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JULY 2000
Each month we bring you a selection of articles from the current and past issues of BOXING MONTHLY. To buy the magazine, see our subscription or back issues pages, or use our world distribution map to find a news-stand copy. Why not use our Interactive Forum to express your own boxing comments and opinions!
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YOU'RE THROUGH
They're the words no fighter wants to hear, but sometimes someone has to tell them. STEVE FARHOOD reports on what may be a manager's hardest task |
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THE NEXT MOVE: A major problem for fighters, such as Iran Barkley seen here in his heyday against Hearns, is what to do after boxing
- Get Big Pic If you're a potato, it's not a bad thing for your career to end in Worley,
Idaho (population 31,076). If you're a heavyweight, you might prefer Vegas or
NYC. Spud or stud? Jeff Wooden hung up his hand wraps after suffering a third-round KO vs.
world-class Oleg Maskaev in February 1999. Wooden was french-fried at the Coeur
d'Alene Casino on one of promoter Cedric Kushner's Heavyweight Explosion cards.
Unless you're hopelessly hardcore, you've never heard of Wooden. Funny, but a
point on the cards here or a point there and he could've been marquee material. Wooden was more than competitive with the best contenders in his class. In
1996, he tackled undefeated fellow southpaw Chris Byrd. Had Wooden won the 10th
round, he would've salvaged a draw. In '97, Wooden dropped a split decision to
another undefeated prospect, Michael Grant. And in '98, he lost by majority
verdict to top-ranked challenger David Tua. A point here or a point there . . . By the time Wooden was blown out by Maskaev, he was a 34-year-old trialhorse
with a career mark of 18-8. Manager Arnie Rosenthal considered the immediate
past and saw the future clearly. "I wasn't going to allow Woody to become a
punching bag," he said. "Maskaev dropped him in the first round and he
never got his legs back under him. I could see he didn't have his old
reflexes." Mindful that Wooden, the father of four, had a solid job as a prison guard,
Rosenthal approached the fighter and his wife and made the speech that comes
sooner or later. "I told him that was it, that was the last one,"
recalled Rosenthal. "Both of them agreed." More than a year passed before Rosenthal took "that" call. "It
was Woody," Rosenthal said. "He told me he wanted to fight
again." Fighters fight. It's what they do. In most cases, it's all they know how to
do. So when a manager tells them "no mas", they usually respond,
"no way". And when they do listen, it's only until another fight
presents itself. In May, former junior welterweight champion Saoul Mamby lost an eight-rounder
in North Carolina. Mamby is 53 years old. Faded fighters are not only desperate,
but often delusional. About a year ago, Mamby asked me to introduce him to WBO
President Paco Valcarcel in hopes of landing a Top 10 ranking within that
organisation. Managers have been telling three-division champion Iran Barkley to retire
since the mid-i90s. On the East Coast, "The Blade", who is immensely
popular, is the poster boy for fighters who hang on too long. Barkley, 40, has
lost his last six starts, all at heavyweight. Should he be licensed? Over the
course of the last 11/2 years, commissions in Tennessee, Florida, and
Mississippi, not to mention Denmark, Finland, and Canada, have said yes. Maybe
they fear lawsuits. Maybe there's something wrong with the law. "Managers were always telling me to stop," Barkley told me in June.
"But I wasn't ready to stop. They were wrong; I still had a lot left." Barkley promised me that he's finally done. Is he fearful of brain damage?
Does he understand that his opportunities in the marketplace have been severely
reduced? Hardly. "My left eye keeps getting puffy from the [scar]
tissue," Barkley explained, "and I don't have the money for the
surgery." "I told Iran to stop fighting in '94 or '95," said Stan Hoffman,
who formerly managed Barkley. "He always had the same line: 'What else am I
gonna do, steal hubcaps?'" The case of former amateur star and fringe welterweight contender Skipper
Kelp illustrates the difficult decisions faced by both fighter and manager.
Rosenthal, who signed Kelp after the fighter's loss in 1994 to Bronco McKart,
recalled: "First of all, let me say that out of all the fighters I've ever
managed, Skipper is my favourite. He's a bright kid with a great attitude.
Anyway, in 1996, Skipper was coming off two strenuous fights. First there was a
loss to Raul Marquez, which was 12 rounds at a heavier weight. Afterward, both
fighters looked like they had run into trains. Then Skipper got off the floor
and dropped Adrian Stone twice in the 10th round to win a decision. Both guys
ended up in the hospital after that one. "The Stone fight put Skipper in line for another shot at the USBA title.
He fought Tony Martin and came up flat, losing like 10-2 in rounds. I went to
collect his check and somebody ran up to me and said: 'Skipper collapsed in the
dressing room.' A doctor came in and ordered an ambulance right away. Skipper
was semi-conscious, with his eyes closed. On the way to the hospital, I'm in the
front seat, and all I keep hearing is: 'C'mon, Skip, stay with us. Stay with
us.' That's a scary sound. "We get to the hospital and all the tests were negative. But a
neurosurgeon, the same doctor who happened to be working the fights that night,
said to me: 'I was watching closely, and nothing that took place in the ring
should have brought about that kind of reaction. My recommendation is to never
let him fight again.' That took me out of the picture right there. I talked to
everybody about my decision, from trainers and other managers to my mother, and
everybody said I was seeing it right. I said to Skipper: 'It's your life; it's
not my decision anymore.' "After Skip's medical suspension was lifted, he passed a battery of
tests and was relicensed. Our discussions became more pronounced, but never
antagonistic." Eighteen months after Kelp's loss to Martin, he fought again, without
Rosenthal's involvement. Kelp won a bloody decision over Francisco Mendez,
taking "20 or 30 stitches" afterward. He hasn't fought since, but is
preparing himself for another comeback. Kelp, 29, is married and the father of
four. He is currently teaching boxing at the University of Nevada Las Vegas. "From my perspective," Kelp said, "I thought I got beat up
pretty good in the Martin fight. In the locker-room, I was dehydrated and
dejected. It was the biggest fight of my career and I had lost. "I didn't really collapse. I was exhausted, and that makes a bunch of
difference. But I looked like hell, and I could see how a doctor might say I
should never fight again. Maybe something was wrong at the time, I don't know.
But I can rationalise and say I was dehydrated, I had overtrained. "I went through all the tests so I could sleep at night. I had to check
it out myself. There's been an internal battle, and from i98 until now, I've
been thinking a lot. I have kids, and my family needs me. I see other fighters
slurring their words, and they can't read a book to their kids. There's no money
in the world worth that. "Not that I expect to be punch-drunk, but I'm willing to take a risk for
what I want to attain in boxing. The only way I can explain it, and I know it's
a stupid cliché, but it's the warrior inside me. I can't really put it any
other way. Something inside me says I can do it, I can win a world championship.
My body has stayed young - I can still make 147. I want to give it one honest
run." Kelp hopes to fight soon. His new manager is a Vegas businessman. "With Skipper, I don't want to be right; I don't want to see somebody
get hurt," said Rosenthal. "But I can't do it. Sometimes it's hard to
make the call. But it's my call to make. For myself." Are managers always right? In deciding when a fighter should quit the ring,
is there a right and wrong? If Shelly Finkel, who managed Evander Holyfield for a large portion of the
former cruiserweight and heavyweight champion's career, had owned the final
word, "The Real Deal" would have retired six years ago. "I'm a big proponent of not quitting on a fighter after a loss,"
said Finkel, "but with Evander, riding in an ambulance after the
[title-fight] loss to Michael Moorer [in 1994] was the last straw. It was the
fourth fight in a row we were going to the hospital. Afterward, Evander said to
me: 'If you don't want me to fight again, I don't want you to be my manager.' "Actually, I had asked Evander to retire after the first fight against
Riddick Bowe [in 1992]. MC Hammer told him: 'Don't be crazy, and Evander laughed
at me. I said: 'Don't laugh. If you fight, I make money.' Given Holyfield's wins over Mike Tyson, the first of which allowed him to win
the heavyweight title for the third time, how does Finkel, arguably the most
accomplished manager in the game, feel about his decision? "Of course I
would like to have been there when Evander regained the title," he said,
"but I've never looked back and said I made the wrong decision. I hope I
have, but some columnists write that Evander is slurring his words. He's taken a
lot of shots." Red light, green light, it doesn't matter. In most cases, fighters are going
to continue fighting, whether their managers approve or not. What happens then?
Should managers just walk away, their consciences clear? Or should they protect
their fighters as best as is possible under the circumstances? "There's no book that tells you what to do," said Rosenthal.
"And when you're in the ambulance with them and they're on a stretcher,
it's no longer about money. It's funny. If a trainer takes the attitude of 'I
was there at the beginning, I'll be there at the end', he's a good guy. But if a
manager says the same thing, he's a pimp." In considering the ring future of Wooden, Rosenthal does not dismiss
continued involvement. "It might become a case of sitting back and watching
some meat merchant throwing him to the wolves, putting him in fights he's not
ready for, or keeping him protected and looking out for him," Rosenthal
said. "I heard Woody was the original opponent for Hasim Rahman's comeback
fight [earlier this year, following Rahman's KO loss to Oleg Maskaev]. It was
off TV, for $5,000. Woody had been off for a year, and somebody was ready to
throw him in with Rahman." Angelo Dundee agrees with that sentiment. When the Hall of Fame manager and
trainer thinks a fighter is finished, he makes his point silently - by refusing
to work the phones and secure additional fights. But if the fighter punches on,
Dundee tosses a towel over his shoulder and walks the ring steps. When a 38-year-old Muhammad Ali challenged Larry Holmes in 1980, it was
Dundee who surrendered before the start of round 11 - against the wishes of
others in the corner. And when Ali insisted on fighting one more time, losing to
Trevor Berbick in 1981, Dundee was still the chief second. "I wasn't gonna
be there? That's ridiculous," he said. "These guys go through so much
in life, it's their God-given right to do what they want. I'll be there to
protect them. Who knows them better? If I walk away, there's gonna be more harm
than anything else." Adamantly disagreeing is Hoffman. "If a doctor tells you you shouldn't
drive anymore or you'll get brain damage, am I helping by sitting in the car?
How are you protecting the fighter? Are you protecting him from the punches? Are
you protecting him from getting hit in sparring? To me it's a moral issue . . .
You have to live with yourself." If, 20 years ago, you were told that Sugar Ray Leonard, Thomas Hearns, and
Larry Holmes, all of whom made millions, would fight far past their primes, you
might not have believed it possible. Well, it was more than possible - it was
likely. Today, Oscar De La Hoya, Naseem Hamed, and Roy Jones are in their primes.
Care to lay odds that they'll fight too long? Then again, who is to define
"too long"? Apparently, it's not their managers. |
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