Bob Baker, "The Grinder", 1950s heavyweight war horse, 6'2", around 210 and a good puncher, he had fast hands, a formidable jab, and could box. Sadly he suffered from brittle hands during his career, but still manage to put together a solid run. Bob is one of the more underrated ring mechanics of the last 50 years, Baker would have been competitive in any era and was a damn good fighter. One of defining characteristics of Bob Baker's boxing style was his relentless pressure and stamina, which earned him the fitting nickname "The Grinder." Baker was known for his ability to wear down his opponents with a non-stop barrage of punches, relentless pursuit, and constant pressure. His determination to outlast his opponents in the ring was truly remarkable.
Touted as the next Joe Louis in the early 1950s, Bob Baker was desperately unlucky not to at least fight for the “Brown Bomber’s” old heavyweight championship. Baker’s left hook in particular was a potent weapon as the Pennsylvanian raced to 25-0.
Perhaps Baker’s biggest fault was inconsistency though his level of opposition was so high the losses he suffered were understandable. Two points losses to Peter Jackson and Clarence Henry, a one-round defeat to Bob Satterfield and a ninth round stoppage at the hands of Archie Moore perhaps go some way to explaining why he never fought for the world title.
But Baker, strong and determined, developed a knack for rallying down the stretch to eke out decision wins over some of the best men of his era, Jimmy Bivins, Nino Valdes (twice), Joe Baksi, John Holman, Rex Layne (thrice), Dick Richardson (though he would lose the return) and a young George Chuvalo were all beaten by Baker.
After his eventful 10-year career, Baker became a foreman in Penn Hills and, according to colleagues, he never spoke of his achievements in the boxing world.
"Used to train with him at Stillman's Gym, when he was considered a behemoth for the time.
Always felt sorry for him, Stillman's was an airless armpit in summer, and Baker sweated like a pig training bundled from head to toe, constantly wincing taking off his wraps after sparring." - John Garfield, Boxing Forum 24
Bob Baker vs Coley wallace in 1954. Coley Wallace is famous because he outpointed Rocky Marciano in a three round amateur fight in 1948, Wallace beat Marciano by split-decision. The story goes, in March of 1948, Rocky went to New York as the New England representative in the Golden Gloves All-East Coast Championships. His first fight was against a very good fighter named Coley Wallace, who had a record of 17-0 with 17 KO’s. Rocky was the aggressor throughout the fight and landed all the punishing blows, but the judges announced Wallace as the winner. The fans booed and threw bottles and programs into the ring. Rocky would always say he was cheated in this fight, and would determine to take the matter out of the hands of judges by knocking out future opponents.
Bob Baker is one of my favorite fighters, just a work horse in the ring, a grinder, and more often than not his hard work paid off, you gotta respect that in any walk of life. This is a sick card of Baker, 1951 Topps Ringside with a Fighting Marines back, this is the only 51' Ringside I've ever seen with a back like this, sick card.
I can't get enough of these photos of Nigel Benn "The Dark Destroyer" training, he was intense. Here he is pictured doing exercises to strengthen his neck.
Sometime in 1948, the famous artist and photographer Irving Penn began making portraits in a small corner space made of two studio flats pushed together, the floor covered with a piece of old carpeting. To quote the photographer, “a very rich series of pictures resulted. This confinement, surprisingly seemed to comfort people, soothing them. The walls were a surface to lean on or push against.
Penn had already begun to use the studio as an insistent environment in which the viewer is allowed to see the electrical cables, edges of backdrops, and the photographic detritus randomly scattered along the floor. This particular series, however, utilized the ruse of a sharper-than-90º corner in which the subjects position themselves. Some are wedged in as if suspended by their shoulders, others lean against it for compatible support, compressed and altered by the claustrophobic space. These are existential pictures; pictures in which “personalities” are isolated, posed in an abstract and artificial corner of the world.
Penn’s subjects constituted a wide spectrum of writers, dancers, artists, socialites, musicians, political figures and other celebrities of the era. Among those who found their way into Penn’s corner were Noel Coward, the Duchess of Windsor, Marcel Duchamp, the Gish Sisters, Duke Ellington, Truman Capote, and the great Joe Louis.
Pernell "Sweet pea" Whitaker, one of the greatest fighters this sport has ever seen. A defensive wizard, a technical genius.
Pernell Whitaker, his Magnificent Obsession
by Carlos Acevedo, Author of Sporting Blood: Tales From The Dark Side Of Boxing
It took nearly fifteen years for Pernell Whitaker, who died on July 14, 2019 at the age of fifty-five, to lose a fight conclusively. In 1999, he dropped a bruising decision to Felix Trinidad, younger, bigger, stronger. By then, Whitaker was thirty-five years old and was struggling with drugs and alcohol. His previous fight, a win over Andrey Pestryaev, had morphed into a no-contest and he had been suspended from boxing in 1998 after failing more than one drug test.
Until “Tito” caught up with him—and fractured his jaw—Whitaker possessed a record marred solely by asterisks. “The Golden Boy,” Oscar De La Hoya, then approaching his crossover peak, hit the canvas against Whitaker and settled for an unconvincing albeit convenient lopsided decision. One of the true greats, Julio Cesar Chavez, limped away from the Alamodome in 1993 with a draw that sparked mass incredulity. But these debacles were nothing compared to the “L” Whitaker took against Jose Luis Ramirez in Levallois-Perret, France, a result that triggered memories of Frankie Carbo, Blinky Palermo, the boys in the ill-lit backroom, fedoras, stogies, and lowball glasses omnipresent—despite the fact that it was 1988. (A year and a half later, Whitaker avenged his fiasco against Ramirez in 1989 via his preferred method: a shutout decision.)
Although Whitaker, a gold medalist at the 1984 Olympics, signed a contract with ABC before turning pro, he was hardly phenom material early in his career. In late 1985, Whitaker broke his foot playing basketball and wound up sidelined. When he returned to the ring, he broke a bone in his hand while scoring a decision over John Montes. Another layoff followed. If Whitaker was more active over the next two years, he was not always impressive. Rafael Williams and Roger Mayweather both floored him, and his genius had not yet caught up to his showboating. When it finally did, however, Whitaker embarked on a run that few fighters have been able to match since. From 1989 to 1997, when De La Hoya squeaked by him, Whitaker became the undisputed lightweight champion of the world, won titles during pit stops at 140 and 154 pounds, and had a solid reign as welterweight champion. Along the way, he befuddled a slew of good fighters (Ramirez, Greg Haugen, Juan Nazario, Jorge Paez, Buddy McGirt, Wilfredo Rivera, Diolbys Hurtado) and some greats, as well (Azumah Nelson, Chavez, and De La Hoya).
And while Whitaker was never a fighter who quickened pulses with any regularity, he drew large crowds at The Scope in Norfolk, Virginia (where he was born), and was a solid ratings-draw on HBO, who billed “Sweet Pea” as the best fighter in the world, which, unlike so many other over-the-top claims from networks—and their media supplicants—in subsequent years, was actually irrefutable. A quicksilver southpaw whose defense, timing, reflexes, and ring IQ were uncanny, Whitaker often went twelve rounds effortlessly. At times, Whitaker drew criticism for his style, even from HBO, which was not always pleased with another 120-108 exhibition. “HBO can’t fight for me,” he told Wally Matthews in 1990. “HBO don’t take the punches. I give the people their money’s worth. They’re paying $600 a ticket. They don’t want to see no 18-second knockout.”
A pure boxer, Whitaker should not be confused with the spoilers of today who are mistakenly referred to as technicians. Bear hugs, armbars, and headlocks were not essential to his success. At his best, Whitaker used a ruthless finesse, largely improvisational, to make even world-class pros look listless, arthritic. Nor was he much of a runner after his lightweight reign. Most of the time, Whitaker stood in front of his opponent, made him miss with head movement or nifty footwork, and countered with pinpoint shots with either hand. “I’m not a knockout fighter,” he once said. “I’m a performer. I’m here to have fun in the ring. Not everybody can do that.”
As a defensive fighter, few could compare to Whitaker; as a fighting man, perhaps even fewer. That may sound surprising given how Whitaker approached most of his fights as a virtuoso. “Being an artist in the ring is most important,” Whitaker told KO in 1990. “When I get in there, I want it to be art. I work so hard in the gym, and the gym is where the real fight is. I got four and five guys to box. I spar with a guy, get tired, and then I got a fresh man to come. That’s tough. The easy part is in the ring on fight night. I’m a hyper guy. I get the music going, I get to dancing in the dressing room. I get everybody fired up. Because it’s time to party. I did all that work in the gym, and I’m ready to show what I got, to be an artist.”
But Whitaker was also a fierce competitor. Above all, it was his arrogance that made him a true great. Again and again, Whitaker sought to concretize his claims of greatness in the ring, a concept now as antiquated as fanny packs or dial-up modems. For Whitaker, winning a junior-middleweight title (in 1995 via decision over Julio Cesar Vasquez) was more or less a lark. He made unifying the lightweight title look as easy as Stu Ungar winning a freeze-out tournament against a class of middle-school kids. When Whitaker performed below his best or when doubts arose about his effectiveness—whether it was against McGirt or Wilfredo Rivera—he accepted rematches for the express purpose of setting the record straight. (Of course, McGirt had to stew for a bit and endure one slight after another en route to a second fight against Whitaker.) He was haughty, fearless, disdainful, and brash, and these traits drove him to pursue danger as often as possible. This was in the ’90s, when most purses were tied to risk and not to manufacturing marketing narratives to generate subscriptions for premium networks or to bolster start-up apps.
As the dominant years went by, Whitaker grew crabbier with the press and more dismissive of his opponents. “It doesn’t matter who I fight,” he announced in 1994, with an imperial air, “You could have a 900 number and take a poll. Let the people decide.”
Oh, fighters are still arrogant, of course (just spend a few minutes surfing the web or logging onto Twitter or, better yet, read a book), but Whitaker did not specialize in hollow boasting; did not yap about promotional divisions (surely the most embarrassing development among boxers in recent years); and did not mysteriously decline substantial purses offered to him. During his late stage, when personal problems threatened to overwhelm him, he even signed to face dangerous Ike Quartey, but that fight vanished when Whitaker failed yet another drug test. And his last significant outing—against Trinidad, a future Hall of Famer whose left hook was one of the deadliest weapons of the 1990s—came after a layoff of sixteen months and a stint in a rehab center. Even then, Whitaker could not be bothered with anything so prosaic as a tune-up. Facing Trinidad in the wake of so much turmoil was just another challenge for someone whose cerebral style often obscured a simple truth: he was a genuine fighting man, obsessed with proving his greatness in the ring. He did that, magnificently, many times over.
In 1993, in arguably his best performance, Pernell Whitaker neutralized Julio Cesar Chavez, then 87-0, throughout most of their pay-per-view extravaganza in San Antonio, Texas, only to wind up with a shameful draw for his efforts. The cover of Sports Illustrated after the fight said it all.
Pernell Whitaker was such a great great fighter, you could just go on forever about him.
Pernell Whitaker – The Escape Artist
By Elliot Worsell
Published Jul 21 2021
WHILE both stuck in time and stuck inside, my boxing comfort watch at the peak of last year’s COVID-19 lockdown seemed to be anything that involved Pernell “Sweet Pea” Whitaker. And there were, I think, several reasons for this.
The first reason was an obvious one: Whitaker was, having sadly passed away just six months before the world stopped, both a fighter still fresh in my mind and a fighter sorely missed. But, as well as that, more than that, I likely turned to Whitaker in solitude, when trapped inside the same four walls for days on end, because there is no one better than Pernell Whitaker to demonstrate how to remain creative and productive in the tightest and scariest of spaces. This was, after all, his forte. His gift. His magic trick.
A world-renowned disappearing act, Whitaker, in his prime, successfully made a career of sitting in the pocket with opponents, always putting himself in harm’s way, and would, time and time again, somehow not only avoid being hurt in these situations but also find openings to land punches of his own, doing so with the sneakiest of pivots or twists. Rarely would fans see Whitaker run and rarely did the claustrophobia or danger of being trapped on the inside with an opponent – sometimes bigger, sometimes stronger – ever seem to adversely affect him. Boxing’s Houdini, what to most were dead ends were to Whitaker ways out; escape routes.
Another reason why the appeal of Sweet Pea increased during the past 12 months owes to the nagging suspicion that fighters of his ilk – genuine craftsmen with nuance and layers to their game – are in danger of becoming a dying breed in a sport now geared towards fans with short memories and attention spans, as well as a thirst for one-punch knockouts. It is tough, for instance, to imagine a fighter like Whitaker flourishing in 2021 the way he did during his fighting prime, both in terms of the attention and respect given to him and the money on his table.
Never one for shortcuts or the spectacular finish, Whitaker demanded patience on the part of the spectator and, moreover, required from them a certain level of knowledge and appreciation of what it was they were looking at. He often entertained but would always, always educate. At his best, he would do both simultaneously, striking a perfect balance between clean, precise, textbook counterpunching and ego-driven showmanship – which, as a combination, made him quite the spectacle and his fights fun to watch.
So-called master boxers today, by contrast, struggle to hit that same sweet spot. They find themselves easy to ignore as a result and their fights, even ones of the supposed ‘super’ variety, tend to flatter to deceive and, for the most part, lack the razzmatazz and sense of peril Whitaker used to inject in his when staying in the firing line and refusing to budge.
Indeed, when returning to them during lockdown, Whitaker’s fights moved me in ways a lot of the big fights today don’t. Why that was, I can’t be sure, but I do know the stakes for some reason seemed higher and the skills on display seemed, at times, otherworldly. The goal, too, was often to dominate rather than simply win, an art lost on many.
Suitably enthused, after gorging on Whitaker for weeks, and with plenty to talk about but nobody to listen, I decided to consult a few men with knowledge of what made Whitaker so special.
One of these men was HBO’s Larry Merchant who, unlike me, had the privilege of watching a great deal of Whitaker’s Hall-of-Fame career from a ringside seat. Merchant, in his role as analyst, got to see Whitaker both young and old. He got to see him at his best and at his worst. He didn’t just watch him; he studied him.
“He materialised out of a place that doesn’t produce a lot of top fighters in Norfolk, a port city in Virginia,” Merchant said. “Several fighters have come out of a naval background, and the American navy always used to have a boxing mindset when they were out at sea and would have fights onboard. Roy Jones, for example, came out of Pensacola, where there was also a big naval presence.
“Whitaker, though, was a star amateur and won the [Olympic] gold in ’84, which meant he was a popular fighter long before even turning pro. He was, to me at least, a showy version of Willie Pep. He had some crash and dash to his movement and seemed to always be in control of the fight. People enjoyed watching him because of this.” Pressed to name his favourite Whitaker performance, Merchant, now 90, had to first pause to appreciate the sheer number of Whitaker fights he had watched, either from ringside or from home. He then eventually settled on Whitaker’s revenge victory over Jose Luis Ramirez in August 1989, which cleared up Whitaker’s first career loss, a controversial one, the previous year.
“Ramirez was a difficult opponent and a tough guy,” Merchant recalled. “It was a spiky fight. Both of them were like that: spiky. It was an aggressive brawler against a master boxer and the brawler did well at times but Whitaker found a way to get the better of him overall.”
It could be argued that Whitaker, around the time of the Ramirez rematch, was at his very best. He was, after all, the proud owner of the WBC and IBF lightweight titles and had, in winning the IBF version, delivered one of the finest examples of pure boxing on record against a hapless Greg Haugen in ’89. Yet, despite his brilliance as a lightweight, it was at welterweight Whitaker secured his biggest paydays and it was at welterweight Merchant feels he proved himself as more than just a master boxer.
“Whitaker was that rare pure boxer who had a lot of followers,” he said. “They were entertained by his movement and his boxing ability. He was a difficult guy to fight because he was always moving even when he was standing still. But that kind of flashy style was a good style and I liked him.
“He also had a certain tough-mindedness which I liked. I remember the fight that was supposed to lead to his big match against [Oscar] De La Hoya [April 12, 1997] and he was having problems in this fight. Knowing this, he went after his opponent the way ‘Sugar’ Ray Leonard would if in a spot of bother. Leonard would box you until he had to go after opponents and make an impression and Whitaker that night did the same.
“That was the only time I can remember in his later fights where I saw Whitaker know he needed to do something special – and he did it. Normally by the time he had got into the second half of the fight he had already won the fight. On this occasion there were questions about it but he stepped on the gas, put the opponent on the back foot, and put an end to things in the 11th round.”
Diosbelys Hurtado, the Cuban in question, did better than most when sharing a ring with Whitaker in ’97. He had scored flash knockdowns against Whitaker in rounds one and six and was leading on the scorecards going into the 11th, the round in which an urgent and out-of-sorts Whitaker gradually broke him down. In defeat, Hurtado not only brought out the best in Whitaker – that is, the other side of Sweet Pea’s game – but also showed Whitaker, at 33 years of age, was perhaps coming towards the end. (Hurtado would in fact be the last man Whitaker officially defeated, with subsequent fights against De La Hoya, Felix Trinidad and Carlos Bojorquez ending in defeat and a win against Andrey Pestryayev becoming a No Contest due to Whitaker failing a performance-enhancing drug test for cocaine.)
Another man who brought the best out of Whitaker as a welterweight was Scotland’s Gary Jacobs, the only British boxer Whitaker faced during his 46-fight professional career. Jacobs, a long-time European welterweight champion, earned his shot at Whitaker’s WBC welterweight crown in August 1995 at the Convention Hall in Atlantic City and was duly outpointed by the American over 12 rounds. The scorecards were wide, too wide for his liking, but Jacobs still recalls the Whitaker experience with fondness.
“He was obviously the most decorated fighter I fought in my career,” Jacobs said. “We went 12 rounds and I remember every single minute of it. I think I did much better than the judges gave me credit for but he was a great fighter, Whitaker. I was up against it, with the fight being in America and Whitaker being a star, but it was a great experience. I remember it so vividly.
“He was a talented, talented man, and it was not easy hitting him clean. He was a five-time champion of the world at different weights – and one of the pound-for-pound greatest fighters of all time – for a reason. He was just a brilliant all-round fighter. You can’t beat what you can’t hit and he was proof of that.”
Aware of all this going in, Jacobs trained for four weeks in the Catskill mountains and entered the fight with unwavering self-belief. This belief then grew considerably when the challenger sensed that Whitaker, a man prone to lapses in discipline, had struggled to make the 147-pound welterweight limit. “I think he was pretty tight at the weight around that time,” Jacobs said. “I remember him jumping on and off the scales very, very quickly.”
Regardless, Whitaker was the champion Jacobs had wanted for some time and was someone he had been preparing to fight, if mentally more than physically, throughout his reign as European welterweight king. If some seek the easiest possible route to a world title, Jacobs, to his credit, pursued the toughest.
“He was the champion I wanted,” he said, “and it was down to me that the fight happened. Mickey Duff was my manager at the time but I was the one who made sure it was Whitaker I fought.
“To be honest, I wanted to fight him because he was the fighter who would give me the most recognition if I came away with the win. I was right, too. Twenty-six years later, we’re still talking about it.”
It seems a redundant question to ask of anyone who has shared a ring with Pernell Whitaker but it is one you feel moved to ask anyway: “Was he the best boxer you ever faced as a pro?” In this case, the answer appears obvious enough – that welterweight title fight was Jacobs’ only shot at world honours – but Jacobs, when asked this question, was quick to remind me of a relatively nondescript 10-rounder he had in New York some six years before challenging Whitaker.
“I thought James ‘Buddy’ McGirt was a better fighter than Whitaker, if I’m honest,” said Jacobs, outpointed by McGirt in August 1989. “He was exactly the same: a counterpuncher fighting people off the back foot. But when I fought McGirt it was my first time at that level and I think he beat me fair and square. The Whitaker fight, in my opinion, wasn’t one I lost. I was up against it with the judges and I even scored a knockdown they didn’t score as a knockdown.
“I chased Whitaker for 12 rounds. I was like, ‘Hey come here,’ and was trying to just keep him in one place. I was much more well-equipped when that fight came around. I’d been in with McGirt and I’d been defending titles.
“Only the good fighters beat me and McGirt was the best opponent I faced, definitely. But, saying that, you can’t take anything away from Whitaker, either, because he did beat McGirt.”
Whitaker and McGirt did in fact box twice as professionals and both times ‘Sweet Pea’ came away with his hand raised. They fought for the first time in March 1993, with McGirt’s WBC welterweight belt on the line, before doing it all over again in October 1994, the rematch deemed necessary due to the close nature of the pair’s original encounter.
“The first fight I thought I should have got a draw,” said McGirt, “and even George Foreman thought the same. But in the second fight I employed a stupid strategy because I really didn’t give a s**t, to tell you the truth. The fire was gone; the fire in my gut just wasn’t there. But the thing is, a man I came to know as Uncle Sam was writing and sending me these letters, so I had no choice but to go through with the fight.
“It was rough for a few years. Uncle Sam wouldn’t let up. He wouldn’t take his foot off my neck. He was putting a lot of heat on a brother and for years was not letting me breathe. At that time in my life everybody disappeared.”
McGirt’s memories of his two fights against Whitaker are clouded by personal problems, frustrations, an injury, and the prolonged sinking feeling he experienced when knowing his best days were behind him. Something he does remember, though, is how mentally taxing the two Whitaker fights ended up being and how Whitaker managed to form with his esteemed coach, George Benton, perhaps the most intelligent one-two combination in boxing. “He was the best,” McGirt said of Whitaker. “The best. “He also had one of the best trainers in his corner, George Benton. There are interviews with Georgie, which you can find on YouTube, where he says Pernell Whitaker was his masterpiece. He said to me after the first fight, ‘Buddy, you almost f**ked up my masterpiece.’
“He was right. Pernell was his masterpiece. He was slick, he was smart, and he was a good listener. Whatever Georgie told him to do, Pernell executed.
“I have six losses on my pro record and four of those losses were to George Benton-trained fighters. Georgie trained Frankie Warren both times we fought and was the best trainer out there. In fact, during the press conference for our first fight, I remember turning to Pernell and saying, ‘Pernell, I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about that man sitting right there.’ That man was George Benton. He was a master.”
Thankfully, rather than keep Benton’s wisdom all to himself, Whitaker, in retirement, generously passed on a lot of what he had been taught to other fighters. These lessons were appreciated by all the boxers with whom Whitaker worked, including Dorin Spivey, Calvin Brock, and Joel Julio, while sticking around the sport in a coaching capacity gave Whitaker some renewed sense of purpose as well as some much-needed routine in retirement. Trouble still found him, of course, for his elusiveness sadly never stretched beyond the ring, but Whitaker nevertheless left his mark and created countless fighters in his own image, often without even knowing it.
“I learned defence first,” said Zab Judah, the former world welterweight champion and belt-holder at super-lightweight. “That was the first thing my father (Yoel) taught me. He said the art of fighting is this, and had a slogan: ‘If a man can’t hit you, a man can’t beat you.’ Basically, the more you hit him and he doesn’t hit you, the better it is for you.
“My dad then allowed me to go ahead and train with Pernell Whitaker when I was 16, so I went to camp with Pernell to spar and learn.”
Before sparring, and before even learning, Judah would just watch. He would watch the way Whitaker, notoriously truculent, interacted with people outside the ring and he would then watch the way Whitaker, just as awkward when in gloves, disciplined people in sparring.
“Oh my God, it was amazing,” Judah recalled. “He was a different kind of guy. He was different. Pernell was to the point. If he rocked with you, he rocked with you. If he didn’t, you knew he didn’t. There was no fake st with him. He didn’t say, ‘Hey, how’re you doing?’ He just wouldn’t say st to you. He’d say to your face, ‘Hey, man, you know I don’t like you, so I’d advise you to stay over there.’ He was a blunt guy like that.
“He was amazing in the ring, though. It was like being in the ring with somebody you can’t hit. You don’t know the frustration you go through until you try it. It’s super, super, super overwhelming.”
In September 1996, Judah, then 18, defeated Michael Johnson via second-round stoppage to mark the start of what would become a glittering professional career. That fight took place at Miami’s James L. Knight Center on a card headlined by Pernell Whitaker (who successfully defended his WBC welterweight title against Wilfredo Rivera), and this proved to be just one of many stages and connections the two American southpaws would share as their careers overlapped. A year later, Judah would appear in Whitaker’s corner during Whitaker’s superfight against Oscar De La Hoya at the Thomas & Mack Center, Las Vegas, while in 2011 Whitaker was working Judah’s corner the night he stopped Kaizer Mabuza to win the IBF super-lightweight title (the same belt Whitaker held in ’92).
Eight years after that, Whitaker was dead at 55, killed when crossing a road, and Judah, four weeks after being treated in hospital for a brain bleed, was left to mourn the loss of a great champion and friend, comforted only by the belief that Whitaker’s legacy lives on. It lives on, Judah believes, in the moves of other fighters; it lives on in the fights these fighters now watch on YouTube in the name of either research or inspiration; and it lives on because no matter who tries, or how many try, the things Pernell Whitaker was able to do in a boxing ring cannot be replicated and must be seen to be believed.
Pernell Whitaker vs Gary Jacobs, Whitaker won by a 12-round unanimous decision to retain the WBC welterweight title on August 26, 1995, in Atlantic City, New Jersey. After a slow start, Whitaker took control of the fight from the fifth round onward, and despite a controversial slip in the eleventh, he scored two knockdowns in the final round to secure a dominant win.
Oscar De La Hoya defeated Pernell Whitaker by unanimous decision on April 12, 1997, in a highly anticipated and controversial fight for the WBC welterweight title. While De La Hoya won the fight, many ringside observers and sportswriters felt Whitaker had won, as he out-landed De La Hoya in total punches and jabs. The judges' decision was swayed by De La Hoya's advantage in power punches, despite Whitaker scoring the fight's only knockdown. It was a damn good fight, close fight, a nightmare to score, but I had Whitaker winning by a slight margin.
Pernell Whitaker after winning a Gold medal in the lightweight division at the 1984 Olympic games in Los Angeles. This image was the inspiration for my favorite Pernell Whitaker card, the 2010 Ringside Boxing Mecca Cigarettes Turkey Red.
Tragically, Pernell Whitaker passed away at the age of 55 in 2019, he was hit by a car in Virginia Beach, I'll never forget hearing the terrible news that day. Pernell Whitaker was the best pound-for-pound fighter for years, he practically had a monopoly on the ESPN boxing highlights show.
Pernell Whitaker avenged his first professional loss and won the vacant WBC lightweight crown with a unanimous decision against Paris-based Mexican Jose Luis Ramirez before a hometown crowd at the Norfolk Scope Arena, Virginia in 1989.
Whitaker also defended the IBF title he won from Greg Haugen.
The first time Whitaker fought Ramirez, in Paris 17 months prior, he broke his left hand early and was robbed late: Two of the three judges gave the fight to Ramirez, allowing him to hang on to the WBC lightweight belt.
"I don't want you running all over the ring from this guy," trainer George Benton had ordered his 25-year-old prodigy before the rematch. "Just walk and slip. Be a ring general. Don't get cute and try and knock him out. Don't load up. Stick and slide, use the jab and when you see a chance for a big shot, throw it. If you see something you don't like, walk away."
Whitaker did not lose a round.
"He paint-brushed him," said Benton.
"I could have tied my left hand behind my back," says Whitaker. "The jab did everything."
Someone asked Whitaker what he would have done if the judges had repeated the Paris robbery. "They never would have got out of the building," he said, laughing. "They [his hometown fans] would have locked the doors. Those other guys got away from me in Paris. This time I would have found them."
Whitaker became a two-division world champion when he won the IBF junior welterweight title with a 12 round unanimous decision over Rafael Pineda at the Mirage Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada in 1992.
Whitaker already showed his class as a pro by unifying the lightweight division, apart from also being a 1984 Olympic gold medalist. Moving up and facing the hard-hitting Colombian Pineda was Whitaker's attempt to justify fights with the bigger stars at 140 and 147 pounds.
Whitaker was a big favorite and wore Pineda down over the course of the fight, avoiding the bigger puncher's return fire. Pineda was sent to the canvas in round 8 by a combination punctuated that ended with a right hook to the body, and he lost points for low blows that appeared to hurt Whitaker. "Sweet Pea," not generally known as a big puncher himself, worked Pineda hard to the body throughout the bout.
Despite Whitaker clowning for most of the last round, the judges awarded him the decision.
"I was stunned a few times by the low blows," Whitaker said. "They were his most effective punches."
George Chuvalo, heavyweight in the 70s, the Golden era, the strongest era of heavyweight boxing. He was known for his durability, Chuvalo was never knocked down in 93 professional fights, he had one of the best chins in boxing history, maybe THE best, the guy could take a crowbar to the jaw and stay upright. He fought 70s Foreman and Frazier and although they stopped him, neither one could drop him. He was one rough customer, strong as a bull, and he could hit, a really brutal fighter. He has wins over some really good fighters and he gave some great fighters a rough time. He was holding his own against Frazier before the cut, he damaged Ali badly to the body in their first fight and took him the distance twice, he lost a razor thin decision to Floyd Patterson, and he KO'd Jerry Quarry. George Chuvalo was a warrior with tremendous heart. The thing about Chuvalo, he always brought it, if you fought him you were going to have your hands full all night long, nobody ever looked forward to facing him.
George Chuvalo: As tough as they come
By Clarence George- October 20, 2012
Chuvalo Stood Up to Ali, Foreman, Frazier & More
George Chuvalo (73-18-2, 64 KOs) didn’t always win, but he never disappointed. The toughest heavyweight of the 1960s and 1970s, Chuvalo was a throwback to boxing’s rough and tumble 1930s. As Nat Fleischer observed: “Scientific boxing is not part of Chuvalo’s equipment”. And Rocky Marciano, who at one time trained Chuvalo, thought he was born a century too late.
The Canadian fought over a 22-year period, from 1956 to 1978. He won his first four professional fights over the course of one night. Participating in the Jack Dempsey Heavyweight Novice Tournament, refereed by the former champ, Chuvalo stopped Gordon Baldwin and Jim Leonard in the second (the former by TKO, the latter by KO) and Ross Gregory and Ed McGee in the first (both by KO).
Chuvalo became Canada’s heavyweight champ two years after turning pro by kayoing James J. Parker in the first. In 1959, he knocked out Yvon Durelle in the 12th before losing the title to Bob Cleroux in 1960. He took it back from him the same year, with Cleroux having the last word in 1961. But Chuvalo regained the championship from Jean-Claude Roy in 1968, and held it till his retirement.
It was in the mid 1960s that Chuvalo began to make a name for himself as a formidable contender in a weight class dominated by Americans. True, he lost more than he won when facing the best of the division, but his opponents never found it easy or pleasant. And not one of them knocked him down. No one did — not once over the course of more than two decades and 93 fights.
Chuvalo’s first major fight of the decade was a unanimous decision loss to Zora Folley in 1964. After winning his next four bouts, all by KO or TKO, Chuvalo lost another unanimous decision, this time to an impressed Floyd Patterson, in 1965. In the same year, the Canadian won four consecutive fights, again by KO or TKO, before losing the match for the WBA title to Ernie Terrell. He faced Muhammad Ali in 1966 for the world championship, losing by unanimous decision. Ali said that Chuvalo was “the toughest guy” he ever fought.
Oscar Bonavena defeated him the same year, but he won his next 12 matches by either KO or TKO. He was himself TKO’d by Joe Frazier in 1967. He then won six in a row, five by KO or TKO, before losing to Buster Mathis in 1969. Chuvalo knocked out Jerry Quarry (as well as five other opponents) before being TKO’d by George Foreman the next year. When the referee stopped the fight, Chuvalo said: “What are you, nuts?”
Following a series of four wins by KO or TKO, Chuvalo lost to Jimmy Ellis in 1971, but defeated Cleveland Williams the same year. In 1972, he lost a second time to Ali.
Chuvalo won the remaining seven fights of his career, all by either KO or TKO.
Win or lose, Chuvalo faced the best heavyweights of his generation, including Ali, Frazier, and Foreman. He never touched the canvas, and was stopped only twice in 93 fights — once by Frazier and once by Foreman.
Henry Cooper, one of the best British heavies of all time, refused to give him a crack at the Empire title, despite the fact that Chuvalo was the number one contender. Said Cooper’s manager: “Henry won’t even meet him socially.”
Chuvalo has proven himself as tough outside the ring as in, having had to deal with the pain of losing two sons to drugs and one to suicide. His first wife also killed herself.
George Chuvalo turned 75 last month…and he’s still harder than pig iron.
Chuvalo vs Ali, they fought twice. The first was a bout that turned Chuvalo into a national hero simply for staying on his feet for 15 rounds against the quickest and most gifted boxer of the era. For Ali, it was a chance to show he would not be bowed by those calling for him to be banned from the sport.
The second fight came in 1972 at the Pacific Coliseum in Vancouver, where Ali vowed to be the first to knock Chuvalo down, only to see the Toronto fighter he once called the Washerwoman absorb his blows without falling for another 12 rounds. Chuvalo never went down in 93 pro bouts.
This is the right to the chin of Doug Jones thrown by George Chuvalo in the 11th round of their fight at Madison Square Garden, Oct. 2, which ultimately led to a TKO by the Canadian scrapper. A left hook to the same target floored Jones, and when he got to his feet and appeared ready to fall again, referee Arthur Mercante stopped the bout. It was Jones' first knockout defeat in his career of 31 bouts, and it was only the second time he ever had been floored.
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Great shot of Jackie Fields in his prime.
Jackie Fields is one of my favorite fighters, one more last good photo.
Bob Baker, "The Grinder", 1950s heavyweight war horse, 6'2", around 210 and a good puncher, he had fast hands, a formidable jab, and could box. Sadly he suffered from brittle hands during his career, but still manage to put together a solid run. Bob is one of the more underrated ring mechanics of the last 50 years, Baker would have been competitive in any era and was a damn good fighter. One of defining characteristics of Bob Baker's boxing style was his relentless pressure and stamina, which earned him the fitting nickname "The Grinder." Baker was known for his ability to wear down his opponents with a non-stop barrage of punches, relentless pursuit, and constant pressure. His determination to outlast his opponents in the ring was truly remarkable.
Touted as the next Joe Louis in the early 1950s, Bob Baker was desperately unlucky not to at least fight for the “Brown Bomber’s” old heavyweight championship. Baker’s left hook in particular was a potent weapon as the Pennsylvanian raced to 25-0.
Perhaps Baker’s biggest fault was inconsistency though his level of opposition was so high the losses he suffered were understandable. Two points losses to Peter Jackson and Clarence Henry, a one-round defeat to Bob Satterfield and a ninth round stoppage at the hands of Archie Moore perhaps go some way to explaining why he never fought for the world title.
But Baker, strong and determined, developed a knack for rallying down the stretch to eke out decision wins over some of the best men of his era, Jimmy Bivins, Nino Valdes (twice), Joe Baksi, John Holman, Rex Layne (thrice), Dick Richardson (though he would lose the return) and a young George Chuvalo were all beaten by Baker.
After his eventful 10-year career, Baker became a foreman in Penn Hills and, according to colleagues, he never spoke of his achievements in the boxing world.
"Used to train with him at Stillman's Gym, when he was considered a behemoth for the time.
Always felt sorry for him, Stillman's was an airless armpit in summer, and Baker sweated like a pig training bundled from head to toe, constantly wincing taking off his wraps after sparring." - John Garfield, Boxing Forum 24
Bob Baker was a big dude for his time, great boxing photo here showing Bob Baker pinning Nino Valdes in the corner during one of their encounters.
Bob Baker vs Coley wallace in 1954. Coley Wallace is famous because he outpointed Rocky Marciano in a three round amateur fight in 1948, Wallace beat Marciano by split-decision. The story goes, in March of 1948, Rocky went to New York as the New England representative in the Golden Gloves All-East Coast Championships. His first fight was against a very good fighter named Coley Wallace, who had a record of 17-0 with 17 KO’s. Rocky was the aggressor throughout the fight and landed all the punishing blows, but the judges announced Wallace as the winner. The fans booed and threw bottles and programs into the ring. Rocky would always say he was cheated in this fight, and would determine to take the matter out of the hands of judges by knocking out future opponents.
Bob Baker vs Willie Besmanoff in 1957.
Bob Baker vs Tommy "Hurricane" Jackson in 1956.
Bob Baker vs Elkins Brothers in 1951.
Bob Baker vs Jimmy Slade in 1954.
Bob Baker vs Cesar Brion in 1953.
Bob Baker is one of my favorite fighters, just a work horse in the ring, a grinder, and more often than not his hard work paid off, you gotta respect that in any walk of life. This is a sick card of Baker, 1951 Topps Ringside with a Fighting Marines back, this is the only 51' Ringside I've ever seen with a back like this, sick card.
I can't get enough of these photos of Nigel Benn "The Dark Destroyer" training, he was intense. Here he is pictured doing exercises to strengthen his neck.
Jerry Quarry, "The Bellflower Bomber." Tough as nails Irish heavyweight in the 1960s-70s, win or lose Quarry always brought it.
Sometime in 1948, the famous artist and photographer Irving Penn began making portraits in a small corner space made of two studio flats pushed together, the floor covered with a piece of old carpeting. To quote the photographer, “a very rich series of pictures resulted. This confinement, surprisingly seemed to comfort people, soothing them. The walls were a surface to lean on or push against.
Penn had already begun to use the studio as an insistent environment in which the viewer is allowed to see the electrical cables, edges of backdrops, and the photographic detritus randomly scattered along the floor. This particular series, however, utilized the ruse of a sharper-than-90º corner in which the subjects position themselves. Some are wedged in as if suspended by their shoulders, others lean against it for compatible support, compressed and altered by the claustrophobic space. These are existential pictures; pictures in which “personalities” are isolated, posed in an abstract and artificial corner of the world.
Penn’s subjects constituted a wide spectrum of writers, dancers, artists, socialites, musicians, political figures and other celebrities of the era. Among those who found their way into Penn’s corner were Noel Coward, the Duchess of Windsor, Marcel Duchamp, the Gish Sisters, Duke Ellington, Truman Capote, and the great Joe Louis.
Pernell "Sweet pea" Whitaker, one of the greatest fighters this sport has ever seen. A defensive wizard, a technical genius.
Pernell Whitaker, his Magnificent Obsession
by Carlos Acevedo, Author of Sporting Blood: Tales From The Dark Side Of Boxing
It took nearly fifteen years for Pernell Whitaker, who died on July 14, 2019 at the age of fifty-five, to lose a fight conclusively. In 1999, he dropped a bruising decision to Felix Trinidad, younger, bigger, stronger. By then, Whitaker was thirty-five years old and was struggling with drugs and alcohol. His previous fight, a win over Andrey Pestryaev, had morphed into a no-contest and he had been suspended from boxing in 1998 after failing more than one drug test.
Until “Tito” caught up with him—and fractured his jaw—Whitaker possessed a record marred solely by asterisks. “The Golden Boy,” Oscar De La Hoya, then approaching his crossover peak, hit the canvas against Whitaker and settled for an unconvincing albeit convenient lopsided decision. One of the true greats, Julio Cesar Chavez, limped away from the Alamodome in 1993 with a draw that sparked mass incredulity. But these debacles were nothing compared to the “L” Whitaker took against Jose Luis Ramirez in Levallois-Perret, France, a result that triggered memories of Frankie Carbo, Blinky Palermo, the boys in the ill-lit backroom, fedoras, stogies, and lowball glasses omnipresent—despite the fact that it was 1988. (A year and a half later, Whitaker avenged his fiasco against Ramirez in 1989 via his preferred method: a shutout decision.)
Although Whitaker, a gold medalist at the 1984 Olympics, signed a contract with ABC before turning pro, he was hardly phenom material early in his career. In late 1985, Whitaker broke his foot playing basketball and wound up sidelined. When he returned to the ring, he broke a bone in his hand while scoring a decision over John Montes. Another layoff followed. If Whitaker was more active over the next two years, he was not always impressive. Rafael Williams and Roger Mayweather both floored him, and his genius had not yet caught up to his showboating. When it finally did, however, Whitaker embarked on a run that few fighters have been able to match since. From 1989 to 1997, when De La Hoya squeaked by him, Whitaker became the undisputed lightweight champion of the world, won titles during pit stops at 140 and 154 pounds, and had a solid reign as welterweight champion. Along the way, he befuddled a slew of good fighters (Ramirez, Greg Haugen, Juan Nazario, Jorge Paez, Buddy McGirt, Wilfredo Rivera, Diolbys Hurtado) and some greats, as well (Azumah Nelson, Chavez, and De La Hoya).
And while Whitaker was never a fighter who quickened pulses with any regularity, he drew large crowds at The Scope in Norfolk, Virginia (where he was born), and was a solid ratings-draw on HBO, who billed “Sweet Pea” as the best fighter in the world, which, unlike so many other over-the-top claims from networks—and their media supplicants—in subsequent years, was actually irrefutable. A quicksilver southpaw whose defense, timing, reflexes, and ring IQ were uncanny, Whitaker often went twelve rounds effortlessly. At times, Whitaker drew criticism for his style, even from HBO, which was not always pleased with another 120-108 exhibition. “HBO can’t fight for me,” he told Wally Matthews in 1990. “HBO don’t take the punches. I give the people their money’s worth. They’re paying $600 a ticket. They don’t want to see no 18-second knockout.”
A pure boxer, Whitaker should not be confused with the spoilers of today who are mistakenly referred to as technicians. Bear hugs, armbars, and headlocks were not essential to his success. At his best, Whitaker used a ruthless finesse, largely improvisational, to make even world-class pros look listless, arthritic. Nor was he much of a runner after his lightweight reign. Most of the time, Whitaker stood in front of his opponent, made him miss with head movement or nifty footwork, and countered with pinpoint shots with either hand. “I’m not a knockout fighter,” he once said. “I’m a performer. I’m here to have fun in the ring. Not everybody can do that.”
As a defensive fighter, few could compare to Whitaker; as a fighting man, perhaps even fewer. That may sound surprising given how Whitaker approached most of his fights as a virtuoso. “Being an artist in the ring is most important,” Whitaker told KO in 1990. “When I get in there, I want it to be art. I work so hard in the gym, and the gym is where the real fight is. I got four and five guys to box. I spar with a guy, get tired, and then I got a fresh man to come. That’s tough. The easy part is in the ring on fight night. I’m a hyper guy. I get the music going, I get to dancing in the dressing room. I get everybody fired up. Because it’s time to party. I did all that work in the gym, and I’m ready to show what I got, to be an artist.”
But Whitaker was also a fierce competitor. Above all, it was his arrogance that made him a true great. Again and again, Whitaker sought to concretize his claims of greatness in the ring, a concept now as antiquated as fanny packs or dial-up modems. For Whitaker, winning a junior-middleweight title (in 1995 via decision over Julio Cesar Vasquez) was more or less a lark. He made unifying the lightweight title look as easy as Stu Ungar winning a freeze-out tournament against a class of middle-school kids. When Whitaker performed below his best or when doubts arose about his effectiveness—whether it was against McGirt or Wilfredo Rivera—he accepted rematches for the express purpose of setting the record straight. (Of course, McGirt had to stew for a bit and endure one slight after another en route to a second fight against Whitaker.) He was haughty, fearless, disdainful, and brash, and these traits drove him to pursue danger as often as possible. This was in the ’90s, when most purses were tied to risk and not to manufacturing marketing narratives to generate subscriptions for premium networks or to bolster start-up apps.
As the dominant years went by, Whitaker grew crabbier with the press and more dismissive of his opponents. “It doesn’t matter who I fight,” he announced in 1994, with an imperial air, “You could have a 900 number and take a poll. Let the people decide.”
Oh, fighters are still arrogant, of course (just spend a few minutes surfing the web or logging onto Twitter or, better yet, read a book), but Whitaker did not specialize in hollow boasting; did not yap about promotional divisions (surely the most embarrassing development among boxers in recent years); and did not mysteriously decline substantial purses offered to him. During his late stage, when personal problems threatened to overwhelm him, he even signed to face dangerous Ike Quartey, but that fight vanished when Whitaker failed yet another drug test. And his last significant outing—against Trinidad, a future Hall of Famer whose left hook was one of the deadliest weapons of the 1990s—came after a layoff of sixteen months and a stint in a rehab center. Even then, Whitaker could not be bothered with anything so prosaic as a tune-up. Facing Trinidad in the wake of so much turmoil was just another challenge for someone whose cerebral style often obscured a simple truth: he was a genuine fighting man, obsessed with proving his greatness in the ring. He did that, magnificently, many times over.
In 1993, in arguably his best performance, Pernell Whitaker neutralized Julio Cesar Chavez, then 87-0, throughout most of their pay-per-view extravaganza in San Antonio, Texas, only to wind up with a shameful draw for his efforts. The cover of Sports Illustrated after the fight said it all.
Pernell Whitaker was such a great great fighter, you could just go on forever about him.
Pernell Whitaker – The Escape Artist
By Elliot Worsell
Published Jul 21 2021
WHILE both stuck in time and stuck inside, my boxing comfort watch at the peak of last year’s COVID-19 lockdown seemed to be anything that involved Pernell “Sweet Pea” Whitaker. And there were, I think, several reasons for this.
The first reason was an obvious one: Whitaker was, having sadly passed away just six months before the world stopped, both a fighter still fresh in my mind and a fighter sorely missed. But, as well as that, more than that, I likely turned to Whitaker in solitude, when trapped inside the same four walls for days on end, because there is no one better than Pernell Whitaker to demonstrate how to remain creative and productive in the tightest and scariest of spaces. This was, after all, his forte. His gift. His magic trick.
A world-renowned disappearing act, Whitaker, in his prime, successfully made a career of sitting in the pocket with opponents, always putting himself in harm’s way, and would, time and time again, somehow not only avoid being hurt in these situations but also find openings to land punches of his own, doing so with the sneakiest of pivots or twists. Rarely would fans see Whitaker run and rarely did the claustrophobia or danger of being trapped on the inside with an opponent – sometimes bigger, sometimes stronger – ever seem to adversely affect him. Boxing’s Houdini, what to most were dead ends were to Whitaker ways out; escape routes.
Another reason why the appeal of Sweet Pea increased during the past 12 months owes to the nagging suspicion that fighters of his ilk – genuine craftsmen with nuance and layers to their game – are in danger of becoming a dying breed in a sport now geared towards fans with short memories and attention spans, as well as a thirst for one-punch knockouts. It is tough, for instance, to imagine a fighter like Whitaker flourishing in 2021 the way he did during his fighting prime, both in terms of the attention and respect given to him and the money on his table.
Never one for shortcuts or the spectacular finish, Whitaker demanded patience on the part of the spectator and, moreover, required from them a certain level of knowledge and appreciation of what it was they were looking at. He often entertained but would always, always educate. At his best, he would do both simultaneously, striking a perfect balance between clean, precise, textbook counterpunching and ego-driven showmanship – which, as a combination, made him quite the spectacle and his fights fun to watch.
So-called master boxers today, by contrast, struggle to hit that same sweet spot. They find themselves easy to ignore as a result and their fights, even ones of the supposed ‘super’ variety, tend to flatter to deceive and, for the most part, lack the razzmatazz and sense of peril Whitaker used to inject in his when staying in the firing line and refusing to budge.
Indeed, when returning to them during lockdown, Whitaker’s fights moved me in ways a lot of the big fights today don’t. Why that was, I can’t be sure, but I do know the stakes for some reason seemed higher and the skills on display seemed, at times, otherworldly. The goal, too, was often to dominate rather than simply win, an art lost on many.
Suitably enthused, after gorging on Whitaker for weeks, and with plenty to talk about but nobody to listen, I decided to consult a few men with knowledge of what made Whitaker so special.
One of these men was HBO’s Larry Merchant who, unlike me, had the privilege of watching a great deal of Whitaker’s Hall-of-Fame career from a ringside seat. Merchant, in his role as analyst, got to see Whitaker both young and old. He got to see him at his best and at his worst. He didn’t just watch him; he studied him.
“He materialised out of a place that doesn’t produce a lot of top fighters in Norfolk, a port city in Virginia,” Merchant said. “Several fighters have come out of a naval background, and the American navy always used to have a boxing mindset when they were out at sea and would have fights onboard. Roy Jones, for example, came out of Pensacola, where there was also a big naval presence.
“Whitaker, though, was a star amateur and won the [Olympic] gold in ’84, which meant he was a popular fighter long before even turning pro. He was, to me at least, a showy version of Willie Pep. He had some crash and dash to his movement and seemed to always be in control of the fight. People enjoyed watching him because of this.” Pressed to name his favourite Whitaker performance, Merchant, now 90, had to first pause to appreciate the sheer number of Whitaker fights he had watched, either from ringside or from home. He then eventually settled on Whitaker’s revenge victory over Jose Luis Ramirez in August 1989, which cleared up Whitaker’s first career loss, a controversial one, the previous year.
“Ramirez was a difficult opponent and a tough guy,” Merchant recalled. “It was a spiky fight. Both of them were like that: spiky. It was an aggressive brawler against a master boxer and the brawler did well at times but Whitaker found a way to get the better of him overall.”
It could be argued that Whitaker, around the time of the Ramirez rematch, was at his very best. He was, after all, the proud owner of the WBC and IBF lightweight titles and had, in winning the IBF version, delivered one of the finest examples of pure boxing on record against a hapless Greg Haugen in ’89. Yet, despite his brilliance as a lightweight, it was at welterweight Whitaker secured his biggest paydays and it was at welterweight Merchant feels he proved himself as more than just a master boxer.
“Whitaker was that rare pure boxer who had a lot of followers,” he said. “They were entertained by his movement and his boxing ability. He was a difficult guy to fight because he was always moving even when he was standing still. But that kind of flashy style was a good style and I liked him.
“He also had a certain tough-mindedness which I liked. I remember the fight that was supposed to lead to his big match against [Oscar] De La Hoya [April 12, 1997] and he was having problems in this fight. Knowing this, he went after his opponent the way ‘Sugar’ Ray Leonard would if in a spot of bother. Leonard would box you until he had to go after opponents and make an impression and Whitaker that night did the same.
“That was the only time I can remember in his later fights where I saw Whitaker know he needed to do something special – and he did it. Normally by the time he had got into the second half of the fight he had already won the fight. On this occasion there were questions about it but he stepped on the gas, put the opponent on the back foot, and put an end to things in the 11th round.”
Diosbelys Hurtado, the Cuban in question, did better than most when sharing a ring with Whitaker in ’97. He had scored flash knockdowns against Whitaker in rounds one and six and was leading on the scorecards going into the 11th, the round in which an urgent and out-of-sorts Whitaker gradually broke him down. In defeat, Hurtado not only brought out the best in Whitaker – that is, the other side of Sweet Pea’s game – but also showed Whitaker, at 33 years of age, was perhaps coming towards the end. (Hurtado would in fact be the last man Whitaker officially defeated, with subsequent fights against De La Hoya, Felix Trinidad and Carlos Bojorquez ending in defeat and a win against Andrey Pestryayev becoming a No Contest due to Whitaker failing a performance-enhancing drug test for cocaine.)
Another man who brought the best out of Whitaker as a welterweight was Scotland’s Gary Jacobs, the only British boxer Whitaker faced during his 46-fight professional career. Jacobs, a long-time European welterweight champion, earned his shot at Whitaker’s WBC welterweight crown in August 1995 at the Convention Hall in Atlantic City and was duly outpointed by the American over 12 rounds. The scorecards were wide, too wide for his liking, but Jacobs still recalls the Whitaker experience with fondness.
“He was obviously the most decorated fighter I fought in my career,” Jacobs said. “We went 12 rounds and I remember every single minute of it. I think I did much better than the judges gave me credit for but he was a great fighter, Whitaker. I was up against it, with the fight being in America and Whitaker being a star, but it was a great experience. I remember it so vividly.
“He was a talented, talented man, and it was not easy hitting him clean. He was a five-time champion of the world at different weights – and one of the pound-for-pound greatest fighters of all time – for a reason. He was just a brilliant all-round fighter. You can’t beat what you can’t hit and he was proof of that.”
Aware of all this going in, Jacobs trained for four weeks in the Catskill mountains and entered the fight with unwavering self-belief. This belief then grew considerably when the challenger sensed that Whitaker, a man prone to lapses in discipline, had struggled to make the 147-pound welterweight limit. “I think he was pretty tight at the weight around that time,” Jacobs said. “I remember him jumping on and off the scales very, very quickly.”
Regardless, Whitaker was the champion Jacobs had wanted for some time and was someone he had been preparing to fight, if mentally more than physically, throughout his reign as European welterweight king. If some seek the easiest possible route to a world title, Jacobs, to his credit, pursued the toughest.
“He was the champion I wanted,” he said, “and it was down to me that the fight happened. Mickey Duff was my manager at the time but I was the one who made sure it was Whitaker I fought.
“To be honest, I wanted to fight him because he was the fighter who would give me the most recognition if I came away with the win. I was right, too. Twenty-six years later, we’re still talking about it.”
It seems a redundant question to ask of anyone who has shared a ring with Pernell Whitaker but it is one you feel moved to ask anyway: “Was he the best boxer you ever faced as a pro?” In this case, the answer appears obvious enough – that welterweight title fight was Jacobs’ only shot at world honours – but Jacobs, when asked this question, was quick to remind me of a relatively nondescript 10-rounder he had in New York some six years before challenging Whitaker.
“I thought James ‘Buddy’ McGirt was a better fighter than Whitaker, if I’m honest,” said Jacobs, outpointed by McGirt in August 1989. “He was exactly the same: a counterpuncher fighting people off the back foot. But when I fought McGirt it was my first time at that level and I think he beat me fair and square. The Whitaker fight, in my opinion, wasn’t one I lost. I was up against it with the judges and I even scored a knockdown they didn’t score as a knockdown.
“I chased Whitaker for 12 rounds. I was like, ‘Hey come here,’ and was trying to just keep him in one place. I was much more well-equipped when that fight came around. I’d been in with McGirt and I’d been defending titles.
“Only the good fighters beat me and McGirt was the best opponent I faced, definitely. But, saying that, you can’t take anything away from Whitaker, either, because he did beat McGirt.”
Whitaker and McGirt did in fact box twice as professionals and both times ‘Sweet Pea’ came away with his hand raised. They fought for the first time in March 1993, with McGirt’s WBC welterweight belt on the line, before doing it all over again in October 1994, the rematch deemed necessary due to the close nature of the pair’s original encounter.
“The first fight I thought I should have got a draw,” said McGirt, “and even George Foreman thought the same. But in the second fight I employed a stupid strategy because I really didn’t give a s**t, to tell you the truth. The fire was gone; the fire in my gut just wasn’t there. But the thing is, a man I came to know as Uncle Sam was writing and sending me these letters, so I had no choice but to go through with the fight.
“It was rough for a few years. Uncle Sam wouldn’t let up. He wouldn’t take his foot off my neck. He was putting a lot of heat on a brother and for years was not letting me breathe. At that time in my life everybody disappeared.”
McGirt’s memories of his two fights against Whitaker are clouded by personal problems, frustrations, an injury, and the prolonged sinking feeling he experienced when knowing his best days were behind him. Something he does remember, though, is how mentally taxing the two Whitaker fights ended up being and how Whitaker managed to form with his esteemed coach, George Benton, perhaps the most intelligent one-two combination in boxing. “He was the best,” McGirt said of Whitaker. “The best. “He also had one of the best trainers in his corner, George Benton. There are interviews with Georgie, which you can find on YouTube, where he says Pernell Whitaker was his masterpiece. He said to me after the first fight, ‘Buddy, you almost f**ked up my masterpiece.’
“He was right. Pernell was his masterpiece. He was slick, he was smart, and he was a good listener. Whatever Georgie told him to do, Pernell executed.
“I have six losses on my pro record and four of those losses were to George Benton-trained fighters. Georgie trained Frankie Warren both times we fought and was the best trainer out there. In fact, during the press conference for our first fight, I remember turning to Pernell and saying, ‘Pernell, I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about that man sitting right there.’ That man was George Benton. He was a master.”
Thankfully, rather than keep Benton’s wisdom all to himself, Whitaker, in retirement, generously passed on a lot of what he had been taught to other fighters. These lessons were appreciated by all the boxers with whom Whitaker worked, including Dorin Spivey, Calvin Brock, and Joel Julio, while sticking around the sport in a coaching capacity gave Whitaker some renewed sense of purpose as well as some much-needed routine in retirement. Trouble still found him, of course, for his elusiveness sadly never stretched beyond the ring, but Whitaker nevertheless left his mark and created countless fighters in his own image, often without even knowing it.
“I learned defence first,” said Zab Judah, the former world welterweight champion and belt-holder at super-lightweight. “That was the first thing my father (Yoel) taught me. He said the art of fighting is this, and had a slogan: ‘If a man can’t hit you, a man can’t beat you.’ Basically, the more you hit him and he doesn’t hit you, the better it is for you.
“My dad then allowed me to go ahead and train with Pernell Whitaker when I was 16, so I went to camp with Pernell to spar and learn.”
Before sparring, and before even learning, Judah would just watch. He would watch the way Whitaker, notoriously truculent, interacted with people outside the ring and he would then watch the way Whitaker, just as awkward when in gloves, disciplined people in sparring.
“Oh my God, it was amazing,” Judah recalled. “He was a different kind of guy. He was different. Pernell was to the point. If he rocked with you, he rocked with you. If he didn’t, you knew he didn’t. There was no fake st with him. He didn’t say, ‘Hey, how’re you doing?’ He just wouldn’t say st to you. He’d say to your face, ‘Hey, man, you know I don’t like you, so I’d advise you to stay over there.’ He was a blunt guy like that.
“He was amazing in the ring, though. It was like being in the ring with somebody you can’t hit. You don’t know the frustration you go through until you try it. It’s super, super, super overwhelming.”
In September 1996, Judah, then 18, defeated Michael Johnson via second-round stoppage to mark the start of what would become a glittering professional career. That fight took place at Miami’s James L. Knight Center on a card headlined by Pernell Whitaker (who successfully defended his WBC welterweight title against Wilfredo Rivera), and this proved to be just one of many stages and connections the two American southpaws would share as their careers overlapped. A year later, Judah would appear in Whitaker’s corner during Whitaker’s superfight against Oscar De La Hoya at the Thomas & Mack Center, Las Vegas, while in 2011 Whitaker was working Judah’s corner the night he stopped Kaizer Mabuza to win the IBF super-lightweight title (the same belt Whitaker held in ’92).
Eight years after that, Whitaker was dead at 55, killed when crossing a road, and Judah, four weeks after being treated in hospital for a brain bleed, was left to mourn the loss of a great champion and friend, comforted only by the belief that Whitaker’s legacy lives on. It lives on, Judah believes, in the moves of other fighters; it lives on in the fights these fighters now watch on YouTube in the name of either research or inspiration; and it lives on because no matter who tries, or how many try, the things Pernell Whitaker was able to do in a boxing ring cannot be replicated and must be seen to be believed.
Pernell Whitaker vs Gary Jacobs, Whitaker won by a 12-round unanimous decision to retain the WBC welterweight title on August 26, 1995, in Atlantic City, New Jersey. After a slow start, Whitaker took control of the fight from the fifth round onward, and despite a controversial slip in the eleventh, he scored two knockdowns in the final round to secure a dominant win.
Oscar De La Hoya defeated Pernell Whitaker by unanimous decision on April 12, 1997, in a highly anticipated and controversial fight for the WBC welterweight title. While De La Hoya won the fight, many ringside observers and sportswriters felt Whitaker had won, as he out-landed De La Hoya in total punches and jabs. The judges' decision was swayed by De La Hoya's advantage in power punches, despite Whitaker scoring the fight's only knockdown. It was a damn good fight, close fight, a nightmare to score, but I had Whitaker winning by a slight margin.
Pernell Whitaker after winning a Gold medal in the lightweight division at the 1984 Olympic games in Los Angeles. This image was the inspiration for my favorite Pernell Whitaker card, the 2010 Ringside Boxing Mecca Cigarettes Turkey Red.
Tragically, Pernell Whitaker passed away at the age of 55 in 2019, he was hit by a car in Virginia Beach, I'll never forget hearing the terrible news that day. Pernell Whitaker was the best pound-for-pound fighter for years, he practically had a monopoly on the ESPN boxing highlights show.
Some great shots of Pernell Whitaker.
Love this image of Whitaker, the intense look.
Pernell Whitaker avenged his first professional loss and won the vacant WBC lightweight crown with a unanimous decision against Paris-based Mexican Jose Luis Ramirez before a hometown crowd at the Norfolk Scope Arena, Virginia in 1989.
Whitaker also defended the IBF title he won from Greg Haugen.
The first time Whitaker fought Ramirez, in Paris 17 months prior, he broke his left hand early and was robbed late: Two of the three judges gave the fight to Ramirez, allowing him to hang on to the WBC lightweight belt.
"I don't want you running all over the ring from this guy," trainer George Benton had ordered his 25-year-old prodigy before the rematch. "Just walk and slip. Be a ring general. Don't get cute and try and knock him out. Don't load up. Stick and slide, use the jab and when you see a chance for a big shot, throw it. If you see something you don't like, walk away."
Whitaker did not lose a round.
"He paint-brushed him," said Benton.
"I could have tied my left hand behind my back," says Whitaker. "The jab did everything."
Someone asked Whitaker what he would have done if the judges had repeated the Paris robbery. "They never would have got out of the building," he said, laughing. "They [his hometown fans] would have locked the doors. Those other guys got away from me in Paris. This time I would have found them."
Whitaker became a two-division world champion when he won the IBF junior welterweight title with a 12 round unanimous decision over Rafael Pineda at the Mirage Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada in 1992.
Whitaker already showed his class as a pro by unifying the lightweight division, apart from also being a 1984 Olympic gold medalist. Moving up and facing the hard-hitting Colombian Pineda was Whitaker's attempt to justify fights with the bigger stars at 140 and 147 pounds.
Whitaker was a big favorite and wore Pineda down over the course of the fight, avoiding the bigger puncher's return fire. Pineda was sent to the canvas in round 8 by a combination punctuated that ended with a right hook to the body, and he lost points for low blows that appeared to hurt Whitaker. "Sweet Pea," not generally known as a big puncher himself, worked Pineda hard to the body throughout the bout.
Despite Whitaker clowning for most of the last round, the judges awarded him the decision.
"I was stunned a few times by the low blows," Whitaker said. "They were his most effective punches."
The defensive genius of Pernell Whitaker.
And of course the brilliant offense of Whitaker, he was a complete fighter.
George Chuvalo, heavyweight in the 70s, the Golden era, the strongest era of heavyweight boxing. He was known for his durability, Chuvalo was never knocked down in 93 professional fights, he had one of the best chins in boxing history, maybe THE best, the guy could take a crowbar to the jaw and stay upright. He fought 70s Foreman and Frazier and although they stopped him, neither one could drop him. He was one rough customer, strong as a bull, and he could hit, a really brutal fighter. He has wins over some really good fighters and he gave some great fighters a rough time. He was holding his own against Frazier before the cut, he damaged Ali badly to the body in their first fight and took him the distance twice, he lost a razor thin decision to Floyd Patterson, and he KO'd Jerry Quarry. George Chuvalo was a warrior with tremendous heart. The thing about Chuvalo, he always brought it, if you fought him you were going to have your hands full all night long, nobody ever looked forward to facing him.
George Chuvalo: As tough as they come
By Clarence George- October 20, 2012
Chuvalo Stood Up to Ali, Foreman, Frazier & More
George Chuvalo (73-18-2, 64 KOs) didn’t always win, but he never disappointed. The toughest heavyweight of the 1960s and 1970s, Chuvalo was a throwback to boxing’s rough and tumble 1930s. As Nat Fleischer observed: “Scientific boxing is not part of Chuvalo’s equipment”. And Rocky Marciano, who at one time trained Chuvalo, thought he was born a century too late.
The Canadian fought over a 22-year period, from 1956 to 1978. He won his first four professional fights over the course of one night. Participating in the Jack Dempsey Heavyweight Novice Tournament, refereed by the former champ, Chuvalo stopped Gordon Baldwin and Jim Leonard in the second (the former by TKO, the latter by KO) and Ross Gregory and Ed McGee in the first (both by KO).
Chuvalo became Canada’s heavyweight champ two years after turning pro by kayoing James J. Parker in the first. In 1959, he knocked out Yvon Durelle in the 12th before losing the title to Bob Cleroux in 1960. He took it back from him the same year, with Cleroux having the last word in 1961. But Chuvalo regained the championship from Jean-Claude Roy in 1968, and held it till his retirement.
It was in the mid 1960s that Chuvalo began to make a name for himself as a formidable contender in a weight class dominated by Americans. True, he lost more than he won when facing the best of the division, but his opponents never found it easy or pleasant. And not one of them knocked him down. No one did — not once over the course of more than two decades and 93 fights.
Chuvalo’s first major fight of the decade was a unanimous decision loss to Zora Folley in 1964. After winning his next four bouts, all by KO or TKO, Chuvalo lost another unanimous decision, this time to an impressed Floyd Patterson, in 1965. In the same year, the Canadian won four consecutive fights, again by KO or TKO, before losing the match for the WBA title to Ernie Terrell. He faced Muhammad Ali in 1966 for the world championship, losing by unanimous decision. Ali said that Chuvalo was “the toughest guy” he ever fought.
Oscar Bonavena defeated him the same year, but he won his next 12 matches by either KO or TKO. He was himself TKO’d by Joe Frazier in 1967. He then won six in a row, five by KO or TKO, before losing to Buster Mathis in 1969. Chuvalo knocked out Jerry Quarry (as well as five other opponents) before being TKO’d by George Foreman the next year. When the referee stopped the fight, Chuvalo said: “What are you, nuts?”
Following a series of four wins by KO or TKO, Chuvalo lost to Jimmy Ellis in 1971, but defeated Cleveland Williams the same year. In 1972, he lost a second time to Ali.
Chuvalo won the remaining seven fights of his career, all by either KO or TKO.
Win or lose, Chuvalo faced the best heavyweights of his generation, including Ali, Frazier, and Foreman. He never touched the canvas, and was stopped only twice in 93 fights — once by Frazier and once by Foreman.
Henry Cooper, one of the best British heavies of all time, refused to give him a crack at the Empire title, despite the fact that Chuvalo was the number one contender. Said Cooper’s manager: “Henry won’t even meet him socially.”
Chuvalo has proven himself as tough outside the ring as in, having had to deal with the pain of losing two sons to drugs and one to suicide. His first wife also killed herself.
George Chuvalo turned 75 last month…and he’s still harder than pig iron.
Chuvalo vs Ali, they fought twice. The first was a bout that turned Chuvalo into a national hero simply for staying on his feet for 15 rounds against the quickest and most gifted boxer of the era. For Ali, it was a chance to show he would not be bowed by those calling for him to be banned from the sport.
The second fight came in 1972 at the Pacific Coliseum in Vancouver, where Ali vowed to be the first to knock Chuvalo down, only to see the Toronto fighter he once called the Washerwoman absorb his blows without falling for another 12 rounds. Chuvalo never went down in 93 pro bouts.
This is the right to the chin of Doug Jones thrown by George Chuvalo in the 11th round of their fight at Madison Square Garden, Oct. 2, which ultimately led to a TKO by the Canadian scrapper. A left hook to the same target floored Jones, and when he got to his feet and appeared ready to fall again, referee Arthur Mercante stopped the bout. It was Jones' first knockout defeat in his career of 31 bouts, and it was only the second time he ever had been floored.
George Chuvalo knocks out Jerry Quarry.
George Chuvalo vs Cleveland Williams in 1971.