake and it was goodnight. The scary thing is, Julian Jackson didn't even load up and throw everything into this punch. Herol Graham was down for 6:00 after this punch, he ended up in the hospital from and couldn't even remember what happened for hours. That was Julian Jackson.
Mike Tyson walking one of his pet Tigers in the 1990s. He actually had three tigers, paid $50,000 each for them.
Mike Tyson paid $50,000 each for his famous pet tigers and kept them until one ‘ripped someone’s arm off’ and cost him $250,000 in compensation
Mike Tyson was the proud owner of three tigers in the 1990s and 2000s, having paid $50,000 each for the 'pets'.
At the peak of his powers as boxing's undisputed heavyweight champion of the world and the main draw, 'Iron' Mike had pretty much everything money could buy thanks to his killer earnings in the ring.
Tyson had three tiger cubs and kept one into adulthood
In a career that saw him face Evander Holyfield, Michael Spinks and make history as the youngest every heavyweight champion by flooring Trevor Berbick, Tyson's combined purses ran into the hundreds of millions.
And as a result of a chance meeting one day, he managed to acquire a selection of exotic animals normally out of reach regardless of how big your bank account might be.
Tyson kept the tigers at his home when they were cubs and as they got bigger, he donated two of them to a sanctuary, while continuing to keep one for 16 years.
Asked how he got his tigers, Tyson explained on his Hotboxin' Podcast: "Black market."
"This guy was selling them and said, 'I can get you a full grown one for $70,000 or I can get a small one for like $50,000.'
"So I got the baby. I get the baby, we feed the baby with a bottle and then eventually she's 400lbs.
"And then you figure out - how do I get rid of this motherf***er?!"
Asked if they were ever aggressive, he replied: "Not to me. Never to me."
Previously, Tyson explained the story of why he had to eventually get rid of the tiger he kept for 16 years.
He revealed in a GQ interview: “I had to get rid of her when her eyes and her head got bad.
“Oh and she ripped somebody’s arm off.”
It had been rumoured that Tyson's tiger jumped over a fence and attacked a neighbour.
However, when asked about this Tyson clarified: “No, that’s not what happened.
“Somebody jumped over my fence where the tiger was and jumped in their habitat and started playing with the tiger.
Tyson's tigers loved him, but didn't take kindly to tresspassers.
“And the tiger didn’t know the lady so it was a bad accident.
“She jumped in the property where the tiger was at.
“They tried to [sue me] until they found out she jumped over the fence and she trespassed the tiger.
“And listen, when I saw what the tiger did to her hand, I had a lot of money back then, so I gave her $250,000 or whatever it was.
“Because she was just f***ed up.”
Tyson lives a far calmer life in middle age these days with not a single tiger in sight.
Marcel Thil, great 1920's and 30s middleweight from France. There is some disagreement as to his claim on lineage, but Ring magazine lists him as the legitimate middleweight champion of the world for part of 1932, all of 33, 34 and 35, and part of '36. He was a career MW and boxed there for a decade and his best scalps include Lou Brouillard, Kid Tunero and Jock McAvoy, not a bad haul. In September of 1937, his title reign came to an end when he was TKO'd in round 10 of his fight with Fred Apostoli due to a hideous cut on his right eyelid, he would never box again. He was one heck of a fighter, tough, strong, and rugged infighter, was right at home down in the trenches, had an iron jaw. Look at that cut on his eyelid, it almost goes through the eyelid completely, Thil was a savage.
Ron Lyle, when Dinosaurs roamed the Earth. He was a brutal puncher in the Golden age of heavyweight boxing, his fights with Earnie Shavers and George Foreman are two of my all-time favorite fights, both fights wild west shootouts featuring some of the hardest hitters this sport has ever known. But man, Ron Lyle lived one crazy life.
Fight City Reviews
Off The Ropes: The Ron Lyle Story
March 14, 2025 Rafael García
I loved it. I loved it. I loved luring a guy into throwing a punch, then landing my own right hand and hurting him and dropping him. I loved it. It was the only way I was ever able to express myself.
Those familiar with the ring exploits of Ron Lyle will be surprised by these words from the one-time challenger to the heavyweight crown. In his prime, competing against arguably the most dangerous field of big men in boxing history, Ron represented a tough out for anyone, including the top talents. He famously—heartbreakingly, to his myriad Denver fans—led in the scorecards against Muhammad Ali before being stopped in round eleven. He pushed George Foreman to the brink in one of the greatest slugfests of all time. He scored a brutal knockout over one of the most feared punchers in heavyweight history in Earnie Shavers. Indeed, despite the fact he never became a world champion, no one can deny Ron Lyle could express himself in the ring just fine.
Ron Lyle.
And yet, as Candace Toft’s Off the Ropes: The Ron Lyle Story, makes evident, to focus on Lyle’s prizefighting career and to ignore the rest of his life story would be to miss an extraordinary tale of courage and redemption. Candace’s well-researched biography of Lyle–originally published in 2010, and re-released by Hamilcar Publications with a new foreword by Al Bernstein–is not only a worthy re-telling of one of boxing’s most inspiring personal tales, but one of the most humbling reads fight fans are likely to encounter.
Convicted of second-degree murder at age 19, Lyle spent over 7 years in prison, and it was during his time inside the Colorado State Penitentiary that he first picked up boxing. It was also during this time that he barely survived a stabbing attack by a fellow inmate. While initially Ron faced these setbacks with detached stoicism, his attitude to challenges—to life itself—eventually evolved into a distinctly innocent sort of patience, a trait that turned Lyle himself into a beloved figure to the large majority of those who came to know him. It’s a feature that also served him well when dealing with broken relationships, a second murder conviction, and even being dispossessed of his children. It’s the sort of stuff that would break lesser men, but Lyle instead found a way to not only stay in the game, but become one of the most highly-regarded contenders in heavyweight history.
Lyle was a dangerous man in a time of very dangerous heavyweights.
As portrayed by Toft, Lyle was as graceful and empathetic outside the ring as he was fierce and purposeful inside of it: a dichotomy that is not without precedence in boxing, but that always causes a degree of surprise. How to reconcile the man who scored knockout after vicious knockout on his way up the ranks with the man who showed a lifelong commitment to helping and guiding youngsters, not by preaching, but by listening to them? How to reconcile the man who twice felled George Foreman in a single round, with the man who would do anything he could to keep kids enrolled in his boxing program, even if it meant scrounging for kids’ footwear so his shoeless pupils wouldn’t quit? How to reconcile the man who scowled at a fallen Earnie Shavers after he bludgeoned him to the floor, with the man who wept from the heartache of being separated from his children?
Lyle gave George Foreman the fight of his life in 1976.
Ron Lyle himself might have provided the answer to this riddle. In retirement, looking back and pondering on the big fights he partook in, he didn’t particularly care if anyone knew how much he enjoyed the spotlight:
I loved the fight crowd. They’re the most exciting crowd I know–the high rollers. The night life. The politicians and movie stars. Business people. Street people. Ladies of the night. And they all come for one reason–to see you knocked down and pull yourself up. They want to see you put it on the line. And when you do, that’s like you telling them, ‘This is what I have to give you tonight.’
Lyle with author Toft.
But what’s most striking in this quote is Lyle’s conviction that people come to a big fight not because of the promise of violence or entertainment, but instead to see redemption in the flesh. This might be a case of projecting on Lyle’s part what he finds appealing about the ring, but it’s also an undeniably positive outlook on the motivations of those who attend a fight. And just how strongly Ron believed in this unspoken pact is confirmed by the string of determined, fierce performances that constitute his fighting legacy: every time he stepped into the ring, Lyle gave everything he had to give.
Indeed, Lyle may have given more than most realize. Ever since that day when Lyle had a vision, while recovering from his near-fatal wound on a hospital bed, that he would one day challenge the heavyweight champion of the world, he launched himself into the enterprise with an almost unfathomable single-mindedness. His training regimen became the stuff of legends, and his determination towards his goal is further confirmed by his almost reaching the pinnacle of the sport despite getting a late start, beginning his amateur days while in prison, and having had to luck his way into finding a manager who could get him the fights he needed.
Lyle rumbles with Ali in ’75.
But while his unshakeable belief in his vision sustained him in training and granted him a purpose once he left prison, Ron Lyle’s infatuation with the championship of the world also carried a terrible cost. Two romantic relationships—both of which produced children—came to an end largely due to Lyle’s time away from home while preparing for his fights. Many years would pass before Lyle was able to reconnect with his children from his first marriage after his wife left him, a crushing blow for someone so endeared to children. It was an experience that would define the rest of Lyle’s life, and a painful reminder of the sacrifice he made while pursuing his boxing career.
Lyle battling Jerry Quarry in 1973.
And yet, it’s still possible to find a thread that binds Ron Lyle’s life both inside and outside the ropes. If Denver’s prodigal son gave everything he had to each and every one of his ring battles, he lived no differently when away from the fight game. Off the Ropes is replete with stories that speak highly of Lyle’s dedication to those he cared about. He became not only a cornerstone of his large family, but strove to be a positive force in the lives of his fellow inmates, even years after leaving the penitentiary.
Lyle enjoyed passing on his knowledge.
This is to say nothing of his passion for trying to help youngsters find inner strength to deal with their own hurdles. If anything, losing contact with his own children and seeing two marriages fall apart pushed him to do more for those who remained around him: “Young people find it difficult to swallow their pride. I have to somehow let them know it’s ok to show a weakness. So I let them see my weakness, and then it’s ok for them, too. I tell them boxing is the proving ground of a man’s worth, and they learn that when they have the courage to get in that ring, they are worthy.”
A worthy addition to any fight fan’s bookshelf.
This was the guiding principle that Ron Lyle employed when interacting with youngsters at gyms and school functions. And while it’s a humble way to “give back,” it also shows an acute awareness of the fact no one has the game of life figured out in full; not kids, and certainly not adults. But what Lyle tried to teach is that we should strive to play the hands we’re dealt to the best of our abilities. Lyle himself wasn’t always dealt the best hands, but he surely always tried to make the best of them; as far as those he misplayed, the consequences followed him for the rest of his days. It’s to Lyle’s credit that he turned those misplays into hard-earned wisdom, allowing him to eventually make peace with his decisions. Toft adeptly shows this to be the legacy Ron Lyle left behind, one that stands shoulder-to-shoulder with a boxing legacy that is nothing short of remarkable.
Ron Lyle actually died twice on the operating table when he was shanked in prison, he was pronounced dead twice, they had to give him 35 blood transfusions to survive. One tough hombre was Ron Lyle.
There's a great story in the documentary, "When We Were Kings" about George Foreman hitting the heavy bag, he was such a destructive and clubbing puncher that he would leave huge dents in the heavy bags he was hitting, in fact, he would go through heavy bags like people go through toilet paper.
The term "heavy hands" means when a fighter throws a punch that really doesn't look like anything special, just a normal looking punch, but the punch ends up knocking the opponent out. Lopez had really heavy hands, and he was known for being able to pick himself up off the canvas and turn a fight around. Often times, Lopez would be getting his butt kicked and get knocked down, only to get up and knock his opponent out, with a punch that didn't look like anything spectacular. Take his fight with Juan Malvarez for example, Lopez was getting beat around the ring from pillar to post, Malvarez even floored him, it looked like Lopez was in serious trouble, only to see Lopez land a punch that didn't look like anything special, yet it took Malvarez out.
Mario D'agata, Italian Bantamweight, the first deaf-mute world champion, tough as old leather boots. He had an anvil for a chin, he was only knocked down once in 67 career fights, and it took the murderous punching Jose Becerra to put him down. In May 1955, tragedy struck when a business associate shot D’Agata in the chest with a rifle. The blast ripped through his chest, pierced his lung, and he was told his career was over; within three months he was back in the ring. When Agata went to Paris to defend his title for the first time, on April 1, 1957, against local challenger and socialite Alphonse Hamili, special lights had been set specially for the fight, so that D' Agata, who could not hear the bell after each round, would be able to tell when each round was finished. These lights would flash the moment the bell rang. There was a storm on the day of the fight, which was held in an open air area. Lightning struck one of the special lights in round three, and D' Agata was struck by sparkles, suffering a burned neck and back. It was decided the fight would go on, and D' Agata tried to defy the odds for the remaining of the fight, but he lost the title by a fifteen round decision, D' Agata never received a rematch from Hamili. Here he is pictured showing the rifle blast scar from the attempt on his life.
Scotland's great Ken Buchanan, he achieved the status of undisputed lightweight champion, a rare feat in boxing. This is an article written about Ken Buchanan after he passed away back in 2023, the article was written by Matt McGrain, one of the most brilliant minds in the study of boxing, his ability to analyze fighters and fights is nothing short of genius.
Rest in peace Ken Buchanan
By Matt McGrain
We don’t get many great ones in Scotland. Ken Buchanan, who was confirmed to have died today, was one of them, having held the lightweight championship of the world in the highly competitive era of the 1970s, losing it to perhaps the finest champion of them all in the shape of Roberto Duran – and in questionable circumstances at that.
The temptation is to tell the wonderful story of Ken Buchanan in three fights, and I will succumb to that temptation, saying in addition only that the determination and dignity that Buchanan held in his difficult later years impressed me almost as much as his wonderful fighting career. That he did great things in tartan shorts often despite of and not because of a country that failed to support him as richly as he deserved. That the British Boxing Board of Control’s failure to recognise him as world champion when literally the whole of the rest of the boxing universe did is the most shameful decision in the history of that storied organisation. Ken had nothing like the financial, administrative, promotional, and sometimes fistic help that he should have had. Buchanan, perhaps more than any of the great British fighters, achieved what he achieved alone.
That is why we find Buchanan at his mother’s funeral in the late 1960s essentially retired from the sport before he has even been tested. Buchanan was not a very Scottish fighter. He didn’t wade in, workmanlike, “honest”, aggressive; that was his lightweight rival, another fine Scottish fighter named Jim Watt, but it was not Ken. Ken boxed with grace and flamboyance, chose distance, and controlled it, he made superfluous moves and eschewed economy. The style hid iron. Buchanan was stopped just once and that loss had absolutely nothing to do with his chin, as we shall see. Motivated by his remembrance of his mother’s belief that he was made to do something in the sport of boxing, he set out once again in search of greatness. Almost immediately he was robbed in his attempt to win the European lightweight championship from Miguel Velazquez, out in Spain. The great Scottish sportswriter Hugh McIlvanney wryly noted that Buchanan would have had to have produced a death certificate for the Scotsman to get something out of a fight he clearly deserved to win.
Throughout Ken’s career, money men, among them the top British promoter Bobby Neil, tried to change his style, turn him into a workman’s puncher, but Ken just calmly turned them away, choosing his moves based upon freedom rather than cash. This is what made the fast turnaround after the Velazquez debacle so fascinating to me. Buchanan was essentially waiting for a stay-busy fight after winning the British title when he was called directly by Jack Solomons, probably the best-connected promoter and fixer in the country at that time.
“How would you like to fight for the world title you Scots git?” was Jack’s opening gambit; Ken thought that Jack had called him up as a joke, promoted by his father, Ken’s constant companion but a man fond of a joke. Jack explained clearly – the people who handled world champion Ismael Laguna were after a soft touch; a stand-up boxer who wouldn’t give Laguna any trouble, a “patsy” in the parlance of the time. Buchanan was furious.
"A patsy? Is that what they think of me in America? Get me the fight Jack and I’ll show these people what us Scottish patsies are like.”
Buchanan’s date with destiny was set for September 26, 1970 in San Juan, Puerto Rico. To further discomfort the Scotsman the fight would be fought at 2pm with temperatures soaring to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. “I knew there was no promoter in Britain ready to put up money for me to have a shot at the title,” he remembered in his 2000 biography The Tartan Legend, “so I’d have to go for this in a big way.”
The champion, Ismael Laguna, was a wonderful fighter. In 1965 he had defeated the mighty Carlos Ortiz in a narrow decision that must be seen to be believed. Laguna inverted his combinations, turned square against the lethal Ortiz to lead with his right, a baffling, extraordinary execution. It remains one of the finest maverick performances I’ve ever seen against a genuine all-time great and although Ortiz avenged himself and reclaimed his title, when Ortiz was out of the picture Laguna once again rose to the top. Buchanan and his father developed an audacious plan that only another maverick could conceive of: they would travel 4,000 miles from home and outbox this man to a 15-round decision.
Buchanan, in many ways, was ahead of his time and that he was undertaking sprints as interval training in the build-up to the San Juan contest may have been the single most important factor (outside of his brilliance) in winning that fight. Bathed in sweat and “unable to fill my lungs with air” Ken battled the oppressive heat as keenly as he did his opposition in the ring. This training mirrored Ken’s style in the ring – movement, control of the distance, then lengthy combination punching or a period of infighting under maximum commitment, then back on his toes. Almost as important was may have been the shuffling of the officials prompted by Ken’s manager, Eddie Thomas, who had heard that a judge and referee had been imported by Laguna’s team for the occasion.
Ken boxed early and was perhaps out-pecked – he stepped in to provide pressure through eight and the fight was balanced on a knife-edge and remained there through twelve. What really made the difference in this fight was not Ken’s skills and quickness and what is perhaps the most cultured left hand in the history of British boxing, but his decision in the championship rounds to attack. “By the twelfth round we are both tired. Really lead-weight tired. But Laguna won’t give in…I decide to change my tactics. I decide to go for him.”
It was just enough. Ken Buchanan became the new lightweight champion of the world by split decision, both his eyes closed and “at the limit of [his] endurance.”
Buchanan fought his first defence in February of 1971, outpointing Ruben Navarro in LA and fought his second and last defence in a rematch against Laguna. Made in New York, this battle was every bit as torrid as the first, a savage cut to his left eye hampering him throughout and forcing an adjustment that is every bit as much a part of Buchanan’s legend for me as his forthcoming meeting with Roberto Duran. His legendary jab hampered by that damage to the left eye, Buchanan fought squarer, just as Laguna had against Ortiz all those years ago, the injury forcing him in to what McIlvanney called the “slugger’s stance.” I’ll bow to his summary of this fight:
"Most boxers, faced with the demand for such an adjustment, would make a respectable lunge at it for a few minutes, then sag into resignation. The Scottish world champion, whose blindingly sudden and confusingly flexible left jab is not only his most telling weapon but the triggering mechanism for all his best combinations, might have been forgiven if he had gone that way…far from wilting he gained in assurance and authority as the fight moved into the final third of the contest. Time and again he turned back the spidery aggression of Laguna.”
For Buchanan, I’m sure it was nice just to have McIlvanney in attendance. Almost no British press had followed him east for his shot at the title and the reception at home was underwhelming, not least by the BBBC’s preposterous stand over Buchanan’s championship honours. Now, he had earned his status as one of Britain’s great champions.
It is a status he enjoyed at the time of his death today at age 77, a year after his diagnoses with dementia, a status he will always enjoy despite his loss of his lightweight title in his next defence against his nemesis, Roberto Duran.
Duran stopped Ken Buchanan in the thirteenth round of their 1972 Madison Square Garden match, but it is time now to be explicit: the refereeing in this fight was questionable. Johnny LoBianco allowed Duran to foul Buchanan throughout. Sports Illustrated adjudged from ringside that Duran “used every part of his anatomy, everything but his knee” in his pursuit of the title.
Buchanan was even more direct: “I thought I signed up for a wrestling match, not a boxing contest. He hit me in the balls a couple of times without so much as a nod from the referee.” In the thirteenth, Buchanan, trailing on the cards, felt he had one of his better rounds but at the bell, “I turn towards my corner and in the same moment Duran lunges…with a punch that went right into my balls.” The punch was so hard that it split Buchanan’s protector. Examined by a doctor after the fight he was found to have significant swelling of the testicles. The referee, incredibly, didn’t even admonish Duran for throwing a fight-finishing punch after the bell while simultaneously claiming that the punch had been “to the solar plexus.”
To be clear, Duran was better than Buchanan. It’s almost impossible to envisage Buchanan turning the fight around and however he personally felt about the thirteenth, if he received four rounds on a scorecard, that scorecard would be generous. But it is also wrong to see anyone drop his title in such circumstances and the unfortunate event saw the beginning of Buchanan’s slide from relevancy and then, later, mental health. He waited by the phone for far too long for Duran to call him up and offer a rematch. Whatever is to be made of it, Duran had no interest in providing one, and in Buchanan’s defence, it’s probable that he never fought a fighter as good as Ken during the whole of the rest of his lightweight reign. Buchanan took it badly, so badly he even flew to North America in the 1990s to see if he could track Duran down and have it out with him. Fortunately, Buchanan didn’t get much further than some downtown bars where he was still fondly remembered by some of the patrons.
Buchanan’s life post-boxing was difficult, but never pitiful. He was proud and however difficult things got, he remained proud. Last year, and just in time, he was in attendance as a statue of him was unveiled on Leith Walk in Edinburgh where he ran as a boy.
Gone now, he will never be forgotten in Scotland. Blessed with speed and great heart he made of himself what he could and it turned out to be just about as much as a Scottish fighter has ever made of himself. To end I offer a quote from The Fight Game In Scotland, a book written by Brian Donald who himself boxed Buchanan when both were Edinburgh teenagers. Brian ran 0-3 but began a lifelong friendship with Buchanan who was always ready to offer the hand of friendship to his defeated opponents.
“Buchanan, like a top-grade malt whisky, held his own in any foreign environment no matter how distant he was from his native shores…he was and remains one of the most accomplished British fighters to fight in foreign rings. His ring style was in some respects a metaphor for his own personality, elusive and tough, and the soaring singularity of his talent was matched by an equally single-minded determination that nobody, but nobody, knew better than Kenny Buchanan what was good for him.”
If you watched featherweight boxing in the 80's there's no way you didn't see Juan LaPorte. One of the best chins in boxing history, you couldn't hurt him with a baseball bat, and the definition of a Gladiator, he went the distance with a murderers row:
Salvador Sanchez
Eusebio Pedroza
Wilfredo Gomez
Barry McGuigan
Julion Cesar Chavez
Azumah Nelson
Kosta Tszyu
He wasn't stopped until he retired in his corner at the age of 35 against Zack Padilla. If that's not a chin made of cast iron then I don't know what is. This is one of my favorite boxing photos, Juan Laporte with his hand raised in the air and his kid raised in the air next to him, epic image.
In 1940, Joe Louis and Arturo Godoy fought twice, both times for the World Heavyweight Championship. The first fight, on February 9th at Madison Square Garden, resulted in a 15-round split decision victory for Louis, with the referee and one judge favoring him while the other judge favored Godoy, it was a controversial fight with some people thinking Godoy should have gotten the victory, Louis later said it was his worst performance. The second fight, there would be no controversy. On June 20th at Yankee Stadium, saw Louis win by TKO in the 8th round. Godoy's face was badly battered. The Associated Press reported that his face looked like "barbecued beef." Godoy was floored late in the seventh round. He got up right before the bell rang to end the round. Louis dropped Godoy twice in the eighth round. After the second knockdown, the referee stopped the fight without a count. Godoy tried to go after Louis when he got up, but he was restrained. Later, when he had calmed down, Godoy shook Louis' hand and congratulated him. "That's the worst beating I ever gave a man," Louis said after the fight. Here, Louis is seen walking back to his corner after flooring Godoy in the rematch, notice the look on Louis's face as he stares at Godoy after knocking him down, ice cold. Louis was a frightening fighter, Max Baer once said of Louis, "I define fear as standing across the ring from Joe Louis and knowing he wants to go home early."
Rocky Marciano, looking into a crystal ball. This photograph captures a moment where Marciano is playfully depicted "seeing" himself winning a fight in the crystal ball, emphasizing his confidence and undefeated record. Epic image.
Comments
Here's a photo of photographer Neil Leifer and Muhammad Ali together, both of them were 24 years old at the time this photo was taken.
This is my favorite shot of Neil Leifer's most famous Muhammad Ali photo, and probably the most famous sports photo ever taken.
Harry Greb, "The Pittsburgh Windmill", many boxing fans and experts consider Harry Greb the greatest pound for pound fighter that ever lived, the greatest fighter in the history of boxing period. He has a case for it, a very strong case, he has the best resume in boxing history, it's almost unbelievable.
Tommy Gibbons x2
Gene Tunney x1
Maxie Rosenbloom x1
Kid Norfolk x1
Mickey Walker x1
Tommy Loughran x4
Jeff Smith x6
Mike McTigue x2
Tiger Flowers x1
Mike Gibbons x1
Billy Miske x2
Jimmy Slattery x1
Battling Levinsky x6
Leo Houck x3
Kid McCoy x2
Jack Dillon x2
George Chip x2
Johnny Wilson x3
Charlie Weinart x1
Tony Marullo x2
Art Weigand x1
Bob Moha x6
Quintin Rojas x1
Jack Renault x2
Allentown Joe Gans x1
Roland Todd x1
Frank Moody x1
Jimmy Delaney x3
Wins over top 10 rated fighters:
Tommy Gibbons x2, Gene Tunney x1, Kid Norfolk x1, Maxie Rosenbloom x1, Mickey Walker x1, Johnny Wilson x3, Jeff Smith x6, Tommy Loughran x4, Charley Weinert x1, Art Weigand x1, Allentown Joe Gans x1, Ted Moore x2, Tony Marullo x2, Martin Burke x1, Mike McTigue x2, Jimmy Slattery x1, Quintin Rojas x1, Jack Renault x2, Tiger Flowers x1, Jimmy Delaney x3, Roland Todd x1, Frank Moody x1 = 39 wins over top 10 rated fighters.
Wins over Hall of Famers :
Levinsky x6, Dillon x2, M. Gibbons x1, T. Gibbons x2, Loughran x4, Norfolk x1, Smith x6, Rosenbloom x1, Walker x1, Hauck x3, Slattery x1, Tunney x1, Miske x2, Flowers x1 = 32 wins over Hall of Famers.
Wins over World champions:
McCoy x2, Chip x2, Moha x6, Wilson x3, Tunney x1, M. Gibbons x1, Walker x1, Rosenbloom x1, McTigue x2, Flowers x1, Dillon x2, Levinsky x6, Loughran x4, Slattery x1, Norfolk x1 = 34 wins over champions.
It's even more amazing considering the fact that Harry Greb fought most of his career only being able to see out of one eye, early in his career he was thumbed in the eye and lost sight in one of his eyes. In the year 1919 he fought 45 times and went 45-0, insane. His overall career record is 261-17 with 19 draws and 1 no contest, he fought 299 fights in his career. Actual fight footage of Harry Greb is the Holy Grail of boxing, none exists, the only footage that exists of Harry Greb is training footage. If actual fight footage ever surfaces of Harry Greb, it would be priceless, boxing fans and experts have been relentlessly searching for it for years and years with no luck, we're hoping someone comes forward someday with footage. Harry Greb is mythical, his resume is known by all hardcore boxing fans, it's the best resume in boxing history, but we want to see how a fighter actually handles himself in a real fight. Footage of all the other GOAT candidates exists, Sugar Ray Robinson, Henry Armstrong, Ezzard Charles, Sam Langford, Bob Fitzsimmons footage of all those fighters exists, we know what those guys looked like on film, we want to know what the potential true GOAT looks like on film, his resume and reputation are so gargantuan. By the way, Greb is nicknamed "The Pittsburgh Windmill" due to his relentless, whirlwind style of fighting, characterized by a constant barrage of punches from all angles. He was known for his aggressive, non-stop attack, often described as a "human windmill" or a "perpetual-motion fighting machine". This style, combined with his impressive speed and stamina, made him a formidable and often unpredictable opponent.
The great Harry Greb.
Ken Norton training with a sledgehammer to build up strength.
October 16, 1909, Jack Johnson leans against the ropes after flattening Stanley Ketchel. Ketchel was the middleweight champion of the world and challenged the Heavyweight champion Jack Johnson, Ketchel had ridiculous punching power and had actually dropped Johnson earlier in the fight, this enraged Johnson and Johnson went nuclear on Ketchel and destroyed him.
Jack Johnson was the first Black heavyweight champion, he was nicknamed "The Galveston Giant" because he was from Galveston Texas and because of his size, he was a big, frightening guy to be in the ring with, extremely powerful.
Jack Johnson poses in his robe.
James Earl Jones portrayed Jack Johnson in the 1970 film "The Great White Hope."
This is a really cool sculpture of Jack Johnson made from a fallen tree from Hurricane Ike in Galveston Texas.
Jack Johnson's story is incredible, he was world heavyweight champion from 1908-15, seven years, and he was one of the greatest ever, and he was despised every second of those years because of the color of his skin. People would attend his fights just because they wanted to see him get beat. He had enemies at every turn of his life those years just because of his skin color, yet he did things his way and basically told them all to stick it. This is great Ken Burns documentary about his life.
Great video talking about Jack Johnson, his life, his fighting style.
This is my favorite Jack Johnson card, 1911 T9 Turkey Red, it's one of the all-time great boxing cards.
Iconic image of Jack Johnson driving an early model car.
One of the most famous photos in boxing history, Roy Campbell vs Dick Hyland, 1913.
Julian "The Hawk" Jackson. He might be the scariest puncher boxing has ever seen, some of his knockouts were genuinely frightening to witness, he would hit guys and they would be out before they hit the canvas, they would fall over like a chopped down tree, and he didn't even need to load up to knock you out, he could flatten you with just a half effort punch.
Julian Jackson was one of those fighters that was never out of a fight, no matter how far behind we was on the judges scorecards, because all it took from him was one punch, you were never safe against him, you always had to be very careful not to make even the slightest mistake. Case in point, Herol Graham was outboxing Jackson, and it looked like Graham was on his way to a win, and then Graham made one little mistake and it was goodnight. The scary thing is, Julian Jackson didn't even load up and throw everything into this punch. Herol Graham was down for 6:00 after this punch, he ended up in the hospital from and couldn't even remember what happened for hours. That was Julian Jackson.
The Hawk's power.
Mike Tyson walking one of his pet Tigers in the 1990s. He actually had three tigers, paid $50,000 each for them.
Mike Tyson paid $50,000 each for his famous pet tigers and kept them until one ‘ripped someone’s arm off’ and cost him $250,000 in compensation
Mike Tyson was the proud owner of three tigers in the 1990s and 2000s, having paid $50,000 each for the 'pets'.
At the peak of his powers as boxing's undisputed heavyweight champion of the world and the main draw, 'Iron' Mike had pretty much everything money could buy thanks to his killer earnings in the ring.
Tyson had three tiger cubs and kept one into adulthood
In a career that saw him face Evander Holyfield, Michael Spinks and make history as the youngest every heavyweight champion by flooring Trevor Berbick, Tyson's combined purses ran into the hundreds of millions.
And as a result of a chance meeting one day, he managed to acquire a selection of exotic animals normally out of reach regardless of how big your bank account might be.
Tyson kept the tigers at his home when they were cubs and as they got bigger, he donated two of them to a sanctuary, while continuing to keep one for 16 years.
Asked how he got his tigers, Tyson explained on his Hotboxin' Podcast: "Black market."
"This guy was selling them and said, 'I can get you a full grown one for $70,000 or I can get a small one for like $50,000.'
"So I got the baby. I get the baby, we feed the baby with a bottle and then eventually she's 400lbs.
"And then you figure out - how do I get rid of this motherf***er?!"
Asked if they were ever aggressive, he replied: "Not to me. Never to me."
Previously, Tyson explained the story of why he had to eventually get rid of the tiger he kept for 16 years.
He revealed in a GQ interview: “I had to get rid of her when her eyes and her head got bad.
“Oh and she ripped somebody’s arm off.”
It had been rumoured that Tyson's tiger jumped over a fence and attacked a neighbour.
However, when asked about this Tyson clarified: “No, that’s not what happened.
“Somebody jumped over my fence where the tiger was and jumped in their habitat and started playing with the tiger.
Tyson's tigers loved him, but didn't take kindly to tresspassers.
“And the tiger didn’t know the lady so it was a bad accident.
“She jumped in the property where the tiger was at.
“They tried to [sue me] until they found out she jumped over the fence and she trespassed the tiger.
“And listen, when I saw what the tiger did to her hand, I had a lot of money back then, so I gave her $250,000 or whatever it was.
“Because she was just f***ed up.”
Tyson lives a far calmer life in middle age these days with not a single tiger in sight.
God, look at that Tiger, what a monster.
Sonny Liston's fist, he had huge hands. Quick fact, The Wu-Tang Clan makes reference to Liston's gargantuan hands in their hit song "Triumph." ☝️
Marcel Thil, great 1920's and 30s middleweight from France. There is some disagreement as to his claim on lineage, but Ring magazine lists him as the legitimate middleweight champion of the world for part of 1932, all of 33, 34 and 35, and part of '36. He was a career MW and boxed there for a decade and his best scalps include Lou Brouillard, Kid Tunero and Jock McAvoy, not a bad haul. In September of 1937, his title reign came to an end when he was TKO'd in round 10 of his fight with Fred Apostoli due to a hideous cut on his right eyelid, he would never box again. He was one heck of a fighter, tough, strong, and rugged infighter, was right at home down in the trenches, had an iron jaw. Look at that cut on his eyelid, it almost goes through the eyelid completely, Thil was a savage.
Marcel Thil in his prime.
Ron Lyle, when Dinosaurs roamed the Earth. He was a brutal puncher in the Golden age of heavyweight boxing, his fights with Earnie Shavers and George Foreman are two of my all-time favorite fights, both fights wild west shootouts featuring some of the hardest hitters this sport has ever known. But man, Ron Lyle lived one crazy life.
Fight City Reviews
Off The Ropes: The Ron Lyle Story
March 14, 2025 Rafael García
I loved it. I loved it. I loved luring a guy into throwing a punch, then landing my own right hand and hurting him and dropping him. I loved it. It was the only way I was ever able to express myself.
Those familiar with the ring exploits of Ron Lyle will be surprised by these words from the one-time challenger to the heavyweight crown. In his prime, competing against arguably the most dangerous field of big men in boxing history, Ron represented a tough out for anyone, including the top talents. He famously—heartbreakingly, to his myriad Denver fans—led in the scorecards against Muhammad Ali before being stopped in round eleven. He pushed George Foreman to the brink in one of the greatest slugfests of all time. He scored a brutal knockout over one of the most feared punchers in heavyweight history in Earnie Shavers. Indeed, despite the fact he never became a world champion, no one can deny Ron Lyle could express himself in the ring just fine.
Ron Lyle.
And yet, as Candace Toft’s Off the Ropes: The Ron Lyle Story, makes evident, to focus on Lyle’s prizefighting career and to ignore the rest of his life story would be to miss an extraordinary tale of courage and redemption. Candace’s well-researched biography of Lyle–originally published in 2010, and re-released by Hamilcar Publications with a new foreword by Al Bernstein–is not only a worthy re-telling of one of boxing’s most inspiring personal tales, but one of the most humbling reads fight fans are likely to encounter.
Convicted of second-degree murder at age 19, Lyle spent over 7 years in prison, and it was during his time inside the Colorado State Penitentiary that he first picked up boxing. It was also during this time that he barely survived a stabbing attack by a fellow inmate. While initially Ron faced these setbacks with detached stoicism, his attitude to challenges—to life itself—eventually evolved into a distinctly innocent sort of patience, a trait that turned Lyle himself into a beloved figure to the large majority of those who came to know him. It’s a feature that also served him well when dealing with broken relationships, a second murder conviction, and even being dispossessed of his children. It’s the sort of stuff that would break lesser men, but Lyle instead found a way to not only stay in the game, but become one of the most highly-regarded contenders in heavyweight history.
Lyle was a dangerous man in a time of very dangerous heavyweights.
As portrayed by Toft, Lyle was as graceful and empathetic outside the ring as he was fierce and purposeful inside of it: a dichotomy that is not without precedence in boxing, but that always causes a degree of surprise. How to reconcile the man who scored knockout after vicious knockout on his way up the ranks with the man who showed a lifelong commitment to helping and guiding youngsters, not by preaching, but by listening to them? How to reconcile the man who twice felled George Foreman in a single round, with the man who would do anything he could to keep kids enrolled in his boxing program, even if it meant scrounging for kids’ footwear so his shoeless pupils wouldn’t quit? How to reconcile the man who scowled at a fallen Earnie Shavers after he bludgeoned him to the floor, with the man who wept from the heartache of being separated from his children?
Lyle gave George Foreman the fight of his life in 1976.
Ron Lyle himself might have provided the answer to this riddle. In retirement, looking back and pondering on the big fights he partook in, he didn’t particularly care if anyone knew how much he enjoyed the spotlight:
I loved the fight crowd. They’re the most exciting crowd I know–the high rollers. The night life. The politicians and movie stars. Business people. Street people. Ladies of the night. And they all come for one reason–to see you knocked down and pull yourself up. They want to see you put it on the line. And when you do, that’s like you telling them, ‘This is what I have to give you tonight.’
Lyle with author Toft.
But what’s most striking in this quote is Lyle’s conviction that people come to a big fight not because of the promise of violence or entertainment, but instead to see redemption in the flesh. This might be a case of projecting on Lyle’s part what he finds appealing about the ring, but it’s also an undeniably positive outlook on the motivations of those who attend a fight. And just how strongly Ron believed in this unspoken pact is confirmed by the string of determined, fierce performances that constitute his fighting legacy: every time he stepped into the ring, Lyle gave everything he had to give.
Indeed, Lyle may have given more than most realize. Ever since that day when Lyle had a vision, while recovering from his near-fatal wound on a hospital bed, that he would one day challenge the heavyweight champion of the world, he launched himself into the enterprise with an almost unfathomable single-mindedness. His training regimen became the stuff of legends, and his determination towards his goal is further confirmed by his almost reaching the pinnacle of the sport despite getting a late start, beginning his amateur days while in prison, and having had to luck his way into finding a manager who could get him the fights he needed.
Lyle rumbles with Ali in ’75.
But while his unshakeable belief in his vision sustained him in training and granted him a purpose once he left prison, Ron Lyle’s infatuation with the championship of the world also carried a terrible cost. Two romantic relationships—both of which produced children—came to an end largely due to Lyle’s time away from home while preparing for his fights. Many years would pass before Lyle was able to reconnect with his children from his first marriage after his wife left him, a crushing blow for someone so endeared to children. It was an experience that would define the rest of Lyle’s life, and a painful reminder of the sacrifice he made while pursuing his boxing career.
Lyle battling Jerry Quarry in 1973.
And yet, it’s still possible to find a thread that binds Ron Lyle’s life both inside and outside the ropes. If Denver’s prodigal son gave everything he had to each and every one of his ring battles, he lived no differently when away from the fight game. Off the Ropes is replete with stories that speak highly of Lyle’s dedication to those he cared about. He became not only a cornerstone of his large family, but strove to be a positive force in the lives of his fellow inmates, even years after leaving the penitentiary.
Lyle enjoyed passing on his knowledge.
This is to say nothing of his passion for trying to help youngsters find inner strength to deal with their own hurdles. If anything, losing contact with his own children and seeing two marriages fall apart pushed him to do more for those who remained around him: “Young people find it difficult to swallow their pride. I have to somehow let them know it’s ok to show a weakness. So I let them see my weakness, and then it’s ok for them, too. I tell them boxing is the proving ground of a man’s worth, and they learn that when they have the courage to get in that ring, they are worthy.”
A worthy addition to any fight fan’s bookshelf.
This was the guiding principle that Ron Lyle employed when interacting with youngsters at gyms and school functions. And while it’s a humble way to “give back,” it also shows an acute awareness of the fact no one has the game of life figured out in full; not kids, and certainly not adults. But what Lyle tried to teach is that we should strive to play the hands we’re dealt to the best of our abilities. Lyle himself wasn’t always dealt the best hands, but he surely always tried to make the best of them; as far as those he misplayed, the consequences followed him for the rest of his days. It’s to Lyle’s credit that he turned those misplays into hard-earned wisdom, allowing him to eventually make peace with his decisions. Toft adeptly shows this to be the legacy Ron Lyle left behind, one that stands shoulder-to-shoulder with a boxing legacy that is nothing short of remarkable.
Ron Lyle actually died twice on the operating table when he was shanked in prison, he was pronounced dead twice, they had to give him 35 blood transfusions to survive. One tough hombre was Ron Lyle.
There's a great story in the documentary, "When We Were Kings" about George Foreman hitting the heavy bag, he was such a destructive and clubbing puncher that he would leave huge dents in the heavy bags he was hitting, in fact, he would go through heavy bags like people go through toilet paper.
Here it is, the story of George Foreman hitting the heavy bag.
Danny "Little Red" Lopez, He was a great, tough tough featherweight fighter with very heavy hands.
The term "heavy hands" means when a fighter throws a punch that really doesn't look like anything special, just a normal looking punch, but the punch ends up knocking the opponent out. Lopez had really heavy hands, and he was known for being able to pick himself up off the canvas and turn a fight around. Often times, Lopez would be getting his butt kicked and get knocked down, only to get up and knock his opponent out, with a punch that didn't look like anything spectacular. Take his fight with Juan Malvarez for example, Lopez was getting beat around the ring from pillar to post, Malvarez even floored him, it looked like Lopez was in serious trouble, only to see Lopez land a punch that didn't look like anything special, yet it took Malvarez out.
Donald Curry, the "Lone Star Cobra." Very solid technical boxer.
One of the greatest magazine covers of all-time.
Mario D'agata, Italian Bantamweight, the first deaf-mute world champion, tough as old leather boots. He had an anvil for a chin, he was only knocked down once in 67 career fights, and it took the murderous punching Jose Becerra to put him down. In May 1955, tragedy struck when a business associate shot D’Agata in the chest with a rifle. The blast ripped through his chest, pierced his lung, and he was told his career was over; within three months he was back in the ring. When Agata went to Paris to defend his title for the first time, on April 1, 1957, against local challenger and socialite Alphonse Hamili, special lights had been set specially for the fight, so that D' Agata, who could not hear the bell after each round, would be able to tell when each round was finished. These lights would flash the moment the bell rang. There was a storm on the day of the fight, which was held in an open air area. Lightning struck one of the special lights in round three, and D' Agata was struck by sparkles, suffering a burned neck and back. It was decided the fight would go on, and D' Agata tried to defy the odds for the remaining of the fight, but he lost the title by a fifteen round decision, D' Agata never received a rematch from Hamili. Here he is pictured showing the rifle blast scar from the attempt on his life.
Scotland's great Ken Buchanan, he achieved the status of undisputed lightweight champion, a rare feat in boxing. This is an article written about Ken Buchanan after he passed away back in 2023, the article was written by Matt McGrain, one of the most brilliant minds in the study of boxing, his ability to analyze fighters and fights is nothing short of genius.
Rest in peace Ken Buchanan
By Matt McGrain
We don’t get many great ones in Scotland. Ken Buchanan, who was confirmed to have died today, was one of them, having held the lightweight championship of the world in the highly competitive era of the 1970s, losing it to perhaps the finest champion of them all in the shape of Roberto Duran – and in questionable circumstances at that.
The temptation is to tell the wonderful story of Ken Buchanan in three fights, and I will succumb to that temptation, saying in addition only that the determination and dignity that Buchanan held in his difficult later years impressed me almost as much as his wonderful fighting career. That he did great things in tartan shorts often despite of and not because of a country that failed to support him as richly as he deserved. That the British Boxing Board of Control’s failure to recognise him as world champion when literally the whole of the rest of the boxing universe did is the most shameful decision in the history of that storied organisation. Ken had nothing like the financial, administrative, promotional, and sometimes fistic help that he should have had. Buchanan, perhaps more than any of the great British fighters, achieved what he achieved alone.
That is why we find Buchanan at his mother’s funeral in the late 1960s essentially retired from the sport before he has even been tested. Buchanan was not a very Scottish fighter. He didn’t wade in, workmanlike, “honest”, aggressive; that was his lightweight rival, another fine Scottish fighter named Jim Watt, but it was not Ken. Ken boxed with grace and flamboyance, chose distance, and controlled it, he made superfluous moves and eschewed economy. The style hid iron. Buchanan was stopped just once and that loss had absolutely nothing to do with his chin, as we shall see. Motivated by his remembrance of his mother’s belief that he was made to do something in the sport of boxing, he set out once again in search of greatness. Almost immediately he was robbed in his attempt to win the European lightweight championship from Miguel Velazquez, out in Spain. The great Scottish sportswriter Hugh McIlvanney wryly noted that Buchanan would have had to have produced a death certificate for the Scotsman to get something out of a fight he clearly deserved to win.
Throughout Ken’s career, money men, among them the top British promoter Bobby Neil, tried to change his style, turn him into a workman’s puncher, but Ken just calmly turned them away, choosing his moves based upon freedom rather than cash. This is what made the fast turnaround after the Velazquez debacle so fascinating to me. Buchanan was essentially waiting for a stay-busy fight after winning the British title when he was called directly by Jack Solomons, probably the best-connected promoter and fixer in the country at that time.
“How would you like to fight for the world title you Scots git?” was Jack’s opening gambit; Ken thought that Jack had called him up as a joke, promoted by his father, Ken’s constant companion but a man fond of a joke. Jack explained clearly – the people who handled world champion Ismael Laguna were after a soft touch; a stand-up boxer who wouldn’t give Laguna any trouble, a “patsy” in the parlance of the time. Buchanan was furious.
"A patsy? Is that what they think of me in America? Get me the fight Jack and I’ll show these people what us Scottish patsies are like.”
Buchanan’s date with destiny was set for September 26, 1970 in San Juan, Puerto Rico. To further discomfort the Scotsman the fight would be fought at 2pm with temperatures soaring to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. “I knew there was no promoter in Britain ready to put up money for me to have a shot at the title,” he remembered in his 2000 biography The Tartan Legend, “so I’d have to go for this in a big way.”
The champion, Ismael Laguna, was a wonderful fighter. In 1965 he had defeated the mighty Carlos Ortiz in a narrow decision that must be seen to be believed. Laguna inverted his combinations, turned square against the lethal Ortiz to lead with his right, a baffling, extraordinary execution. It remains one of the finest maverick performances I’ve ever seen against a genuine all-time great and although Ortiz avenged himself and reclaimed his title, when Ortiz was out of the picture Laguna once again rose to the top. Buchanan and his father developed an audacious plan that only another maverick could conceive of: they would travel 4,000 miles from home and outbox this man to a 15-round decision.
Buchanan, in many ways, was ahead of his time and that he was undertaking sprints as interval training in the build-up to the San Juan contest may have been the single most important factor (outside of his brilliance) in winning that fight. Bathed in sweat and “unable to fill my lungs with air” Ken battled the oppressive heat as keenly as he did his opposition in the ring. This training mirrored Ken’s style in the ring – movement, control of the distance, then lengthy combination punching or a period of infighting under maximum commitment, then back on his toes. Almost as important was may have been the shuffling of the officials prompted by Ken’s manager, Eddie Thomas, who had heard that a judge and referee had been imported by Laguna’s team for the occasion.
Ken boxed early and was perhaps out-pecked – he stepped in to provide pressure through eight and the fight was balanced on a knife-edge and remained there through twelve. What really made the difference in this fight was not Ken’s skills and quickness and what is perhaps the most cultured left hand in the history of British boxing, but his decision in the championship rounds to attack. “By the twelfth round we are both tired. Really lead-weight tired. But Laguna won’t give in…I decide to change my tactics. I decide to go for him.”
It was just enough. Ken Buchanan became the new lightweight champion of the world by split decision, both his eyes closed and “at the limit of [his] endurance.”
Buchanan fought his first defence in February of 1971, outpointing Ruben Navarro in LA and fought his second and last defence in a rematch against Laguna. Made in New York, this battle was every bit as torrid as the first, a savage cut to his left eye hampering him throughout and forcing an adjustment that is every bit as much a part of Buchanan’s legend for me as his forthcoming meeting with Roberto Duran. His legendary jab hampered by that damage to the left eye, Buchanan fought squarer, just as Laguna had against Ortiz all those years ago, the injury forcing him in to what McIlvanney called the “slugger’s stance.” I’ll bow to his summary of this fight:
"Most boxers, faced with the demand for such an adjustment, would make a respectable lunge at it for a few minutes, then sag into resignation. The Scottish world champion, whose blindingly sudden and confusingly flexible left jab is not only his most telling weapon but the triggering mechanism for all his best combinations, might have been forgiven if he had gone that way…far from wilting he gained in assurance and authority as the fight moved into the final third of the contest. Time and again he turned back the spidery aggression of Laguna.”
For Buchanan, I’m sure it was nice just to have McIlvanney in attendance. Almost no British press had followed him east for his shot at the title and the reception at home was underwhelming, not least by the BBBC’s preposterous stand over Buchanan’s championship honours. Now, he had earned his status as one of Britain’s great champions.
It is a status he enjoyed at the time of his death today at age 77, a year after his diagnoses with dementia, a status he will always enjoy despite his loss of his lightweight title in his next defence against his nemesis, Roberto Duran.
Duran stopped Ken Buchanan in the thirteenth round of their 1972 Madison Square Garden match, but it is time now to be explicit: the refereeing in this fight was questionable. Johnny LoBianco allowed Duran to foul Buchanan throughout. Sports Illustrated adjudged from ringside that Duran “used every part of his anatomy, everything but his knee” in his pursuit of the title.
Buchanan was even more direct: “I thought I signed up for a wrestling match, not a boxing contest. He hit me in the balls a couple of times without so much as a nod from the referee.” In the thirteenth, Buchanan, trailing on the cards, felt he had one of his better rounds but at the bell, “I turn towards my corner and in the same moment Duran lunges…with a punch that went right into my balls.” The punch was so hard that it split Buchanan’s protector. Examined by a doctor after the fight he was found to have significant swelling of the testicles. The referee, incredibly, didn’t even admonish Duran for throwing a fight-finishing punch after the bell while simultaneously claiming that the punch had been “to the solar plexus.”
To be clear, Duran was better than Buchanan. It’s almost impossible to envisage Buchanan turning the fight around and however he personally felt about the thirteenth, if he received four rounds on a scorecard, that scorecard would be generous. But it is also wrong to see anyone drop his title in such circumstances and the unfortunate event saw the beginning of Buchanan’s slide from relevancy and then, later, mental health. He waited by the phone for far too long for Duran to call him up and offer a rematch. Whatever is to be made of it, Duran had no interest in providing one, and in Buchanan’s defence, it’s probable that he never fought a fighter as good as Ken during the whole of the rest of his lightweight reign. Buchanan took it badly, so badly he even flew to North America in the 1990s to see if he could track Duran down and have it out with him. Fortunately, Buchanan didn’t get much further than some downtown bars where he was still fondly remembered by some of the patrons.
Buchanan’s life post-boxing was difficult, but never pitiful. He was proud and however difficult things got, he remained proud. Last year, and just in time, he was in attendance as a statue of him was unveiled on Leith Walk in Edinburgh where he ran as a boy.
Gone now, he will never be forgotten in Scotland. Blessed with speed and great heart he made of himself what he could and it turned out to be just about as much as a Scottish fighter has ever made of himself. To end I offer a quote from The Fight Game In Scotland, a book written by Brian Donald who himself boxed Buchanan when both were Edinburgh teenagers. Brian ran 0-3 but began a lifelong friendship with Buchanan who was always ready to offer the hand of friendship to his defeated opponents.
“Buchanan, like a top-grade malt whisky, held his own in any foreign environment no matter how distant he was from his native shores…he was and remains one of the most accomplished British fighters to fight in foreign rings. His ring style was in some respects a metaphor for his own personality, elusive and tough, and the soaring singularity of his talent was matched by an equally single-minded determination that nobody, but nobody, knew better than Kenny Buchanan what was good for him.”
Ken Buchanan was a brilliant technical boxer, one of the best jabs in the history of the sport.
Ken Buchanan standing next to his statue in Edinburgh Scotland.
Mike Tyson vs Donovan "Razor" Ruddock 1.
If you watched featherweight boxing in the 80's there's no way you didn't see Juan LaPorte. One of the best chins in boxing history, you couldn't hurt him with a baseball bat, and the definition of a Gladiator, he went the distance with a murderers row:
Salvador Sanchez
Eusebio Pedroza
Wilfredo Gomez
Barry McGuigan
Julion Cesar Chavez
Azumah Nelson
Kosta Tszyu
He wasn't stopped until he retired in his corner at the age of 35 against Zack Padilla. If that's not a chin made of cast iron then I don't know what is. This is one of my favorite boxing photos, Juan Laporte with his hand raised in the air and his kid raised in the air next to him, epic image.
Chuck Davey, slick Irish Southpaw with a piston-jab and springs for legs. Beat Carmen Basilio, Ike Williams, Chico Vejar, and Rocky Graziano.
Chuck Davey.
Chuck Davey on the cover of Ring magazine.
In 1940, Joe Louis and Arturo Godoy fought twice, both times for the World Heavyweight Championship. The first fight, on February 9th at Madison Square Garden, resulted in a 15-round split decision victory for Louis, with the referee and one judge favoring him while the other judge favored Godoy, it was a controversial fight with some people thinking Godoy should have gotten the victory, Louis later said it was his worst performance. The second fight, there would be no controversy. On June 20th at Yankee Stadium, saw Louis win by TKO in the 8th round. Godoy's face was badly battered. The Associated Press reported that his face looked like "barbecued beef." Godoy was floored late in the seventh round. He got up right before the bell rang to end the round. Louis dropped Godoy twice in the eighth round. After the second knockdown, the referee stopped the fight without a count. Godoy tried to go after Louis when he got up, but he was restrained. Later, when he had calmed down, Godoy shook Louis' hand and congratulated him. "That's the worst beating I ever gave a man," Louis said after the fight. Here, Louis is seen walking back to his corner after flooring Godoy in the rematch, notice the look on Louis's face as he stares at Godoy after knocking him down, ice cold. Louis was a frightening fighter, Max Baer once said of Louis, "I define fear as standing across the ring from Joe Louis and knowing he wants to go home early."
Sugar Ray Robinson. One of the most savage boxing photos ever.
Rocky Marciano, looking into a crystal ball. This photograph captures a moment where Marciano is playfully depicted "seeing" himself winning a fight in the crystal ball, emphasizing his confidence and undefeated record. Epic image.
Eduardo Lausse (left), murderous punching middleweight from Argentina that boxed from 1947-60.