A 26- year old Evander "The Real Deal" Holyfield knocks out San Paulo's Adilson Rodrigues in 1989. Rodrigues lay flat on his back as referee Mills Lane counted. He never stirred as Lane gave him the 10-count, and he remained on the canvas for several minutes before he was revived. "I could have counted to 50" Lane said. "At 10 he wasn't moving. That Holyfield has a heavy hand."
Brandon Rios, "Bam Bam", a gladiator if there ever was one. He was one of my favorite fighters to watch because of his style, nothing cute about it, just toe to toe trench warfare, stand and trade and may the best man win, hellacious gunfights, that's why he was nicknamed "Bam Bam." These are some of the toughest fighters, toughest people on Earth, because you get hit a lot with that style, and I mean a lot, every fight is like being put through a meat grinder, the damage sustained with that type of style is ridiculous, they call it "fighting in a phone booth". These types of fighters often burn out quickly because they absorb so much punishment, but man are they a real treat to watch at work because every fight they're in is pretty much guaranteed to be a shootout. Brandon Rios only knew one direction, and that was forward, there was no backing him up. He was going to force you to stand and trade and see who was tougher, and more often than not Rios was the last man standing.
Cleveland Williams, "Big Cat", One of the hardest punchers in heavyweight history. When George Foreman was asked who was the hardest puncher he ever faced, he gave three names, Gerry Cooney, Ron Lyle and Cleveland Williams. He was a beast, in November 1964, Cleveland Williams was shot during an altercation with a Texas highway patrolman, a bullet from a .357 magnum struck him in the abdomen and caused damage to his colon, right kidney, and hip, requiring multiple surgeries. He had a kidney removed and part of his intestine removed due to the injury. Despite all of this, he still continued boxing. This is an article written about him after he passed away in 1999.
On This Day: Cleveland “Big Cat” Williams, One Of The Unluckiest Heavyweights Ever, Dies In Hospital
By James Slater - 09/10/2023 -
Cleveland Williams could so easily be looked at as three things: one of the best heavyweights never to have won a world title, one of the hardest-hitting big men of the sport ever, and one of the unluckiest fighters who ever lived. September 10 of 1999 was the day Williams, known as “Big Cat” during his long ring career, lost his life. Williams had been knocked down by a car a week earlier, with him later dying in a Houston hospital. Had Williams not been such a courageous fighter, he may well have lost his life long before then. Going pro in March of 1949, the man born in Griffin, Georgia was still in his teens as he set about earning a living as a fighter. Blessed with a strong and impressive physique, Williams, who had a short amateur career, soon showed that he was a natural. Standing an imposing 6’3” and sporting a rock-hard collection of muscles, Williams was a born puncher. Quite astonishingly, Williams would fight as a pro for almost 25 years. And “Big Cat” – he was given the nickname due to his languid, almost effortless-looking fighting style – fought the absolute best. Indeed, he fought the best from more than one era. Did I say Williams was unlucky? Imagine having to fight, in your biggest fights, a peak Sonny Liston (twice), and a peak Muhammad Ali. Williams, who was taken out by another pure banger in Bob Satterfield, this in June of 1954, was 47-2-1 when he met Liston the first time. Williams had been close to getting a shot at heavyweight champ Floyd Patterson, who instead chose to fight a relatively unknown Swedish contender named Ingemar Johansson. In April of 1959, after a short and violent slugfest that tested the chin of both men, Liston knocked Williams out in the third. Plenty of fighters would not have gone anywhere near Liston again, but Williams, who had little choice, found himself back in the ring with Liston the following March. This time, the rampaging Liston scored a second round win. Williams, a huge attraction in Houston, fought on and, in April of 1962, he stopped Ernie Terrell in seven for what was his biggest win at that time. A draw with the tough and tricky Eddie Machen followed, before Terrell got his revenge over Williams, this via split decision win. The following year, Williams found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Driving his car near Houston on the evening of November 29, Williams was pulled over by cop Dale Witten. Witten said he had suspected Williams of being drunk, and he was also said to be speeding. Williams said, yes, he had been drinking, but he was not drunk. Arrested and placed in Witten’s patrol car, Williams got nervous when he realized where he was being driven to, this a place called Tomball, a town that was said to be “tough on black folks.” Williams protested, the two men got into a scuffle, and Witten’s gun went off. Williams took a bullet that went through his intestines, lodging in his hip. Williams had suffered terrible damage to his colon and his right kidney. It’s a miracle the fighter didn’t die, and the reason he didn’t die WAS down to a miracle in Cleveland’s eyes. Deeply religious, Williams felt God had spared him. Dropping something like 60 pounds as he recovered, Williams – who stunned doctors who said he’d never fight again, the bullet remaining in his body – gradually regained his strength and muscle and, in February of 1966, Williams launched a truly inspirational comeback. Before he could take care of business in his first fight back after being shot at point-blank range, Williams was treated to a long and heartfelt ovation given to him by his Houston fans. Williams reeled off four wins, two by KO, before he was matched with new champ Muhammad Ali. What followed is often described by fight historians as Ali’s finest, most beautifully untouchable ring performance. Williams was no match for the blinding combo of speed and power in Ali’s possession and he was knocked down multiple times before being stopped in the third. Ali scarcely took a single blow in return. Before the fight, Witten had been a visitor in Williams’ dressing room, with both the fighter and the cop agreeing how there were “no hard feelings.” Williams was no longer the promising fighter he had once been and there must have been, for his team as well as for his fans, a sense of ‘what if?’ by this stage. Still young by today’s standards at age 33, Williams fought on. For over seven years. Williams would be stopped twice by the latest big puncher in Mac Foster, and the past his best “Big Cat” would drop close decisions to Jack O’Halloran (“no human being ever hit me as hard as Cleveland Williams,” the fighter turned actor told the writer one time) and George Chuvalo. Finally, after three wins over so-so fighters, Williams retired with a 82-13-2(62) record, this in October of 1973, almost a decade after he had been shot. In later life, Williams’ kidneys failed him and he needed dialysis treatment. It was after he had been to the hospital for some treatment that Williams was knocked down by a car, the injuries he sustained taking his life. He was 66 years old. Williams was a fine fighter and a terrific puncher. He was also a man cursed by a ghastly dose of bad luck. In 2003 Williams was ranked 49th in Ring Magazine’s list of the 100 greatest punchers of all-time.
Cleveland Williams fought Sonny Liston twice, both encounters were wild west shootouts between two murderous punchers that ended with Williams being knocked out by Liston. But Sonny Liston tasted Williams power, in their first fight, Williams broke Sonny Liston's nose and made him taste his own blood. This is a photo from their first fight, with Liston standing over Williams, you can see Liston's broken nose bleeding.
"Williams was the hardest puncher I've fought. No one wants to fight him. He can punch as hard as I can, but he can't take it like I can." - Sonny Liston
Cleveland Williams was a beast. This is a photo of his first fight back after being shot in the abdomen by a .357 magnum, Williams KO'd Ben Black in the 1st round. Williams never lost his punching power, even after he was shot.
Cleveland Williams with the Texas Highway patrolman that shot him, Dale Witten. Williams manager is giving Witten two tickets to Williams fight against Muhammad Ali who was still known as Cassius Clay at the time. The pistol that almost killed Williams is in Witten's holster.
The 68-year-old made his professional boxing debut as a teenager, but is most famous for steering Ricky 'The Hitman' Hatton through his glory years.
As he watches from ringside, he sees where the punches land, but also the innermost thoughts behind them.
"Fighters might say they don't want to hurt their opponent, but let me tell you, when you're in there, you do," he says. "You absolutely do.
"You want to knock them out, you want to keep hitting them until they drop, so they'll stop hitting you and you can get out of that hellhole.
"That's the reality."
It would be easy to presume that delivering a knockout punch is a moment of pure ecstasy, the kind of sensation footballers experience when scoring a goal.
But boxing is not football and knocking someone out is not like scoring a goal.
The knockout is brutal, final, irreversible - the fate all fighters dread and to which none are immune.
I have spent months examining that unique moment for a book, speaking to those on either end of sport’s most compelling, stark division of victor and vanquished.
What I found was surprising.
Deontay Wilder is led away from a stricken Bermane Stiverne
Deontay Wilder knocked down Bermane Stiverne three times in the first round of their November 2017 fight
For some fighters their ability to deliver a knockout blow is a defining characteristic, part of their DNA.
David Haye and Deontay Wilder are two such men. Between them they have won 71 fights, 68 of them by knockout. This is how Haye describes the knockout moment.
"It's a beautiful feeling," he says. "We love the battle but to end the conflict in one fell swoop, the buzz… you can't compete with that.
"I've never found any high that can come close to that."
Wilder takes it a step further.
"You feel like a god. You feel very powerful," says the American.
"It's an indescribable feeling. The aftermath of it, it intensifies your feeling."
For fighters like them, boxing is a religion and the knockout is their idol.
For others though, the feelings are more ambivalent.
"It's a mixture of emotions and I don't think until you wake up the next day you understand actually what you've done."
That is how Carl Froch describes his feelings after knocking out George Groves in front of 80,000 people at Wembley Stadium in 2014, with what proved to be the final punch he threw as a professional boxer.
The build-up to the fight had been marked by animosity, with Groves - who had suffered a controversial loss in the pair’s first meeting six months previously - antagonising Froch at every opportunity.
But Froch’s satisfaction was professional, rather than personal, as a huge right hand crumpled Groves to the canvas.
"Your mind's in a mad space," he says. "But once it was stopped, I didn't get too emotional. I was that much in the zone, it was just seek and destroy and when the knockout came I just kind of knew it was coming."
If there is one emotion, it is relief. That is the most common emotion mentioned by fighters. Relief that it's over, that it's not them who now has to suffer the pain and humiliation of defeat, of failure.
It was exactly this feeling that Tony Bellew experienced when he knocked out Ilunga Makabu at Goodison Park to become WBC cruiserweight world champion.
"I just kneeled down and cried," he says.
"Cried with relief at the fact that everything I'd been saying all these years had come true. It was just the greatest relief of my life.
"It just validated everything I'd been saying, that I was gonna be a world champion. It was the ultimate goal. I'd reached the ultimate goal."
But sometimes that initial surge of relief morphs into something else. Sometimes the relief at seeing an opponent fall, knowing that the fight is over, quickly metamorphoses into a cold and icy fear, born of the realisation that the opponent isn't moving.
Jamie Moore experienced this rising dread after knocking out Matthew Macklin in the 10th round of a full-blooded British light-middleweight title bout in 2006.
Macklin left the ring on a stretcher, but was released from a local hospital after precautionary checks. Moore cancelled his victory party to visit Macklin in hospital.
"This sport is beautiful and brutal in equal measure because you want to inflict pain on your opponent because that's the only way you're gonna win," says Moore.
"But when you do it to that extent, then that scares you. Everyone wants to win but nobody wants to go to that extent.
"So you're trying to find that middle ground. But when you push it to that end of it, it's a scary feeling."
Billy Graham was Macklin’s trainer that night. As he knows, that middle ground is a mirage.
It doesn't exist. It can't. Not in a sport like boxing.
Any empathy has to wait until the contest is over. But when it comes, it comes easily. Because every winner knows he is only ever a split-second away from swapping places.
Francis Ngannou is knocked out as the referee waves off the contest
Francis Ngannou, an MMA champion, lost a controversial split decision against Tyson Fury on his professional boxing debut, before being knocked out by Anthony Joshua
In early March, Francis Ngannou was knocked out by Anthony Joshua.
Ngannou's legs folded underneath him, more than 19 stone of bone, sinew and muscle going limp. His limbs poured on to the canvas in languid fashion before settling in an almost perfect symmetry; legs stretched out straight in front of him, arms resting neatly at his side, his entire frame flat on its back.
Unconscious.
He told us later that he didn't feel or remember a thing.
Some found that shocking but that's how it is when a fighter gets knocked out cold. The violence of the blow to the brain is so great that there is no chance of a person being able to recall it.
Hatton was knocked out by Manny Pacquiao in equally brutal fashion in a Las Vegas super-fight in May 2009.
"I was knocked out cold and then after a couple of minutes you come around," he says.
"You wake up and then you realise you're in the ring and that you've been in a fight and you go back to the changing rooms after and then you talk to your coach and ask: 'So what was it? What was the punch that caught me?'
"Then you say 'yeah, yeah, I remember now, that's right' and it just takes you a while to absorb it again."
Hatton's fellow Mancunian Anthony Crolla had a similar experience against Ukrainian wizard Vasiliy Lomachenko in Los Angeles in 2019. With a minute to go in round four, Crolla was deposited face first on the canvas, knocked out.
"I didn't realise until after it, just how bad it looked," he says.
"In the dressing room my phone obviously was going mad, people concerned, wanting me to let them know I was OK.
"I feel absolutely fine and I say: 'I don't really understand all of this. I mean it's really nice of people and everything but it's not like it was a really bad knockout.' And the room just went a bit quiet.
"I could see people thinking: 'Ah, awkward, who's gonna tell him?' So I got my phone and watched it and thought: 'Oh.'
"But it was mad because I could remember everything really clearly, how he set me up, the shot he hit me with.
"And I remembered being on the floor, face first, and I remember thinking I must look stupid, but I couldn't move, it was like I'd been Tasered. I was talking to the referee, telling him I was fine and I genuinely was. I just couldn’t move for a little while.
"I was trying my hardest just to roll over but I'd face-planted and couldn't. But that was the feeling; my senses were all there, I just couldn't really move. I could remember it so clearly. And it didn't hurt one bit."
It's an utterly fascinating description; so vivid and detailed as to be utterly convincing. But Crolla's memory, like Hatton's, isn't real.
Dr Neil Scott, medical adviser to the British Boxing Board of Control and consultant head and neck surgeon elaborates.
"He may well have been knocked out and then the impact [of face planting] has woken him up," Scott says.
"But he's immediately exhibiting signs of a concussion, because he's disorientated, he's trying to start movement, trying to get his balance and get his legs to move but they just won't because the nervous system at that stage is still in shock from the impact.
"There aren't appropriate signals firing from his brain and down his spinal cord to get his limbs moving.
"He may look back and think that he was trying to get his legs up but I suspect that in that moment, if we'd had the benefit of looking at what was actually going on in his brain, even that wasn't even going on."
Anthony Crolla face down on the canvas as Vasily Lomachenko walks back to his corner
Anthony Crolla, right, retired a little more than six months after his defeat by Lomachenko, following a final hometown fight in Manchester
According to Scott, what Crolla experienced therefore, was more a lucid dream, conjured after the event, than a real memory,
Barry McGuigan painted a picture of the phenomenon in his autobiography, recalling a blow he received from the fist of hard-hitting Puerto Rican Juan Laporte in the ninth round of a points victory in 1985.
"When he hit me with that right, I was transported back to when I was a child and used to go to Mrs Keenan's toy shop down the road," McGuigan wrote.
"For a split second I thought I was in the toy shop again. I had the sense to grab Laporte, to try and allow my head to clear. It was a bit like when you've been walking along in the rain and get into your car: the windscreen steams up, you put on the fan to clear and it takes a bit of time before you can properly see out again."
As an undefeated rising star with 18 wins to his name, Amir Khan was flattened twice and counted out in just 54 seconds against Breidis Prescott. On each visit to the canvas he felt enveloped in thick, swirling fog, while trying to get his bearings.
"It's the worst place to be," he says.
"It's like a jigsaw that has just gone smash, into pieces, and you’re trying to put it back together as quick as possible. That's what it is like.
"You're hearing so many different voices from different people, you're hearing different voices from outside, voices that you recognise, and the referee counting as well and you're thinking: 'Who am I listening to? What should I do?'
"It's a very tough position to be in."
Nobody described this hideous out-of-body experience better than Muhammad Ali. The Greatest described being in that state of not knowing where you are as being on the threshold of the 'Near Room'.
Boxing writer George Plimpton related how Ali described the Near Room to him in his classic book Shadow Box:
"A place to which, when he got in trouble in the ring, he imagined the door swung half open and inside he could see neon, orange and green lights blinking, and bats blowing trumpets and alligators playing trombones, and where he could see snakes screaming. Weird masks and actors' clothes hung on the wall, and if he stepped across the sill and reached for them, he knew that he was committing himself to his own destruction."
The Near Room calls to hurt fighters, woos them, but it must be resisted.
Appealing though it might appear to be in that strange twilight of semi-consciousness, a fighter has to refuse the temptation to enter that room, to go under, until, as McGuigan described it, the windscreen clears and "you can see properly out again", at which point the Near Room will recede into the distance.
Breidis Prescott knocks out Amir Khan
Breidis Prescott (right) had 17 knockouts from 19 previous fights before facing Amir Khan and proved his punch power once again
But there are some knockouts that cannot be resisted and the aftermath can be horrific.
The strains of a rendition of Rule Britannia from his travelling army of fans had just died away when a crunching left hand from Pacquiao floored Hatton.
It took him a good couple of minutes to get back to his feet. The after-effects lasted a lot longer. Hatton suffered terribly with depression in the wake of his knockout - he was suicidal and attempted to kill himself 'several times'.
"People would say: 'What's he got to be depressed about? Yeah he got beat by Pacquiao, but, look, he's got a nice house, he's got a nice car, he's got this, he's got that, what does he need to be worried about?' But they don't realise the state it leaves you in," says Hatton.
"When you're a fighter and a winner, you have to have that belief in yourself and that attitude that no-one can beat you, that you're the best.
"If you're a proud, proud man, a proud boxing champion, you know, it doesn't matter what you put in the bank and how big your house is, it messes you up a bit."
The emphatic manner of the Pacquiao loss cut deep. It was crippling. That is what the knockout can do, the effect it can have. It can steal a vital part of the defeated fighter.
Physiologically what is happening in that moment is easier to explain.
"It varies from person to person. But essentially an impact causes a shift or movement of the brain within the skull," says Scott.
"The jolting force totally disrupts the nerve signals within the head, and the response is that the system momentarily almost shuts down.
"It's like a protective kind of mechanism, resulting in a temporary loss of consciousness.
"Anyone can be knocked out, it just depends on how difficult that process is going to be."
There are plenty of professionals who've never been knocked out. American legend Marvin Hagler survived some vicious bouts, notably his 1985 war with Thomas Hearns, before retiring without a losing KO on his record.
But in Scott's estimation, such a record is, at least partly, down to luck.
"They haven't been exposed to the level of force or that exact 'everything lining up' moment - the 'Swiss cheese effect', external where all the factors come together - that would lead to that knockout for them," he says.
A knockout will most often occur through "getting caught with a shot that you aren't fully prepared for" and because you're not prepared for it "you haven't got that brace system set up".
When a punch lands on an unprepared opponent, the force transmits through the skull of a fighter more effectively, causing even greater movement of the brain and a correspondingly slimmer chance the recipient has of staying conscious.
In boxing we often refer to a fighter's 'chin', referencing their ability to take a punch and not get knocked out.
It is an ability that is hard to define.
"We can describe fighters as having a strong chin but they have a lot of other factors counting for them," says Scott.
"Maybe have particularly strong neck muscles or they may just not be as prone physiologically to a concussion.
"If you get a firm hit on the chin, the nature of the bottom jaw, the mandible, is that it's a U-shaped bone essentially. The force will be transmitted straight around it, up to your jaw joint and straight to the base of your skull. And the force then dissipates.
"If that happens to you or me, there's a high chance we would break our jaw joints at the point of impact.
"However, in an elite athlete who has strengthened their neck and back and their upper torso, the response is different. The force is better dissipated, because of the reinforcement around the skull."
A knockout punch reverberates far beyond the ring though.
Ricky Hatton lies on the canvas watched over by the referee and Manny Pacquiao
Hatton didn't fight again for three and a half years after being knocked out by Pacquiao
I have followed boxing since I was a boy. I have been a broadcaster and commentator in the sport for more than a decade.
I've seen a lot of knockouts from ringside and I have never become immune or anaesthetised to the pure adrenaline of it. I don't think I ever will.
In the late fourth century, philosopher St Augustine wrote of how he visited the colosseum with Alypius of Thagaste, a friend who was morally opposed to the violence of the Roman arena.
Alypius was persuaded to go and, after insisting on keeping his eyes closed, he relented and allowed himself to take in his surroundings.
This is how St Augustine described his reaction:
"He drank it in, with a savage temper and he did not turn away but fixed his eyes on the bloody pastime, drinking in the madness, delighted with the wicked contest.
"He was now no longer the same man that came in but was one of the mob. He looked, he shouted, he was excited and he took away with him the madness and it stimulated him to come again."
Boxing's violence is not as extreme as the Roman amphitheatre, but the clamour of the crowd is still there.
Why do boxers think that the spectacle of watching two people fight still holds such an appeal for the viewing public, most of whom will never set foot inside a ring?
What is their attitude to the people who pay to see them stripped to the waist, gloved up and set upon each other?
For former WBO cruiserweight champion Johnny Nelson, it was all business, cold and transactional.
"You have disdain for the crowd," he says.
"What you've got to do is think for you - you've got to think not about why they're there but instead: 'I'm making money, I'm getting paid for this, because I want to do it. I'm using you, you're not using me.'
"The majority of people who pay money want to see blood, want to see somebody get knocked out, and nine times out of 10 they get that."
Haye is convinced society not only wants that place to exist, but also needs it to.
"It's a natural, human instinct to watch fighting, to watch combat," he says.
"A lot of men have that in them. It's buried deep down in many of them, and society softens a lot of men so they get their buzz from fighting through other people.
"Deep down, if their life depended on it, if their family's life depended on it, they'll step up and fight, but we live in such a soft society today that the majority of men never have a fight.
"I think people get their outlet for combat through watching boxing.
"It's a natural thing for a human being, particularly men but now women are starting to see the benefits. I think the more fighting the better, as long as it's controlled - rules, referee, the medical side of it."
David Haye knocks out Derek Chisora
Twenty-six of David Haye's 28 professional wins, including his July 2012 success over Derek Chisora, came via knockout
As a fighter whose stock in trade is the knockout, British and Commonwealth heavyweight champion Fabio Wardley feels he can't criticise people for craving a spectacle he very much wants to supply.
"As humans, I think that's something we all have," he says.
“Before a really big knockout, there's like this pause where the rest of the room thinks, 'Wow, that happened,' and then everyone goes mental. Everyone keeps paying to chase that buzz but we as fighters, we're chasing it too.
"Whatever feeling the supporter or fan is getting through watching me or someone else do that, the feeling for me actually doing it is a thousand times bigger.
"I'll turn around and look at the crowd and everyone's on their feet and shouting your name… there's no drug like it."
One addiction, the desire to end the contest, indulges another, the desire to see the end.
And its grip shows no signs of weakening.
The Knockout by Andy Clarke is released on 30 May.
Jimmy Carter stops the great Ike Williams in 1951 at Madison Square Garden to win the world lightweight championship, Ike Williams had ruled over the lightweight division for six years. Williams was favored to win but was sent to the canvas several times before the fight was stopped, this is an image of the final knockdown.
I actually own the original type 1 photo of the above image, I bought it on eBay a few weeks back. I love this photo, the expression on Jimmy Carter's face, you can see the fury in his face, the beast being let out of it's cage.
Unfortunately like Ike Williams, Jimmy Carter was also controlled by the mob and had the cuffs on in a lot of fights. Having the cuffs on means the mob wouldn't let him unleash his full potential, he had to obey their orders when they told him to hold back or lose a fight, because they had money on his opponent. Because of this, we'll never know how truly great he could have been. You look at his record and it's very spotty, he lost a lot of fights he could have won because of the mob. But when Jimmy Carter was allowed by the mob to really let loose, he was damn near unbeatable, he was that great. You watch him on film and he was lethal when he didn't have the cuffs on. He was one hell of a ring technician, liked to apply subtle pressure and slowly stalk his opponents and wait for the right opportunity to strike. He could do it all, solid fundamentals, great defensive fighter, great counterpuncher, big right hand power. Bad a$$ fighter. First fighter to win the lightweight title three times. Here he is catching Percy Bassett in the throat with a left uppercut.
Jimmy Carter laid one hell of a beating on Tommy Collins in 1953, he knocked Collins down 10 times before the fight was finally stopped in the 4th round, it should have been stopped a lot earlier.
Jimmy Carter puts Art Aragon on the deck in 1951, Aragon was the original "Golden Boy." That was one hell of a fight, Carter knocked Aragon's mouthpiece out of his mouth with a brutal left hook in that fight, in fact, he knocked Aragon's mouthpiece out twice in that fight.
Jimmy Carter puts Paddy DeMarco on the deck in 1954. DeMarco was a rough customer, one hell of a fighter, he was nicknamed "Billy Goat" because he would use his head and ram into his opponents like a billy goat, rough his opponents up.
Comments
Gosh, Valuev was a monster, just a behemoth of a man.
David Haye was a great defensive fighter as well, he could have you swinging at air.
The Hayemaker was a great one.
A 26- year old Evander "The Real Deal" Holyfield knocks out San Paulo's Adilson Rodrigues in 1989. Rodrigues lay flat on his back as referee Mills Lane counted. He never stirred as Lane gave him the 10-count, and he remained on the canvas for several minutes before he was revived. "I could have counted to 50" Lane said. "At 10 he wasn't moving. That Holyfield has a heavy hand."
Brandon Rios, "Bam Bam", a gladiator if there ever was one. He was one of my favorite fighters to watch because of his style, nothing cute about it, just toe to toe trench warfare, stand and trade and may the best man win, hellacious gunfights, that's why he was nicknamed "Bam Bam." These are some of the toughest fighters, toughest people on Earth, because you get hit a lot with that style, and I mean a lot, every fight is like being put through a meat grinder, the damage sustained with that type of style is ridiculous, they call it "fighting in a phone booth". These types of fighters often burn out quickly because they absorb so much punishment, but man are they a real treat to watch at work because every fight they're in is pretty much guaranteed to be a shootout. Brandon Rios only knew one direction, and that was forward, there was no backing him up. He was going to force you to stand and trade and see who was tougher, and more often than not Rios was the last man standing.
Brandon Rios, trench warfare.
Brandon Rios Fighting in a phone booth, brutal style.
Cleveland Williams, "Big Cat", One of the hardest punchers in heavyweight history. When George Foreman was asked who was the hardest puncher he ever faced, he gave three names, Gerry Cooney, Ron Lyle and Cleveland Williams. He was a beast, in November 1964, Cleveland Williams was shot during an altercation with a Texas highway patrolman, a bullet from a .357 magnum struck him in the abdomen and caused damage to his colon, right kidney, and hip, requiring multiple surgeries. He had a kidney removed and part of his intestine removed due to the injury. Despite all of this, he still continued boxing. This is an article written about him after he passed away in 1999.
On This Day: Cleveland “Big Cat” Williams, One Of The Unluckiest Heavyweights Ever, Dies In Hospital
By James Slater - 09/10/2023 -
Cleveland Williams could so easily be looked at as three things: one of the best heavyweights never to have won a world title, one of the hardest-hitting big men of the sport ever, and one of the unluckiest fighters who ever lived. September 10 of 1999 was the day Williams, known as “Big Cat” during his long ring career, lost his life. Williams had been knocked down by a car a week earlier, with him later dying in a Houston hospital. Had Williams not been such a courageous fighter, he may well have lost his life long before then. Going pro in March of 1949, the man born in Griffin, Georgia was still in his teens as he set about earning a living as a fighter. Blessed with a strong and impressive physique, Williams, who had a short amateur career, soon showed that he was a natural. Standing an imposing 6’3” and sporting a rock-hard collection of muscles, Williams was a born puncher. Quite astonishingly, Williams would fight as a pro for almost 25 years. And “Big Cat” – he was given the nickname due to his languid, almost effortless-looking fighting style – fought the absolute best. Indeed, he fought the best from more than one era. Did I say Williams was unlucky? Imagine having to fight, in your biggest fights, a peak Sonny Liston (twice), and a peak Muhammad Ali. Williams, who was taken out by another pure banger in Bob Satterfield, this in June of 1954, was 47-2-1 when he met Liston the first time. Williams had been close to getting a shot at heavyweight champ Floyd Patterson, who instead chose to fight a relatively unknown Swedish contender named Ingemar Johansson. In April of 1959, after a short and violent slugfest that tested the chin of both men, Liston knocked Williams out in the third. Plenty of fighters would not have gone anywhere near Liston again, but Williams, who had little choice, found himself back in the ring with Liston the following March. This time, the rampaging Liston scored a second round win. Williams, a huge attraction in Houston, fought on and, in April of 1962, he stopped Ernie Terrell in seven for what was his biggest win at that time. A draw with the tough and tricky Eddie Machen followed, before Terrell got his revenge over Williams, this via split decision win. The following year, Williams found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Driving his car near Houston on the evening of November 29, Williams was pulled over by cop Dale Witten. Witten said he had suspected Williams of being drunk, and he was also said to be speeding. Williams said, yes, he had been drinking, but he was not drunk. Arrested and placed in Witten’s patrol car, Williams got nervous when he realized where he was being driven to, this a place called Tomball, a town that was said to be “tough on black folks.” Williams protested, the two men got into a scuffle, and Witten’s gun went off. Williams took a bullet that went through his intestines, lodging in his hip. Williams had suffered terrible damage to his colon and his right kidney. It’s a miracle the fighter didn’t die, and the reason he didn’t die WAS down to a miracle in Cleveland’s eyes. Deeply religious, Williams felt God had spared him. Dropping something like 60 pounds as he recovered, Williams – who stunned doctors who said he’d never fight again, the bullet remaining in his body – gradually regained his strength and muscle and, in February of 1966, Williams launched a truly inspirational comeback. Before he could take care of business in his first fight back after being shot at point-blank range, Williams was treated to a long and heartfelt ovation given to him by his Houston fans. Williams reeled off four wins, two by KO, before he was matched with new champ Muhammad Ali. What followed is often described by fight historians as Ali’s finest, most beautifully untouchable ring performance. Williams was no match for the blinding combo of speed and power in Ali’s possession and he was knocked down multiple times before being stopped in the third. Ali scarcely took a single blow in return. Before the fight, Witten had been a visitor in Williams’ dressing room, with both the fighter and the cop agreeing how there were “no hard feelings.” Williams was no longer the promising fighter he had once been and there must have been, for his team as well as for his fans, a sense of ‘what if?’ by this stage. Still young by today’s standards at age 33, Williams fought on. For over seven years. Williams would be stopped twice by the latest big puncher in Mac Foster, and the past his best “Big Cat” would drop close decisions to Jack O’Halloran (“no human being ever hit me as hard as Cleveland Williams,” the fighter turned actor told the writer one time) and George Chuvalo. Finally, after three wins over so-so fighters, Williams retired with a 82-13-2(62) record, this in October of 1973, almost a decade after he had been shot. In later life, Williams’ kidneys failed him and he needed dialysis treatment. It was after he had been to the hospital for some treatment that Williams was knocked down by a car, the injuries he sustained taking his life. He was 66 years old. Williams was a fine fighter and a terrific puncher. He was also a man cursed by a ghastly dose of bad luck. In 2003 Williams was ranked 49th in Ring Magazine’s list of the 100 greatest punchers of all-time.
Cleveland Williams fought Sonny Liston twice, both encounters were wild west shootouts between two murderous punchers that ended with Williams being knocked out by Liston. But Sonny Liston tasted Williams power, in their first fight, Williams broke Sonny Liston's nose and made him taste his own blood. This is a photo from their first fight, with Liston standing over Williams, you can see Liston's broken nose bleeding.
"Williams was the hardest puncher I've fought. No one wants to fight him. He can punch as hard as I can, but he can't take it like I can." - Sonny Liston
Sonny Liston had tremendous respect for Cleveland Williams, this is a photo of Liston visiting Williams after Williams was shot.
Cleveland Williams was a beast. This is a photo of his first fight back after being shot in the abdomen by a .357 magnum, Williams KO'd Ben Black in the 1st round. Williams never lost his punching power, even after he was shot.
Cleveland Williams with the Texas Highway patrolman that shot him, Dale Witten. Williams manager is giving Witten two tickets to Williams fight against Muhammad Ali who was still known as Cassius Clay at the time. The pistol that almost killed Williams is in Witten's holster.
Good shot of Cleveland Williams training.
The devastating power of Cleveland Williams.
'You feel like a god' - the anatomy of a knockout
By: Andy Clarke
Billy Graham has seen it all in boxing.
The 68-year-old made his professional boxing debut as a teenager, but is most famous for steering Ricky 'The Hitman' Hatton through his glory years.
As he watches from ringside, he sees where the punches land, but also the innermost thoughts behind them.
"Fighters might say they don't want to hurt their opponent, but let me tell you, when you're in there, you do," he says. "You absolutely do.
"You want to knock them out, you want to keep hitting them until they drop, so they'll stop hitting you and you can get out of that hellhole.
"That's the reality."
It would be easy to presume that delivering a knockout punch is a moment of pure ecstasy, the kind of sensation footballers experience when scoring a goal.
But boxing is not football and knocking someone out is not like scoring a goal.
The knockout is brutal, final, irreversible - the fate all fighters dread and to which none are immune.
I have spent months examining that unique moment for a book, speaking to those on either end of sport’s most compelling, stark division of victor and vanquished.
What I found was surprising.
Deontay Wilder is led away from a stricken Bermane Stiverne
Deontay Wilder knocked down Bermane Stiverne three times in the first round of their November 2017 fight
For some fighters their ability to deliver a knockout blow is a defining characteristic, part of their DNA.
David Haye and Deontay Wilder are two such men. Between them they have won 71 fights, 68 of them by knockout. This is how Haye describes the knockout moment.
"It's a beautiful feeling," he says. "We love the battle but to end the conflict in one fell swoop, the buzz… you can't compete with that.
"I've never found any high that can come close to that."
Wilder takes it a step further.
"You feel like a god. You feel very powerful," says the American.
"It's an indescribable feeling. The aftermath of it, it intensifies your feeling."
For fighters like them, boxing is a religion and the knockout is their idol.
For others though, the feelings are more ambivalent.
"It's a mixture of emotions and I don't think until you wake up the next day you understand actually what you've done."
That is how Carl Froch describes his feelings after knocking out George Groves in front of 80,000 people at Wembley Stadium in 2014, with what proved to be the final punch he threw as a professional boxer.
The build-up to the fight had been marked by animosity, with Groves - who had suffered a controversial loss in the pair’s first meeting six months previously - antagonising Froch at every opportunity.
But Froch’s satisfaction was professional, rather than personal, as a huge right hand crumpled Groves to the canvas.
"Your mind's in a mad space," he says. "But once it was stopped, I didn't get too emotional. I was that much in the zone, it was just seek and destroy and when the knockout came I just kind of knew it was coming."
If there is one emotion, it is relief. That is the most common emotion mentioned by fighters. Relief that it's over, that it's not them who now has to suffer the pain and humiliation of defeat, of failure.
It was exactly this feeling that Tony Bellew experienced when he knocked out Ilunga Makabu at Goodison Park to become WBC cruiserweight world champion.
"I just kneeled down and cried," he says.
"Cried with relief at the fact that everything I'd been saying all these years had come true. It was just the greatest relief of my life.
"It just validated everything I'd been saying, that I was gonna be a world champion. It was the ultimate goal. I'd reached the ultimate goal."
But sometimes that initial surge of relief morphs into something else. Sometimes the relief at seeing an opponent fall, knowing that the fight is over, quickly metamorphoses into a cold and icy fear, born of the realisation that the opponent isn't moving.
Jamie Moore experienced this rising dread after knocking out Matthew Macklin in the 10th round of a full-blooded British light-middleweight title bout in 2006.
Macklin left the ring on a stretcher, but was released from a local hospital after precautionary checks. Moore cancelled his victory party to visit Macklin in hospital.
"This sport is beautiful and brutal in equal measure because you want to inflict pain on your opponent because that's the only way you're gonna win," says Moore.
"But when you do it to that extent, then that scares you. Everyone wants to win but nobody wants to go to that extent.
"So you're trying to find that middle ground. But when you push it to that end of it, it's a scary feeling."
Billy Graham was Macklin’s trainer that night. As he knows, that middle ground is a mirage.
It doesn't exist. It can't. Not in a sport like boxing.
Any empathy has to wait until the contest is over. But when it comes, it comes easily. Because every winner knows he is only ever a split-second away from swapping places.
Francis Ngannou is knocked out as the referee waves off the contest
Francis Ngannou, an MMA champion, lost a controversial split decision against Tyson Fury on his professional boxing debut, before being knocked out by Anthony Joshua
In early March, Francis Ngannou was knocked out by Anthony Joshua.
Ngannou's legs folded underneath him, more than 19 stone of bone, sinew and muscle going limp. His limbs poured on to the canvas in languid fashion before settling in an almost perfect symmetry; legs stretched out straight in front of him, arms resting neatly at his side, his entire frame flat on its back.
Unconscious.
He told us later that he didn't feel or remember a thing.
Some found that shocking but that's how it is when a fighter gets knocked out cold. The violence of the blow to the brain is so great that there is no chance of a person being able to recall it.
Hatton was knocked out by Manny Pacquiao in equally brutal fashion in a Las Vegas super-fight in May 2009.
"I was knocked out cold and then after a couple of minutes you come around," he says.
"You wake up and then you realise you're in the ring and that you've been in a fight and you go back to the changing rooms after and then you talk to your coach and ask: 'So what was it? What was the punch that caught me?'
"Then you say 'yeah, yeah, I remember now, that's right' and it just takes you a while to absorb it again."
Hatton's fellow Mancunian Anthony Crolla had a similar experience against Ukrainian wizard Vasiliy Lomachenko in Los Angeles in 2019. With a minute to go in round four, Crolla was deposited face first on the canvas, knocked out.
"I didn't realise until after it, just how bad it looked," he says.
"In the dressing room my phone obviously was going mad, people concerned, wanting me to let them know I was OK.
"I feel absolutely fine and I say: 'I don't really understand all of this. I mean it's really nice of people and everything but it's not like it was a really bad knockout.' And the room just went a bit quiet.
"I could see people thinking: 'Ah, awkward, who's gonna tell him?' So I got my phone and watched it and thought: 'Oh.'
"But it was mad because I could remember everything really clearly, how he set me up, the shot he hit me with.
"And I remembered being on the floor, face first, and I remember thinking I must look stupid, but I couldn't move, it was like I'd been Tasered. I was talking to the referee, telling him I was fine and I genuinely was. I just couldn’t move for a little while.
"I was trying my hardest just to roll over but I'd face-planted and couldn't. But that was the feeling; my senses were all there, I just couldn't really move. I could remember it so clearly. And it didn't hurt one bit."
It's an utterly fascinating description; so vivid and detailed as to be utterly convincing. But Crolla's memory, like Hatton's, isn't real.
Dr Neil Scott, medical adviser to the British Boxing Board of Control and consultant head and neck surgeon elaborates.
"He may well have been knocked out and then the impact [of face planting] has woken him up," Scott says.
"But he's immediately exhibiting signs of a concussion, because he's disorientated, he's trying to start movement, trying to get his balance and get his legs to move but they just won't because the nervous system at that stage is still in shock from the impact.
"There aren't appropriate signals firing from his brain and down his spinal cord to get his limbs moving.
"He may look back and think that he was trying to get his legs up but I suspect that in that moment, if we'd had the benefit of looking at what was actually going on in his brain, even that wasn't even going on."
Anthony Crolla face down on the canvas as Vasily Lomachenko walks back to his corner
Anthony Crolla, right, retired a little more than six months after his defeat by Lomachenko, following a final hometown fight in Manchester
According to Scott, what Crolla experienced therefore, was more a lucid dream, conjured after the event, than a real memory,
Barry McGuigan painted a picture of the phenomenon in his autobiography, recalling a blow he received from the fist of hard-hitting Puerto Rican Juan Laporte in the ninth round of a points victory in 1985.
"When he hit me with that right, I was transported back to when I was a child and used to go to Mrs Keenan's toy shop down the road," McGuigan wrote.
"For a split second I thought I was in the toy shop again. I had the sense to grab Laporte, to try and allow my head to clear. It was a bit like when you've been walking along in the rain and get into your car: the windscreen steams up, you put on the fan to clear and it takes a bit of time before you can properly see out again."
As an undefeated rising star with 18 wins to his name, Amir Khan was flattened twice and counted out in just 54 seconds against Breidis Prescott. On each visit to the canvas he felt enveloped in thick, swirling fog, while trying to get his bearings.
"It's the worst place to be," he says.
"It's like a jigsaw that has just gone smash, into pieces, and you’re trying to put it back together as quick as possible. That's what it is like.
"You're hearing so many different voices from different people, you're hearing different voices from outside, voices that you recognise, and the referee counting as well and you're thinking: 'Who am I listening to? What should I do?'
"It's a very tough position to be in."
Nobody described this hideous out-of-body experience better than Muhammad Ali. The Greatest described being in that state of not knowing where you are as being on the threshold of the 'Near Room'.
Boxing writer George Plimpton related how Ali described the Near Room to him in his classic book Shadow Box:
"A place to which, when he got in trouble in the ring, he imagined the door swung half open and inside he could see neon, orange and green lights blinking, and bats blowing trumpets and alligators playing trombones, and where he could see snakes screaming. Weird masks and actors' clothes hung on the wall, and if he stepped across the sill and reached for them, he knew that he was committing himself to his own destruction."
The Near Room calls to hurt fighters, woos them, but it must be resisted.
Appealing though it might appear to be in that strange twilight of semi-consciousness, a fighter has to refuse the temptation to enter that room, to go under, until, as McGuigan described it, the windscreen clears and "you can see properly out again", at which point the Near Room will recede into the distance.
Breidis Prescott knocks out Amir Khan
Breidis Prescott (right) had 17 knockouts from 19 previous fights before facing Amir Khan and proved his punch power once again
But there are some knockouts that cannot be resisted and the aftermath can be horrific.
The strains of a rendition of Rule Britannia from his travelling army of fans had just died away when a crunching left hand from Pacquiao floored Hatton.
It took him a good couple of minutes to get back to his feet. The after-effects lasted a lot longer. Hatton suffered terribly with depression in the wake of his knockout - he was suicidal and attempted to kill himself 'several times'.
"People would say: 'What's he got to be depressed about? Yeah he got beat by Pacquiao, but, look, he's got a nice house, he's got a nice car, he's got this, he's got that, what does he need to be worried about?' But they don't realise the state it leaves you in," says Hatton.
"When you're a fighter and a winner, you have to have that belief in yourself and that attitude that no-one can beat you, that you're the best.
"If you're a proud, proud man, a proud boxing champion, you know, it doesn't matter what you put in the bank and how big your house is, it messes you up a bit."
The emphatic manner of the Pacquiao loss cut deep. It was crippling. That is what the knockout can do, the effect it can have. It can steal a vital part of the defeated fighter.
Physiologically what is happening in that moment is easier to explain.
"It varies from person to person. But essentially an impact causes a shift or movement of the brain within the skull," says Scott.
"The jolting force totally disrupts the nerve signals within the head, and the response is that the system momentarily almost shuts down.
"It's like a protective kind of mechanism, resulting in a temporary loss of consciousness.
"Anyone can be knocked out, it just depends on how difficult that process is going to be."
There are plenty of professionals who've never been knocked out. American legend Marvin Hagler survived some vicious bouts, notably his 1985 war with Thomas Hearns, before retiring without a losing KO on his record.
But in Scott's estimation, such a record is, at least partly, down to luck.
"They haven't been exposed to the level of force or that exact 'everything lining up' moment - the 'Swiss cheese effect', external where all the factors come together - that would lead to that knockout for them," he says.
A knockout will most often occur through "getting caught with a shot that you aren't fully prepared for" and because you're not prepared for it "you haven't got that brace system set up".
When a punch lands on an unprepared opponent, the force transmits through the skull of a fighter more effectively, causing even greater movement of the brain and a correspondingly slimmer chance the recipient has of staying conscious.
In boxing we often refer to a fighter's 'chin', referencing their ability to take a punch and not get knocked out.
It is an ability that is hard to define.
"We can describe fighters as having a strong chin but they have a lot of other factors counting for them," says Scott.
"Maybe have particularly strong neck muscles or they may just not be as prone physiologically to a concussion.
"If you get a firm hit on the chin, the nature of the bottom jaw, the mandible, is that it's a U-shaped bone essentially. The force will be transmitted straight around it, up to your jaw joint and straight to the base of your skull. And the force then dissipates.
"If that happens to you or me, there's a high chance we would break our jaw joints at the point of impact.
"However, in an elite athlete who has strengthened their neck and back and their upper torso, the response is different. The force is better dissipated, because of the reinforcement around the skull."
A knockout punch reverberates far beyond the ring though.
Ricky Hatton lies on the canvas watched over by the referee and Manny Pacquiao
Hatton didn't fight again for three and a half years after being knocked out by Pacquiao
I have followed boxing since I was a boy. I have been a broadcaster and commentator in the sport for more than a decade.
I've seen a lot of knockouts from ringside and I have never become immune or anaesthetised to the pure adrenaline of it. I don't think I ever will.
In the late fourth century, philosopher St Augustine wrote of how he visited the colosseum with Alypius of Thagaste, a friend who was morally opposed to the violence of the Roman arena.
Alypius was persuaded to go and, after insisting on keeping his eyes closed, he relented and allowed himself to take in his surroundings.
This is how St Augustine described his reaction:
"He drank it in, with a savage temper and he did not turn away but fixed his eyes on the bloody pastime, drinking in the madness, delighted with the wicked contest.
"He was now no longer the same man that came in but was one of the mob. He looked, he shouted, he was excited and he took away with him the madness and it stimulated him to come again."
Boxing's violence is not as extreme as the Roman amphitheatre, but the clamour of the crowd is still there.
Why do boxers think that the spectacle of watching two people fight still holds such an appeal for the viewing public, most of whom will never set foot inside a ring?
What is their attitude to the people who pay to see them stripped to the waist, gloved up and set upon each other?
For former WBO cruiserweight champion Johnny Nelson, it was all business, cold and transactional.
"You have disdain for the crowd," he says.
"What you've got to do is think for you - you've got to think not about why they're there but instead: 'I'm making money, I'm getting paid for this, because I want to do it. I'm using you, you're not using me.'
"The majority of people who pay money want to see blood, want to see somebody get knocked out, and nine times out of 10 they get that."
Haye is convinced society not only wants that place to exist, but also needs it to.
"It's a natural, human instinct to watch fighting, to watch combat," he says.
"A lot of men have that in them. It's buried deep down in many of them, and society softens a lot of men so they get their buzz from fighting through other people.
"Deep down, if their life depended on it, if their family's life depended on it, they'll step up and fight, but we live in such a soft society today that the majority of men never have a fight.
"I think people get their outlet for combat through watching boxing.
"It's a natural thing for a human being, particularly men but now women are starting to see the benefits. I think the more fighting the better, as long as it's controlled - rules, referee, the medical side of it."
David Haye knocks out Derek Chisora
Twenty-six of David Haye's 28 professional wins, including his July 2012 success over Derek Chisora, came via knockout
As a fighter whose stock in trade is the knockout, British and Commonwealth heavyweight champion Fabio Wardley feels he can't criticise people for craving a spectacle he very much wants to supply.
"As humans, I think that's something we all have," he says.
“Before a really big knockout, there's like this pause where the rest of the room thinks, 'Wow, that happened,' and then everyone goes mental. Everyone keeps paying to chase that buzz but we as fighters, we're chasing it too.
"Whatever feeling the supporter or fan is getting through watching me or someone else do that, the feeling for me actually doing it is a thousand times bigger.
"I'll turn around and look at the crowd and everyone's on their feet and shouting your name… there's no drug like it."
One addiction, the desire to end the contest, indulges another, the desire to see the end.
And its grip shows no signs of weakening.
The Knockout by Andy Clarke is released on 30 May.
Jimmy Carter stops the great Ike Williams in 1951 at Madison Square Garden to win the world lightweight championship, Ike Williams had ruled over the lightweight division for six years. Williams was favored to win but was sent to the canvas several times before the fight was stopped, this is an image of the final knockdown.
I actually own the original type 1 photo of the above image, I bought it on eBay a few weeks back. I love this photo, the expression on Jimmy Carter's face, you can see the fury in his face, the beast being let out of it's cage.
Unfortunately like Ike Williams, Jimmy Carter was also controlled by the mob and had the cuffs on in a lot of fights. Having the cuffs on means the mob wouldn't let him unleash his full potential, he had to obey their orders when they told him to hold back or lose a fight, because they had money on his opponent. Because of this, we'll never know how truly great he could have been. You look at his record and it's very spotty, he lost a lot of fights he could have won because of the mob. But when Jimmy Carter was allowed by the mob to really let loose, he was damn near unbeatable, he was that great. You watch him on film and he was lethal when he didn't have the cuffs on. He was one hell of a ring technician, liked to apply subtle pressure and slowly stalk his opponents and wait for the right opportunity to strike. He could do it all, solid fundamentals, great defensive fighter, great counterpuncher, big right hand power. Bad a$$ fighter. First fighter to win the lightweight title three times. Here he is catching Percy Bassett in the throat with a left uppercut.
Jimmy Carter laid one hell of a beating on Tommy Collins in 1953, he knocked Collins down 10 times before the fight was finally stopped in the 4th round, it should have been stopped a lot earlier.
Jimmy Carter puts Art Aragon on the deck in 1951, Aragon was the original "Golden Boy." That was one hell of a fight, Carter knocked Aragon's mouthpiece out of his mouth with a brutal left hook in that fight, in fact, he knocked Aragon's mouthpiece out twice in that fight.
Jimmy Carter puts Paddy DeMarco on the deck in 1954. DeMarco was a rough customer, one hell of a fighter, he was nicknamed "Billy Goat" because he would use his head and ram into his opponents like a billy goat, rough his opponents up.
Here it is, Paddy DeMarco living up to his nickname "Billy Goat", ramming Jimmy Carter with his head.
Jimmy Carter wrapping his hands.
Jimmy Carter in a fight pose.
Jimmy Carter, the first three time lightweight champion.